Grisham, John - A Painted House

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A Painted House
John Grisham
Chapter 1
The hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was a Wednesday, early in September
1952. The Cardinals were five games behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season
looked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waist-high to my father, over my head, and he and my
grandfather could be heard before supper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a
"good crop."
They were farmers, hardworking men who embraced pessimism only when discussing the weather
and the crops. There was too much sun, or too much rain, or the threat of floods in the lowlands, or
the rising prices of seed and fertilizer, or the uncertainties of the markets. On the most perfect of
days, my mother would quietly say to me, "Don't worry. The men will find something to worry
about."
Pappy, my grandfather, was worried about the price for labor when we went searching for the hill
people. They were paid for every hundred pounds of cotton they picked. The previous year,
according to him, it was $1.50 per hundred. He'd already heard rumors that a farmer over in Lake
City was offering $1.60.
This played heavily on his mind as we rode to town. He never talked when he drove, and this was
because, according to my mother, not much of a driver herself, he was afraid of motorized vehicles.
His truck was a 1939 Ford, and with the exception of our old John Deere tractor, it was our sole
means of transportation. This was no particular problem except when we drove to church and my
mother and grandmother were forced to sit snugly together up front in their Sunday best while my
father and I rode in the back, engulfed in dust. Modern sedans were scarce in rural Arkansas.
Pappy drove thirty-seven miles per hour. His theory was that every automobile had a speed at
which it ran most efficiently, and through some vaguely defined method he had determined that his
old truck should go thirty-seven. My mother said (to me) that it was ridiculous. She also said he and
my father had once fought over whether the truck should go faster. But my father rarely drove it,
and if I happened to be riding with him, he would level off at thirty-seven, out of respect for Pappy.
My mother said she suspected he drove much faster when he was alone.
We turned onto Highway 135, and, as always, I watched Pappy carefully shift the gears-pressing
slowly on the clutch, delicately prodding the stick shift on the steering column-until the truck
reached its perfect speed. Then I leaned over to check the speedometer: thirty-seven. He smiled at
me as if we both agreed that the truck belonged at that speed.
Highway 135 ran straight and flat through the farm country of the Arkansas Delta. On both sides as
far as I could see, the fields were white with cotton. It was time for the harvest, a wonderful season
for me because they turned out school for two months. For my grandfather, though, it was a time of
endless worry.
On the right, at the Jordan place, we saw a group of Mexicans working in the field near the road.
They were stooped at the waist, their cotton sacks draped behind them, their hands moving deftly
through the stalks, tearing off the bolls. Pappy grunted. He didn't like the Jordans because they
were Methodists-and Cubs fans. Now that they already had workers in their fields, there was
another reason to dislike them.
The distance from our farm to town was fewer than eight miles, but at thirty-seven miles an hour,
the trip took twenty minutes. Always twenty minutes, even with little traffic. Pappy didn't believe
in passing slower vehicles in front of him. Of course, he was usually the slow one. Near Black Oak,
we caught up to a trailer filled to the top with snowy mounds of freshly picked cotton. A tarp
covered the front half, and the Montgomery twins, who were my age, playfully bounced around in
all that cotton until they saw us on the road below them. Then they stopped and waved. I waved
back, but my grandfather did not. When he drove, he never waved or nodded at folks, and this was,
my mother said, because he was afraid to take his hands from the wheel. She said people talked
about him behind his back, saying he was rude and arrogant. Personally, I don't think he cared how
the gossip ran.
We followed the Montgomery trailer until it turned at the cotton gin. It was pulled by their old
Massey Harris tractor, and driven by Frank, the eldest Montgomery boy, who had dropped out of
school in the fifth grade and was considered by everyone at church to be headed for serious trouble.
Highway 135 became Main Street for the short stretch it took to negotiate Black Oak. We passed
the Black Oak Baptist Church, one of the few times we'd pass without stopping for some type of
service. Every store, shop, business, church, even the school, faced Main Street, and on Saturdays
the traffic inched along, bumper to bumper, as the country folks flocked to town for their weekly
shopping. But it was Wednesday, and when we got into town, we parked in front of Pop and Pearl
Watson's grocery store on Main.
