jg.paintedhouse-第4节

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an　style。
　　　They　bought　flour　and　shortening　to　make　tortillas；　lots　of　beans　in　both　cans　and　bags；　and　rice。　Nothing　extra…no　sugar　or　sweets；　no　vegetables。　They　ate　as　little　as　possible；　because　food　cost　money。　Their　goal　was　to　save　every　cent　they　could　and　take　it　back　home。
　　　Of　course；　these　poor　fellas　had　no　idea　where　they　were　going。　They　did　not　know　that　my　mother　was　a　devoted　gardener　who　spent　more　time　tending　her　vegetables　than　she　did　the　cotton。　They　were　quite　lucky；　because　my　mother　believed　that　no　one　living　within　walking　distance　of　our　farm　would　ever　go　without　food。
　　　Cowboy　was　last　in　line；　and　when　Pearl　smiled　at　him；　I　thought　he　was　going　to　spit　on　her。　Miguel　stayed　close。　He'd　just　spent　three　days　in　the　back　of　a　trailer　with　the　boy　and　probably　knew　all　about　him。
　　　I　said　good…bye　to　Pearl　for　the　second　time　that　day；　which　was　odd　because　I　usually　saw　her　only　once　a　week。
　　　Pappy　led　the　Mexicans　to　the　truck。　They　got　into　the　bed　and　sat　shoulder…to…shoulder；　feet　and　legs　intertwined。　They　were　silent　and　stared　blankly　ahead　as　if　they　had　no　idea　where　their　journey　would　end。
　　　The　old　truck　strained　with　the　load　but　eventually　leveled　out　at　thirty…seven；　and　Pappy　almost　smiled。　It　was　late　in　the　afternoon；　and　the　weather　was　hot　and　dry；　perfect　for　picking。　Between　the　Sp　mills　and　the　Mexicans　we　finally　had　enough　hands　to　harvest　our　crop。　I　reached　into　my　pocket；　and　pulled　out　the　other　half　of　my　Tootsie　Roll。
　　　Long　before　we　arrived　at　our　house；　we　saw　smoke　and　then　a　tent。　We　lived　on　a　dirt　road　that　was　very　dusty　for　most　of　the　year；　and　Pappy　was　just　puttering　along　so　the　Mexicans　wouldn't　get　choked。
　　　〃What's　that？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Looks　like　a　tent　of　some　sort；〃　Pappy　said。
　　　It　was　situated　near　the　road；　at　the　far　end　of　our　front　yard；　under　a　pin　oak　that　was　a　hundred　years　old；　very　near　the　spot　where　home　plate　belonged。　We　slowed　even　more　as　we　approached　our　mailbox。　The　Spruills　had　taken　control　of　half　our　front　yard。　The　large　tent　was　dirty　white　with　a　pointed　roof　and　was　erected　with　a　mismatched　collection　of　hand…whittled　sticks　and　metal　poles。　Two　sides　of　the　tent　were　open；　and　I　could　see　boxes　and　blankets　lying　on　the　ground　under　the　roof。　I　could　also　see　Tally　napping　inside。
　　　Their　truck　was　parked　beside　it；　and　another　canvas　of　some　sort　had　been　rigged　over　its　bed。　It　was　anchored　with　baling　rope　staked　to　the　ground　so　that　the　truck　couldn't　move　without　first　getting　unhitched。　Their　old　trailer　had　been　partially　unloaded；　its　boxes　and　burlap　bags　scattered　on　the　grass　as　if　a　storm　had　hit。
　　　Mrs。　Spruill　was　tending　a　fire；　hence　the　smoke。　For　some　reason；　she　had　chosen　a　slightly　bare　spot　near　the　end　of　the　yard。　It　was　the　exact　spot　where　Pappy　or　my　father　squatted　almost　every　afternoon　and　caught　my　fastballs　and　my　curves。　I　wanted　to　cry。　I　would　never　forgive　Mrs。　Spruill　for　this。
