jg.paintedhouse-第46节

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　　　〃You'll　do　no　such　thing；〃　my　mother　said。　She　was　irritated　because　Pappy　loved　a　brawl。　But　then；　she　came　from　a　house　full　of　girls。　She　did　not　understand　fighting。
　　　〃Did　you　land　a　good　punch？〃　Pappy　asked。
　　　〃They　were　all　cryin'　when　I　left；〃　I　said。
　　　My　mother　rolled　her　eyes。
　　　Hank　shoved　his　way　through　the　group　and　bent　down　to　inspect　the　damage。　〃Say　there　was　three　of　'em；　huh？〃　he　growled　at　me。
　　　〃Yes　sir；〃　I　said；　nodding。
　　　〃Good　for　you；　boy。　It'll　make　you　tough。〃
　　　〃Yes　sir；〃　I　said。
　　　〃If　you　want　me　to；　I'll　show　you　some　tricks　on　how　to　handle　a　three…on…one　situation；〃　he　said　with　a　smile。
　　　〃Let's　get　cleaned　up；〃　my　mother　said。
　　　〃I　think　it's　broken；〃　Gran　said。
　　　〃You　okay；　Luke？〃　Tally　asked。
　　　〃Yep；〃　I　said；　as　tough　as　I　could。
　　　They　led　me　away　in　a　victory　march。
　
　
　Chapter　23
　　　
　　　The　Fall　Picnic　was　always　held　on　the　last　Sunday　in　September；　though　no　one　knew　exactly　why。　It　was　simply　a　tradition　in　Black　Oak；　a　ritual　as　ingrained　as　the　carnival　and　the　spring　revival。　It　was　supposed　to　somehow　link　the　ing　of　a　new　season；　the　beginning　of　the　end　of　the　harvest；　and　the　end　of　baseball。　It　wasn't　clear　if　all　this　was　acplished　with　one　picnic；　but　at　least　the　effort　was　made。
　　　We　shared　the　day　with　the　Methodists；　our　friends　and　friendly　rivals。　Black　Oak　was　too　small　to　be　divided。　There　were　no　ethnic　groups；　no　blacks　or　Jews　or　Asians；　no　permanent　outsiders　of　any　variety。　We　were　all　of　Anglo…Irish　stock；　maybe　a　strain　or　two　of　German　blood；　and　everybody　farmed　or　sold　to　the　farmers。　Every　body　was　a　Christian　or　claimed　to　be。　Disagreements　flared　up　when　a　Cubs　fan　said　too　much　at　the　Tea　Shoppe；　or　when　some　idiot　declared　John　Deere　to　be　inferior　to　another　brand　of　tractor；　but　for　the　most　part　life　was　peaceful。　The　older　boys　and　younger　men　liked　to　fight　behind　the　Co…op　on　Saturdays；　but　it　was　more　sport　than　anything　else。　A　beating　like　the　one　Hank　gave　the　Siscos　was　so　rare　that　the　town　was　still　talking　about　it。
　　　Individual　grudges　lasted　a　lifetime；　Pappy　carried　more　than　his　share。　But　there　were　no　serious　enemies。　There　was　a　clear　social　order；　with　the　sharecroppers　at　the　bottom　and　the　merchants　at　the　top；　and　everyone　was　expected　to　know　his　place。　But　folks　got　along。
　　　The　line　between　Baptists　and　Methodists　was　never　straight　and　true。　Their　worship　was　slightly　different；　with　the　ritual　of　sprinkling　little　babies　being　their　most　flagrant　deviation　from　the　Scriptures；　as　we　saw　things。　And　they　didn't　meet　as　often；　which；　of　course；　meant　that　they　were　not　as　serious　about　their　faith。　Nobody　met　as　much　as　us　Baptists。　We　took　great　pride　in　constant　worship。　Pearl　Watson；　my　favorite　Methodist；　said　she'd　like　to　be　a　Baptist；　but　that　she　just　wasn't　physically　able。
　　　Ricky　told　me　once　in　private　that　when　he　left　the　farm　he　might　bee　a　Catholic　because　they　only　met　once　a　week。　I　didn't　know　what　a　Catholic　was；　and　so　he　tried　to　explain　things；　but　Ricky　on　theology　was　a　shaky　discussion　at　best。