I waited on the sidewalk until my grandfather nodded in the direction of the store. That was my cue
to go inside and purchase a Tootsie Roll, on credit. It only cost a penny, but it was not a foregone
conclusion that I would get one every trip to town. Occasionally, he wouldn't nod, but I would enter
the store anyway and loiter around the cash register long enough for Pearl to sneak me one, which
always came with strict instructions not to tell my grandfather. She was afraid of him. Eli Chandler
was a poor man, but he was intensely proud. He would starve to death before he took free food,
which, on his list, included Tootsie Rolls. He would've beaten me with a stick if he knew I had
accepted a piece of candy, so Pearl Watson had no trouble swearing me to secrecy.
But this time I got the nod. As always, Pearl was dusting the counter when I entered and gave her a
stiff hug. Then I grabbed a Tootsie Roll from the jar next to the cash register. I signed the charge
slip with great flair, and Pearl inspected my penmanship. "It's getting better, Luke," she said.
"Not bad for a seven-year-old," I said. Because of my mother, I had been practicing my name in
cursive writing for two years. "Where's Pop?" I asked. They were the only adults I knew who
insisted I call them by their "first" names, but only in the store when no one else was listening. If a
customer walked in, then it was suddenly Mr. and Mrs. Watson. I told no one but my mother this,
and she told me she was certain no other child held such privilege.
"In the back, putting up stock," Pearl said. "Where's your grandfather?"
It was Pearl's calling in life to monitor the movements of the town's population, so any question
was usually answered with another.
"The Tea Shoppe, checking on the Mexicans. Can I go back there?" I was determined to
outquestion her.
"Better not. Y'all using hill people, too?"
"If we can find them. Eli says they don't come down like they used to. He also thinks they're all half
crazy. Where's Champ?" Champ was the store's ancient beagle, which never left Pop's side.
Pearl grinned whenever I called my grandfather by his first name. She was about to ask me a
question when the small bell clanged as the door opened and closed. A genuine Mexican walked in,
alone and timid, as they all seemed to be at first. Pearl nodded politely at the new customer.
I shouted, "Buenos dias, senor!"
The Mexican grinned and said sheepishly, "Buenos dias," before disappearing into the back of the
store.
"They're good people," Pearl said under her breath, as if the Mexican spoke English and might be
offended by something nice she said. I bit into my Tootsie Roll and chewed it slowly while
rewrapping and pocketing the other half.
"Eli's worried about payin' them too much," I said. With a customer in the store, Pearl was suddenly
busy again, dusting and straightening around the only cash register.
"Eli worries about everything," she said.
"He's a farmer."
"Are you going to be a farmer?"
"No ma'am. A baseball player."
"For the Cardinals?"
"Of course."
Pearl hummed for a bit while I waited for the Mexican. I had some more Spanish I was anxious to
try.
The old wooden shelves were bursting with fresh groceries. I loved the store during picking season
because Pop filled it from floor to ceiling. The crops were coming in, and money was changing
hands.
Pappy opened the door just wide enough to stick his head in. "Let's go," he said; then, "Howdy,
Pearl."
"Howdy, Eli," she said as she patted my head and sent me away.
"Where are the Mexicans?" I asked Pappy when we were outside.
"Should be in later this afternoon."
We got back in the truck and left town in the direction of Jonesboro, where my grandfather always
found the hill people.
We parked on the shoulder of the highway, near the intersection of a gravel road. In Pappy's
opinion, it was the best spot in the county to catch the hill people. I wasn't so sure. He'd been trying
to hire some for a week with no results. We sat on the tailgate in the scorching sun in complete
silence for half an hour before the first truck stopped. It was clean and had good tires. If we were
lucky enough to find hill people, they would live with us for the next two months. We wanted folks
who were neat, and the fact that this truck was much nicer than Pappy's was a good sign.
"Afternoon," Pappy said when the engine was turned off.
"Howdy," said the driver.
"Where y'all from?" asked Pappy.
"Up north of Hardy."
With no traffic around, my grandfather stood on the pavement, a pleasant expression on his face,
taking in the truck and its contents. The driver and his wife sat in the cab with a small girl between
them. Three large teenaged boys were napping in the back. Everyone appeared to be healthy and
well dressed. I could tell Pappy wanted these people.