　　　〃I　thought　you　told　them　to　set　up　out　behind　the　silo；〃　I　said。
　　　〃I　did；〃　Pappy　answered。　He　slowed　the　truck　almost　to　a　stop；　then　turned　into　our　place。　The　silo　was　out　back；　near　the　barn；　a　sufficient　distance　from　our　house。　We'd　had　hill　people　camping　back　there　before…never　in　the　front　yard。
　　　He　parked　under　another　pin　oak　that　was　only　seventy　years　old；　according　to　my　grandmother。　It　was　the　smallest　of　the　three　that　shaded　our　house　and　yard。　We　rolled　to　a　stop　near　the　house；　in　the　same　dry　ruts　Pappy'd　parked　in　for　decades。　Both　my　mother　and　grandmother　were　waiting　at　the　kitchen　steps。
　　　Ruth；　my　grandmother；　did　not　like　the　fact　that　the　hill　people　had　laid　claim　to　our　front　yard。　Pappy　and　I　knew　this　before　we　got　out　of　the　truck。　She　had　her　hands　on　her　hips。
　　　My　mother　was　eager　to　examine　the　Mexicans　and　ask　me　about　their　traveling　conditions。　She　watched　them　pile　out　of　the　truck　as　she　walked　to　me　and　squeezed　my　shoulder。
　　　〃Ten　of　them；〃　she　said。　〃Yes　ma'am。〃
　　　Gran　met　Pappy　at　the　front　of　the　truck　and　said；　quietly　but　sternly；　〃Why　are　those　people　in　our　front　yard？〃
　　　〃I　asked　them　to　set　up　by　the　silo；〃　Pappy　said；　never　one　to　back　down；　not　even　from　his　wife。　〃I　don't　know　why　they　picked　that　spot。〃
　　　〃Can　you　ask　them　to　move？〃
　　　〃I　cannot。　If　they　pack　up；　they'll　leave。　You　know　how　hill　people　are。〃
　　　And　that　was　the　end　of　Gran's　questions。　They　were　not　about　to　argue　in　front　of　me　and　ten　new　Mexicans。　She　walked　away；　toward　the　house；　shaking　her　head　in　disapproval。　Pappy　honestly　didn't　care　where　the　hill　people　camped。　They　appeared　to　be　able…bodied　and　willing　to　work；　and　nothing　else　mattered　to　him。
　　　I　suspected　Gran　was　not　that　concerned　either。　The　picking　was　so　crucial　that　we　would've　taken　in　a　chain　gang　if　they　could've　averaged　three　hundred　pounds　of　cotton　a　day。
　　　The　Mexicans　followed　Pappy　off　to　the　barn；　which　was　352　feet　from　the　back　porch　steps。　Past　the　chicken　coop；　the　water　pump；　the　clotheslines；　and　the　tool　shed；　past　a　sugar　maple　that　would　turn　bright　red　in　October。　My　father　had　helped　me　measure　the　exact　distance　one　day　last　January。　It　seemed　like　a　mile　to　me。　From　home　plate　to　the　left　field　wall　in　Sportsman's　Park；　where　the　Cardinals　played；　was　350　feet；　and　every　time　Stan　Musial　hit　a　home　run　I　would　sit　on　the　steps　the　next　day　and　marvel　at　the　distance。　In　mid…July　he'd　hit　a　ball　400　feet　against　the　Braves。　Pappy　had　said；　〃He　hit　it　over　the　barn；　Luke。〃
　　　For　two　days　afterward；　I'd　sat　on　the　steps　and　dreamed　of　hitting　'cm　over　the　barn。
　　　When　the　Mexicans　were　past　the　tool　shed；　my　mother　said；　〃They　look　very　tired。〃
　　　〃They　rode　in　a　trailer；　sixty…two　of　them；〃　I　said；　eager；　for　some　reason；　to　help　stir　things　up。
　　　〃I　was　afraid　of　that。〃
　　　〃An　old　trailer。　Old　and　dirty。　Pearl's　already　mad　about　it。〃
　　　〃It　won't　happen　again；〃　she　said；　and　I　knew　that　my　father　was　about　to　get　an　earful。　〃Run　along　and　help　your　grandfather。〃
