Chapter 30

   I glanced at the clock above the stove as we ate. It was ten minutes after four, the earliest breakfast I could remember. My father spoke only long enough to give his weather forecast-cool, clear, not a cloud anywhere, with the ground soft but firm enough to pick cotton.
   The adults were anxious. Much of our crop was still unharvested, and if it remained so, our little farming operation would fall farther into debt. My mother and Gran finished the dishes in record time, and we left the house in a pack. The Mexicans rode with us to the fields. They huddled together on one side of the trailer and tried to stay warm.
   Clear, dry days had become rare, and we attacked this one as if it might be the last. I was exhausted by sunrise, but complaining would only get me a harsh lecture. Another crop disaster was looming, and we needed to work until we dropped. The desire for a brief nap arose, but I knew my father would whip me with his belt if he caught me sleeping.
   Lunch was cold biscuits and ham, eaten hurriedly in the shade of the cotton trailer. It was warm by midday, and a siesta would have been appropriate. Instead, we sat on our picking sacks, nibbled our biscuits, and watched the sky. Even when we talked, our eyes were looking up.
   And, of course, a clear day meant that the storms were on the way, so after twenty minutes of lunch, my father and Pappy declared the break to be over. The women jumped up as quickly as the men, anxious to prove they could work just as hard. I was the only reluctant one.
   It could’ve been worse: The Mexicans didn’t even stop to eat.
   I spent the tedious afternoon thinking about Tally, then Hank, then back to Tally. I also thought about the Spruills and envied them for escaping. I tried to imagine what they would do when they arrived home and Hank wasn’t there waiting for them. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t really care.
   We had not received a letter from Ricky in several weeks. I had heard the adults whisper about this around the house. I had not yet sent my long narrative to him, primarily because I wasn’t sure how to mail it without getting caught. And I was having second thoughts about burdening him with the Latcher news. He had enough on his mind. If Ricky were home, we’d go fishing and I’d tell him everything. I’d begin with the Sisco killing and spare no details-the Latcher baby, Hank and Cowboy, everything. Ricky would know what to do. I longed for him to come home.
   I don’t know how much cotton I picked that day, but I’m sure it was a world record for a seven-year-old. When the sun fell behind the trees along the river, my mother found me, and we walked to the house. Gran stayed behind, picking as fast as the men.
   “How long they gonna work?” I asked my mother. We were so tired that walking was a challenge.
   “Till dark, I guess.”
   It was almost dark when we got to the house. I wanted to collapse on the sofa and sleep for a week, but my mother asked me to wash my hands and help with supper. She made corn bread and warmed up leftovers while I peeled and sliced tomatoes. We listened to the radio-not a word about Korea.
   In spite of a brutal day in the fields, Pappy and my father were in good spirits when we sat down to eat. Between them, they had picked eleven hundred pounds. The recent rains had driven up the price of cotton in the Memphis market, and if we could just get a few more days of dry weather, then we might survive another year. Gran listened from a distance. She listened but did not hear, and I knew she was off in Korea again. My mother was too tired to talk.
   Pappy hated leftovers, but he still thanked the Lord for them. He also gave thanks for the dry weather and asked for more of it. We ate slowly; the day’s exhaustion finally settled in. Conversation was soft and short.
   I heard the thunder first. It was a low rumble, far away, and I glanced around the table to see if the adults had heard it, too. Pappy was talking about the cotton markets. A few minutes later the rumbling was much closer, and when lightning cracked in the distance, we stopped eating. The winds picked up, and the tin roof on the back porch began to gently rattle. We avoided eye contact.
   Pappy folded his hands together and rested his elbows on the table as if he might pray again. He had just asked God for more good weather. Now we were about to get another drenching.
   My father’s shoulders dropped a few inches. He rubbed his forehead and gazed at a wall. The rain began pecking the roof, a little too loudly, and Gran said, “It’s hail.”
   Hail meant high winds and fierce rain, and sure enough a storm roared across our farm. We sat at the table for a long time listening to the thunder and rain, ignoring the half-eaten supper before us, wondering how many inches would fall and how long it would be before we could pick again. The St. Francis couldn’t hold much more, and when it spilled out, the crops would be finished.
   The storm passed, but the rain continued, heavy at times. We finally left the kitchen. I walked to the front porch with Pappy and saw nothing but a pool of water between our house and the road. I felt sorry for him as he sat in the swing and gazed in disbelief at the waves of water God was sending us.
   Later my mother read Bible stories to me, her voice barely audible above the rain on the roof. The tale of Noah and the flood was off-limits. I fell asleep before young David slew Goliath.

   The next day my parents announced that they were driving into town. I was invited-it would’ve been too cruel to deny me the tripbut Pappy and Gran were not included. It was a little family outing. Ice cream was mentioned as a possibility. Thanks to Cowboy and Tally, we had some free gasoline, and there was nothing to do around the farm. Water was standing between the rows of cotton.
   I sat in the front with them and paid close attention to the speedometer. Once we turned onto the main highway and headed north toward Black Oak, my father finished shifting and sped up to forty-five miles an hour. As far as I could tell, the truck ran the same as it did at thirty-seven, but I wasn’t about to mention this to Pappy.
   It was oddly comforting to see the other farms idled by the rain. No one was trudging through the fields, trying to pick. Not a single Mexican could be seen.
   Our land was low, prone to early flooding, and we’d lost crops before when other farmers had not. Now it appeared as if everybody was getting soaked in equal measure.
   It was midday with nothing to do but wait, and so families were gathered on porches, watching the traffic. The women were shelling peas. The men were talking and worrying. The children were either sitting on the steps or playing in the mud. We knew them all, every house. We waved, they waved back, and we could almost hear them say, “Reckon why the Chandlers are headin’ to town?”
   Main Street was quiet. We parked in front of the hardware store. Three doors down at the Co-op, a group of farmers in overalls was engaged in serious conversation. My father felt obliged to report there first, or at least to listen to their thoughts and opinions on when the rain might end. I followed my mother to the drugstore, where they sold ice cream at a soda fountain in the rear. A pretty town girl named Cindy had worked there for as long as I could remember. Cindy had no other customers at the moment, and I received an especially generous helping of vanilla ice cream covered with cherries. It cost my mother a nickel. I perched myself on a stool. When it was clear that I had found my spot for the next thirty minutes, my mother left to buy a few things.
   Cindy had an older brother who’d been killed in a gruesome car wreck, and every time I saw her I thought about the stories I’d heard. There’d been a fire, and they couldn’t get her brother out of the wreckage. And there’d been a crowd, which, of course, meant there were many versions of just how awful it really was. She was pretty, but she had sad eyes, and I knew this was because of the tragedy. She didn’t want to talk, and that was fine with me. I ate slowly, determined to make the ice cream last a long time, and watched her move around behind the counter.
   I’d heard enough whispers between my parents to know that they were planning to make some sort of telephone call. Since we didn’t own a phone, we’d have to borrow one. I was guessing it would be the phone at Pop and Pearl’s store.
   Most of the homes in town had phones, as did all the businesses. And the farmers who lived two or three miles from town had phones, too, since the lines ran that far. My mother once told me it would be years before they strung phone lines out to our place. Pappy didn’t want one anyway. He said that if you had a phone then you had to talk to folks whenever it was convenient for them, not you. A television might be interesting, but forget a phone.
   Jackie Moon came through the door and made his way back to the soda counter. “Hey, little Chandler,” he said, then tousled my hair and sat down beside me. “What brings you here?” he asked.
   “Ice cream,” I said, and he laughed.
   Cindy stepped in front of us and said, “The usual?”
   “Yes ma’am,” he said. “And how are you?”
   “I’m fine, Jackie,” she cooed. They studied each other carefully, and I got the impression that something was going on. She turned to prepare the usual, and Jackie examined her from head to toe.
   “Y’all heard from Ricky?” he asked me, his eyes still on Cindy.
   “Not lately,” I said, staring too.
   “Ricky’s a tough guy. He’ll be all right.”
   “I know,” I said.
   He lit a cigarette and puffed on it for a moment. “Y’all wet out there?” he asked.
   “Soaked.”
   Cindy placed a bowl of chocolate ice cream and a cup of black coffee in front of Jackie.
   “They say it’s supposed to rain for the next two weeks,” he said. “I don’t doubt it.”
   “Rain, rain, rain,” Cindy said. “That’s all people talk about these days. Don’t you get tired of talkin’ about the weather?”
   “Ain’t nothin’ else to talk about,” Jackie said. “Not if you’re farmin’.”
   “Only a fool would farm,” she said, then tossed her hand towel on the counter and walked to the front register.
   Jackie finished a bite of ice cream. “She’s probably right about that, you know.”
   “Probably so.”
   “Your daddy goin’ up North?” he asked.
   “Goin’ where?”
   “Up North, to Flint. I hear some of the boys are already makin’ calls, tryin’ to get on at the Buick plant. They say the jobs are tight this year, can’t take as many as they used to, so folks are already scramblin’ to get on. Cotton’s shot to hell again. Another good rain and the river’s over the banks. Most farmers’ll be lucky to make half a crop. Kind of silly, ain’t it? Farm like crazy for six months, lose everything, then run up North to work and bring back enough cash to pay off debts. Then plant another crop.”
   “You goin’ up North?” I asked.
   “Thinkin’ about it. I’m too young to get stuck on a farm for the rest of my life.”
   “Yeah, me too.”
   He sipped his coffee, and for a few moments we silently contemplated the foolishness of farming.
   “I hear that big hillbilly took off,” Jackie finally said.
   Fortunately I had a mouthful of ice cream, so I just nodded.
   “I hope they catch him,” he said. “I’d like to see him go to trial, get what’s comin’ to him. I already told Stick Powers that I’d be a witness. I saw the whole thing. Other folks are comin’ out now, tellin’ Stick what really happened. The hillbilly didn’t have to kill that Sisco boy.”
   I shoveled in another scoop and kept nodding. I had learned to shut up and look stupid when the subject of Hank Spruill came up.
   Cindy was back, snuffling behind the counter, wiping this and that and humming all the while. Jackie forgot about Hank. “You ‘bout finished?” he said, looking at my ice cream. I guess he and Cindy had something to discuss.
   “Just about,” I said.
   She hummed, and he stared until I finished. When I’d eaten the last bit, I said good-bye and went to Pop and Pearl’s, where I hoped to learn more about the telephone call. Pearl was alone by the register, her reading glasses on the tip of her nose, her gaze meeting mine the second I walked in. It was said that she knew the sound of each truck that passed along Main Street and that she could not only identify the farmer driving it but also could tell how long it had been since he’d been to town. She missed nothing.
   “Where’s Eli?” she asked after we’d exchanged pleasantries.
   “He stayed at home,” I said, looking at the bin of Tootsie Rolls. She pointed and said, “Have one.”
   “Thanks. Where’s Pop?”
   “In the back. Just you and your parents, huh?”
   “Yes ma’am. You seen ‘em?”
   “No, not yet. They buyin’ groceries?”
   “Yes ma’am. And I think my dad needs to borrow a phone.” This stopped her cold as she thought of all the reasons why he needed to call someone. I unwrapped the Tootsie Roll.
   “Who’s he callin’?” she asked.
   “Don’t know.” Pity the poor soul who borrowed Pearl’s phone and wanted to keep the details private. She’d know more than the person on the other end.
   “Y’all wet out there?”
   “Yes ma’am. Pretty wet.”
   “That’s such bad land anyway. Seems like y’all and the Latchers and the Jeters always get flooded first.” Her voice trailed off as she contemplated our misfortune. She glanced out the window, slowly shaking her head at the prospect of another bleak harvest.
   I’d yet to see a flood-at least not one that I could remember-so I had nothing to say. The weather had dampened everyone’s spirits, including Pearl’s. With heavy clouds hanging over our part of the world, it was hard to be optimistic. Another gloomy winter was coming.
   “I hear some people are goin’ up North,” I said. I knew Pearl would have the details if the rumors were indeed true.
   “I hear that, too,” she said. “They’re tryin’ to line up jobs just in case the rains stay.”
   “Who’s goin’?”
   “Hadn’t heard,” she said, but I could tell from the tone of her voice that she had the latest gossip. The farmers had probably used her phone.
   I thanked her for the Tootsie Roll and left the store. The sidewalks were empty. It was nice to have the town to myself. On Saturdays you could hardly walk for all the people. I caught a glimpse of my parents in the hardware store buying something, so I went to investigate.
   They were buying paint, lots of it. Lined up perfectly on the counter, along with two brushes still in their plastic wrappers, were five one-gallon buckets of white Pittsburgh Paint. The clerk was totaling the charges when I walked up. My father was fumbling for something in his pocket. My mother stood close to his side, straight and proud. It was obvious to me that she had pushed the buying of the paint. She smiled down at me with great satisfaction.
   “That’s fourteen dollars and eighty cents,” the clerk said.
   My father withdrew his cash and began counting bills.
   “I can just put it on your account,” the clerk said.
   “No, this doesn’t go there,” my mother said. Pappy would have a heart attack if he got a monthly statement showing that much spent for paint.
   We hauled it to the truck.