"Y'all lookin' for work?" he asked.
"Yep. Lookin' for Lloyd Crenshaw, somewhere west of Black Oak." My grandfather pointed this
way and that, and they drove off. We watched them until they were out of sight.
He could've offered them more than Mr. Crenshaw was promising. Hill people were notorious for
negotiating their labor. Last year, in the middle of the first picking on our place, the Fulbrights from
Calico Rock disappeared one Sunday night and went to work for a farmer ten miles away.
But Pappy was not dishonest, nor did he want to start a bidding war.
We tossed a baseball along the edge of a cotton field, stopping whenever a truck approached.
My glove was a Rawlings that Santa had delivered the Christmas before. I slept with it nightly and
oiled it weekly, and nothing was as dear to my soul.
My grandfather, who had taught me how to throw and catch and hit, didn't need a glove. His large,
callused hands absorbed my throws without the slightest sting.
Though he was a quiet man who never bragged, Eli Chandler had been a legendary baseball player.
At the age of seventeen, he had signed a contract with the Cardinals to play professional baseball.
But the First War called him, and not long after he came home, his father died. Pappy had no
choice but to become a farmer.
Pop Watson loved to tell me stories of how great Eli Chandler had been-how far he could hit a
baseball, how hard he could throw one. "Probably the greatest ever from Arkansas," was Pop's
assessment.
"Better than Dizzy Dean?" I would ask.
"Not even close," Pop would say, sighing.
When I relayed these stories to my mother, she always smiled and said, "Be careful. Pop tells
tales."
Pappy, who was rubbing the baseball in his mammoth hands, cocked his head at the sound of a
vehicle. Coming from the west was a truck with a trailer behind it. From a quarter of a mile away
we could tell they were hill people. We walked to the shoulder of the road and waited as the driver
downshifted, gears crunching and whining as he brought the truck to a stop.
I counted seven heads, five in the truck, two in the trailer.
"Howdy," the driver said slowly, sizing up my grandfather as we in turn quickly scrutinized them.
"Good afternoon," Pappy said, taking a step closer but still keeping his distance.
Tobacco juice lined the lower lip of the driver. This was an ominous sign. My mother thought most
hill people were prone to bad hygiene and bad habits. Tobacco and alcohol were forbidden in our
home. We were Baptists.
"Name's Spruill," he said.
"Eli Chandler. Nice to meet you. Y'all lookin' for work?"
"Yep."
"Where you from?"
"Eureka Springs."
The truck was almost as old as Pappy's, with slick tires and a cracked windshield and rusted fenders
and what looked like faded blue paint under a layer of dust. A tier had been constructed above the
bed, and it was crammed with cardboard boxes and burlap bags filled with supplies. Under it, on
the floor of the bed, a mattress was wedged next to the cab. Two large boys stood on it, both staring
blankly at me. Sitting on the tailgate, barefoot and shirtless, was a heavy young man with massive
shoulders and a neck as thick as a stump. He spat tobacco juice between the truck and the trailer
and seemed oblivious to Pappy and me. He swung his feet slowly, then spat again, never looking
away from the asphalt beneath him.
"I'm lookin' for field hands," Pappy said.
"How much you payin'?" Mr. Spruill asked.
"One-sixty a hundred," Pappy said.
Mr. Spruill frowned and looked at the woman beside him. They mumbled something.
It was at this point in the ritual that quick decisions had to be made. We had to decide whether we
wanted these people living with us. And they had to accept or reject our price.
"What kinda cotton?" Mr. Spruill asked.
"Stoneville," my grandfather said. "The bolls are ready. It'll be easy to pick." Mr. Spruill could look
around him and see the bolls bursting. The sun and soil and rains had cooperated so far. Pappy, of
course, had been fretting over some dire rainfall prediction in the Farmers' Almanac.
"We got one-sixty last year," Mr. Spruill said.
I didn't care for money talk, so I ambled along the center line to inspect the trailer. The tires on the
trailer were even balder than those on the truck. One was half flat from the load. It was a good thing
that their journey was almost over.