　　　I'd　spent　most　of　the　previous　two　weeks　in　the　barn；　alone　with　my　mother；　sweeping　and　cleaning　the　loft；　trying　to　make　a　home　for　the　Mexicans。　Most　of　the　farmers　put　them　in　abandoned　tenant　houses　or　barns。　There'd　been　a　rumor　that　Ned　Shackleford　three　miles　south　had　made　his　live　with　the　chickens。
　　　Not　so　on　the　Chandler　farm。　For　lack　of　another　shelter；　the　Mexicans　would　be　forced　to　live　in　the　loft　of　our　barn；　but　there　wouldn't　be　a　speck　of　dirt　anywhere　to　be　found。　And　it　would　have　a　pleasant　smell。　For　a　year　my　mother　had　gathered　old　blankets　and　quilts　for　them　to　sleep　on。
　　　I　slipped　into　the　barn；　but　stayed　below；　next　to　Isabel's　stall。　She　was　our　milk　cow。　Pappy　claimed　his　life　had　been　saved　in　the　First　War　by　a　young　French　girl　named　Isabel；　and　to　honor　the　memory；　he　named　our　Jersey　cow　after　her。　My　grandmother　never　believed　that　story。
　　　I　could　hear　them　up　in　the　loft；　moving　around；　settling　in。　Pappy　was　talking　to　Miguel；　who　was　impressed　with　how　nice　and　clean　the　loft　was。　Pappy　took　the　pliments　as　if　he　and　he　alone　had　done　the　scrubbing。
　　　In　fact；　he　and　Gran　had　been　skeptical　of　my　mother's　efforts　to　provide　a　decent　place　for　the　laborers　to　sleep。　My　mother　had　been　raised　on　a　small　farm　at　the　very　edge　of　Black　Oak；　so　she　was　almost　a　town　girl。　She　actually　grew　up　with　kids　who　were　too　good　to　pick　cotton。　She　never　walked　to　school…her　father　drove　her。　She'd　been　to　Memphis　three　times　before　she　married　my　father。　She'd　been　raised　in　a　painted　house。
　
　
　Chapter　3
　　　
　　　We　Chandlers　rented　our　land　from　Mr。　Vogel　of　Jonesboro；　a　man　I'd　never　seen。　His　name　was　rarely　mentioned；　but　when　it　did　slip　into　a　conversation；　it　was　uttered　with　respect　and　awe。　I　thought　he　was　the　richest　man　in　the　world。
　　　Pappy　and　Gran　had　been　renting　the　land　since　before　the　Great　Depression；　which　arrived　early　and　stayed　late　in　rural　Arkansas。　After　thirty　years　of　backbreaking　labor；　they　had　managed　to　purchase
　　　from　Mr。　Vogel　the　house　and　the　three　acres　around　it。　They　also　owned　the　John　Deere　tractor；　two　disks；　a　seed　planter；　a　cotton　trailer；　a　flatbed　trailer；　two　mules；　a　wagon；　and　the　truck。　My　father　had　a　vague　agreement　that　gave　him　an　ownership　interest　in　some　〃I　these　assets。　The　land　deed　was　in　the　names　of　Eli　and　Ruth　Chandler。
　　　The　only　farmers　who　made　money　were　those　who　owned　their　land。　The　renters；　like　us；　tried　to　break　even。　The　sharecroppers　had　i　he　worst　and　were　doomed　to　eternal　poverty。　My　father's　goal　was　to　own　forty　acres　of　land；　free　and　clear。　My　other's　dreams　were　tucked　away；　only　to　be　shared　with　me　as　I　grew　older。　But　I　already　knew　she　longed　to　leave　the　rural　life　and　is　determined　that　I　would　not　farm。　By　the　time　I　was　seven；　she　had　made　a　believer　out　of　me。
　　　When　she　was　satisfied　that　the　Mexicans　were　being　properly　situated；　she　sent　me　to　find　my　father。　It　was　late；　the　sun　was　falling　beyond　the　trees　that　lined　the　St。　Francis　River；　and　it　was　time　for　in　to　weigh　his　cotton　sack　for　the　final　time　and　call　it　a　day。　I　walked　barefoot　along　a　dirt　path　between　two　fields；　looking　for　him。　The　soil　was　dark　and　rich；