Chapter 31

   The buckets of paint were lined along the back porch, like soldiers poised for an ambush. Under my mother’s supervision, the scaffolding was moved by my father and rigged at the northeast corner of the house, enabling me to paint from the bottom almost to the roofline. I had turned the first corner. Trot would’ve been proud.
   Another gallon was opened. I removed the wrapper from one of the new brushes and worked the bristles back and forth. It was five inches wide and much heavier than the one Trot had given me.
   “We’re gonna work in the garden,” my mother said. “We’ll be back directly.” And with that she left with my father in tow, carrying three of the largest baskets on the farm. Gran was in the kitchen making strawberry preserves. Pappy was off worrying somewhere. I was left alone.
   The investment by my parents in this project added weight to my mission. The house would now be painted in its entirety, whether Pappy liked it or not. And the bulk of the labor would be supplied by me. There was, however, no hurry. If the floods came, I would paint when it wasn’t raining. If we finished the crop, I’d have all winter to complete my masterpiece. The house had never been painted in its fifty years. Where was the urgency?
   After thirty minutes I was tired. I could hear my parents talking in the garden. There were two more brushes-another new one and the one Trot had given me-just lying there on the porch beside the buckets of paint. Why couldn’t my parents pick up the brushes and get to work? Surely they planned to help.
   The paintbrush was really heavy. I kept my strokes short and slow and very neat. My mother had cautioned me against trying to apply too much at once. “Don’t let it drip.” “Don’t let it run.”
   After an hour I needed a break. Lost in my own world, facing such a mammoth project, I began to think ill of Trot for dumping it on me. He’d painted about a third of one side of the house then fled. I was beginning to think that perhaps Pappy was right after all. The house didn’t need painting.
   Hank was the reason. Hank had laughed at me and insulted my family because our house was unpainted. Trot had risen to my defense. He and Tally had conspired to start this project, not knowing that the bulk of it would fall on my shoulders.
   I heard voices close behind me. Miguel, Luis, and Rico had walked up and were eyeing me with curiosity. I smiled and we exchanged buenas tardes. They moved in closer, obviously puzzled as to why the smallest Chandler had been given such a large task. For a few minutes, I concentrated on my work and inched my way along. Miguel was at the porch inspecting the unopened gallons and the other brushes. “Can we play?” he asked.
   What an absolutely wonderful idea!
   Two more gallons were opened. I gave Miguel my brush, and within seconds, Luis and Rico were sitting on the scaffold, their bare feet hanging down, painting as if they’d been doing it all their lives. Miguel started on the back porch. Before long the other six Mexicans were sitting on the grass in the shade watching us.
   Gran heard the noise, and she stepped outside, wiping her hands with a dish towel. She looked at me and laughed, then went back to her strawberry preserves.
   The Mexicans were delighted to have something to do. The rains had forced them to kill long hours in and around the barn. They had no truck to take them to town, no radio to listen to, no books to read. (We weren’t even sure if they knew how to read.) They rolled dice occasionally, but they would stop the moment one of us drew near.
   They attacked the unpainted house with a vengeance. The six non-painters offered endless advice and opinions to those with the brushes. Evidently some of their suggestions were hilarious because at times the painters laughed so hard they couldn’t work. The Spanish grew faster and louder, all nine laughing and talking. The challenge was to convince one with a brush to relinquish it for a spell and allow the next one to improve on the work. Roberto emerged as the expert. With a dramatic flair, he instructed the novices, Pablo and Pepe especially, on proper technique. He walked behind the others as they worked, quick with advice or a joke or a rebuke. The brushes changed hands, and through the ridicule and abuse, a system of teamwork emerged.
   I sat under the tree with the other Mexicans, watching the transformation of the back porch. Pappy returned on the tractor. He parked it by the tool shed and, from a distance, he watched for a moment. Then he circled wide to the front of the house. I couldn’t tell if he approved or not, and I’m not sure that it mattered anymore. There was no spring in his step, no purpose to his movement. Pappy was just another beaten farmer in the midst of losing yet another cotton crop.
   My parents returned from the garden with the baskets laden with produce. “Well, if it isn’t Tom Sawyer,” my mother said to me.
   “Who’s he?” I asked.
   “I’ll tell you the story tonight.”
   They placed the baskets on the porch, careful to avoid the painting area, and went inside. All the adults were gathered in the kitchen, and I wondered if they were talking about me and the Mexicans. Gran appeared with a pitcher of iced tea and a tray of glasses. That was a good sign. The Mexicans took a break and enjoyed their tea. They thanked Gran, then immediately started bickering over who got the brushes.
   The sun battled the clouds as the afternoon passed. There were moments when its light was clear and unbroken and the air was warm, almost summerlike. Inevitably, we would look up at the sky in hopes that the clouds were finally leaving Arkansas, never to return, or at least not until the spring. Then the earth turned dark again, and cooler.
   The clouds were winning, and we all knew it. The Mexicans would soon be leaving our farm, just as the Spruills had. We couldn’t expect people to sit around for days, watching the sky, trying to stay dry, and not getting paid.
   The paint was gone by late afternoon. The rear of our house, including the porch, was finished, and the difference was astounding. The brilliant, shiny boards contrasted sharply with the unpainted ones at the corner. Tomorrow we would attack the west side, assuming I could somehow negotiate more paint.
   I thanked the Mexicans. They laughed all the way back to the barn. They would fix and eat their tortillas, go to bed early, and hope they could pick cotton tomorrow.
   I sat in the cool grass, admiring their work, not wanting to go inside because the adults were not in good spirits. They would force a smile at me and try to say something amusing, but they were worried sick.
   I wished I had a brother-younger or older, I didn’t care. My parents wanted more children, but there were problems of some sort. I needed a friend, another kid to talk with, play with, conspire with. I was tired of being the only little person on the farm.
   And I missed Tally. I tried valiantly to hate her, but it simply wasn’t working.
   Pappy walked around the corner of the house and inspected the new coat of paint. I couldn’t tell if he was upset or not.
   “Let’s ride down to the creek,” he said, and without another word we walked to the tractor. He started it, and we followed the ruts in the field road. Water was standing where the tractor and cotton trailer had gone many times. The front tires splashed mud as we chugged along. The rear tires chewed up the ground and made the ruts deeper. We were slogging through a field that was fast becoming a marsh.
   The cotton itself looked pitiful. The bolls sagged from the weight of the rainfall. The stalks were bent from the wind. A week of blazing sunshine might dry the ground and the cotton and allow us to finish picking, but such weather was long gone.
   We turned north and crept along an even soggier trail, the same one Tally and I had walked a few times. The creek was just ahead.
   I stood slightly behind Pappy, clutching the umbrella stand and the brace above the left rear tire, and I watched the side of his face. His jaws were clenched, his eyes were narrowed. Other than the occasional flare of temper, he was not one to show emotion. I’d never seen him cry or even come close. He worried because he was a farmer, but he did not complain. If the rains washed away our crops, then there was a reason for it. God would protect us and provide for us through good years and bad. As Baptists we believed God was in control of everything.
   I was certain there was a reason the Cardinals lost the pennant, but I couldn’t understand why God was behind it. Why would God allow two teams from New York to play in the World Series? It completely baffled me.
   The water was suddenly deeper in front of us, six inches up the front tires. The trail was flooded, and for a moment I was puzzled by this. We were near the creek. Pappy stopped the tractor and pointed. “It’s over the banks,” he said matter-of-factly, but there was defeat in his voice. The water was coming through a thicket that once sat high above the creek bed. Somewhere down there Tally had bathed in a cool, clear stream that had disappeared.
   “It’s flooding,” he said. He turned off the tractor, and we listened to the sounds of the current as it came over the sides of Siler’s Creek and ran onto the bottomland that was our lower forty acres. It got lost between the rows of cotton as it crept down the slight valley. It would stop somewhere in the middle of the field, about halfway to our house, at a point where the land began a gentle slope upward. There it would gather and gain depth before spreading east and west and covering most of our acreage.
   I was finally seeing a flood. There had been others but I’d been too young to remember them. All of my young life I’d heard tall tales of rivers out of control and crops submerged, and now I was witnessing it for myself, as if for the first time. It was frightening because once it started no one knew when it would end. Nothing held the water; it ran wherever it wanted. Would it reach our house? Would the St. Francis spill over and wipe out everyone? Would it rain for forty days and forty nights and cause us to perish like the ones who’d laughed at Noah?
   Probably not. There was something in that story about the rainbow as God’s promise to never again flood the earth.
   It was certainly flooding now. The sight of a rainbow was almost a holy event in our lives, but we hadn’t seen one in weeks. I didn’t understand how God could allow such things to happen.
   Pappy had been to the creek at least three times during the day, watching and waiting and probably praying.
   “When did it start?” I asked.
   “I reckon an hour ago. Don’t know for sure.”
   I wanted to ask when it would stop, but I already knew the answer.
   “It’s backwater,” he said. “The St. Francis is too full, there’s no place for it to go.”
   We watched it for a long time. It poured forth and came toward us, rising a few inches on the front tires. After a while I was anxious to head back. Pappy, however, was not. His worries and fears were being confirmed, and he was mesmerized by what he was seeing.
   In late March, he and my father had begun plowing the fields, turning over the soil, burying the stalks and roots and leaves from the previous crop. They were happy then, pleased to be outdoors after a long hibernation. They watched the weather and studied the almanac, and they had begun hanging around the Co-op to hear what the other farmers were saying. They planted in early May if the weather was right. May 15 was an absolute deadline for putting the cotton seeds in the ground. My contribution to the operation began in early June, when school was out and weeds began sprouting. They gave me a hoe, pointed me in the right direction, and for many hours a day I chopped cotton, a task almost as hard and mind-numbing as picking the stuff. All summer as the cotton and the weeds around it grew, we chopped. If the cotton bloomed by July 4, then it was going to be a bumper crop. By late August we were ready to pick. By early September we were searching for hill people and trying to line up some Mexicans.
   And now, in mid-October, we were watching it get swept away. All the labor, the sweat and sore muscles, all the money invested in seed and fertilizer and fuel, all the hopes and plans, everything was now being lost to the backwaters of the St. Francis River.
   We waited, but the flood did not stop. In fact the front tires of the tractor were half-covered with water when Pappy at last started the engine. There was barely enough light to see. The trail was covered with water, and at the rate the flood was spreading we’d lose the lower forty by sunrise.
   I had never witnessed such silence over supper. Not even Gran could find anything pleasant to say. I played with my butter beans and tried to imagine what my parents were thinking. My father was probably worried about the crop loan, a debt that would now be impossible to repay. My mother was working on her escape from the cotton patch. She was not nearly as disappointed as the other three adults. A disastrous harvest, following such a promising spring and summer, gave her an arsenal of artillery to use against my father.
   The flood kept my mind off heavier matters-Hank, Tally, Cowboy-and for this reason it was not an unpleasant subject to think about. But I said nothing.

   School would reopen soon, and my mother decided I should begin a nightly routine of reading and writing. I was longing for the classroom, something I would never admit, and so I enjoyed the homework. She commented on how rusty my cursive writing had become and declared that I needed a lot of practice. My reading wasn’t too smooth either.
   “See what pickin’ cotton’ll do to you?” I said.
   We were alone in Ricky’s room, reading to each other before I went to bed. “I have a secret for you,” she whispered. “Can you keep a secret?”
   If you only knew, I thought. “Sure.”
   “Promise?”
   “Sure.”
   “You can’t tell anybody, not even Pappy and Gran.”
   “Okay, what is it?”
   She leaned even closer. “Your father and I are thinkin’ about goin’ up North.”
   “What about me?”
   “You’re goin’, too.”
   That was a relief. “You mean to work like Jimmy Dale?”
   “That’s right. Your father has talked to Jimmy Dale, and he can get him a job at the Buick plant in Flint, Michigan. There’s good money up there. We’re not stayin’ forever, but your father needs to find somethin’ steady.”
   “What about Pappy and Gran?”
   “Oh, they’ll never leave here.”
   “Will they keep farmin’?”
   “I suppose. Don’t know what else they’d do.”
   “How can they farm without us?”
   “They’ll manage. Listen, Luke, we can’t sit here year after year losin’ money while we borrow more. Your father and I are ready to try somethin’ else.”
   I had mixed emotions about this. I wanted my parents to be happy, and my mother would never be content on a farm, especially when forced to live with her in-laws. I certainly didn’t want to be a farmer, but then my future was already secure with the Cardinals. But the thought of leaving the only place I’d ever lived was unsettling. And I couldn’t imagine life without Pappy and Gran.
   “It’ll be excitin’, Luke,” she said, her voice still a whisper. “Trust me.”
   “I guess so. Ain’t it cold up there?”
   “Isn’t,” she corrected me. “There’s a lot of snow in the wintertime, but I think that’ll be fun. We’ll make a snowman and snow ice cream, and we’ll have us a white Christmas.”
   I remembered Jimmy Dale’s stories about watching the Detroit Tigers play and how folks had good jobs and televisions and the schools were better. Then I remembered his wife, the rotten Stacy with her whiny nasal voice, and how I’d scared her in the outhouse.
   “Don’t they talk funny up there?” I asked.
   “Yes, but we’ll get used to it. It’ll be an adventure, Luke, and if we don’t like it, then we’ll come home.”
   “We’ll come back here?”
   “We’ll come back to Arkansas, or somewhere in the South.”
   “I don’t want to see Stacy.”
   “Neither do I. Look, you go to bed and think about it. Remember, it’s our secret.”
   “Yes ma’am.”
   She tucked me in and turned off the light.
   More news to file away.

