jg.paintedhouse-第18章
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〃Ricky's ing home？〃
〃Yes。 Maybe not right away； but the war'll be over soon。 We'll look up one day and see him walking across the yard there。〃
I looked at the yard。 Puddles and streams were beginning to form and run down toward the Spruills。 The grass was almost gone； and the wind was blowing the first of the dead leaves from our oaks。
〃I pray for Ricky every night； Gran；〃 I said； quite proud。
〃I pray for him every hour；〃 she said； with a hint of mist in her eyes。
We rocked and watched the rain。 My thoughts about Ricky were rarely of a soldier in uniform； with a gun； under fire； hopping from one safe place to another。 Rather； my memories were of my best friend； my uncle who was more like a brother； a buddy with a fishing pole or a baseball glove。 He was only nineteen； an age that seemed both old and young to me。
Before long my mother came to the door。 The Saturday bath was followed by the Sunday scrubbing； a quick but brutal ritual in which my neck and ears were scraped by a woman possessed。 〃We need to get ready；〃 she said。 I could already feel the pain。
I followed Gran to the kitchen for more coffee。 Pappy was at the kitchen table； reading the Bible and preparing his Sunday school lesson。 My father was on the back porch； watching the storm and gazing into the distance at the river； no doubt beginning to worry that floodwaters were ing。
The rains stopped long before we left for church。 The roads were muddy； and Pappy drove even slower than usual。 We puttered along； sometimes sliding in the ruts and puddles of the old dirt road。 My father and I were in the back； holding tightly to the sides of the bed； and my mother and Gran rode up front； everybody dressed in their best。 The sky had cleared； and now the sun was overhead； already baking the wet ground so that you could see the humidity drifting lazily above the cotton stalks。
〃It's gonna be a hot one；〃 my father said； issuing the same forecast he uttered every day from May through September。
When we reached the highway； we stood and leaned on the cab so the wind was in our faces。 It was much cooler that way。 The fields were vacant； not even the Mexicans were allowed to work on the Sabbath。 Every harvest season brought the same rumors of heathen farmers sneaking around and picking cotton on Sunday； but I personally had never witnessed such sinful behavior。
Most things were sinful in rural Arkansas； especially if you were a Baptist。 And a great part of our Sunday worship ritual was to be preached at by the Reverend Akers； a loud and angry man who spent too much of his time conjuring up new sins。 Of course； I didn't care for the preaching…most kids didn't…but there was more to Sunday church than worship。 It was a time for visiting； and spreading news and gossip。 It was a festive gathering； with everyone in good spirits； or at least pretending to be。 Whatever the worries of the world…the ing floods； the war in Korea； the fluctuating price of cotton…they were all put aside during church。
The Lord didn't intend for His people to worry； Gran always said； especially when we were in His house。 This forever struck me as odd； because she worried almost as much as Pappy。
Other than the family and the farm； nothing was as important to us as the Black Oak Baptist Church。 I knew every single person in our church； and they of course knew me。 It was a family； for better or worse。 Everybody loved one another； or at least professed to； and if one of our members was the slightest bit ill； then all manner of prayer and Christian caring poured forth。 A funeral was a weeklong； almost holy event。 The fall and spring revivals were planned for months and greatly anticipated。 At least once a month we had some form of dinner…on…the…grounds…a potluck picnic under the trees behind the church…and these often lasted until late afternoon。 Weddings were important； especially for the ladies； but they lacked the high drama of funerals and burials。
The church's gravel parking lot was almost full when we arrived。 Most of the vehicles were old farmers' trucks like ours； all covered with a fresh coat of mud。 There were a few sedans； and these were driven either by town folk or by farmers who owned their land。 Down the street at the Methodist church； there were fewer trucks and more cars。 As a general rule； the merchants and schoolteachers worshiped there。 The Methodists thought they were slightly superior； but as Baptists； we knew we had the inside track to God。
I jumped from the truck and ran to find my friends。 Three of the older boys were tossing a baseball behind the church； near the cemetery； and I headed in their direction。
〃Luke；〃 someone whispered。 It was Dewayne； hiding in the shade of an elm tree and looking scared。 〃Over here。〃
I walked to the tree。
〃Have you heard？〃 he said。 〃Jerry Sisco died early this mornin'。〃
I felt as if I'd done something wrong； and I couldn't think of anything to say。 Dewayne just stared at me。 Finally； I managed to respond。 〃So？〃
〃So they're tryin' to find people who saw what happened。〃
〃Lot of folks saw it。〃
〃Yeah； but nobody wants to say anything。 Everybody's scared of the Siscos； and everybody's scared of your hillbilly。〃
〃Ain't my hillbilly；〃 I said。
〃Well； I'm scared of him anyway。 Ain't you？〃
〃Yep。〃
〃What're we gonna do？〃
〃Nothin'。 We ain't sayin' a word； not now anyhow。〃
We agreed that we would indeed do nothing。 If we were confronted； we would lie。 And if we lied； we would say an extra prayer。
The prayers were long and windy that Sunday morning。 So were the rumors and gossip of what had happened to Jerry Sisco。 News spread quickly before Sunday school began。 Dewayne and I heard details about the fight that we couldn't believe were being reported。 Hank grew larger by the moment。 〃Hands as big as a country ham；〃 somebody said。 〃Shoulders like a Brahma bull；〃 said somebody else。 〃Had to weigh three hundred pounds。〃
The men and older boys grouped near the front of the church； and Dewayne and I milled around； just listening。 I heard it described as a murder； then a killing； and I wasn't clear about the difference until I heard Mr。 Snake Wilcox say； 〃Ain't no murder。 Good folks get murdered。 White trash like the Siscos get killed。〃
The killing was the first in Black Oak since 1947； when some sharecroppers east of town got drunk and had a family war。 A teenage boy found himself on the wrong end of a shotgun； but no charges were filed。 They fled during the night； never to be heard from again。 No one could remember the last 〃real〃 murder。
I was mesmerized by the gossip。 We sat on the front steps of the church； looking down the sidewalk toward Main Street； and heard men arguing and spouting off about what should or shouldn't be done。
Down the street； I could see the front of the Co…op； and for a moment I thought I could see Jerry Sisco again； his face a mess； as Hank Spruill clubbed him to death。
I had watched a man get killed。 Suddenly； I felt the urge to sneak back into the sanctuary and start praying。 I knew I was guilty of something。
We drifted into the church； where the girls and women were also huddled and whispering their versions of the tragedy。 Among them； Jerry's stature was rising。 Brenda； the freckled girl with a crush on Dewayne； lived only a quarter of a mile from the Siscos； and since they were practically neighbors； she was receiving more than her share of attention。 The women were definitely more sympathetic than the men。
Dewayne and I found the cookies in the fellowship hall； then went to our little classrooms； listening every step of the way。
Our Sunday school teacher； Miss Beverly Dill Cooley； who taught at the high school in Monette； started things off with a lengthy； and quite generous； obituary for Jerry Sisco； a poor boy from a poor family； a young man who never had a chance。 Then she made us hold hands and close our eyes while she lifted her voice to heaven and for a very long time asked God to receive poor Jerry into His warm and eternal embrace。 She made Jerry sound like a Christian； and an innocent victim。
I glanced at Dewayne； who had one eye on me。
There was something odd about this。 As Baptists； we
