"That's some car," my father said as they sat on the front steps. Gran was in the kitchen making iced tea. My mother had the unpleasant task of chatting up Stacy, a misfit from the moment she stepped out of the car.
"Brand new," Jimmy Dale said proudly. "Got it last week, just in time to drive home. Me and Stacy here got married a month ago, and that's our wedding present."
"Stacy and I got married, not me and Stacy," said the new wife, cutting in from across the porch. There was a slight pause in the conversation as the rest of us absorbed the fact that Stacy had just corrected her husband's grammar in the presence of others. I'd never heard this before in my life.
"Is it a fifty-two?" Pappy asked.
"No, it's a fifty-three, newest thing on the road. Built it myself."
"You don't say."
"Yep. Buick lets us custom order our own cars, then we get to watch when they come down the line. I put the dashboard in that one."
"How much did it cost?" I asked, and I thought my mother would come for my throat.
"Luke!" she shouted. My father and Pappy cast hard looks at me, and I was about to say something when Jimmy Dale blurted out, "Twenty-seven hundred dollars. It's no secret. Every dealer in the country knows how much they cost."
"A Painted House"
By now the Spruills had drifted over and were inspecting the carevery Spruill but Tally, who was nowhere to be seen. It was Sunday afternoon and time, in my way of thinking, for a cool bath at Siler's Creek. I had been hanging around the porch waiting for her to appear.
Trot waddled around the car while Bo and Dale circled it, too. Hank was peering inside, probably looking for the keys. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill were admiring it from a distance.
Jimmy Dale watched them carefully. "Hill people?"
"Yeah, they're from Eureka Springs."
"Nice folks?"
"For the most part," Pappy said.
"What's that big one doin'?"
"You never know."
We'd heard at church that morning that Samson had eventually gotten to his feet and walked from the ring, so Hank had not added another casualty to his list. Brother Akers had preached for an hour on the sinfulness of the carnival-wagering, fighting, lewdness, vulgar costumes, mingling with gypsies, all sorts of filth. Dewayne and I listened to every word, but our names were never mentioned.
"Why do they live like that?" Stacy asked, looking at Camp Spruill. Her crisp words knifed through the air.
"How else could they live?" Pappy asked. He, too, had already made the decision that he did not like the new Mrs. Jimmy Dale Chandler. She sat perched like a little bird on the edge of a rocker, looking down on everything around her.
"Can't you provide housing for them?" she asked.
I could tell that Pappy was starting to burn.
"Anyway, Buick'll let us finance the cars for twenty-four months," Jimmy Dale said.
"Is that so?" said my father, still staring at it. "I think that's 'bout the finest car I've ever seen."
Gran brought a tray to the porch and served tall glasses of iced tea with sugar. Stacy declined. "Tea with ice," she said. "Not for me. Do you have any hot tea?"
Hot tea? Who'd ever heard of such foolishness?
"No, we don't drink hot tea around here," Pappy said from his swing as he glared at Stacy.
"Well, up in Michigan we don't drink it with ice," she said.
"This ain't Michigan," Pappy shot back.
"Would you like to see my garden?" my mother said abruptly.
"Yeah, that's a great idea," Jimmy Dale said. "Go on, sweetheart, Kathleen has the prettiest garden in Arkansas."
"I'll go with you," Gran said in an effort to shove the girl off the porch and away from controversy. The three women disappeared, and Pappy waited just long enough to say, "Where in God's name did you find her, Jimmy Dale?"
"She's a sweet girl, Uncle Eli," he answered without much conviction.
"She's a damned Yankee."
"Yankees ain't so bad. They were smart enough to avoid cotton. They live in nice houses with indoor plumbing and telephones and televisions. They make good money and they build good schools. Stacy's had two years of college. Her family's had a television for three years. Just last week I watched the Indians and Tigers on it. Can you believe that, Luke? Watching baseball on television."
"No sir."
"Well, I did. Bob Lemon pitched for the Indians. Tigers ain't much; they're in last place again."
"I don't much care for the American League," I said, repeating words I'd heard my father and grandfather say since the day I started remembering.
"What a surprise," Jimmy Dale said with a laugh. "Spoken like a true Cardinal fan. I was the same way till I went up North. I've been to eleven games this year in Tiger Stadium, and the American League kinda grows on you. Yankees were in town two weeks ago; place was sold out. They got this new guy, Mickey Mantle, 'bout as smooth as I've seen. Good power, great speed, strikes out a lot, but when he hits it, it's gone. He'll be a great one. And they got Berra and Rizzuto."
"I still hate 'em," I said, and Jimmy Dale laughed again.
"You still gonna play for the Cardinals?" he asked.
"Yes sir."
"You ain't gonna farm?"
"No sir."
"Smart boy."
I'd heard the grown-ups talk about Jimmy Dale. He was quite smug that he'd managed to flee the cotton patch and make a better living up North. He liked to talk about his money. He'd found the better life and was quick with his advice to other farm boys around the county.
Pappy thought that farming was the only honorable way a man should work, with the possible exception of playing professional baseball.
We sipped our tea for a while, then Jimmy Dale said, "So how's the cotton?"
"So far so good," Pappy said. "The first pickin' went well."
"Now we'll go through it again," my father added. "Probably be done in a month or so."
Tally emerged from the depths of Camp Spruill, holding a towel or some type of cloth. She circled wide around the red car, where her family still stood entranced; they didn't notice her. She looked at me from the distance but made no sign. I was suddenly bored with baseball and cotton and cars and such, but I couldn't just race off. It would be rude to leave company in such a manner, and my father would suspect something. So I sat there and watched Tally disappear past the house.
"A Painted House"
"How's Luther?" my father asked.
"Doin' well," Jimmy Dale said. "I got 'im on at the plant. He's makin' three dollars an hour, forty hours a week. Luther ain't never seen so much money."
Luther was another cousin, another Chandler from a distant strain. I'd met him once, at a funeral.
"So he ain't comin' home?" Pappy said.
"I doubt it."
"Is he gonna marry a Yankee?"
"I ain't asked him. I reckon he'll do whatever he wants to do."
There was a pause, and the tension seemed to fade for a moment. Then Jimmy Dale said, "You can't blame him for stayin' up there. I mean, hell, they lost their farm. He was pickin' cotton around here for other people, makin' a thousand bucks a year, didn't have two dimes to rub together. Now he'll make more than six thousand a year, plus a bonus and retirement."
"Did he join the union?" my father asked.
"Damned right he did. I got all the boys from here in the union."