　　　My　mother　and　Gran　spent　more　time　than　usual　ironing　our　clothes　that　Sunday　morning。　And　I　certainly　got　scrubbed　with　more　purpose。　Much　to　my　disappointment；　my　nose　had　not　been　broken；　there　was　no　swelling；　and　the　cut　was　barely　noticeable。
　　　We　had　to　look　our　very　best　because　the　Methodist　ladies　had　slightly　nicer　dresses。　In　spite　of　all　the　fuss；　I　was　excited　and　couldn't　wait　to　get　to　town。
　　　We　had　invited　the　Spruills。　This　was　done　out　of　a　sense　of　friendliness　and　Christian　concern；　though　I　wanted　to　pick　and　choose。　Tally　would　be　wele；　the　rest　could　stay　in　the　front　yard　for　all　I　cared。　But　when　I　surveyed　their　camp　after　breakfast；　I　saw　little　movement。　Their　truck　had　not　been　disconnected　from　the　myriad　of　wires　and　ropes　that　held　their　shelters　upright。　〃They　ain't　in'；〃　I　reported　to　Pappy；　who　was　studying　his　Sunday　school　lesson。
　　　〃Good；〃　he　said　quietly。
　　　The　prospect　of　Hank　milling　about　the　picnic；　grazing　from　table　to　table；　gorging　himself　on　food　and　looking　for　a　fight；　was　not　appealing。
　　　The　Mexicans　really　had　no　choice。　My　mother　had　extended　an　invitation　to　Miguel　early　in　the　week；　then　followed　it　up　with　a　couple　of　gentle　reminders　as　Sunday　grew　near。　My　father　had　explained　to　him　that　a　special　worship　service　would　be　held　in　Spanish；　then　there　would　be　plenty　of　good　food。　They　had　little　else　to　do　on　Sunday　afternoons。
　　　Nine　of　them　piled　into　the　back　of　our　truck；　only　Cowboy　was　absent。　This　set　my　imagination　on　fire。　Where　was　he　and　what　was　he　doing？　Where　was　Tally？　I　didn't　see　her　in　the　front　yard　as　we　drove　away。　My　heart　sank　as　I　thought　of　them　back　in　the　fields；　hiding　and　doing　whatever　they　wanted　to　do。　Instead　of　going　to　church　with　us；　Tally　was　probably　sneaking　around　again；　doing　bad　things。　What　if　she　now　used　Cowboy　as　her　lookout　while　she　bathed　in　Siler's　Creek？　I　couldn't　stand　that　thought；　and　I　worried　about　her　all　the　way　to　town。
　　　
　　　Brother　Akers；　with　a　rare　smile　on　his　face；　took　the　pulpit。　The　sanctuary　was　packed；　and　people　were　sitting　in　the　aisles　and　standing　along　the　back　wall。　The　windows　were　open；　and　on　the　north　side　of　the　church；　under　a　tall　oak；　the　Mexicans　were　grouped　together；　hats　off；　dark　heads　making　a　sea　of　brown。
　　　He　weled　our　guests；　our　visitors　from　the　hills；　and　also　the　Mexicans。　There　were　a　few　hill　people；　but　not　many。　As　always；　he　asked　them　to　stand　and　identify　themselves。　They　were　from　places　like　Hardy；　Mountain　Home；　and　Calico　Rock；　and　they　were　as　spruced　up　as　we　were。
　　　A　loudspeaker　had　been　placed　in　a　window；　so　Brother　Akers's　words　were　broadcast　out　of　the　sanctuary　and　into　the　general　direction　of　the　Mexicans；　where　Mr。　Carl　Durbin　picked　up　the　words　and　translated　them　into　Spanish。　Mr。　Durbin　was　a　retired　missionary　from　Jonesboro。　He'd　worked　in　Peru　for　thirty　years　among　some　real　Indians　up　in　the　mountains；　and　every　so　often　he'd　e　and　talk　to　us　during　missions　week　and　show　us　photos　and　slides　of　the　strange　land　he'd　left　behind。　In　addition　to　Spanish；　he　also　spoke　an　Indian　dialect；　and　this　forever　fascinated　me。