Rising in one corner of the trailer, with her elbows resting on the plank siding, was a very pretty
girl. She had dark hair pulled tightly behind her head and big brown eyes. She was younger than
my mother, but certainly a lot older than I was, and I couldn't help but stare.
"What's your name?" she said.
"Luke," I said, kicking a rock. My cheeks were immediately warm. "What's yours?"
"Tally. How old are you?"
"Seven. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"How long you been ridin' in that trailer?"
"Day and a half."
She was barefoot, and her dress was dirty and very tight-tight all the way to her knees. This was the
first time I remember really examining a girl. She watched me with a knowing smile. A kid sat on a
crate next to her with his back to me, and he slowly turned around and looked at me as if I weren't
there. He had green eyes and a long forehead covered with sticky black hair. His left arm appeared
to be useless.
"This is Trot," she said. "He ain't right."
"Nice to meet you, Trot," I said, but his eyes looked away. He acted as if he hadn't heard me.
"How old is he?" I asked her.
"Twelve. He's a cripple."
Trot turned abruptly to face a corner, his bad arm flopping lifelessly. My friend Dewayne said that
hill people married their cousins and that's why there were so many defects in their families.
Tally appeared to be perfect, though. She gazed thoughtfully across the cotton fields, and I admired
her dirty dress once again.
I knew my grandfather and Mr. Spruill had come to terms because Mr. Spruill started his truck. I
walked past the trailer, past the man on the tailgate who was briefly awake but still staring at the
pavement, and stood beside Pappy. "Nine miles that way, take a left by a burned-out barn, then six
more miles to the St. Francis River. We're the first farm past the river on your left."
"Bottomland?" Mr. Spruill asked, as if he were being sent into a swamp.
"Some of it is, but it's good land."
Mr. Spruill glanced at his wife again, then looked back at us. "Where do we set up?"
"You'll see a shady spot in the back, next to the silo. That's the best place."
We watched them drive away, the gears rattling, the tires wobbling, crates and boxes and pots
bouncing along.
"You don't like them, do you?" I asked.
"They're good folks. They're just different."
"I guess we're lucky to have them, aren't we?"
"Yes, we are."
More field hands meant less cotton for me to pick. For the next month I would go to the fields at
sunrise, drape a nine-foot cotton sack over my shoulder, and stare for a moment at an endless row
of cotton, the stalks taller than I was, then plunge into them, lost as far as anyone could tell. And I
would pick cotton, tearing the fluffy bolls from the stalks at a steady pace, stuffing them into the
heavy sack, afraid to look down the row and be reminded of how endless it was, afraid to slow
down because someone would notice. My fingers would bleed, my neck would burn, my back
would hurt.
Yes, I wanted lots of help in the fields. Lots of hill people, lots of Mexicans.
Chapter 2
With the cotton waiting, my grandfather was not a patient man. Though he still drove the truck at
its requisite speed, he was restless because the other fields along the road were getting picked, and
ours were not. Our Mexicans were two days late. We parked again near Pop and Pearl's, and I
followed him to the Tea Shoppe, where he argued with the man in charge of farm labor.
"Relax, Eli," the man said. "They'll be here any minute."
He couldn't relax. We walked to the Black Oak gin on the edge of town, a long walk-but Pappy did
not believe in wasting gasoline. Between six and eleven that morning, he'd picked two hundred
pounds of cotton, yet he still walked so fast I had to jog to keep up.
The gravel lot of the gin was crowded with cotton trailers, some empty, others waiting for their
harvest to be ginned. I waved again at the Montgomery twins as they were leaving, their trailer
empty, headed home for another load.
The gin roared with the chorus of heavy machines at work. They were incredibly loud and
dangerous. During each picking season, at least one worker would fall victim to some gruesome
injury inside the cotton gin. I was scared of the machines, and when Pappy told me to wait outside,
I was happy to do so. He walked by a group of field hands waiting for their trailers without so
much as a nod. He had things on his mind.
I found a safe spot near the dock, where they wheeled out the finished bales and loaded them onto
trailers headed for the Carolinas. At one end of the gin the freshly picked cotton was sucked from
the trailers through a long pipe, twelve inches around; then it disappeared into the building where
the machines worked on it. It emerged at the other end in neat square bales covered in burlap and
strapped tightly with one-inch steel bands. A good gin produced perfect bales, ones that could be
stacked like bricks.