Chapter 32

   As soon as Pappy took his last bite of scrambled eggs, he wiped his mouth and looked through the window over the sink. There was enough light to see what we wanted. “Let’s take a look,” he said, and the rest of us followed him out of the kitchen, off the back porch, and across the rear yard in the direction of the barn. I was huddled under a sweater, trying to keep up with my father. The grass was wet, and after a few steps so were my boots. We stopped at the nearest field and stared at the dark tree line in the distance, at the edge of Siler’s Creek, almost a mile away. There were forty acres of cotton in front of us, half our land. There were also floodwaters; we just didn’t know how much.
   Pappy began walking between two rows of cotton, and soon we could only see his shoulders and straw hat. He would stop when he found the creek’s advance. If he walked for a while, then the creek had not done the damage we feared. Perhaps it was retreating, and maybe the sun would come out. Maybe we could salvage something.
   At about sixty feet, the distance from the mound to home plate, he stopped and looked down. We couldn’t see the ground or what was covering it, but we knew. The creek was still moving toward us.
   “It’s already here,” he said over his shoulder. “Two inches of it.”
   The field was flooding faster than the men had predicted. And given their talent for pessimism, this was no small feat.
   “This has never happened in October,” Gran said, wringing her hands on her apron.
   Pappy watched the action around his feet. We kept our eyes on him. The sun was rising, but it was cloudy, and the shadows came and went. I heard a voice and looked to the right. The Mexicans had assembled in a quiet group, watching us. A funeral couldn’t have been more somber.
   We were all curious about the water. I’d personally witnessed it the day before, but I was anxious to see it creeping through our fields, inching its way toward our house, like some giant snake that couldn’t be stopped. My father stepped forward and walked between two rows of cotton. He stopped near Pappy and put his hands on his hips, just like his father. Gran and my mother were next. I followed, and not far away, the Mexicans joined in as we fanned out through the field in search of the floodwaters. We stopped in a neat line, all of us staring at the thick, brown overflow from Siler’s Creek.
   I broke off a piece of stalk and stuck it in the ground at the edge of the advancing water. Within a minute, the stick was engulfed by the current.
   We retreated slowly. My father and Pappy talked to Miguel and the Mexicans. They were ready to leave, either to go home or to another farm where the cotton could be picked. Who could blame them? I hung around, just close enough to listen. It was decided that Pappy would go with them to the back forty, where the ground was slightly higher, and there they would try to pick for a while. The cotton was wet, but if the sun broke through, then maybe they could get a hundred pounds each.
   My father would go to town, for the second day in a row, and check with the Co-op to see if there was another farm where our Mexicans might work. There was much better land in the northeastern part of the county, higher fields away from creeks and away from the St. Francis. And there had been rumors that the folks up near Monette had not received as much rain as those of us in the southern end of the county.
   I was in the kitchen with the women when my father relayed the new plans for the day.
   “That cotton’s soakin’ wet,” Gran said with disapproval. “They won’t pick fifty pounds. It’s a waste of time.”
   Pappy was still outside and didn’t hear these comments. My father did, but he was in no mood to argue with his mother. “We’ll try and move them to another farm,” he said.
   “Can I go to town?” I asked both parents. I was quite anxious to leave because the alternative might be a forced march with the Mexicans to the back forty, where I’d be expected to drag a picking sack through mud and water while trying to pluck off soaked cotton bolls.
   My mother smiled and said, “Yes, we need some paint.”
   Gran gave another look of disapproval. Why were we spending money we didn’t have on house paint when we were losing another crop? However, the house was about half and half-a striking contrast between new white and old pale brown. The project had to be finished.
   Even my father seemed uneasy about the idea of parting with more cash, but he said to me, “You can go.”
   “I’ll stay here,” my mother said. “We need to put up some okra.”
   Another trip to town. I was a happy boy. No pressure to pick cotton, nothing to do but ride down the highway and dream of somehow obtaining candy or ice cream once I arrived in Black Oak. I had to be careful, though, because I was the only happy Chandler.
   The St. Francis seemed ready to burst when we stopped at the bridge. “Reckon it’s safe?” I asked my father.
   “Sure hope so.” He shifted into first, and we crept over the river, both of us too afraid to look down. With the weight of our truck and the force of the river, the bridge shook when we reached the middle. We picked up speed and were soon on the other side. We both exhaled.
   Losing the bridge would be a disaster. We’d be isolated. The waters would rise around our house, and we would have no place to go. Even the Latchers would be better off. They lived on the other side of the bridge, the same side as Black Oak and civilization.
   We looked at the Latchers’ land as we drove past. “Their house is flooded,” my father said, though we couldn’t see that far. Their crops were certainly gone.
   Closer to town, there were Mexicans in the fields, though not as many as before. We parked by the Co-op and went inside. Some grim-faced farmers were sitting in the back, sipping coffee and talking about their problems. My father gave me a nickel for a Coca-Cola, then he joined the farmers.
   “Y’all pickin’ out there?” one asked him.
   “Maybe a little.”
   “How’s that creek?”
   “She came over last night. Moved more than half a mile before sunrise. The lower forty’s gone.”
   They observed a moment of silence for this terrible news, each of them staring at the floor and feeling pity for us Chandlers. I hated farming even more.
   “I guess the river’s holdin’,” another man said.
   “It is out our way,” my father said. “But it won’t be long.”
   They all nodded and seemed to share this prediction. “Anybody else got water over the banks?” my father asked.
   “I hear the Tripletts lost twenty acres to Deer Creek, but I ain’t seen it myself,” said one farmer.
   “All the creeks are backin’ up,” another said. “Puttin’ a lot of pressure on the St. Francis.”
   More silence as they contemplated the creeks and the pressure.
   “Anybody need some Mexicans?” my father finally asked. “I got nine of ‘em with nothin’ to do. They’re ready to head home.”
   “Any word from number ten?”
   “Nope. He’s long gone, and we ain’t had time to worry about him.”
   “Riggs knows some farmers up north of Blytheville who’ll take the Mexicans.”
   “Where’s Riggs?” my father asked.
   “He’ll be back directly.”
   Hill people were leaving in droves, and the conversation settled on them and the Mexicans. The exodus of labor was further evidence that the crops were finished. The dreary mood in the rear of the Co-op grew even darker, so I left to check on Pearl and perhaps cajole a Tootsie Roll out of her.
   Pop and Pearl’s grocery store was closed, a first for me. A small sign gave its hours as nine to six, Monday through Friday, and nine to nine on Saturday. Closed on Sundays, but that went without saying. Mr. Sparky Dillon, the mechanic down at the Texaco place, came up behind me and said, “Ain’t open till nine, son.”
   “What time is it?” I asked.
   “Eight-twenty.”
   I’d never been in Black Oak at such an early hour. I looked up and down Main Street, uncertain as to where I should shop next. I settled on the drugstore, with the soda fountain in the rear, and I was walking toward it when I heard traffic. Two trucks were approaching from the south, from our end of the county. They were obviously hill people, going home, with their belongings stacked high and strapped to the frames of the trucks. The family in the first truck could have passed for the Spruills, with teenagers squatting on an old mattress and gazing sadly at the stores as they passed. The second truck was much nicer and cleaner. It, too, was loaded with wooden boxes and burlap bags, but they were packed neatly together. The husband drove, and the wife sat in the passenger’s seat. From the woman’s lap a small child waved at me as they passed. I waved back.
   Gran always said that some of the hill people had nicer homes than we did. I could never understand why they packed up and came down from the Ozarks to pick cotton.
   I saw my father go into the hardware store, so I followed him. He was in the back, near the paint, talking with the clerk. Four gallons of white Pittsburgh Paint were on the counter. I thought about the Pittsburgh Pirates. They had finished last again in the National League. Their only great player was Ralph Kiner, who’d hit thirty-seven home runs.
   Someday I would play in Pittsburgh. I would proudly wear my Cardinal red and crush the lowly Pirates.
   It had taken all the paint we had left to finish the rear of the house the day before. The Mexicans were about to leave. To me it made sense to buy more paint and take advantage of the free labor present on our farm. Otherwise they’d be gone, and I’d once again get stuck with the entire project.
   “That’s not enough paint,” I whispered to my father as the clerk added the bill.
   “It’ll do for now,” he said with a frown. The issue was money.
   “Ten dollars plus tax of thirty-six cents,” the clerk said. My father reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin roll of bills. He slowly counted them out, as if he didn’t want to let go.
   He stopped at ten-ten one-dollar bills. When it was painfully clear he didn’t have enough, he faked a laugh and said, “Looks like I just brought ten bucks. I’ll pay you the tax next time I’m in.”
   “Sure, Mr. Chandler,” the clerk said.
   They carried two gallons each and loaded the paint into the back of our truck. Mr. Riggs was back at the Co-op, so my father went to have their talk about our Mexicans. I returned to the hardware store and went straight to the clerk.
   “How much is two gallons?” I asked.
   “Two-fifty a gallon, total of five dollars.”
   I reached into my pocket and pulled out my money. “Here’s five,” I said as I handed him the bills. At first he didn’t want to take it.
   “Did you pick cotton for that money?” he asked.
   “Yes sir.”
   “Does your daddy know you’re buyin’ paint?”
   “Not yet.”
   “What’re y’all paintin’ out there?”
   “Our house.”
   “Why you doin’ that?”
   “ ‘Cause it ain’t never been painted.”
   He reluctantly took my money. “Plus eighteen cents for tax,” he said. I handed him a dollar bill and said, “How much does my daddy owe for the tax?”
   “Thirty-six cents.”
   “Take it out of this.”
   “Okay.” He gave me the change, then loaded two more gallons into our truck. I stood on the sidewalk watching our paint as if someone might try to steal it.
   Next to Pop and Pearl’s I saw Mr. Lynch Thornton, the postmaster, unlock the door to the post office and step inside. I walked toward him, keeping a watchful eye on the truck. Mr. Thornton was usually a cranky sort, and many believed that this was because he was married to a woman who had a problem with whiskey. All forms of alcohol were frowned upon by almost everyone in Black Oak. The county was dry. The nearest liquor store was in Blytheville, though there were some bootleggers in the area who did quite well. I knew this because Ricky’d told me. He’d said he didn’t like whiskey, but he had a beer every now and then. I’d heard so many sermons on the evils of alcohol that I was worried about Ricky’s soul. And while it was sinful enough for men to sneak around and drink, for women to do so was scandalous.
   I wanted to ask Mr. Thornton how I could go about mailing my letter to Ricky, and do so in a way that no one would know it. The letter was three pages long, and I was quite proud of my effort. But it had all the Latcher baby details, and I still wasn’t sure I should send it to Korea.
   “Howdy,” I said to Mr. Thornton, who was behind the counter adjusting his visor and settling in for the morning.
   “You that Chandler boy?” he said, barely looking up.
   “Yes sir.”
   “Got somethin’ for you.” He disappeared for a second, then handed me two letters. One was from Ricky.
   “That all?” he said.
   “Yes sir. Thank you.”
   “How’s he doin’?”
   “He’s fine, I guess.”
   I ran from the post office back to our truck, clutching the letters. The other was from the John Deere place in Jonesboro. I studied the one from Ricky. It was addressed to all of us: Eli Chandler and Family, Route 4, Black Oak, Arkansas. In the upper left corner was the return address, a confusing collection of letters and numbers with San Diego, California, on the last line.
   Ricky was alive and writing letters; nothing else really mattered. My father was walking toward me. I ran to meet him with the letter, and we sat in the doorway of the dry goods store and read every word. Ricky was again in a hurry, and his letter was only one page. He wrote us that his unit had seen little action, and though he seemed frustrated by this, it was music to our ears. He also said that rumors of a ceasefire were everywhere, and that there was even talk of being home by Christmas.
   The last paragraph was sad and frightening. One of his buddies, a kid from Texas, had been killed by a land mine. They were the same age and had gone through boot camp together. When Ricky got home, he planned to go to Fort Worth to see his friend’s mother.
   My father folded the letter and stuck it in his overalls. We got in the truck and left town.
   Home by Christmas. I couldn’t think of a finer gift.

   We parked under the pin oak, and my father went to the back of the truck to collect the paint. He stopped, counted, then looked at me.
   “How’d we end up with six gallons?”
   “I bought two,” I said. “And I paid the tax.”
   He didn’t seem sure what to say. “You use your pickin’ money?” he finally asked.
   “Yes sir.”
   “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
   “I want to help.”
   He scratched his forehead and studied the issue for a minute or so, then said, “I reckon that’s fair enough.”
   We hauled the paint to the back porch, and then he decided he would go to the back forty to check on Pappy and the Mexicans. If the cotton could be picked, then he’d stay there. I was given permission to start painting the west side of the house. I wanted to work alone. I wanted to seem outmatched and undermanned by the enormity of the job before me so that when the Mexicans returned, they’d feel sorry for me.
   They arrived at noon, muddy and tired and with little to show for their morning. “Cotton’s too wet,” I heard Pappy say to Gran. We ate fried okra and biscuits, then I went back to my work.
   I kept one eye on the barn, but for an eternity I labored with no relief in sight. What were they doing back there? Lunch was over, the tortillas long since put away. Surely their siestas were also complete. They knew the house was half-painted. Why wouldn’t they come help?
   The sky darkened in the west, but I didn’t notice it until Pappy and Gran stepped onto the back porch. “Might rain, Luke,” Pappy said. “Better stop paintin’.”
   I cleaned my brush and put the paint under a bench on the back porch as if the storm might damage it. I sat above it, with Pappy on one side and Gran on the other, and we once again listened to the low rumblings in the southwest. We waited for more rain.

