jg.paintedhouse-第10节

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　　　I　set　the　basket　on　the　dirt　trail　and　pulled　with　a　vengeance。
　　　The　garden　work　was　not　as　rough　in　the　late　summer　as　it　was　in　the　spring；　when　the　ground　had　to　be　tilled　and　the　weeds　grew　faster　than　the　vegetables。
　　　A　long　green　snake　froze　us　for　a　second；　then　it　disappeared　into　the　butter　bean　vines。　The　garden　was　full　of　snakes；　all　harmless；　but　snakes　nonetheless。　My　mother　was　not　deathly　afraid　of　them；　but　we　gave　them　plenty　of　room。　I　lived　in　fear　of　reaching　for　a　cucumber　and　feeling　fangs　sink　into　the　back　of　my　hand。
　　　My　mother　loved　this　little　plot　of　soil　because　it　was　hers…no　one　else　really　wanted　it。　She　treated　it　like　a　sanctuary。　When　the　house　got　crowded；　I　could　always　find　her　in　the　garden；　talking　to　her　vegetables。　Harsh　words　were　rare　in　our　family。　When　they　happened；　I　knew　my　mother　would　disappear　into　her　refuge。
　　　I　could　hardly　carry　my　basket　by　the　time　she'd　finished　her　selections。
　　　
　　　The　rain　had　stopped　in　St。　Louis。　At　exactly　eight　o'clock；　Pappy　turned　on　the　radio；　fiddled　with　the　knobs　and　the　antenna；　and　there　was　colorful　Harry　Caray；　the　raspy　voice　of　the　Cardinals。　There　were　about　twenty　games　remaining　in　the　season。　The　Dodgers　were　in　front；　and　the　Giants　were　in　second　place。　The　Cards　were　in　third。　It　was　more　than　we　could　stand。　Cardinal　fans　naturally　hated　the　Yankees；　and　trailing　behind　two　other　New　York　teams　in　our　own　league　was　unbearable。
　　　Pappy　was　of　the　opinion　that　the　manager；　Eddie　Stanky；　should've　been　fired　months　earlier。　When　the　Cardinals　won；　it　was　because　of　Stan　Musial。　When　they　lost；　with　the　same　players　on　the　field；　it　was　always　the　fault　of　the　manager。
　　　Pappy　and　my　father　sat　side　by　side　on　the　swing；　its　rusted　chains　squeaking　as　they　rocked　gently。　Gran　and　my　mother　shelled　butter　beans　and　peas　on　the　other　side　of　the　small　porch。　I　was　lounging　on　the　top　step；　within　earshot　of　the　radio；　watching　the　Spruill　show　wind　down；　waiting　with　the　adults　for　the　heat　to　finally　relent。　I　missed　the　steady　hum　of　the　old　fan；　but　I　knew　better　than　to　bring　up　the　subject。
　　　Conversation　arose　softly　from　the　women　as　they　talked　about　church　stuff…the　fall　revival　and　the　uping　dinner…on…the…grounds。　A　Black　Oak　girl　was　getting　married　in　Jonesboro；　in　a　big　church；　supposedly　to　a　boy　with　money；　and　this　had　to　be　discussed　every　night　in　some　fashion。　I　could　not　imagine　why　the　women　were　drawn　back　to　the　subject；　night　after　night。
　　　The　men　had　virtually　nothing　to　say；　at　least　nothing　unrelated　to　baseball。　Pappy　was　capable　of　long　stretches　of　silence；　and　my　father　wasn't　much　better。　No　doubt；　they　were　worrying　about　the　weather　or　cotton　prices；　but　they　were　too　tired　to　fret　aloud。
