jg.paintedhouse-第47节

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nd　the　field。　At　least　one　and　maybe　two　would　get　hit　with　foul　balls。　Two　years　earlier；　Mr。　Wilber　Shifflett's　brand…new　Chrysler　sedan　lost　a　windshield　when　Ricky　hit　a　home　run　over　the　left…field　fence。　The　explosion　had　been　terrific…a　loud　thud；　then　the　racket　of　glass　bursting。　But　Mr。　Shifflett　had　money；　so　no　one　got　too　worried。　He　knew　the　risks　when　he　parked　there。　The　Methodists　beat　us　that　year；　too；　seven　to　five；　and　Ricky　was　of　the　opinion　that　the　manager；　Pappy；　should've　changed　pitchers　in　the　third　inning。
　　　They　didn't　speak　to　each　other　for　some　time。
　　　The　tables　were　soon　covered　with　large　bowls　of　vegetables；　platters　heaped　with　fried　chicken；　and　baskets　filled　with　corn　bread；　rolls；　and　other　breads。　Under　the　direction　of　the　Methodist　minister's　wife；　Mrs。　Orr；　dishes　were　moved　here　and　there　until　a　certain　order　took　shape。　One　table　had　nothing　but　raw　vegetables…tomatoes　of　a　dozen　varieties；　cucumbers；　white　and　yellow　onions　in　vinegar。　Next　to　it　were　the　beans…black…eyed　peas；　crowder　peas；　green　beans　cooked　with　ham；　and　butter　beans。　Every　picnic　had　potato　salad；　and　every　chef　had　a　different　recipe。　Dewayne　and　I　counted　eleven　large　bowls　of　the　dish；　and　no　two　looked　the　same。　Deviled　eggs　were　almost　as　popular；　and　there　were　plates　of　them　that　covered　half　a　table。　Last；　and　most　important；　was　the　fried　chicken。　There　was　enough　to　feed　the　town　for　a　month。
　　　The　ladies　scurried　about；　fussing　over　the　food　while　the　men　talked　and　laughed　and　greeted　each　other；　but　always　with　one　eye　on　the　chicken。　Kids　were　everywhere；　and　Dewayne　and　I　drifted　to　one　tree　in　particular；　where　some　ladies　were　arranging　the　desserts。　I　counted　sixteen　coolers　of　homemade　ice　cream；　all　covered　tightly　with　towels　and　packed　with　ice。
　　　Once　the　preparations　had　met　the　approval　of　Mrs。　Orr；　her　husband；　the　Reverend　Vernon　Orr；　stood　in　the　center　of　the　tables　with　Brother　Akers；　and　the　crowd　grew　still　and　quiet。　The　year　before；　Brother　Akers　had　thanked　God　for　His　blessings；　this　year　the　honor　went　to　the　Methodists。　The　picnic　had　an　unspoken　pattern　to　it。　We　bowed　our　heads　and　listened　as　the　Reverend　Orr　thanked　God　for　His　goodness；　for　all　the　wonderful　food；　for　the　weather；　the　cotton；　and　on　and　on。　He　left　out　nothing；　Black　Oak　was　indeed　grateful　for　everything。
　　　I　could　smell　the　chicken。　I　could　taste　the　brownies　and　ice　cream。　Dewayne　kicked　me；　and　I　wanted　to　lay　him　out。　I　didn't；　though；　because　I'd　get　whipped　for　fighting　during　a　prayer。
　　　When　the　Reverend　Orr　finally　finished；　the　men　corralled　the　Mexicans　and　lined　them　up　to　be　served。　This　was　a　tradition；　Mexicans　first；　hill　people　second；　children　third；　then　the　adults。　Stick　Powers　appeared　from　nowhere；　in　uniform；　of　course；　and　managed　to　cut　in　line　between　the　Mexicans　and　the　hill　folks。　I　heard　him　explain　that　he　was　on　duty　and　didn't　have　much　time。　He　carried　away　two　plates…one　covered　with　chicken　and　one　covered　with　everything　else　he　could　pile　on。　We　knew　he'd　eat　until　he　was　stuffed；　then　find　a　tree　on　the　edge　of　town　and　sleep　off　his　lunch。