Chapter 33

   Our new ritual was repeated the next day after a late breakfast. We walked across the rain-soaked grass between our house and our barn, and we stood at the edge of the cotton field and saw water, not rainfall that had collected during the night, but the same thick floodwater from the creek. It stood three inches deep, and seemed ready to swell beyond the field and begin its slow march toward the barn, the tool shed, the chicken coops, and, eventually, the house.
   The stalks were slanted to the east, permanently bent by the wind that had laid siege to our farm last night. The bolls were sagging under the weight of the water.
   “Will it flood our house, Pappy?” I asked.
   He shook his head and put his arm around my shoulders. “No, Luke, it’s never got to the house. Come close a time or two, but the house is a good three feet above where we’re standin’ right now. Don’t you worry about the house.”
   “It got in the barn once,” my father said. “The year after Luke was born, wasn’t it?”
   “Forty-six,” Gran said. She never missed a date. “But it was in May,” she added. “Two weeks after we’d planted.”
   The morning was cool and windy with high, thin clouds and little chance of rain. A perfect day for painting, assuming, of course, that I could find some help. The Mexicans drifted close, but not close enough to speak.
   They would be leaving soon, perhaps within hours. We’d haul them to the Co-op and wait for them to be picked up by a farmer with drier land. I heard the adults discussing this over coffee before sunrise, and I almost panicked. Nine Mexicans could paint the west side of our house in less than a day. It would take me a month. There was no time to be timid.
   As we retreated, I headed for the Mexicans. “Buenos dias,” I said to the group. “Como estd?”
   All nine answered in some fashion. They were going back to the barn after another wasted day. I walked along with them until I was far enough away that my parents couldn’t hear. “Y’all want to paint some?” I asked.
   Miguel rattled the translation, and the entire group seemed to smile.
   Ten minutes later three of the six paint buckets were open and there were Mexicans hanging all over the west side of our house. They fought over the three brushes. Another crew was rigging a scaffold. I was pointing here and there, giving instructions that no one seemed to hear. Miguel and Roberto were spitting forth their own commands and opinions in Spanish. Both languages were being ignored in equal measure.
   My mother and Gran peeked at us through the kitchen window as they washed the breakfast dishes. Pappy went to the tool shed to fiddle with the tractor. My father was off on a long walk, probably surveying the crop damage and wondering what to do next.
   There was an urgency to the painting. The Mexicans joked and laughed and badgered one another, but they worked twice as fast as two days earlier. Not a second was wasted. The brushes changed hands every half hour or so. The reinforcements were kept fresh. By mid-morning they were halfway to the front porch. It was not a large house.
   I was happy to retreat and stay out of the way. The Mexicans worked so fast it seemed downright inefficient for me to take up a brush and stall the momentum. Besides, the free labor was temporary. The hour was soon approaching when I’d be left alone to finish the job.
   My mother brought iced tea and cookies, but the painting did not stop. Those under the shade tree with me ate first, then three of them changed places with the painters.
   “Do you have enough paint?” my mother whispered to me.
   “No ma’am.”
   She returned to the kitchen.
   Before lunch, the west side was finished, a thick, shiny coat sparkling in the intermittent sun. There was a gallon left. I took Miguel to the east side, where Trot had begun a month earlier, and pointed up to an unpainted strip that I’d been unable to reach. He barked some orders, and the crew moved to the opposite side of the house.
   A new method was employed. Instead of makeshift scaffolding, Pepe and Luis, two of the smaller ones, balanced themselves on the shoulders of Pablo and Roberto, the two heaviest ones, and began painting just below the roofline. This, of course, drew an endless stream of comments and jokes from the others.
   When the paint was gone, it was time to eat. I shook hands with all of them and thanked them profusely. They laughed and chattered all the way back to the barn. It was midday, the sun was out, and the temperature was rising. As I watched them walk away, I looked at the field beside the barn. The floodwaters were in sight. It seemed odd that the flood could advance when the sun was shining.
   I turned and inspected the work. The back and both sides of our house looked almost new. Only the front remained unpainted, and since by now I was a veteran, I knew that I could complete the job without the Mexicans.
   My mother stepped outside and said, “Lunchtime, Luke.” I hesitated for a second, still admiring the accomplishment, so she walked to where I was standing, and together we looked at the house. “It’s a very good job, Luke,” she said.
   “Thanks.”
   “How much paint is left?”
   “None. It’s all gone.”
   “How much do you need to paint the front?”
   The front was not as long as the east or west side, but it had the added challenge of a porch, as did the rear. “I reckon four or five gallons,” I said, as if I’d been house painting for decades.
   “I don’t want you to spend your money on paint,” she said.
   “It’s my money. Y’all said I could spend it on whatever I wanted.”
   “True, but you shouldn’t have to spend it on somethin’ like this.”
   “I don’t mind. I want to help.”
   “What about your jacket?”
   I’d lost sleep worrying about my Cardinals jacket, but now it seemed unimportant. Plus, I’d been thinking about another way to get one. “Maybe Santa Claus’ll bring one.”
   She smiled and said, “Maybe so. Let’s have lunch.”
   Just after Pappy thanked the Lord for the food, saying nothing about the weather or the crops, my father grimly announced that the backwaters had begun trickling across the main field road into the back forty acres. This development was absorbed with little comment. We were numb to bad news.
   The Mexicans gathered around the truck and waited for Pappy. They each had a small sack with their belongings, the same items they’d arrived with six weeks earlier. I shook hands with each one and said goodbye. As always, I was anxious for another ride to town, even though this little trip was not a pleasant one.
   “Luke, go help your mother in the garden,” my father said as the Mexicans were loading up. Pappy was starting the engine.
   “I thought I was goin’ to town,” I said.
   “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he said sternly.
   I watched them drive away, all nine of the Mexicans waving sadly as they looked at our house and farm for the last time. According to my father, they were headed to a large farm north of Blytheville, two hours away, where they would work for three or four weeks, weather permitting, and then go back to Mexico. My mother had inquired as to how they would be shipped home, by cattle truck or bus, but she did not press the issue. We had no control over those details, and they seemed much less important with floodwaters creeping through our fields.
   Food was important, though: food for a long winter, one that would follow a bad crop, one in which everything we ate would come from the garden. There was nothing unusual about this, except that there wouldn’t be a spare dime to buy anything but flour, sugar, and coffee. A good crop meant there was a little money tucked away under a mattress, a few bills rolled up and saved and sometimes used for luxuries like Coca-Cola’s, ice cream, saltines, and white bread. A bad crop meant that if we didn’t grow it, we didn’t eat.
   In the fall we gathered mustard greens, turnips, and peas, the late-producing vegetables that had been planted in May and June. There were a few tomatoes left, but not many.
   The garden changed with each season, except for winter, when it was finally at rest, replenishing itself for the months to come.
   Gran was in the kitchen boiling purple hull peas and canning them as fast as she could. My mother was in the garden waiting for me.
   “I wanted to go to town,” I said.
   “Sorry, Luke. We have to hurry. Much more rain and the greens’ll rot. And what if the water reaches the garden?”
   “They gonna buy some paint?”
   “I don’t know.”
   “I wanted to go buy some more paint.”
   “Maybe tomorrow. Right now we have to get these turnips out of the ground.” Her dress was pulled up to her knees.
   She was barefoot with mud up to her ankles. I’d never seen my mother so dirty. I fell to the ground and attacked the turnips. Within minutes I was covered in mud from head to foot,
   I pulled and picked vegetables for two hours, then cleaned them in the washtub on the back porch. Gran carried them into the kitchen, where they got cooked and packed away in quart jars.
   The farm was quiet-no thunder or wind, no Spruills in the front or Mexicans out by the barn. We were alone again, just us Chandlers, left to battle the elements and to try to stay above water. I kept telling myself that life would be better when Ricky came home because I’d have someone to play with and talk to.
   My mother hauled another basket of greens to the porch. She was tired and sweating, and she began cleaning herself with a rag and a bucket of water. She couldn’t stand to be dirty, a trait she had been trying to pass along to me.
   “Let’s go to the barn,” she said. I hadn’t been in the loft in six weeks, since the Mexicans had arrived.
   “Sure,” I said, and we headed that way.
   We spoke to Isabel, the milk cow, then climbed the ladder to the hayloft. My mother had worked hard to prepare a clean place for the Mexicans to live. She had spent the winter collecting old blankets and pillows for them to sleep on. She had taken a fan, one that for years had found good use on the front porch, and placed it in the loft. She had coerced my father into running an electrical line from the house to the barn.
   “They’re humans, regardless of what some people around here think,” I’d heard her say more than once.
   The loft was as clean and neat as the day they’d arrived. The pillows and blankets were stacked near the fan. The floor had been swept. Not a piece of trash or litter could be found. She was quite proud of the Mexicans. She had treated them with respect, and they had returned the favor.
   We shoved open the loft door, the same one Luis had stuck his head through when Hank was bombing the Mexicans with rocks and dirt clods, and we sat on the ledge with our feet hanging down. Thirty feet up, we had the best view of any place on our farm. The tree line far to the west was the St. Francis, and straight ahead, across our back field, was the water from Siler’s Creek.
   In places the water was almost to the tops of the cotton stalks. From this view we could much better appreciate the advancing flood. We could see it between the perfect rows running directly toward the barn, and we could see it over the main field road, seeping into the back forty.
   If the St. Francis River left its banks, our house would be in danger.
   “I guess we’re done pickin’,” I said.
   “Sure looks like it,” she said, just a little sad.
   “Why does our land flood so quick?”
   “Because it’s low and close to the river. It’s not very good land, Luke, never will be. That’s one reason we’re leavin’ here. There’s not much of a future.”
   “Where we goin’?”
   “North. That’s where the jobs are.”
   “How long—”
   “Not long. We’ll stay until we can save some money. Your father’ll work in the Buick plant with Jimmy Dale. They’re payin’ three dollars an hour. We’ll make do, tough it out, you’ll be in a school up there, a good school.”
   “I don’t want to go to a new school.”
   “It’ll be fun, Luke. They have big, nice schools up North.”
   It didn’t sound like fun. My friends were in Black Oak. Other than Jimmy Dale and Stacy, I didn’t know a soul up North. My mother put her hand on my knee and rubbed it, as if this would make me feel better.
   “Change is always difficult, Luke, but it can also be excitin’. Think of it as an adventure. You wanna play baseball for the Cardinals, don’t you?”
   “Yes ma’am.”
   “Well, you’ll have to leave home and go up North, live in a new house, make new friends, go to a new church. That’ll be fun, won’t it?”
   “I guess so.”
   Our bare feet were dangling, gently swinging back and forth. The sun was behind a cloud, and a breeze shifted into our faces. The trees along the edge of our field were changing colors to yellow and crimson, and leaves were falling.
   “We can’t stay here, Luke,” she said softly, as if her mind were already up North.
   “When we come back what’re we gonna do?”
   “We’re not gonna farm. We’ll find a job in Memphis or Little Rock, and we’ll buy us a house with a television and a telephone. We’ll have a nice car in the driveway, and you can play baseball on a team with real uniforms. How does that sound?”
   “Sounds pretty good.”
   “We’ll always come back and visit Pappy and Gran and Ricky. It’ll be a new life, Luke, one that’s far better than this.” She nodded toward the field, toward the ruined cotton out there drowning.
   I thought of my Memphis cousins, the children of my father’s sisters. They rarely came to Black Oak, only for funerals and maybe for Thanksgiving, and this was fine with me because they were city kids with nicer clothes and quicker tongues. I didn’t particularly like them, but I was envious at the same time. They weren’t rude or snobbish, they were just different enough to make me ill at ease. I decided then and there that when I lived in Memphis or Little Rock I would not, under any circumstances, act like I was better than anybody else.
   “I have a secret, Luke,” my mother said.
   Not another one. My troubled mind could not hold another secret. “What is it?”
   “I’m goin’ to have a baby,” she said and smiled at me.
   I couldn’t help but smile, too. I enjoyed being the only child, but, truth was, I wanted somebody to play with.
   “You are?”
   “Yes. Next summer.”
   “Can it be a boy?”
   “I’ll try, but no promises.”
   “If you gotta have one, I’d like a little brother.”
   “Are you excited?”
   “Yes ma’am. Does Daddy know about it?”
   “Oh yes, he’s in on the deal.”
   “Is he happy, too?”
   “Very much so.”
   “That’s good.” It took some time to digest this, but I knew right away that it was a fine thing. All of my friends had brothers and sisters.
   An idea hit, one that I couldn’t shake. Since we were on the subject of having babies, I was overcome with an urge to unload one of my secrets. It seemed like a harmless one now, and an old one, too. So much had happened since Tally and I sneaked off to the Latchers’ house that the episode was now sort of funny.
   “I know all about how babies are born,” I said, a little defensively.
   “Oh you do?”
   “Yes ma’am.”
   “How’s that?”
   “Can you keep a secret, too?”
   “I certainly can.”
   I began the story, laying sufficient blame on Tally for everything that might get me in trouble. She’d planned it. She’d begged me to go. She’d dared me. She’d done this and that. Once my mother realized where the story was leading, her eyes began to dance, and she said every so often, “Luke, you didn’t!”
   I had her. I embellished here and there, to help move the story and build tension, but for the most part I stuck to the facts. She was hooked.
   “You saw me in the window?” she asked in disbelief.
   “Yes ma’am. Gran, too, and Mrs. Latcher.”
   “Did you see Libby?”
   “No ma’am, but we sure heard her. Does it always hurt like that?”
   “Well, not always. Keep going.”
   I spared no detail. As Tally and I raced back to the farm, the headlights in pursuit, my mother clutched my elbow almost hard enough to break it. “We had no idea!” she said.
   “Of course not. I barely beat y’all in the house. Pappy was still snorin’, and I was afraid y’all would come check on me and see that I was covered with sweat and dirt.”
   “We were too tired.”
   “It was a good thing. I slept about two hours, then Pappy woke me up to go to the fields. I’ve never been so sleepy in my life.”
   “Luke, I can’t believe you did that.” She wanted to scold, but she was too caught up in the story.
   “It was fun.”
   “You shouldn’t have.”
   “Tally made me do it.”
   “Don’t blame Tally.”
   “I wouldn’t’ve done it without her.”
   “I can’t believe the two of you did it,” she said, but I could tell she was impressed with the story. She grinned and shook her head in amazement. “How often did y’all go roamin’ around at night?”
   “I think that was it.”
   “You liked Tally, didn’t you?”
   “Yes ma’am. She was my friend.”
   “I hope she’s happy.”
   “Me too.”
   I missed her, but I hated to admit it to myself. “Mom, do you think we’ll see Tally up North?”
   She smiled and said, “No, I don’t think so. Those cities up thereSt. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, Cincinnati-have millions of people. We’ll never see her.”
   I thought about the Cardinals and the Cubs and the Reds. I thought about Stan Musial racing around the bases in front of thirty thousand fans at Sportsman’s Park. Since the teams were up North, then that was where I was headed anyway. Why not leave a few years early?
   “I guess I’ll go,” I said.
   “It’ll be fun, Luke,” she said again.

   When Pappy and my father returned from town, they looked as though they’d been whipped. I guess they had. Their labor was gone, their cotton was soaked. If the sun broke through and the floodwaters receded, they didn’t have enough hands to work the fields. And they weren’t sure if the cotton would dry out. This time, the sun was not to be seen, and the water was still rising.
   After Pappy went into the house, my father unloaded two gallons of paint and set them on the front porch. He did this without saying a word, though I was watching his every move. When he was finished, he went to the barn.
   Two gallons would not paint the front of the house. I was irritated by this, then I realized why my father had not bought more. He didn’t have the money. He and Pappy had paid the Mexicans, and there was nothing left.
   I suddenly felt rotten because I had kept the painting alive after Trot had gone. I had pushed the project along, and in doing so had forced my father to spend what little money he had.
   I stared at the two buckets set side by side, and tears came to my eyes. I hadn’t realized how broke we were.
   My father had poured his guts into the soil for six months, and now he had nothing to show for it. When the rains came, I, for some reason, had decided that the house should be painted.
   My intentions had been good, I thought. So why did I feel so awful?
   I got my brush, opened a can, and began the final phase of the job. As I slowly made the short strokes with my right hand, I wiped tears with my left.

Chapter 34

   The first frost would kill what was left of our garden. It usually came in the middle of October, though the almanac that my father read as devoutly as he read the Bible had already missed its predicted date twice. Undaunted, he kept checking the almanac every morning with his first cup of coffee. It provided endless opportunities for worry.
   Since we couldn’t pick cotton, the garden got our attention. All five of us marched to it just after breakfast. My mother was certain that the frost was coming that very night and, if not, then for sure the next night. And so on.
   For a miserable hour I pulled black-eyed peas off vines. Pappy, who hated garden work more than I did, was nearby picking butter beans and doing so with commendable effort. Gran was helping my mother pick the last of the tomatoes. My father hauled baskets back and forth, under the supervision of my mother. When he walked by me, I said, “I really want to go paint.”
   “Ask your mother,” he said.
   I did, and she said I could after I picked one more basket of peas. The garden was getting harvested like never before. By noon there wouldn’t be a stray bean anywhere.
   I soon returned to the solitude of house painting. With the clear exception of operating a road grader, it was a job I preferred over all others. The difference between the two was that I couldn’t actually operate a road grader, and it would be years before I’d be able to. But I could certainly paint. After watching the Mexicans, I’d learned even more and improved my technique. I applied the paint as thinly as possible, trying my best to stretch the two gallons.
   By mid-morning one bucket was empty. My mother and Gran were now in the kitchen, washing and canning the vegetables.
   I didn’t hear the man walk up behind me. But when he coughed to get my attention, I jerked around and dropped my paintbrush.
   It was Mr. Latcher, wet and muddy from the waist down. He was barefoot, and his shirt was torn. He’d obviously walked from their place to ours.
   “Where’s Mr. Chandler?” he asked.
   I wasn’t sure which Mr. Chandler he wanted. I picked up my brush and ran to the east side of the house. I yelled for my father, who poked his head through some vines. When he saw Mr. Latcher beside me, he stood up quickly. “What is it?” he asked as he hurried toward us.
   Gran heard voices and was suddenly on the front porch, my mother right behind her. A glance at Mr. Latcher told us something was very wrong.
   “The water’s up in the house,” he said, unable to look my father in the eye. “We gotta get out.”
   My father looked at me, then at the women on the porch. Their wheels were already spinning.
   “Can you help us?” Mr. Latcher said. “We ain’t got no place to
   go.”
   I thought he was going to cry, and I felt like it myself.
   “Of course we’ll help,” Gran said, instantly taking charge of the situation. From that point on, my father would do precisely what his mother told him. So would the rest of us.
   She sent me to find Pappy. He was in the tool shed, trying to stay busy puttering with an old tractor battery. Everyone gathered by the truck to formulate a plan.
   “Can we drive up to the house?” Pappy asked.
   “No sir,” Mr. Latcher said. “Water’s waist-deep down our road. It’s up on the porch now, six inches in the house.”
   I couldn’t imagine all those Latcher kids in a house with half a foot of floodwater.
   “How’s Libby and the baby?” Gran asked, unable to contain herself.
   “Libby’s fine. The baby’s sick.”
   “We’ll need a boat,” my father said. “Jeter keeps one up at the Cockleburr Slough.”
   “He won’t mind if we borrow it,” Pappy said.
   For a few minutes the men discussed the rescue-how to get the boat, how far down the road the truck could go, how many trips it would take. What was not mentioned was just exactly where the Latchers would go once they had been rescued from their house.
   Again Gran was very much in charge. “You folks can stay here,” she said to Mr. Latcher. “Our loft is clean-the Mexicans just left. You’ll have a warm bed and plenty of food.”
   I looked at her. Pappy looked at her. My father glanced over, then studied his feet. A horde of hungry Latchers living in our barn! A sick baby crying at all hours of the night. Our food being given away. I was horrified at the thought, and I was furious with Gran for making such an offer without first discussing it with the rest of us.
   Then I looked at Mr. Latcher. His lips were trembling, and his eyes were wet. He clutched his old straw hat with both hands at his waist, and he was so ashamed that he just looked at the ground. I’d never seen a poorer, dirtier, or more broken man.
   I looked at my mother. She, too, had wet eyes. I glanced at my father. I’d never seen him cry, and he wasn’t about to at that moment, but he was clearly touched by Mr. Latcher’s suffering. My hard heart melted in a flash.
   “Let’s get a move on,” Gran said with authority. “We’ll get the barn ready.”
   We sprang into action, the men loading into the truck, the women heading for the barn. Just as she was walking away, Gran pulled Pappy by the elbow and whispered, “You bring Libby and that baby first.” It was a direct order, and Pappy nodded.
   I hopped into the back of the truck with Mr. Latcher, who squatted on his skinny legs and said nothing to me. We stopped at the bridge, where my father got out and began walking along the edge of the river. His job was to find Mr. Jeter’s boat at the Cockleburr Slough, then float it downstream to where we’d be waiting at the bridge. We crossed over, turned onto the Latchers’ road, and went less than a hundred feet before we came to a quagmire. Ahead of us was nothing but water.
   “I’ll tell ‘em you’re comin’,” Mr. Latcher said, and with that he was off through the mud, then the water. Before long it was up to his knees. “Watch out for snakes!” he yelled over his shoulder. “They’re everywhere.” He was trudging through a lake of water, with flooded fields on both sides.
   We watched him until he disappeared, then we returned to the river and waited for my father.