　　　Mr。　Durbin　stood　under　the　shade　tree　with　Mexicans　seated　on　the　grass　all　around　him。　He　wore　a　white　suit　and　a　white　straw　hat；　and　his　voice　carried　back　to　the　church　with　almost　as　much　volume　as　old　Brother　Akers's　did　with　the　loudspeaker。　Ricky'd　once　said　that　Mr。　Durbin　had　a　lot　more　sense　than　Brother　Akers；　and　he'd　offered　this　opinion　over　Sunday　dinner　and　created　trouble　yet　again。　It　was　a　sin　to　criticize　your　preacher；　at　least　out　loud。
　　　I　sat　at　the　end　of　the　pew；　next　to　the　window；　so　I　could　watch　and　listen　to　Mr。　Durbin。　I　couldn't　understand　a　word　he　was　saying；　but　I　knew　his　Spanish　was　slower　than　the　Mexicans'。　They　talked　so　fast　that　I　often　wondered　how　they　understood　each　other。　His　sentences　were　smooth　and　deliberate　and　laden　with　a　heavy　Arkansas　accent。　Though　I　had　not　a　clue　as　to　what　he　was　saying；　he　was　still　more　captivating　than　Brother　Akers。
　　　Not　surprisingly；　with　such　a　large　crowd；　the　morning's　sermon　took　on　a　life　of　its　own　and　became　a　marathon。　Small　crowd；　shorter　sermon。　Big　crowd；　like　Easter　and　Mother's　Day　and　the　Fall　Picnic；　and　Brother　Akers　felt　the　need　to　perform。　At　some　point；　in　the　midst　of　his　ramblings；　Mr。　Durbin　seemed　to　get　bored　with　it　all。　He　ignored　the　message　being　broadcast　from　inside　the　sanctuary　and　began　to　deliver　his　own　sermon。　When　Brother　Akers　paused　to　catch　his　breath；　Mr。　Durbin　kept　right　on　preaching。　And　when　Brother　Akers's　hellfire　and　brimstone　was　at　its　fever　pitch；　Mr。　Durbin　was　resting　with　a　glass　of　water。　He　took　a　seat　on　the　ground　with　the　Mexicans　and　waited　for　the　shouting　to　stop　inside　the　sanctuary。
　　　I　waited；　too。　I　passed　the　time　by　dreaming　of　the　food　that　we'd　soon　have…heaping　plates　of　fried　chicken　and　gallons　of　homemade　ice　cream。
　　　The　Mexicans　began　glancing　at　the　church　windows。　I'm　sure　they　thought　Brother　Akers　had　gone　crazy。　〃Relax；〃　I　wanted　to　tell　them；　〃it　happens　all　the　time。〃
　　　We　sang　five　stanzas　of　〃Just　As　I　Am〃　for　the　benediction。　No　one　walked　down　the　aisle；　and　Brother　Akers　reluctantly　dismissed　us。　I　met　Dewayne　at　the　front　door；　and　we　raced　down　the　street　to　the　baseball　field　to　see　if　the　Methodists　were　there。　Of　course　they　were；　they　never　worshiped　as　long　as　we　did。
　　　Behind　the　backstop；　under　three　elm　trees　that　had　caught　a　million　foul　balls；　the　food　was　being　arranged　on　picnic　tables　covered　with　redand…white　checkerboard　cloths。　The　Methodists　were　swarming　around；　the　men　and　children　hauling　food　while　the　ladies　organized　the　dishes。　I　found　Pearl　Watson　and　chatted　her　up。　〃Brother　Akers　still　goin'？〃　she　asked　with　a　grin。
　　　〃He　just　turned　us　loose；〃　I　said。　She　gave　Dewayne　and　me　two　chocolate　cookies。　I　ate　mine　in　two　bites。
　　　Finally；　the　Baptists　started　arriving；　amid　a　chorus　of　〃Hello〃　and　〃Where　you　been？〃　and　〃What　took　so　long？〃　Cars　and　trucks　were　pulled　close；　and　soon　were　parked　bumper　to　bumper　along　the　fences　around