　　　Several　of　the　Methodists　asked　me　about　Ricky…how　was　he　doing；　had　we　heard　from　him。　I　tried　to　be　nice　and　answer　their　questions；　but　as　a　family　we　Chandlers　did　not　enjoy　this　attention。　And　now　that　we　were　horrified　over　the　Latcher　secret；　any　mention　of　Ricky　in　public　scared　us。
　　　〃Tell　him　we're　thinkin'　about　him；〃　they　said。　They　always　said　this；　as　if　we　owned　a　phone　and　called　him　every　night。
　　　〃We're　prayin'　for　him；〃　they　said。
　　　〃Thank　you；〃　I　always　replied。
　　　A　perfectly　wonderful　moment　like　the　Fall　Picnic　could　be　ruined　with　an　unexpected　question　about　Ricky。　He　was　in　Korea；　in　the　trenches；　in　the　thick　of　the　war；　dodging　bullets　and　killing　people；　not　knowing　if　he　would　ever　e　home　to　go　to　church　with　us；　to　picnic　with　the　town；　to　play　against　the　Methodists　again。　In　the　midst　of　the　excitement　I　suddenly　felt　very　alone；　and　very　frightened。
　　　〃Get　tough；〃　Pappy　would　say。　The　food　helped　immensely。　Dewayne　and　I　took　our　plates　and　sat　behind　the　first…base　dugout；　where　there　was　a　small　sliver　of　shade。　Quilts　were　being　placed　all　around　the　outfield；　and　families　were　sitting　together　in　the　sun。　Umbrellas　were　popping　up；　the　ladies　were　fanning　their　faces；　their　small　children；　and　their　plates。　The　Mexicans　were　squeezed　under　one　tree；　down　the　rightfield　foul　line；　away　from　the　rest　of　us。　Juan　had　confessed　to　me　the　year　before　that　they　weren't　sure　if　they　liked　fried　chicken。　I'd　never　heard　such　nonsense。　It　was　a　heck　of　a　lot　better　than　tortillas；　I'd　thought　at　the　time。
　　　My　parents　and　grandparents　ate　together　on　a　quilt　near　third　base。　After　much　haggling　and　negotiating；　I'd　been　granted　permission　to　eat　with　my　buddies；　a　huge　step　for　a　seven…year…old。
　　　The　line　never　stopped。　By　the　time　the　men　reached　the　last　table；　the　teenaged　boys　were　back　for　more。　One　plate　was　enough　for　me。　I　wanted　to　save　room　for　the　ice　cream。　Before　long　we　wandered　over　to　the　dessert　table；　where　Mrs。　Irene　Flanagan　was　standing　guard；　preventing　vandalism　from　the　likes　of　us。
　　　〃How　many　chocolates　you　got？〃　I　asked；　looking　at　the　collection　of　ice　cream　coolers　just　waiting　in　the　shade。
　　　She　smiled　and　said；　〃Oh；　I　don't　know。　Several。〃
　　　〃Did　Mrs。　Cooper　bring　her　peanut　butter　ice　cream？〃　Dewayne　asked。
　　　〃She　did；〃　Mrs。　Flanagan　said　and　pointed　to　a　cooler　in　the　middle　of　the　pack。　Mrs。　Cooper　somehow　mixed　chocolate　and　peanut　butter　in　her　ice　cream；　and　the　results　were　incredible。　Folks　clamored　for　it　all　year　round。　The　year　before；　two　teenaged　boys；　one　a　Baptist　and　one　a　Methodist；　almost　came　to　blows　over　who　would　get　the　next　serving。　While　peace　was　being　restored　by　the　Reverend　Orr；　Dewayne　managed　to　grab　two　bowls　of　the　stuff。　He　charged　down　the　street　with　them　and　hid　behind　a　shed；　where　he　devoured　every　drop。　He　talked　of　little　else　for　a　month。