   We sat on a log near the bridge, the rushing water below us. Since we had nothing to say, I decided it was time to tell Pappy a story. First, I swore him to secrecy.
   I began where it started, with voices in our front yard late at night. The Spruills were arguing, Hank was leaving. I followed in the shadows, and before I knew what was happening, I was trailing not only Hank but Cowboy as well. “They fought right up there,” I said, pointing to the center of the bridge.
   Pappy’s mind was no longer on floods or farming or even rescuing the Latchers. He glared at me, believing every word but quite astonished. I recounted the fight in vivid detail, then pointed again. “Hank landed over there, right in the middle of the river. Never came up.”
   Pappy grunted but did not speak. I was on my feet in front of him, nervous and talking rapidly. When I described my encounter with Cowboy minutes later on the road near our house, Pappy cursed under his breath. “You should’ve told me then,” he said.
   “I just couldn’t. I was too scared.”
   He got to his feet and walked around the log a few times. “He murdered their son and stole their daughter,” he said to himself. “My oh my.”
   “What’re we gonna do, Pappy?”
   “Let me think about it.”
   “Do you think Hank’ll float to the top somewhere?”
   “Nope. That Mexican gutted him. His body sank straight to the bottom, probably got eaten by those channel cats down there. There’s nothin’ left to find.”
   As sickening as this was, I was somewhat relieved to hear it. I never wanted to see Hank again. I’d thought about him every time I crossed the bridge. I’d dreamed of his bloated corpse popping up from the depths of the river and scaring the daylights out of me.
   “Did I do anything wrong?” I asked.
   “No.”
   “Are you gonna tell anybody?”
   “Nope, I don’t think so. Let’s keep it quiet. We’ll talk about it later.”
   We took our positions on the log and studied the water. Pappy was deep in thought. I tried to convince myself that I should feel better now that I’d finally told one of the adults about Hank’s death.
   After a spell Pappy said, “Hank got what was comin’ to him. We ain’t tellin’ nobody. You’re the only witness, and there’s no sense in you worryin’ about it. It’ll be our secret, one we’ll take to our graves.”
   “What about Mr. and Mrs. Spruill?”
   “What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em.”
   “You gonna tell Gran?”
   “Nope. Nobody. Just me and you.”
   It was a partnership I could trust. I did indeed feel better. I’d shared my secret with a friend who could certainly carry his portion of it. And we had decided that Hank and Cowboy would be put behind us forever.

   My father finally arrived in Mr. Jeter’s flat-bottomed johnboat. The outboard was missing, but navigation was easy because of the strong current. He used a paddle as a rudder and came ashore under the bridge, right below us. He and Pappy then lifted the boat from the river and manhandled it up the bank to the truck. Then we drove back to the Latchers’ road, where we unloaded the boat and shoved it to the edge of the floodwaters. All three of us hopped in, our feet covered with mud. The adults paddled as we moved along the narrow road, two feet above the ground, rows of ruined cotton passing by.
   The farther we went, the deeper the water became. The wind picked up and blew us into the cotton. Both Pappy and my father looked at the sky and shook their heads.
   Every Latcher was on the front porch, waiting in fear, watching every move we made as the boat cut through the lake that surrounded their house. The front steps were submerged. At least a foot of water covered the porch. We maneuvered the boat up to the front of the house, where Mr. Latcher took it and pulled it in. He was chest-deep in the water.
   I looked at all of the frightened and sad faces on the porch. Their clothes were even more ragged than the last time I’d been there. They were skinny and gaunt, probably starving. I saw a couple of smiles from the younger ones, and I suddenly felt very important. From out of the crowd stepped Libby Latcher, holding the baby, who was wrapped in an old blanket. I’d never actually seen Libby before, and I couldn’t believe how pretty she was. Her light brown hair was long and pulled tightly behind in a ponytail. Her eyes were pale blue and had a glow to them. She was tall and as skinny as the rest. When she stepped into the boat, both Pappy and my father steadied her. She sat beside me with her baby, and suddenly I was face-to-face with my newest cousin.
   “I’m Luke,” I said, though it was an odd time to make introductions.
   “I’m Libby,” she said, with a smile that made my heart race. Her baby was asleep. He had not grown much since I’d seen him in the window the night he was born. He was tiny and wrinkled and likely hungry, but Gran was waiting for him.
   Rayford Latcher came aboard and sat as far away from me as possible. He was one of the three who’d beaten me the last time I was on their property. Percy, the oldest boy and the ringleader of that assault, was hiding on the porch. Two more children were put into the boat, then Mr. Latcher jumped in. “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said to Mrs. Latcher and the others still on the porch. They looked as if they were being left to die.
   The rain hit fast, and the winds shifted. Pappy and my father paddled as hard as they could, but the boat barely moved. Mr. Latcher jumped into the water, and for a second he completely vanished. Then he found his footing and stood up, covered from the chest down in water. He grabbed a rope attached to the bow and began pulling us down the road.
   The wind kept blowing us into the cotton, so my father crawled out of the boat and began pushing from the rear. “Watch for snakes,” Mr. Latcher warned again. Both men were soaking wet.
   “Percy almost got bit by one,” Libby said to me. “It floated up on the porch.” She was leaning over the baby, trying to keep him dry.
   “What’s his name?” I asked.
   “Don’t have one yet.”
   I’d never heard of such nonsense. A baby without a name. Most of the ones born into the Baptist Church had two or three names before they ever got into the world.
   “When’s Ricky coming home?” she whispered.
   “I don’t know.”
   “Is he okay?”
   “Yes.”
   She seemed anxious for any news about him, and this made me uncomfortable. However, it was not unpleasant sitting next to such a pretty girl who wanted to whisper to me. Her younger siblings were wild-eyed with the adventure.
   As we neared the road, the water became shallow and the boat finally hit mud. We all scrambled out, and the Latchers were loaded into our truck. Pappy got behind the wheel.
   “Luke, you stay with me,” my father said. As the truck backed away, Mr. Latcher and my father turned the boat around and began pushing and pulling it back to the house. The wind was so strong they had to lean into it. I rode alone, with my head bowed, trying to stay dry. The rain came down in cold pellets that grew harder by the minute.
   The lake around the house was churning as we drew close. Mr. Latcher pulled the boat in again and began yelling instructions to his wife. A small Latcher was handed down from the porch and almost dropped when a gust of wind hit the boat and knocked it away. Percy thrust forward a broom handle, which I grabbed to help pull the boat back to the porch. My father was yelling this and that, and Mr. Latcher was doing the same. There were four remaining children, and all of them wanted to board at once. I helped them in, one at a time. “Steady, Luke!” my father said a dozen times.
   When the children were in the boat, Mrs. Latcher flung over a burlap sack stuffed with what appeared to be clothing. I figured it was a collection of their only possessions. It landed at my feet, and I clutched it as if it had a lot of value. Next to me was a shoeless little Latcher girl-not a one of them had shoes-with no sleeves on her shirt to cover her arms. She was freezing, and she clung to my leg as if she might be taken away by the wind. She had tears in her eyes, but when I looked at her she said, “Thank you.” Mrs. Latcher climbed in, stepping among her children, yelling at her husband because he was yelling at her. With the boat fully loaded and all the Latchers accounted for, we turned around and headed back toward the road. Those of us on board cowered low to shield our faces from the rain.
   My father and Mr. Latcher labored furiously to push the boat against the wind. In places they were only knee-deep in water, but within a few steps it would be up to their chests, making it hard for them to get any leverage. They fought to keep us in the center of the road and out of the cotton. The return leg of our little voyage was much slower.
   Pappy wasn’t waiting. He had not had enough time to drop off the first load and come back for the second. When we got to the mud, my father tied Mr. Jeter’s johnboat to a fence post, then said, “No sense waitin’ here.” We trudged through more mud and fought the wind and rain until we came to the river. The Latcher children were terrified of the bridge, and I’d never heard such bawling as we crossed over. They clung to their parents. Mr. Latcher was now carrying the burlap sack. Halfway over the St. Francis, I looked down at the planks in front of me and noticed that, like her children, Mrs. Latcher had no shoes.
   When we were safe on our side of the river, we saw Pappy coming to get us.

   Gran and my mother were waiting on the back porch, where they had set up a makeshift assembly line of sorts. They welcomed the second wave of Latchers and directed them to the far end of the porch, where there was a pile of clothes. The Latchers stripped down, some concerned about privacy, others not, and got dressed in Chandler hand-me-downs that had been in the family for decades. Once outfitted in dry, warm clothing, they were ushered into the kitchen, where there was enough food for several meals. Gran had sausage and country ham. She’d made two pans of homemade biscuits. The table was covered with large bowls rilled with every vegetable my mother, had grown in the last six months.
   The Latchers packed around the table, all ten of them-the baby was asleep somewhere. For the most part they were silent, and I couldn’t tell if it was because they were ashamed or relieved or just downright hungry. They passed around the bowls and occasionally said thanks to one another. My mother and Gran poured tea and made a fuss over them. I observed them from a doorway. Pappy and my father were on the front porch, sipping coffee and watching the rain dwindle down.
   When the meal was well under way, we drifted to the living room, where Gran had built a fire in the fireplace. The five of us sat close to it, and for a long time we listened to the Latchers in the kitchen. Their voices were muted, but their knives and forks rattled away. They were warm and safe and no longer hungry. How could people be so poor?
   I found it impossible to dislike the Latchers anymore. They were folks just like us who’d had the misfortune of being born sharecroppers. It was wrong of me to be scornful. Besides, I was quite taken with Libby.
   I was already hoping that perhaps she liked me.
   As we were basking in the satisfaction of our goodness, the baby erupted from somewhere in the house. Gran jumped to her feet and was gone in a flash. “I’ll see about him,” I heard her say in the kitchen. “You finish lunch.”
   I didn’t hear a single Latcher move from the table. That baby had been crying since the night he was born, and they were used to it.
   We Chandlers, however, were not. It cried all the way through what was left of lunch. Gran walked the floor with it for an hour as my parents and Pappy moved the Latchers into their new accommodations in the loft. Libby returned with them to check on the baby, who was still bawling. The rain had stopped, so my mother took it for a walk around the house, but the outdoors did nothing to satisfy it. I had never heard anything cry so violently without end.
   By mid-afternoon we were rattled. Gran had tried several of her home remedies, mild little concoctions that only made matters worse. Libby rocked the baby in the swing, with no success. Gran sang to it as she waltzed around the house; more bawling, even louder, I thought. My mother walked the floor with it. Pappy and my father were long gone. I wanted to run and hide in the silo.
   “Worst case of colic I’ve ever seen,” I heard Gran say.
   Later, while Libby was again rocking the baby on the front porch, I heard another conversation. Seems that when I was a baby I’d had a rough bout with colic. My mother’s mother, my grandmother, who was now dead and who’d lived in town in a painted house, had given me a few bites of vanilla ice cream. I had immediately stopped crying, and within a few days the colic was gone.
   At some point later in my babyhood I’d had another bout. Gran did not normally keep store-bought ice cream in her freezer. My parents had loaded me up in the truck and headed for town. Along the way I’d stopped crying and fallen asleep. They figured the motion of the moving vehicle had done the trick.
   My mother sent me to find my father. She took the baby from Libby, who was quite anxious to get rid of it, and before long we were heading for the truck.
   “Are we goin’ to town?” I asked.
   “Yes,” my mother said.
   “What about him?” my father asked, pointing to the baby. “He’s supposed to be a secret.”
   My mother had forgotten about that. If we were spotted in town with a mysterious baby, the gossip would be so thick it would stop traffic.
   “We’ll worry about that when we get there,” she said, then slammed the door. “Let’s go.”
   My father cranked the engine and shifted into reverse. I was in the middle, the baby just inches from my shoulder. After a brief pause, the baby erupted again. By the time we got to the river I was ready to pitch the damned thing out the window.
   Once over the bridge, though, a curious thing happened. The baby slowly grew quiet and still. It closed its mouth and eyes and fell sound asleep. My mother smiled at my father as if to say, “See, I told you so.”
   As we made our way to town, my parents whispered back and forth. They decided that my mother would get out of the truck down by our church, then hurry to Pop and Pearl’s to buy the ice cream. They worried that Pearl would be suspicious as to why she was buying ice cream, and only ice cream, since we didn’t need anything else at the moment, and why exactly my mother was in town on a Wednesday afternoon. They agreed that Pearl’s curiosity could not be satisfied under any circumstances and that it would be somewhat amusing to let her suffer from her own nosiness. As clever as she was, Pearl would never guess that the ice cream was for an illegitimate baby we were hiding in our truck.
   We stopped at our church. No one was watching so my mother handed the baby to me with strict instructions on how to properly cradle such a creature. By the time she closed the door, its mouth was wide open, its eyes glowing, its lungs filled with anger. It wailed twice and nearly scared me to death before my father popped the clutch and we were off again, loose on the streets of Black Oak. The baby looked at me and stopped crying.
   “Just don’t stop,” I said to my father.
   We drove by the gin, a depressing sight with its lack of activity. We circled behind the Methodist church and the school, then turned south onto Main Street. My mother came out of Pop and Pearl’s with a small paper bag, and, not surprisingly, Pearl was right behind her, talking away. They were chatting as we drove past. My father waved as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
   I just knew we were about to get caught with the Latcher baby. One loud shriek from its mouth and the whole town would learn our secret.
   We looped around the gin again, and when we headed toward the church we saw my mother waiting for us. As we rolled to a stop to get her, the baby’s eyes came open. His lower lip trembled. He was ready to scream when I thrust him at her and said, “Here, take him.”
   I scrambled out of the truck before she could get in. My quickness surprised them. “Where you goin’, Luke?” my father demanded.
   “Y’all ride around for a minute. I need to buy some paint.”
   “Get in the truck!” he said.
   The baby cried out, and my mother quickly jumped in. I ducked behind the truck and ran as fast as I could toward the street.
   Behind me I heard another cry, one not nearly as loud, then the truck started moving.
   I ran to the hardware store, back to the paint counter, where I asked the clerk for three gallons of white Pittsburgh Paint.
   “Only got two,” he said.
   I was too surprised to say anything. How could a hardware store run out of paint? “I should have some in by next Monday,” he said.
   “Gimme two,” I said.
   I was sure two gallons wouldn’t finish the front of the house, but I gave him six one-dollar bills, and he handed me the change. “Let me get these for you,” he said.
   “No, I can do it,” I said, reaching for the two buckets. I strained to lift them, then waddled down the aisle, almost tipping over. I lugged them out of the store and to the sidewalk. I looked both ways for traffic, and I listened for the wail of a sick baby. Thankfully the town was quiet.
   Pearl reappeared on the sidewalk in front of her store, eyes darting in all directions. I hid behind a parked car. Then I saw our truck coming south, barely moving, looking very suspicious. My father saw me and rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. I yanked the two buckets up with all the might I could muster and ran to the truck. He jumped out to help me. I leapt into the back of the truck, and he handed me the paint. I preferred to ride back there, away from the littlest Latcher. Just when my father got behind the wheel again, the baby let out a yelp.
   The truck lurched forward, and the baby was quiet. I yelled, “Howdy, Pearl!” as we sped past.
   Libby was sitting on the front steps with Gran, waiting for us. When the truck stopped, the baby began bawling. The women rushed it to the kitchen, where they began stuffing it with ice cream.
   “Ain’t enough gasoline in Craighead County to keep that thing quiet,” my father said.
   Fortunately, the ice cream soothed it. Little Latcher fell asleep in his mother’s arms.
   Because vanilla ice cream had worked when I’d had colic, this cure was taken as further evidence that the baby was part Chandler. I was not exactly comforted by this.