　　　I　was　content　simply　to　listen；　to　close　my　eyes　and　try　to　picture　Sportsman's　Park　in　St。　Louis；　a　magnificent　stadium　where　thirty　thousand　people　could　gather　to　watch　Stan　Musial　and　the　Cardinals。　Pappy　had　been　there；　and　during　the　season　I　made　him　describe　the　place　to　me　at　least　once　a　week。　He　said　when　you　saw　the　field　it　seemed　to　expand。　There　was　grass　so　green　and　smooth　you　could　roll　marbles　across　it。　The　dirt　on　the　infield　was　actually　raked　until　it　was　perfect。　The　scoreboard　in　left…center　was　bigger　than　our　house。　And　all　those　people；　those　unbelievably　lucky　people　of　St。　Louis　who　got　to　see　the　Cardinals　and　didn't　have　to　pick　cotton。
　　　Dizzy　Dean　and　Enos　〃Country〃　Slaughter　and　Red　Schoendienst；　all　the　great　Cardinals；　all　the　fabled　Gashouse　Gang；　had　played　there。　And　because　my　father　and　grandfather　and　uncle　could　play　the　game；　there　was　not　the　slightest　doubt　in　my　mind　that　I　would　one　day　rule　Sportsman's　Park。　I　would　glide　across　the　perfect　outfield　grass　in　front　of　thirty　thousand　fans　and　personally　grind　the　Yankees　into　the　dirt。
　　　The　greatest　Cardinal　of　all　time　was　Stan　Musial；　and　when　he　came　to　the　plate　in　the　second　inning　with　a　runner　at　first；　I　saw　Hank　Spruill　ease　through　the　darkness　and　sit　in　the　shadows；　just　close　enough　to　hear　the　radio。
　　　〃Is　Stan　up？〃　my　mother　asked。
　　　〃Yes　ma'am；〃　I　said。　She　pretended　to　take　an　interest　in　baseball　because　she　knew　nothing　about　it。　And　if　she　acted　interested　in　Stan　Musial；　then　she　could　survive　any　conversation　on　the　subject　around　Black　Oak。
　　　The　soft　snap　and　crunch　of　the　butter　beans　and　peas　stopped。　The　swing　was　still。　I　squeezed　my　baseball　glove。　My　father　held　the　opinion　that　Harry　Caray's　voice　took　on　an　edge　when　Musial　stepped　in；　but　Pappy　was　not　convinced。
　　　The　first　pitch　by　the　Pirates　pitcher　was　a　fastball　low　and　away。　Few　pitchers　challenged　Musial　with　fastballs　on　the　first　pitch。　The　year　before；　he'd　led　the　National　League　with　a　。　355　batting　average；　and　in　1952；　he　was　running　neck　and　neck　with　the　Cubs'　Frankie　Baumholtz　for　the　lead。　He　had　power　and　speed；　a　great　glove；　and　he　played　hard　every　day。
　　　I　had　a　Stan　Musial　baseball　card　hidden　in　a　cigar　box　in　my　drawer；　and　if　the　house　ever　caught　on　fire；　I　would　grab　it　before　I　grabbed　anything　else。
　　　The　second　pitch　was　a　high　curveball；　and　with　the　count　of　two　balls；　you　could　almost　hear　the　fans　get　out　of　their　seats。　A　baseball　was　about　to　get　ripped　into　some　remote　section　of　Sportsman's　Park。　No　pitcher　fell　behind　Stan　Musial　and　survived　the　moment。　The　third　pitch　was　a　fastball；　and　Harry　Caray　hesitated　just　long　enough　for　us　to　hear　the　crack　of　the　bat。　The　crowd　exploded。　I　held　my　breath；　waiting　in　that　split　second　for　old　Harry　to　tell　us　where　the　ball　was　going。　It　bounced　off　the　wall　in　right　field；　and　the　crowd　roared　even　louder。　The　front　porch　got　excited；　too。　I　jumped　to　my　feet；　as　if　by　standing　I　could　somehow　see　St。　Louis。　Pappy　and　my　father　both　leaned　forward　as　Harry　Caray　yelled　through　the　radio。　My　mother　managed　some　form　of　exclamation。