　　　Mrs。　Cooper　was　a　widow。　She　lived　in　a　pretty　little　house　two　blocks　behind　Pop　and　Pearl's　store；　and　when　she　needed　yard　work　done　she'd　simply　make　a　cooler　of　peanut　butter　ice　cream。　Teenagers　would　materialize　from　nowhere；　and　she　had　the　neatest　yard　in　town。　Even　grown　men　had　been　known　to　stop　by　and　pull　a　few　weeds。
　　　〃You'll　have　to　wait；〃　Mrs。　Flanagan　said。
　　　〃Till　when？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃Till　everyone　is　finished。〃
　　　We　waited　forever。　Some　of　the　older　boys　and　the　younger　men　began　stretching　their　muscles　and　tossing　baseballs　in　the　outfield。　The　adults　talked　and　visited　and　talked　and　visited；　and　I　was　certain　the　ice　cream　was　melting。　The　two　umpires　arrived　from　Monette；　and　this　sent　a　ripple　of　excitement　through　the　crowd。　They；　of　course；　had　to　be　fed　first；　and　for　a　while　they　were　more　concerned　with　fried　chicken　than　with　baseball。　Slowly；　the　quilts　and　umbrellas　were　taken　from　the　outfield。　The　picnic　was　ending。　It　was　almost　time　for　the　game。
　　　The　ladies　gathered　around　the　dessert　table　and　began　serving　us。　Finally　Dewayne　got　his　peanut　butter　ice　cream。　I　opted　for　two　scoops　of　chocolate　over　one　of　Mrs。　Lou　Kiner's　fudge　brownies。　For　twenty　minutes　there　was　a　near…riot　around　the　dessert　table；　but　order　was　maintained。　Both　preachers　stood　in　the　midst　of　the　pack；　both　eating　as　much　ice　cream　as　anybody　else。　The　umpires　declined；　citing　the　heat　as　the　reason　that　they　should　finally　stop　eating。
　　　Someone　shouted；　〃Play　ball！〃　and　the　crowd　moved　toward　the　backstop。　The　Methodists　were　coached　by　Mr。　Duffy　Lewis；　a　farmer　out　west　of　town　and；　according　to　Pappy；　a　man　of　limited　baseball　intelligence。　But　after　four　losses　in　a　row；　Pappy's　low　opinion　of　Mr。　Lewis　had　bee　almost　muted。　The　umpires　called　the　two　coaches　to　a　meeting　behind　home　plate；　and　for　a　long　time　they　discussed　Black　Oak's　version　of　the　rules　of　baseball。　They　pointed　to　fences　and　poles　and　limbs　overhanging　the　field…each　had　its　own　rules　and　its　own　history。　Pappy　disagreed　with　most　of　what　the　umpires　said；　and　the　haggling　went　on　and　on。
　　　The　Baptists　had　been　the　home　team　the　year　before；　so　we　hit　first。　The　Methodist　pitcher　was　Buck　Prescott；　son　of　Mr。　Sap　Prescott；　one　of　the　largest　landowners　in　Craighead　County。　Buck　was　in　his　early　twenties　and　had　attended　Arkansas　State　for　two　years；　something　that　was　quite　rare。　He　had　tried　to　pitch　in　college；　but　there　had　been　some　problems　with　the　coach。　He　was　left…handed；　threw　nothing　but　curveballs；　and　had　beaten　us　the　year　before；　nine　to　two。　When　he　walked　out　to　the　mound；　I　knew　we　were　in　for　a　long　day。　His　first　pitch　was　a　slow；　looping　curveball　that　was　high　and　outside　but　called　a　strike　anyway；　and　Pappy　was　already　yapping　at　the　umpire。　Buck　walked　the　first　two　batters；　struck　out　the　next　two；　then　retired　my　father　on　a　fly　ball　to　center　field。
　　　Our　pitcher　was　Duke　Ridley；　a　young　farmer　with　seven　kids　and　a　fastball　even　I　could　hit。　He　claimed　he　once　pitched　in　Alaska　during　the　war；　but　this　had　not　been　verified。　Pappy　thought　it　was　a　lie；　and　after　watching　him　get　shelled　the　year　before；　I　had　serious　doubt