Chapter 35

   Having a barn full of Latchers was an event that we certainly had not planned on. And while we were at first comforted by our own Christian charity and neighborliness, we were soon interested in how long they might be with us. I broached the subject first over supper when, after a long discussion about the day’s events, I said, “Reckon how long they’ll stay?”
   Pappy had the opinion that they would be gone as soon as the floodwaters receded. Living in another farmer’s barn was tolerable under the most urgent of circumstances, but no one with an ounce of self-respect would stay a day longer than necessary.
   “What are they gonna eat when they go back?” Gran asked. “There’s not a crumb of food left in that house.” She went on to predict that they’d be with us until springtime.
   My father speculated that their dilapidated house couldn’t withstand the flood, and that there’d be no place for them to return to. Plus, they had no truck, no means of transportation. They’d been starving on their land for the last ten years. Where else would they go? Pappy seemed a little depressed by this view.
   My mother mainly listened, but at one point she did say that the Latchers were not the type of people who’d be embarrassed by living in someone else’s barn. And she worried about the children, not only the obvious problems of health and nutrition, but also their education and spiritual growth.
   Pappy’s prediction of a swift departure was batted around the table and eventually voted down. Three against one. Four, if you counted my vote.
   “We’ll survive,” Gran said. “We have enough food to feed us and them all winter. They’re here, they have no place else to go, and we’ll take care of them.” No one was about to argue with her.
   “God gave us a bountiful garden for a reason,” she added, nodding at my mother. “In Luke, Jesus said, ‘Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. ‘”
   “We’ll kill two hogs instead of one,” Pappy said. “We’ll have plenty of meat for the winter.”
   The hog-killing would come in early December, when the air was cold and the bacteria dead. Every year a hog was shot in the head, dipped in boiling water, and hung from a tree next to the tool shed, then gutted and butchered into a thousand pieces. From it we got bacon, ham, loin, sausage, and ribs. Everything was used-tongue, brains, feet. “Everything but the squeal” was a line I’d heard all my life. Mr. Jeter from across the road was a fair butcher. He would supervise the gutting, then perform the delicate removals. For his time he took a fourth of the best cuts.
   My first memory of a hog-killing was that I ran behind the house and puked. With time, though, I’d come to look forward to it. If you wanted ham and bacon, you had to kill a hog. But it would take more than two hogs to feed the Latchers until spring. There were eleven of them, including the baby, who at the moment was living off vanilla ice cream.
   As we talked about them, I began to dream of heading North.
   The trip now seemed more appealing. I had sympathy for the Latchers, and I was proud that we’d rescued them. I knew that as Christians we were expected to help the poor. I understood all that, but I could not imagine living through the winter with all those little kids running around our farm. I’d start back to school very soon. Would the Latchers go with me? Since they would be new students, would I be expected to show them around? What would my friends think? I saw nothing but humiliation.
   And now that they lived with us, it was just a matter of time before the big secret got out. Ricky would be fingered as the father. Pearl would figure out where all the vanilla ice cream was going. Something would leak somehow, and we’d be ruined.
   “Luke, are you finished?” my father asked, jolting me from my thoughts.
   My plate was clean. Everyone looked at it. They had adult matters to discuss. It was my cue to go find something to do.
   “Supper was good. May I be excused?” I said, reciting my standard lines.
   Gran nodded and I went to the back porch and pushed the screen door so that it would slam. Then I slid back into the darkness to a bench by the kitchen door. From there I could hear everything. They were worried about money. The crop loan would be “rolled over” until next spring, and they would deal with it then. The other farming bills could be delayed, too, though Pappy hated the thought of riding his creditors.
   Surviving the winter was much more urgent. Food was not a concern. We had to have money for such necessities as electricity, gas and oil for the truck, and staples like coffee, flour, and sugar. What if someone got sick and needed a doctor or medicine? What if the truck broke down and needed parts?
   “We haven’t given anything to the church this year,” Gran said.
   Pappy estimated that as much as thirty percent of the crop was still out there, standing in water. If the weather broke and things got dry, we might be able to salvage a small portion of it. That would provide some income, but the gin would keep most of it. Neither he nor my father was optimistic about picking any more cotton in 1952.
   The problem was cash. They were almost out of it, and there was no hope of any coming in. They barely had enough to pay for electricity and gasoline until Christmas.
   “Jimmy Dale’s holdin’ a job for me at the Buick plant,” my father said. “But he can’t wait long. The jobs are tight right now. We need to get on up there.”
   According to Jimmy Dale, the current wage was three dollars an hour, for forty hours a week, but overtime was available, too. “He says I can earn close to two hundred dollars a week,” my father said.
   “We’ll send home as much as we can,” my mother added.
   Pappy and Gran went through the motions of protesting, but everyone knew the decision had been made. I heard a noise in the distance, a vaguely familiar sound. As it drew closer, I cringed and wished I’d hidden on the front porch.
   The baby was back, upset again and no doubt craving vanilla ice cream. I sneaked off the porch and walked a few steps toward the barn. In the shadows I saw Libby and Mrs. Latcher approaching the house. I ducked beside the chicken coop and listened as they went by. The constant wailing echoed around our farm.
   Gran and my mother met them at the back porch. A light was switched on, and I watched as they huddled around the little monster then carried him inside. Through the window I could see my father and Pappy scramble for the front porch.
   With four women working on him, it took only a few minutes to stop the crying. Once things were quiet Libby left the kitchen and went outside. She sat on the edge of the porch in the same place Cowboy had occupied the day he had shown me his switchblade. I walked to the house and said, “Hi, Libby,” when I was a few feet away.
   She jumped, then caught herself. Poor girl’s nerves were rattled by her baby’s colic. “Luke,” she said. “What’re you doin’?”
   “Nothin’.”
   “Come sit here,” she said, patting the spot next to her. I did as I was told.
   “Does that baby cry all the time?” I asked.
   “Seems like it. I don’t mind, though.”
   “You don’t?”
   “No. He reminds me of Ricky.”
   “He does?”
   “Yes, he does. When’s he comin’ home? Do you know, Luke?”
   “No. His last letter said he might be home by Christmas.”
   “That’s two months away.”
   “Yeah, but I ain’t so sure about it. Gran says every soldier says he’s comin’ home by Christmas.”
   “I just can’t wait,” she said, visibly excited by the prospect.
   “What’s gonna happen when he gets home?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear her answer.
   “We’re gonna get married,” she said with a big, pretty smile. Her eyes were filled with wonder and anticipation.
   “You are?”
   “Yes, he promised.”
   I certainly didn’t want Ricky to get married. He belonged to me. We would fish and play baseball, and he’d tell war stories. He’d be my big brother, not somebody’s husband.
   “He’s the sweetest thang,” she said, gazing up at the sky.
   Ricky was a lot of things, but I’d never call him sweet. Then again, there was no telling what he’d done to impress her.
   “You can’t tell anybody, Luke,” she said, suddenly serious. “It’s our secret.”
   That’s my specialty, I felt like saying. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I can keep one.”
   “Can you read and write, Luke?”
   “Sure can. Can you?”
   “Pretty good.”
   “But you don’t go to school.”
   “I went through the fourth grade, then my mother kept havin’ all them babies, so I had to quit. I’ve written Ricky a letter, tellin’ him all about the baby. Do you have his address?”
   I wasn’t sure Ricky wanted to receive her letter, and for a second I thought about playing dumb. But I couldn’t help but like Libby. She was so crazy about Ricky that it seemed wrong not to give her the address.
   “Yeah, I got it.”
   “Do you have an envelope?”
   “Sure.”
   “Could you mail my letter for me? Please, Luke. I don’t think Ricky knows about our baby.”
   Something told me to butt out. This was between them. “I guess I can mail it,” I said.
   “Oh, thank you, Luke,” she said, almost squealing. She hugged my neck hard. “I’ll give you the letter tomorrow,” she said. “And you promise you’ll mail it for me?”
   “I promise.” I thought about Mr. Thornton at the post office and how curious he’d be if he saw a letter from Libby Latcher to Ricky in Korea. I’d figure it out somehow. Perhaps I should ask my mother about it.
   The women brought baby Latcher to the back porch, where Gran rocked it while it slept. My mother and Mrs. Latcher talked about how tired the little fellow was-all that nonstop crying had worn it out-so that when it did fall off, it slept hard. I was soon bored with all the talk about the baby.

   My mother woke me just after sunrise, and instead of scolding me out of bed to face another day on the farm, she sat next to my pillow and talked. “We’re leavin’ tomorrow mornin’, Luke. I’m going to pack today. Your father will help you paint the front of the house, so you’d better get started.”
   “Is it rainin’?” I asked, sitting up.
   “No. It’s cloudy, but you can paint.”
   “Why are we leavin’ tomorrow?”
   “It’s time to go.”
   “When’re we comin’ back?”
   “I don’t know. Go eat your breakfast. We have a busy day.”
   I started painting before seven, with the sun barely above the tree line in the east. The grass was wet and so was the house, but I had no choice. Before long, though, the boards dried, and my work went smoothly. My father joined me, and together we moved the scaffold so he could reach the high places. Then Mr. Latcher found us, and after watching the painting for a few minutes he said, “I’d like to help.”
   “You don’t have to,” my father said from eight feet up.
   “I’d like to earn my keep,” he said. He had nothing else to do.
   “All right. Luke, go fetch that other brush.”
   I ran to the tool shed, delighted that I’d once again attracted some free labor. Mr. Latcher began painting with a fury, as if to prove his worth.
   A crowd gathered to watch. I counted seven Latchers on the ground behind us, all of the kids except Libby and the baby, just sitting there studying us with blank looks on their faces.
   I figured they were waiting for breakfast. I ignored them and went about my work.
   Work, however, would prove difficult. Pappy came for me first. He said he wanted to ride down to the creek to inspect the flood. I said I really needed to paint. My father said, “Go ahead, Luke,” and that settled my protest.
   We rode the tractor away from the house, through the flooded fields until the water was almost over the front wheels. When we could go no farther, Pappy turned off the engine. We sat for a long time on the tractor, surrounded by the wet cotton we’d worked so hard to grow.
   “You’ll be leavin’ tomorrow,” he finally said.
   “Yes sir.”
   “But you’ll be comin’ back soon.”
   “Yes sir.” My mother, not Pappy, would determine when we came back. And if Pappy thought we’d one day return to our little places on the family farm and start another crop, he was mistaken. I felt sorry for him, and I missed him already.
   “Been thinkin’ more ‘bout Hank and Cowboy,” he said, his eyes never moving from the water in front of the tractor. “Let’s leave it be, like we agreed. Can’t nothin’ good come from tellin’ anybody. It’s a secret we’ll take to our graves.” He offered his right hand for me to shake. “Deal?” he said.
   “Deal,” I repeated, squeezing his thick, callused hand.
   “Don’t forget about your pappy up there, you hear?”
   “I won’t.”
   He started the tractor, shifted into reverse, and backed through the floodwaters.
   When I returned to the front of the house, Percy Latcher had taken control of my brush and was hard at work. Without a word, he handed it to me and went to sit under a tree. I painted for maybe ten minutes, then Gran walked onto the porch and said, “Luke, come here. I need to show you somethin’.”
   She led me around back, in the direction of the silo. Mud puddles were everywhere, and the flood had crept to within thirty feet of the barn. She wanted to take a stroll and have a chat, but there was mud and water in every direction. We sat on the edge of the flatbed trailer.
   “What’re you gonna show me?” I said after a long silence.
   “Oh, nothin’. I just wanted to spend a few minutes alone. You’re leavin’ tomorrow. I was tryin’ to remember if you’d ever spent a night away from here.”
   “I can’t remember one,” I said. I knew that I’d been born in the bedroom where my parents now slept. I knew Gran’s hands had touched me first, she’d birthed me and taken care of my mother. No, I had never left our house, not even for one night.
   “You’ll do just fine up North,” she said, but with little conviction. “Lots of folks from here go up there to find work. They always do just fine, and they always come home. You’ll be home before you know it.”
   I loved my Gran as fiercely as any kid could love his grandmother, yet somehow I knew I’d never again live in her house and work in her fields.
   We talked about Ricky for a while, then about the Latchers. She put her arm around my shoulders and held me close, and she made me promise more than once that I’d write letters to her. I also had to promise to study hard, obey my parents, go to church and learn my Scriptures, and to be diligent in my speech so I wouldn’t sound like a Yankee.
   When she was finished extracting all the promises, I was exhausted. We walked back to the house, dodging puddles.
   The morning dragged on. The Latcher horde dispersed after breakfast, but they were back in time for lunch. They watched as my father and their father tried to out paint each other across the front of our house.
   We fed them on the back porch. After they ate, Libby pulled me aside and handed over her letter to Ricky. I had managed to sneak a plain white envelope from the supply we kept at the end of the kitchen table. I’d addressed it to Ricky, via the army mail route in San Diego, and I’d put a stamp on it. She was quite impressed. She carefully placed her letter inside, then licked the envelope twice.
   “Thank you, Luke,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.
   I put the envelope under my shirt so no one could see it. I had decided to mention it to my mother but hadn’t found the opportunity.
   Events were moving quickly. My mother and Gran spent the afternoon washing and pressing the clothes we would take with us. My father and Mr. Latcher painted until the buckets were empty. I wanted time to slow down, but for some reason the day became hurried.
   We endured another quiet supper, each of us worried about the trip North, but for different reasons. I was sad enough to have no appetite.
   “This’ll be your last supper here for a spell, Luke,” Pappy said. I don’t know why he said that, because it sure didn’t help matters.
   “They say the food up North is pretty bad,” Gran said, trying to lighten things up. That, too, fell flat.
   It was too chilly to sit on the porch. We gathered in the living room and tried to chat as if things were the same. But no topic seemed appropriate. Church matters were dull. Baseball was over. No one wanted to mention Ricky. Not even the weather could hold our attention.
   We finally gave up and went to bed. My mother tucked me in and kissed me good night. Then Gran did the same. Pappy stopped for a few words, something he’d never done before.
   When I was finally alone, I said my prayers. Then I stared at the dark ceiling and tried to believe that this was my last night on the farm.

