jg.paintedhouse-第68章

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ank　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　ing。
　　　〃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　plete　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　p