A bale of cotton was worth a hundred and seventy-five dollars, give or take, depending on the
markets. A good crop could produce a bale an acre. We rented eighty acres. Most farm kids could
do the math.
In fact, the math was so easy you wondered why anyone would want to be a farmer. My mother
made sure I understood the numbers. The two of us had already made a secret pact that I would
never, under any circumstances, stay on the farm. I would finish all twelve grades and go play for
the Cardinals.
Pappy and my father had borrowed fourteen thousand dollars in March from the owner of the gin.
That was their crop loan, and the money was spent on seed, fertilizer, labor, and other expenses. So
far we'd been lucky-the weather had been nearly perfect, and the crops looked good. If our luck
continued through the picking, and the fields yielded a bale an acre, then the Chandler farming
operation would break even. That was our goal.
But, like most farmers, Pappy and my father carried debt from the previous year. They owed the
owner of the gin two thousand dollars from 1951, which had seen an average crop. They also owed
money to the John Deere dealer in Jonesboro for parts, to Lance Brothers for fuel, to the Co-op for
seed and supplies, and to Pop and Pearl Watson for groceries.
I certainly wasn't supposed to know about their crop loans and debts. But in the summertime my
parents often sat on the front steps late into the night, waiting for the air to cool so they could sleep
without sweating, and they talked. My bed was near a window by the porch. They thought I was
sleeping, but I heard more than I should have.
Though I wasn't sure, I strongly suspected Pappy needed to borrow more money to pay the
Mexicans and the hill people. I couldn't tell if he got the money or not. He was frowning when we
walked to the gin, and he was frowning when we left it.
The hill people had been migrating from the Ozarks for decades to pick cotton. Many of them
owned their own homes and land, and quite often they had nicer vehicles than the farmers who
hired them for the harvest. They worked very hard, saved their money, and appeared to be as poor
as we were.
By 1950 the migration had slowed. The postwar boom had finally trickled down to Arkansas, at
least to some portions of the state, and the younger hill people didn't need the extra money as badly
as their parents. They simply stayed at home. Picking cotton was not something anyone would
volunteer to do. The farmers faced a labor shortage that gradually grew worse; then somebody
discovered the Mexicans.
The first truckload arrived in Black Oak in 1951. We got six of them, including Juan, my buddy,
who gave me my first tortilla. Juan and forty others had traveled three days in the back of a long
trailer, packed in tightly together, with little food, no shade from the sun or shelter from the rain.
They were weary and disoriented when they hit Main Street. Pappy said the trailer smelled worse
than a cattle truck. Those who saw it told others, and before long the ladies at the Baptist and
Methodist churches were openly complaining about the primitive manner in which the Mexicans
had been transported.
My mother had been vocal, at least to my father. I heard them discuss it many times after the crops
were in and the Mexicans had been shipped back. She wanted my father to talk to the other farmers
and receive assurances from the man in charge of labor that those who collected the Mexicans and
sent them to us would treat them better. She felt it was our duty as farmers to protect the laborers, a
notion my father shared somewhat, though he seemed unenthusiastic about leading the charge.
Pappy didn't give a damn. Nor did the Mexicans; They just wanted to work.
The Mexicans finally arrived just after four o'clock. There had been rumors that they would be
riding in a bus, and I certainly hoped this was true. I didn't want my parents straining at the issue
for another winter. Nor did I want the Mexicans to be treated so poorly.
But they were in a trailer again, an old one with planks for sides and nothing over the top to protect
them. It was true that cattle had it better.
They carefully hopped down out of the trailer bed and onto the street, three or four at a time, in one
wave after another. They spilled forth, emptying in front of the Co-op, and gathered on the
sidewalk in small bewildered groups. They stretched and bent and looked around as if they had
landed on another planet. I counted sixty-two of them. To my great disappointment, Juan was not
there.
They were several inches shorter than Pappy, very thin, and they all had black hair and brown skin.
Each carried a little bag of clothing and supplies.
Pearl Watson stood on the sidewalk in front of her store, hands on hips, glaring. They were her
customers, and she certainly didn't want them mistreated. I knew that before church on Sunday the
ladies would be in an uproar again. And I knew my mother would quiz me as soon as we arrived
home with our gang.