Chapter 36

   My father had been wounded in Italy in 1944. He was treated there, then on a hospital boat, then shipped to Boston, where he spent time in physical rehabilitation. When he arrived at the bus station in Memphis, he had two U. S. Army duffel bags stuffed with clothes and a few souvenirs. Two months later he married my mother. Ten months after that, I arrived on the scene.
   I’d never seen the duffel bags. To my knowledge they hadn’t been used since the war. When I walked into the living room early the next morning, they were both half-filled with clothing, and my mother was busy arranging the other necessities to be packed. The sofa was covered with her dresses, quilts, and some shirts she’d pressed the day before. I asked her about the duffel bags, and she told me that they’d spent the last eight years in a storage attic above the tool shed.
   “Now hurry and eat breakfast,” she said, folding a towel.
   Gran was holding nothing back for our final meal. Eggs, sausage, ham, grits, fried potatoes, baked tomatoes, and biscuits. “It’s a long bus ride,” she said.
   “How long?” I asked. I was sitting at the table, waiting for my first cup of coffee. The men were out of the house somewhere.
   “Your father said eighteen hours. Heaven knows when you’ll get a good meal again.” She delicately placed the coffee in front of me, then kissed me on the head. For Gran, the only good meal was one cooked in her kitchen with ingredients that came straight off the farm.
   The men had already eaten. Gran sat next to me with her coffee and watched as I plowed into the feast she’d laid on the table. We went through the promises again-to write letters, to obey my parents, to read the Bible, to say my prayers, to be diligent so as not to become a Yankee. It was a virtual roll call of commandments. I chewed my food and nodded at the appropriate moments.
   She explained that my mother would need help when the new baby arrived. There would be other Arkansas people up there in Flint, good Baptist souls who could be depended on, but I had to help with chores around the house.
   “What kind of chores?” I asked with a mouthful of food. I’d thought the notion of chores was confined to the farm. I’d thought I was leaving them behind.
   “Just house stuff,” she said, suddenly vague. Gran had never spent a night in a city. She had no idea where we would be living, nor did we. “You just be helpful when the baby gets here,” she said.
   “What if it cries like that Latcher baby?” I asked.
   “It won’t. No baby has ever cried like that.”
   My mother passed through with a load of clothes. Her steps were quick. She’d been dreaming of this day for years. Pappy and Gran and perhaps even my father thought that our leaving was just a temporary departure. To my mother it was a milestone. The day was a turning point not only in her life but especially in mine. She had convinced me at an early age that I would not be a farmer, and in leaving we were cutting ties.
   Pappy wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat in his chair at the end of the table, next to Gran, and watched me eat. He was not good at greetings, and he certainly couldn’t handle farewells. The less said the better in his book.
   When I had stuffed myself to the point of being uncomfortable, Pappy and I walked to the front porch. My father was hauling the duffel bags to the truck. He was dressed in starched khaki work pants, a starched white shirt, no overalls. My mother was wearing a pretty Sunday dress. We didn’t want to look like refugees from the cotton fields of Arkansas.
   Pappy led me into the front yard, down to a point where second base used to be, and from there we turned and looked at the house. It glowed in the clear morning sun. “Good job, Luke,” he said. “You done a good job.”
   “Just wish we’d finished,” I said. To the far right, at the corner where Trot had begun, there was an unpainted section. We’d stretched the last four gallons as far as possible and had come up a little short.
   “I figure another half gallon,” Pappy said.
   “Yes sir. That’s about right.”
   “I’ll get it done this winter,” he said.
   “Thanks, Pappy.”
   “When y’all come home, it’ll be finished.”
   “I’d like that.”
   We all converged at the truck, and everyone hugged Gran for the last time. For a second I thought she was going to run through the list of promises again, but she was too choked up. We got ourselves loaded-Pappy behind the wheel, me in the middle, my mother by the window, my father in the back with the duffel bags-and we backed onto the road.
   When we pulled away, Gran was sitting on the front steps, wiping her face. My father had told me not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. I clutched my mother’s arm and hid my face.
   We stopped in Black Oak. My father had a small matter at the Co-op. I wanted to say good-bye to Pearl. My mother had Libby’s letter to Ricky, which she took to the post office and sent on its way. She and I had discussed it at length, and she, too, felt that it was none of our business. If Libby wanted to write a letter to Ricky and break the news about their baby, we shouldn’t stop her.
   Pearl, of course, knew we were leaving. She hugged my neck until I thought it was going to break, then she produced a small paper sack filled with candy. “You’ll need this for the trip,” she said. I gawked at the endless supply of chocolate and mints and jawbreakers in the bag. The trip was already a success. Pop appeared, shook my hand as if I were an adult, and wished me luck.
   I hurried back to the truck with my candy and showed it to Pappy, who was still behind the wheel. My parents came back quickly, too. We were not in the mood for a grand send-off. Our leaving was due to frustration and crop failure. We weren’t exactly anxious for the town to know we were fleeing North. It was mid-morning, though, and the town was still quiet.
   I watched the fields along the highway to Jonesboro. They were as wet as ours. The road ditches were overflowing with brown water. The creeks and streams were over their banks.
   We passed the gravel road where Pappy and I had waited to find hill people. There we had met the Spruills, and I had seen Hank and Tally and Trot for the first time. If another farmer had been there earlier, or if we’d arrived later, then the Spruills would now be back in Eureka Springs with their family intact.
   With Cowboy driving, Tally had made this same trip in this same truck in the middle of a storm at night. Running away to a better life up North, just like us. It was still hard to believe she had fled like that.
   I didn’t see a single person picking cotton until we reached Nettleton, a small town close to Jonesboro. There the ditches were not as full; the ground wasn’t as wet. Some Mexicans were hard at work.
   Traffic slowed us at the edge of the city. I sat up high to take in the sights: the stores and nice homes and clean cars and people walking about. I could not remember my last visit to Jonesboro. When a farm kid made it to the city, he talked about it for a week. If he made it to Memphis, then he might go on for a month.
   Pappy became visibly nervous in traffic. He gripped the wheel, hit the brakes, mumbled just under his breath. We turned onto a street, and there was the Greyhound station, a busy place with three shiny buses parked in a row to the left. We stopped at the curb near a DEPARTURES sign and quickly unloaded. Pappy wasn’t much for hugs, so it didn’t take long to say good-bye. But when he pinched my cheek, I saw moisture in his eyes. For that reason he hustled back to the truck and made a hasty getaway. We waved until he was out of sight. My heart ached as I watched his old truck turn the corner and disappear. It was headed back to the farm, back to the floods, back to the Latchers, back to a long winter. But at the same time, I was relieved not to be going back.
   We turned and walked into the station. Our adventure was now beginning. My father placed the duffel bags near some seats, then he and I went to the ticket counter.
   “I need three tickets to St. Louis,” he said.
   My mouth fell open, and I looked at him in complete amazement. “St. Louis?” I said.
   He grinned but said nothing.
   “Bus leaves at noon,” the clerk said.
   My father paid for the tickets, and we took our seats next to my mother. “Mom, we’re goin’ to St. Louis!” I said.
   “It’s just a stop, Luke,” my father said. “From there we catch a bus to Chicago, then to Flint.”
   “You think we’ll see Stan Musial?”
   “I doubt it.”
   “Can we see Sportsman’s Park?”
   “Not this trip. Maybe the next one.”
   After a few minutes I was released to roam around the station and inspect things. There was a small cafe where two army boys were drinking coffee. I thought of Ricky and realized I would not be there when he came home. I saw a family of Negroes, a rare sight in our part of Arkansas. They were clutching their bags and looked as lost as we did. I saw two more farm families, more refugees from the flood.
   When I rejoined my parents they were holding hands and were deep in conversation. We waited forever, it seemed, then finally they called for us to board. The duffel bags were packed in the cargo section under the bus, and we, too, climbed on.
   My mother and I sat together, with my father right behind us. I got the window seat, and I stared through it, missing nothing as we maneuvered through Jonesboro and then got on the highway, speeding along, going North, still surrounded by nothing but wet cotton fields.
   When I could pull my eyes away from the window, I looked at my mother. Her head was resting on the back of her seat. Her eyes were closed, and a grin was slowly forming at the corners of her mouth.

A Time to Kill

John Grisham

John Grisham
A Time to Kill

   Billy Ray Cobb was the younger and smaller of the two rednecks. At twenty-three he was already a three-year veteran of the state penitentiary at Parchman. Possession, with intent to sell. He was a lean, tough little punk who had survived prison by somehow maintaining a ready supply of drugs that he sold and sometimes gave to the blacks and the guards for protection. In the year since his release he had continued to prosper, and his small-time narcotics business had elevated him to the position of one of the more affluent rednecks in Ford County. He was a businessman, with employees, obligations, deals, everything but taxes. Down at the Ford place in Clanton he was known as the last man in recent history to pay cash for a new pickup truck. Sixteen thousand cash, for a custom-built, four-wheel drive, canary yellow, luxury Ford pickup. The fancy chrome wheels and mudgrip racing tires had been received in a business deal. The rebel flag hanging across the rear window had been stolen by Cobb from a drunken fraternity boy at an Ole Miss football game. The pickup was Billy Ray’s most prized possession. He sat on the tailgate drinking a beer, smoking a joint, watching his friend Willard take his turn with the black girl.
   Willard was four years older and a dozen years slower. He was generally a harmless sort who had never been in serious trouble and had never been seriously employed. Maybe an occasional fight with a night in jail, but nothing that would distinguish him. He called himself a pulpwood cutter, but a bad back customarily kept him out of the woods. He had hurt his back working on an offshore rig somewhere in the Gulf, and the oil company paid him a nice settlement, which he lost when his ex-wife cleaned him out. His primary vocation was that of a part-time employee of Billy Ray Cobb, who didn’t pay much but was liberal with his dope. For the first time in years Willard could always get his hands on something. And he always needed something. He’d been that way since he hurt his back.
   She was ten, and small for her age. She lay on her elbows, which were stuck and bound together with yellow nylon rope. Her legs were spread grotesquely with the right foot tied tight to an oak sapling and the left to a rotting, leaning post of a long-neglected fence. The ski rope had cut into her ankles and the blood ran down her legs. Her face was bloody and swollen, with one eye bulging and closed and the other eye half open so she could see the other white man sitting on the truck. She did not look at the man on top of her. He was breathing hard and sweating and cursing. He was hurting her.
   When he finished, he slapped her and laughed, and the other man laughed in return, then they laughed harder and rolled around the grass by the truck like two crazy men, screaming and laughing. She turned away from them and cried softly, careful to keep herself quiet. She had been slapped earlier for crying and screaming. They promised to kill her if she didn’t keep quiet.
   They grew tired of laughing and pulled themselves onto the tailgate, where Willard cleaned himself with the little nigger’s shirt, which by now was soaked with blood and sweat. Cobb handed him a cold beer from the cooler and commented on the humidity. They watched her as she sobbed and made strange, quiet sounds, then became still. Cobb’s beer was half empty, and it was not cold anymore. He threw it at the girl. It hit her in the stomach, splashing white foam, and it rolled off in the dirt near some other cans, all of which had originated from the same cooler. For two six-packs now they had thrown their half-empty cans at her and laughed. Willard had trouble with the target, but Cobb was fairly accurate. They were not ones to waste beer, but the heavier cans could be felt better and it was great fun to watch the foam shoot everywhere.
   The warm beer mixed with the dark blood and ran down her face and neck into a puddle behind her head. She did not move.
   Willard asked Cobb if he thought she was dead. Cobb opened another beer and explained that she was not dead because niggers generally could not be killed by kicking and beating and raping. It took much more, something like a knife or a gun or a rope to dispose of a nigger. Although he had never taken part in such a killing, he had lived with a bunch of niggers in prison and knew all about them. They were always killing each other, and they always used a weapon of some sort. Those who were just beaten and raped never died. Some of the whites were beaten and raped, and some of them died. But none of the niggers. Their heads were harder. Willard seemed satisfied.
   Willard asked what he planned to do now that they were through with her. Cobb sucked on his joint, chased it with beer, and said he wasn’t through. He bounced from the tailgate and staggered across the small clearing to where she was tied. He cursed her and screamed at her to wake up, then he poured cold beer in her face, laughing like a crazy man.
   She watched him as he walked around the tree on her right side, and she stared at him as he stared between her legs. When he lowered his pants she turned to the left and closed her eyes. He was hurting her again.
   She looked out through the woods and saw something—a man running wildly through the vines and underbrush. It was her daddy, yelling and pointing at her and coming desperately to save her. She cried out for him, and he disappeared. She fell asleep.
   When she awoke one of the men was lying under the tailgate, the other under a tree. They were asleep. Her arms and legs were numb. The blood and beer and urine had mixed with the dirt underneath her to form a sticky paste that glued her small body to the ground and crackled when she moved and wiggled. Escape, she thought, but her mightiest efforts moved her only a few inches to the right. Her feet were tied so high her buttocks barely touched the ground. Her legs and arms were so deadened they refused to move.
   She searched the woods for her daddy and quietly called his name. She waited, then slept again.
   When she awoke the second time they were up and moving around. The tall one staggered to her with a small knife. He grabbed her left ankle and sawed furiously on the rope until it gave way. Then he freed the right leg, and she curled into a fetal position with her back to them.
   Cobb strung a length of quarter-inch ski rope over a limb and tied a loop in one end with a slip knot. He grabbed her and put the noose around her head, then walked across the clearing with the other end of the rope and sat on the tailgate, where Willard was smoking a fresh joint and grinning at Cobb for what he was about to do. Cobb pulled the rope tight, then gave a vicious yank, bouncing the little nude body along the ground and stopping it directly under the limb. She gagged and coughed, so he kindly loosened the rope to spare her a few more minutes. He tied the rope to the bumper and opened another beer.
   They sat on the tailgate drinking, smoking, and staring at her. They had been at the lake most of the day, where Cobb had a friend with a boat and some extra girls who were supposed to be easy but turned out to be untouchable. Cobb had been generous with his drugs and beer, but the girls did not reciprocate. Frustrated, they left the lake and were driving to no place in particular when they happened across the girl. She was walking along a gravel road with a sack of groceries when Willard nailed her in the back of the head with a beer can.
   “You gonna do it?” asked Willard, his eyes red and glazed.
   Cobb hesitated. “Naw, I’ll let you do it. It was your idea.”
   Willard took a drag on his joint, then spit and said, “Wasn’t my idea. You’re the expert on killin’ niggers. Do it.”
   Cobb untied the rope from the bumper and pulled it tight. It peeled bark from the limb and sprinkled fine bits of elm around the girl, who was watching them carefully now. She coughed.
   Suddenly, she heard something-like a car with loud pipes. The two men turned quickly and looked down the dirt road to the highway in the distance. They cursed and scrambled around, one slamming the tailgate and the other running toward her. He tripped and landed near her. They cursed each other while they grabbed her, removed the rope from her neck, dragged her to the pickup and threw her over the tailgate into the bed of the truck. Cobb slapped her and threatened to kill her if she did not lie still and keep quiet. He said he would take her home if she stayed down and did as told; otherwise, they would kill her. They slammed the doors and sped onto the dirt road. She was going home. She passed out.
   Cobb and Willard waved at the Firebird with the loud pipes as it passed them on the narrow dirt road. Willard checked the back to make sure the little nigger was lying down. Cobb turned onto the highway and raced away.
   “What now?” Willard asked nervously.