　　　Musial　was　battling　his　teammate　Schoendienst　for　the　National　League　lead　in　doubles。　The　year　before；　he'd　had　twelve　triples；　tops　in　the　majors。　As　he　rounded　second；　I　could　barely　hear　Caray　above　the　crowd。　The　runner　from　first　scored　easily；　and　Stan　slid　into　third；　in　the　dirt；　his　feet　touching　the　base；　the　hapless　third　baseman　taking　the　late　throw　and　tossing　it　back　to　the　pitcher。　I　could　see　him　get　to　his　feet　as　the　crowd　went　nuts。　Then　with　both　hands　he　slapped　the　dirt　off　his　white　uniform　with　the　bright　red　trim。
　　　The　game　had　to　go　on；　but　for　us　Chandlers；　at　least　the　men；　the　day　was　now　plete。　Musial　had　hit　a　bomb；　and　because　we　had　little　hope　that　the　Cardinals　would　win　the　pennant；　we　gladly　took　our　victories　where　we　could　get　them。　The　crowd　settled　down；　Harry's　voice　lowered；　and　I　sank　back　onto　the　porch；　still　watching　Stan　at　third。
　　　If　those　damned　Spruills　hadn't　been　out　there；　I　would've　eased　into　the　darkness　and　taken　my　position　at　home　plate。　I　would　wait　for　the　fastball；　hit　it　just　like　my　hero；　then　race　around　the　bases　and　slide　majestically　into　third　base；　over　by　the　shadows　where　the　monster　Hank　was　loitering。
　　　〃Who's　winnin'？〃　Mr。　Spruill　asked　from　somewhere　in　the　darkness。
　　　〃Cardinals。　One　to　nothin'。　Bottom　of　the　second。　Musial　just　hit　a　triple；〃　Hank　answered。　If　they　were　such　baseball　fans；　why　had　they　built　their　fire　on　home　plate　and　pitched　their　ragged　tents　around　my　infield？　Any　fool　could　look　at　our　front　yard；　the　trees　notwithstanding；　and　see　that　it　was　meant　for　baseball。
　　　If　not　for　Tally；　I　would　have　dismissed　the　entire　bunch。　And　Trot。　I　did　feel　sympathy　for　the　poor　kid。
　　　I　had　decided　not　to　bring　up　the　issue　of　Hank　and　the　cold　water。　I　knew　that　if　I　reported　it　to　my　father；　or　to　Pappy；　then　a　serious　discussion　would　take　place　with　Mr。　Spruill。　The　Mexicans　knew　their　place；　and　the　hill　people　were　expected　to　know　theirs。　They　did　not　ask　for　things　from　our　house；　and　they　did　not　give　orders　to　me　or　anyone　else。
　　　Hank　had　a　neck　thicker　than　any　I'd　ever　seen。　His　arms　and　hands　were　also　massive；　but　what　scared　me　were　his　eyes。　I　thought　they　were　blank　and　stupid　most　of　the　time；　but　when　he　barked　at　me　to　fetch　him　the　cold　water；　they　narrowed　and　glowed　with　evil。
　　　I　didn't　want　Hank　mad　at　me；　nor　did　I　want　my　father　to　confront　him。　My　father　could　whip　anybody；　except　for　maybe　Pappy；　who　was　older　but；　when　necessary；　much　meaner。　I　decided　to　set　aside　the　incident　for　the　time　being。　If　it　happened　again；　then　I　would　have　no　choice　but　to　tell　my　mother。
　　　The　Pirates　scored　two　in　the　fourth；　primarily　because；　according　to　Pappy；　Eddie　Stanky　didn't　change　pitchers　when　he　should　have。　Then　they　scored　three　in　the　fifth；　and　Pappy　got　so　mad　he　went　to　bed。
　　　In　the　seventh　inning；　the　heat　broke　just　enough　to　convince　us　we　could　get　some　sleep。　The　peas　and　butter　beans　had　been　shelled。　The　Spruills　were　all　tucked　away。　We　were　exhausted；　and　the　Cardinals　were　going　nowhere。　It　wasn't　difficult　to　leave　the　game。
　　　After　my　mother　tucked　me　in　and　we　said　our　prayers；　I　kicked　I　he　sheets　off　so　I　could　breathe。　I　listened　to　the　crickets　sing　their　screeching　chorus；　calling　to　each　other　across　the　fields。　They