Harsh words erupted between the man in charge of labor and the driver of the truck. Somebody
down in Texas had, in fact, promised that the Mexicans would be shipped in a bus. This was the
second load to arrive in a dirty trailer. Pappy never shied away from a fight, and I could tell he
wanted to jump into the fray and finish off the truck driver. But he was also angry with the labor
man, and I guess he saw no point in whipping both of them. We sat on the tailgate of our truck and
waited for the dust to clear.
When the yelling stopped, the paperwork began. The Mexicans clung together on the sidewalk in
front of the Co-op. Occasionally, they would glance at us and the other farmers who were gathering
along Main Street. Word was out-the new batch had arrived.
Pappy got the first ten. The leader was Miguel. He appeared to be the oldest and, as I noticed from
my initial inspection, he had the only cloth bag. The rest of them carried their belongings in paper
sacks.
Miguel's English was passable, but not nearly as good as Juan's had been. I chatted him up while
Pappy finished the paperwork. Miguel introduced me to the group. There was a Rico, a Roberto, a
Jose, a Luis, a Pablo, and several I couldn't understand. I remembered from a year earlier that it
would take a week to distinguish among them.
Although they were clearly exhausted, each of them seemed to make some effort to smile-except
for one who sneered at me when I looked at him. He wore a western-style hat, which Miguel
pointed to and said, "He thinks he's a cowboy. So that's what we call him." Cowboy was very
young, and tall for a Mexican. His eyes were narrow and mean. He had a thin mustache that only
added to the fierceness. He frightened me so badly that I gave a passing thought to telling Pappy. I
certainly didn't want the man living on our farm for the weeks to come. But instead I just backed
away.
Our group of Mexicans followed Pappy down the sidewalk to Pop and Pearl's. I trailed along,
careful not to step close to Cowboy. Inside the store, I assumed my position near the cash register,
where Pearl was waiting for someone to whisper to.
"They treat them like animals," she said.
"Eli says they're just happy to be here," I whispered back. My grandfather was waiting by the door,
arms folded across his chest, watching the Mexicans gather what few items they needed. Miguel
was rattling instructions to the rest of them.
Pearl was not about to criticize Eli Chandler. But she shot him a dirty look, though he didn't see it.
Pappy wasn't concerned with cither me or Pearl. He was fretting because the cotton wasn't getting
(licked.
"It's just awful," she said. I could tell Pearl couldn't wait for us to clear out so she could find her
church friends and again stir up the issue. Pearl was a Methodist.
As the Mexicans, holding their goods, drifted to the cash register, Miguel gave each name to Pearl,
who in turn opened a charge account. She rang up the total, entered the amount in a ledger by the
worker's name, then showed the entry to both Miguel and the customer. Instant credit, American
style.
They bought flour and shortening to make tortillas, lots of beans in both cans and bags, and rice.
Nothing extra-no sugar or sweets, no vegetables. They ate as little as possible, because food cost
money. Their goal was to save every cent they could and take it back home.
Of course, these poor fellas had no idea where they were going. They did not know that my mother
was a devoted gardener who spent more time tending her vegetables than she did the cotton. They
were quite lucky, because my mother believed that no one living within walking distance of our
farm would ever go without food.
Cowboy was last in line, and when Pearl smiled at him, I thought he was going to spit on her.
Miguel stayed close. He'd just spent three days in the back of a trailer with the boy and probably
knew all about him.
I said good-bye to Pearl for the second time that day, which was odd because I usually saw her only
once a week.
Pappy led the Mexicans to the truck. They got into the bed and sat shoulder-to-shoulder, feet and
legs intertwined. They were silent and stared blankly ahead as if they had no idea where their
journey would end.
The old truck strained with the load but eventually leveled out at thirty-seven, and Pappy almost
smiled. It was late in the afternoon, and the weather was hot and dry, perfect for picking. Between
the Sp mills and the Mexicans we finally had enough hands to harvest our crop. I reached into my
pocket, and pulled out the other half of my Tootsie Roll.