   “Don’t know,” Cobb answered nervously. “But we gotta do something fast before she gets blood all over my truck. Look at her back there, she’s bleedin’ all over the place.”
   Willard thought for a minute while he finished a beer. “Let’s throw her off a bridge,” he said proudly.
   “Good idea. Damned good idea.” Cobb slammed on the brakes. “Gimme a beer,” he ordered Willard, who stumbled out of the truck and fetched two beers from the back.
   “She’s even got blood on the cooler,” he reported as they raced off again.
   Gwen Hailey sensed something horrible. Normally she would have sent one of the three boys to the store, but they were being punished by their father and had been sentenced to weed-pulling in the garden. Tonya had been to the store before by herself-it was only a mile away-and had proven reliable. But after two hours Gwen sent the boys to look for their little sister. They figured she was down at the Pounders’ house playing with the many Pounders kids, or maybe she had ventured past the store to visit her best friend, Bessie Pierson.
   Mr. Bates at the store said she had come and gone an hour earlier. Jarvis, the middle boy, found a sack of groceries beside the road.
   Gwen called her husband at the paper mill, then loaded Carl Lee, Jr., into the car and began driving the gravel roads around the store. They drove to a settlement of ancient shotgun houses on Graham Plantation to check with an aunt. They stopped at Broadway’s store a mile from Bates Grocery and were told by a group of old black men that she had not been seen. They crisscrossed the gravel roads and dusty field roads for three square miles around their house.
   Cobb could not find a bridge unoccupied by niggers with fishing poles. Every bridge they approached had four or five niggers hanging off the sides with large straw hats and cane poles, and under every bridge on the banks there would be another group sitting on buckets with the same straw hats and cane poles, motionless except for an occasional swat at a fly or a slap at a mosquito.
   He was scared now. Willard had passed out and was of no help, and he was left alone to dispose of the girl in such a way that she could never tell. Willard snored as he frantically drove the gravel roads and county roads in search of a bridge or ramp on some river where he could stop and toss her without being seen by half a dozen niggers with straw hats. He looked in the mirror and saw her trying to stand. He slammed his brakes, and she crashed into the front of the bed, just under the window. Willard ricocheted off the dash into the floorboard, where he continued to snore. Cobb cursed them both equally.
   Lake Chatulla was nothing more than a huge, shallow, man-made mudhole with a grass-covered dam running exactly one mile along one end. It sat in the far southwest corner of Ford County, with a few acres in Van Buren County. In the spring it would hold the distinction of being the largest body of water in Mississippi. But by late summer the rains were long gone, and the sun would cook the shallow water until the lake would dehydrate. Its once ambitious shorelines would retreat and move much closer together, creating a depthless basin of reddish brown water. It was fed from all directions by innumerable streams, creeks, sloughs, and a couple of currents large enough to be named rivers. The existence of all these tributaries necessarily gave rise to a good number of bridges near the lake.
   It was over these bridges the yellow pickup flew in an all-out effort to find a suitable place to unload an unwanted passenger. Cobb was desperate. He knew of one other bridge, a narrow wooden one over Foggy Creek. As he approached, he saw niggers with cane poles, so he turned off a side road and stopped the truck. He lowered the tailgate, dragged her out, and threw her in a small ravine lined with kudzu.
   Carl Lee Hailey did not hurry home. Gwen was easily excited, and she had called the mill numerous times when she thought the children had been kidnapped. He punched out at quitting time, and made the thirty-minute drive home in thirty minutes. Anxiety hit him when he turned onto his gravel drive and saw the patrol car parked next to the front porch. Other cars belonging to Owen’s family were scattered along the long drive and in the yard, and there was one car he didn’t recognize. It had cane poles sticking out the side windows, and there were at least seven straw hats sitting in it.
   Where were Tonya and the boys?
   As he opened the front door he heard Gwen crying. To his right in the small living room he found a crowd huddled above a small figure lying on the couch. The child was covered with wet towels and surrounded by crying relatives. As he moved to the couch the crying stopped and the crowd backed away. Only Gwen stayed by the girl. She softly stroked her hair. He knelt beside the couch and touched the girl’s shoulder. He spoke to his daughter, and she tried to smile. Her face was bloody pulp covered with knots and lacerations. Both eyes were swollen shut and bleeding. His eyes watered as he looked at her tiny body, completely wrapped in towels and bleeding from ankles to forehead.
   Carl Lee asked Gwen what happened. She began shaking and wailing, and was led to the kitchen by her brother. Carl Lee stood and turned to the crowd and demanded to know what happened.
   Silence.
   He asked for the third time. The deputy, Willie Hastings, one of Gwen’s cousins, stepped forward and told Carl Lee that some people were fishing down by Foggy Creek when they saw Tonya lying in the middle of the road. She told them her daddy’s name, and they brought her home.
   Hastings shut up and stared at his feet.
   Carl Lee stared at him and waited. Everyone else stopped breathing and watched the floor.
   “What happened, Willie?” Carl Lee yelled as he stared at the deputy.
   Hastings spoke slowly, and while staring out the window repeated what Tonya had told her mother about the white men and their pickup, and the rope and the trees, and being hurt when they got on her.—Hastings stopped when he heard the siren from the ambulance.
   The crowd filed solemnly through the front door and waited on the porch, where they watched the crew unload a stretcher and head for the house.
   The paramedics stopped in the yard when the front door opened and Carl Lee walked out with his daughter in his arms. He whispered gently to her as huge tears dripped from his chin. He walked to the rear of the ambulance and stepped inside. The paramedics closed the door and carefully removed her from his embrace.
   Ozzie Walls was the only black sheriff in Mississippi. There had been a few others in recent history, but for the moment he was the only one. He took great pride in that fact, since Ford County was seventy-four percent white and the other black sheriffs had been from much blacker counties. Not since Reconstruction had a black sheriff been elected in a white county in Mississippi.
   He was raised in Ford County, and he was kin to most of the blacks and a few of the whites. After desegregation in the late sixties, he was a member of the first mixed graduating class at Clanton High School. He wanted to play football nearby at Ole Miss, but there were already two blacks on the team. He starred instead at Alcorn State, and was a defensive tackle for the Rams when a knee injury sent him back to Clanton. He missed football, but enjoyed being the high sheriff, especially at election time when he received more. white votes than his white opponents. The white kids loved him because he was a hero, a football star who had played on TV and had his picture in magazines. Their parents respected him and voted for him because he was a tough cop who did not discriminate between black punks and white Sunks. The white politicians supported him because, since e became the sheriff, the Justice Department stayed out of Ford County. The blacks adored him because he was Ozzie, one of their own.
   He skipped supper and waited in his office at the jail for Hastings to report from the Hailey house. He had a suspect. Billy Ray Cobb was no stranger to the sheriffs office. Ozzie knew he sold drugs-he just couldn’t catch him. He also knew Cobb had a mean streak.
   The dispatcher called in the deputies, and as they reported to the jail Ozzie gave them instructions to locate, but not arrest, Billy Ray Cobb. There were twelve deputies in all—nine white and three black. They fanned out across the county in search of a fancy yellow Ford pickup with a rebel flag in the rear window.
   When Hastings arrived he and the sheriff left for the Ford County hospital. As usual, Hastings drove and Ozzie gave orders on the radio. In the waiting room on the second floor they found the Hailey clan. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and strangers crowded into the small room and some waited in the narrow hallway. There were whispers and quiet tears. Tonya was in surgery.
   Carl Lee sat on a cheap plastic couch in a dark corner with Gwen next to him and the boys next to her. He stared at the floor and did not notice the crowd. Gwen laid her head on his shoulder and cried softly. The boys sat rigidly with their hands on knees, occasionally glancing at their father as if waiting on words of reassurance.
   Ozzie worked his way through the crowd, quietly shaking hands and patting backs and whispering that he would catch them. He knelt before Carl Lee and Gwen. “How is she?” he asked. Carl Lee did not see him. Gwen cried louder and the boys sniffed and wiped tears. He patted Gwen on the knee and stood. One of her brothers led Ozzie and Hastings out of the room into the hall, away from the family. He shook Ozzie’s hand and thanked him for coming.
   “How is she?” Ozzie asked.

   “Not too good. She’s in surgery and most likely will be there for a while. She’s got broken fjones and a bad concussion. She’s beat up real bad. There’s rope burns on her neck like they tried to hang her.”
   “Was she raped?” he asked, certain of the answer.
   “Yeah. She told her momma they took turns on her and hurt her real bad. Doctors confirmed it.”
   “How’s Carl Lee and Gwen?”
   “They’re tore up pretty bad. I think they’re in shock. Carl Lee ain’t said a word since he got here.”
   Ozzie assured him they would find the two men, and it wouldn’t take long, and when they found them they would be locked up someplace safe. The brother suggested he should hide them in another jail, for their own safety.
   Three miles out of Clanton, Ozzie pointed to a gravel driveway. “Pull in there,” he told Hastings, who turned off the highway and drove into the front yard of a dilapidated house trailer. It was almost dark.
   Ozzie took his night stick and banged violently on the front door. “Open up, Bumpous!”
   The trailer shook and Bumpous scrambled to the bathroom to flush a fresh joint.
   “Open up, Bumpous!” Ozzie banged. “I know you’re in there. Open up or I’ll kick in the door.”
   Bumpous yanked the door open and Ozzie walked in. “You know, Bumpous, evertime I visit you I smell somethin’ funny and the commode’s flushin’. Get some clothes on. I gotta job for you.”
   “W-what?”
   “I’ll explain it outside where I can breathe. Just get some clothes on and hurry.”
   “What if I don’t want to?”
   “Fine. I’ll see your parole officer tomorrow.”
   “I’ll be out in a minute.”
   Ozzie smiled and walked to his car. Bobby Bumpous was one of his favorites. Since his parole two years earlier, he had led a reasonably clean life, occasionally succumbing to the lure of an easy drug sale for a quick buck. Ozzie watched him like a hawk and knew of such transactions, and Bumpous knew Ozzie knew; therefore, Bumpous was usually most eager to help his friend, Sheriff Walls. The plan was to eventually use Bumpous to nail Billy Ray Cobb for dealing, but that would be postponed for now.
   After a few minutes he marched outside, still tucking his shirttail and zipping his pants. “Who you lookin’ for?” he demanded.
   “Billy Ray Cobb.”
   “That’s no problem. You can find him without me.”
   “Shut up and listen. We think Cobb was involved in a rape this afternoon. A black girl was raped by two white men, and I think Cobb was there.”
   “Cobb ain’t into rape, Sheriff. He’s into drugs, remember?”
   “Shut up and listen. You find Cobb and spend some time with him. Five minutes ago his truck was spotted at Huey’s. Buy him a beer. Shoot some pool, roll dice, what—ever. Find out what he did today. Who was he with? Where’d he go? You know how he likes to talk, right?”
   “Right.”
   “Call the dispatcher when you find him. They’ll call me. I’ll be somewhere close. You understand?”
   “Sure, Sheriff. No problem.”
   “Any questions?”
   “Yeah. I’m broke. Who’s gonna pay for this?”
   Ozzie handed him a twenty and left. Hastings drove in the direction of Huey’s, down by the lake.
   “You sure you can trust him?” Hastings asked.. “Who?”
   “That Bumpous kid.”
   “Sure I trust him. He’s proved very reliable since he was paroled. He’s a good kid tryin’ to go straight, for the most part. He supports his local sheriff and would do anything I ask.”
   “Why?”
   “Because I caught him with ten ounces of pot a year ago. He’d been outta jail about a year when I caught his brother with an ounce, and I told him he was lookin’ at thirty years. He started cryin’ and carryin’ on, cried all night in his cell. By mornin’ he was ready to talk. Told me his supplier was his brother, Bobby. So I let him go and went to see Bobby. I knocked on his door and I could hear the commode flushin’. He wouldn’t come to the door, so I kicked it in. I found him in his underwear in the bathroom tryin’ to unstop the commode. There was dope all over the place. Don’t know how much he flushed, but most of it was comin’ back out in the overflow. Scared him so bad he wet his drawers.”
   “You kiddin’?”
   “Nope. The kid pissed all over himself. He was a sight standin’ there with wet drawers, a plunger in one hand, dope in the other, and the room fillin’ up with commode water.”
   “What’d you do?”
   “Threatened to kill him.”
   “What’d he do?”
   “Started cryin’. Cried like a baby. Cried ‘bout his momma and prison and all this and that. Promised he’d never screw up again.”
   “You arrest him?”
   “Naw, I just couldn’t. I talked real ugly to him and threatened him some more. I put him on probation right there in his bathroom. He’s been fun to work with ever since.”
   They drove by Huey’s and saw Cobb’s truck in the gravel parking lot with a dozen other pickups and four-wheel drives. They parked behind a black church on a hill up the highway from Huey’s, where they had a good view of the honky tonk, or tonk, as it was affectionately called by the patrons. Another patrol car hid behind some trees at the other end of the highway. Moments later Bumpous flew by and wheeled into the parking lot. He locked his brakes, spraying gravel and dust, then backed next to Cobb’s truck. He looked around and casually entered Huey’s. Thirty minutes later the dispatcher advised Ozzie that the informant had found the subject, a male white, at Huey’s, an establishment on Highway 305 near the lake. Within minutes two more patrol cars were hidden close by. They waited.
   “What makes you so sure it’s Cobb?” Hastings asked.
   “I ain’t sure. I just got a hunch. The little girl said it was a truck with shiny wheels and big tires.”
   “That narrows it down to two thousand.”
   “She also said it was yellow, looked new, and had a big flag hangin’ in the rear window.”
   “That brings it down to two hundred.”
   “Maybe less than that. How many of those are as mean as Billy Ray Cobb?”
   “What if it ain’t him?”
   “It is.”
   “If it ain’t?”
   “We’ll know shortly. He’s got a big mouth, ‘specially when he’s drinkin’.”
   For two hours they waited and watched pickups come and go. Truck drivers, pulpwood cutters, factory workers, and farmhands parked their pickups and jeeps in the gravel and strutted inside to drink, shoot pool, listen to the band, but mainly to look for stray women. Some would leave and walk next door to Ann’s Lounge, where they would stay for a few minutes and return to Huey’s. Ann’s Lounge was darker both inside and out, and it lacked the colorful beer signs and live music that made Huey’s such a hit with the locals. Ann’s was known for its drug traffic, whereas Huey’s had it allmusic, women, happy hours, poker machines, dice, dancing, and plenty of fights. One brawl spilled through the door into the parking lot, where a group of wild rednecks kicked and clawed each other at random until they grew winded and returned to the dice table.
   “Hope that wasn’t Bumpous,” observed the sheriff.