We kept going slowly through the endlessly flat cotton fields. I was skipping Sunday school, an almost unbelievable treat. My mother wouldn't like it, but she wouldn't argue with Pappy. It was my mother who had told me that he and Gran reached out for me when they were most worried about Ricky.
He spotted something, and we slowed almost to a stop. "That's the Embry place," he said, nodding again. "You see them Mexicans?" I stretched and strained and finally saw them, four or five straw hats deep in the sea of white, bending low as if they had heard us and were hiding.
"They're pickin' on Sunday?" I said.
"Yep."
We gained speed, and finally, they were out of sight. "What're you gonna do?" I asked, as if the law were being broken.
"Nothin'. That's Embry's business."
Mr. Embry was a member of our church. I couldn't imagine him allowing his fields to be worked on the Sabbath. "Reckon he knows about it?" I asked.
"Maybe he doesn't. I guess it'd be easy for the Mexicans to sneak out there after he left for church." Pappy said this without much conviction.
"But they can't weigh their own cotton," I said, and Pappy actually smiled.
"No, I guess not," he said. So it was determined that Mr. Embry allowed his Mexicans to pick on Sunday. There were rumors of this every fall, but I couldn't imagine a fine deacon like Mr. Embry taking part in such a low sin. I was shocked; Pappy was not.
Those poor Mexicans. Haul 'em like cattle, work 'em like dogs, and their one day of rest was taken away while the owner hid in church.
"Let's keep quiet about this," Pappy said, smug that he'd confirmed a rumor.
More secrets.
We heard the congregation singing as we walked toward the church. I'd never been on the outside when I wasn't supposed to be. "Ten minutes late," Pappy mumbled to himself as he opened the door. They were standing and singing, and we were able to slide into our seats without much commotion. I glanced at my parents, but they were ignoring me. When the song was over, we sat down, and I found myself sitting snugly between my grandparents. Ricky might be in danger, but I would certainly be protected.
The Reverend Akers knew better than to touch on the subjects of war and death. He began by delivering the solemn news about Timmy Nance, news everyone had already heard. Mrs. Dockery had been taken home to recover. Meals were being planned by her Sunday school class. It was time, he said, for the church to close ranks and comfort one of its own.
"A Painted House"
It would be Mrs. Dockery's finest hour, and we all knew it.
If he dwelt on war, he'd have to deal with Pappy when the service was over, so he stuck to his prepared message. We Baptists took great pride in sending missionaries all over the world, and the entire denomination was in the middle of a great campaign to raise money for their support. That's what Brother Akers talked about-giving more money so we could send more of our people to places like India, Korea, Africa, and China. Jesus taught that we should love all people, regardless of their differences. And it was up to us as Baptists to convert the rest of the world.
I decided I wouldn't give an extra dime.
I'd been taught to tithe one tenth of my earnings, and I did so grudgingly. It was there in the Scriptures, though, and hard to argue with. But Brother Akers was asking for something above and beyond, something optional, and he was flat out of luck as far as I was concerned. None of my money was going to Korea. I'm sure the rest of the Chandlers felt the same way. Probably the entire church.
He was subdued that morning. He was preaching on love and charity, not sin and death, and I don't think his heart was in it. With things quieter than usual, I began to nod off.
After the service, we were in no mood for small talk. The adults went straight to the truck, and we left in a hurry. On the edge of town, my father asked, "Where did you and Pappy go?"
"Just drivin' around," I said.
"Whereto?"
I pointed to the east and said, "Over there. Nowhere, really. I think he just wanted to get away from church." He nodded as if he wished he'd gone with us.
As we were finishing Sunday dinner, there was a slight knock at the back door. My father was the closest to it, so he stepped onto the back porch and found Miguel and Cowboy.
"Mother, you're needed," he said, and Gran hurried out of the kitchen. The rest of us followed.
Cowboy's shirt was off; the left side of his chest was swollen and looked awful. He could barely raise his left arm, and when Gran made him do it, he grimaced. I felt sorry for him. There was a small flesh wound where the baseball had struck. "I can count the seams," Gran said.
My mother brought a pan of water and a cloth. After a few minutes, Pappy and my father grew bored and left. I'm sure they were worrying about how an injured Mexican might affect production.
Gran was happiest when she was playing doctor, and Cowboy got the full treatment. After she dressed the wound, she made him lie on the back porch, his head on a pillow from our sofa.
"He's got to be still," she said to Miguel.
"How much pain?" she asked.
"Not much," Cowboy said, shaking his head. His English surprised us.
"I wonder if I should give him a painkiller," she mused in the direction of my mother.
Gran's painkillers were worse than any broken bone, and I gave Cowboy a horrified look. He read me perfectly and said, "No, no medicine." She put ice from the kitchen into a small burlap bag and gently placed it on his swollen ribs. "Hold it there," she said, putting his left arm over the bag. When the ice touched him, his entire body went rigid, but he relaxed as the numbness set in. Within seconds, water was running down his skin and dripping onto the porch. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
"Thank you," Miguel said.
"Gracias," I said, and Miguel smiled at me.
We left them there, and gathered on the front porch for a glass of iced tea.
"His ribs are broken," Gran said to Pappy, who was on the porch swing, digesting his dinner. He really didn't want to say anything, but after a few seconds of silence he grunted and said, "That's too bad."
"He needs to see a doctor."
"What's a doctor gonna do?"
"Maybe there's internal bleeding."
"Maybe there ain't."
"It could be dangerous."
"If he was bleedin' inside, he'd be dead by now, wouldn't he?"
"Sure he would," my father added.
Two things were happening here. First and foremost, the men were terrified of having to pay a doctor. Second, and almost as significant, both had fought in the trenches. They had seen stray body parts, mangled corpses, men with limbs missing, and they had no patience with the small stuff. Routine cuts and breaks were hazards of life. Tough it out.
Gran knew she would not prevail. "If he dies, it'll be our fault."
"He ain't gonna die, Ruth," Pappy said. "And even if he does, it won't be our fault. Hank's the one who broke his ribs."
My mother left and went inside. She was not feeling well again, and I was beginning to worry about her. Talk shifted to the cotton, and I left the porch.
I crept around back, where Miguel was sitting not far from Cowboy. Both appeared to be sleeping. I sneaked into the house and went to check on my mother. She was lying on her bed, her eyes open. "Are you okay, Mom?" I asked.
"Yes, of course, Luke. Don't worry about me."
She would've said that no matter how bad she felt. I leaned on the edge of her bed for a few moments, and when I was ready to leave, I said, "You're sure you're okay?"