Long before we arrived at our house, we saw smoke and then a tent. We lived on a dirt road that
was very dusty for most of the year, and Pappy was just puttering along so the Mexicans wouldn't
get choked.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Looks like a tent of some sort," Pappy said.
It was situated near the road, at the far end of our front yard, under a pin oak that was a hundred
years old, very near the spot where home plate belonged. We slowed even more as we approached
our mailbox. The Spruills had taken control of half our front yard. The large tent was dirty white
with a pointed roof and was erected with a mismatched collection of hand-whittled sticks and metal
poles. Two sides of the tent were open, and I could see boxes and blankets lying on the ground
under the roof. I could also see Tally napping inside.
Their truck was parked beside it, and another canvas of some sort had been rigged over its bed. It
was anchored with baling rope staked to the ground so that the truck couldn't move without first
getting unhitched. Their old trailer had been partially unloaded, its boxes and burlap bags scattered
on the grass as if a storm had hit.
Mrs. Spruill was tending a fire, hence the smoke. For some reason, she had chosen a slightly bare
spot near the end of the yard. It was the exact spot where Pappy or my father squatted almost every
afternoon and caught my fastballs and my curves. I wanted to cry. I would never forgive Mrs.
Spruill for this.
"I thought you told them to set up out behind the silo," I said.
"I did," Pappy answered. He slowed the truck almost to a stop, then turned into our place. The silo
was out back, near the barn, a sufficient distance from our house. We'd had hill people camping
back there before-never in the front yard.
He parked under another pin oak that was only seventy years old, according to my grandmother. It
was the smallest of the three that shaded our house and yard. We rolled to a stop near the house, in
the same dry ruts Pappy'd parked in for decades. Both my mother and grandmother were waiting at
the kitchen steps.
Ruth, my grandmother, did not like the fact that the hill people had laid claim to our front yard.
Pappy and I knew this before we got out of the truck. She had her hands on her hips.
My mother was eager to examine the Mexicans and ask me about their traveling conditions. She
watched them pile out of the truck as she walked to me and squeezed my shoulder.
"Ten of them," she said. "Yes ma'am."
Gran met Pappy at the front of the truck and said, quietly but sternly, "Why are those people in our
front yard?"
"I asked them to set up by the silo," Pappy said, never one to back down, not even from his wife. "I
don't know why they picked that spot."
"Can you ask them to move?"
"I cannot. If they pack up, they'll leave. You know how hill people are."
And that was the end of Gran's questions. They were not about to argue in front of me and ten new
Mexicans. She walked away, toward the house, shaking her head in disapproval. Pappy honestly
didn't care where the hill people camped. They appeared to be able-bodied and willing to work, and
nothing else mattered to him.
I suspected Gran was not that concerned either. The picking was so crucial that we would've taken
in a chain gang if they could've averaged three hundred pounds of cotton a day.
The Mexicans followed Pappy off to the barn, which was 352 feet from the back porch steps. Past
the chicken coop, the water pump, the clotheslines, and the tool shed, past a sugar maple that would
turn bright red in October. My father had helped me measure the exact distance one day last
January. It seemed like a mile to me. From home plate to the left field wall in Sportsman's Park,
where the Cardinals played, was 350 feet, and every time Stan Musial hit a home run I would sit on
the steps the next day and marvel at the distance. In mid-July he'd hit a ball 400 feet against the
Braves. Pappy had said, "He hit it over the barn, Luke."
For two days afterward, I'd sat on the steps and dreamed of hitting 'cm over the barn.
When the Mexicans were past the tool shed, my mother said, "They look very tired."
"They rode in a trailer, sixty-two of them," I said, eager, for some reason, to help stir things up.
"I was afraid of that."
"An old trailer. Old and dirty. Pearl's already mad about it."
"It won't happen again," she said, and I knew that my father was about to get an earful. "Run along
and help your grandfather."
摘要：

APaintedHouseJohnGrishamChapter1ThehillpeopleandtheMexicansarrivedonthesameday.ItwasaWednesday,earlyinSeptember1952.TheCardinalswerefivegamesbehindtheDodgerswiththreeweekstogo,andtheseasonlookedhopeless.Thecotton,however,waswaist-hightomyfather,overmyhead,andheandmygrandfathercouldbeheardbeforesuppe...

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