"Come with me," my mother said to her, and they left. Jimmy Dale suddenly remembered another story, one about a local boy who went to Flint and got arrested for public drunkenness outside a bar. I eased away and walked through the house. Then I sneaked off the back porch and ran between two chicken coops to a point where I could see my mother leading Stacy to the outhouse. She stopped and looked at it and seemed very reluctant to enter. But she had no choice.
My mother left her and retreated to the front yard.
I struck quickly. As soon as my mother was out of range, I knocked on the door of the outhouse. I heard a faint shriek, then a desperate, "Who is it?"
"Miss Stacy, it's me, Luke."
"I'm in here!" she said, her usually clear words now hurried and muffled in the stifling humidity of the outhouse. It was dark in there, the only light coming from the tiny cracks between the planks.
"Don't come out right now!" I said with as much panic as I could fake.
"What?"
"There's a big black snake out here!"
"Oh my God!" she gasped. She would've fainted again, but she was already sitting down.
"Be quiet!" I said. "Otherwise, he'll know you're in there."
"Holy Jesus!" she said, her voice breaking. "Do something!"
"I can't. He's big, and he bites."
"What does he want?" she begged, as if she were on the verge of tears.
"I don't know. He's a shitsnake, he hangs around here all the time."
"Get Jimmy Dale!"
"Okay, but don't come out. He's right by the door. I think he knows you're in there."
"Oh my God," she said again, and started crying. I ducked back between the chicken coops, then looped around the garden on the east side of the house. I moved slowly and quietly along the hedges that were our property line until I came to a point in a thicket where I could hide and watch the front yard. Jimmy Dale was leaning on his car, telling a story, waiting for his young bride to finish her business.
"A Painted House"
Time dragged on. My parents and Pappy and Gran listened and chuckled as one story led to another. Occasionally one of them would glance toward the backyard.
My mother finally became concerned and left the group to check on Stacy. A minute later there were voices, and Jimmy Dale bolted toward the outhouse. I buried myself deeper in the thicket.
It was almost dark when I entered the house. I'd been watching from a distance, from beyond the silo, and I knew my mother and Gran were preparing supper. I was in enough trouble-being late for a meal would have only compounded the situation.
They were seated, and Pappy was about to bless the food when I walked through the door from the back porch and quietly took my seat. They looked at me, but I chose instead to stare at my plate. Pappy said a quick prayer, and the food was passed around. After a silence sufficiently long enough to build tension, my father said, "Where you been, Luke?"
"Down by the creek," I said.
"Doin' what?"
"Nothin'. Just lookin' around."
This sounded suspicious enough, but they let it pass. When all was quiet, Pappy, with perfect timing and with the devil in his voice, said, "You see any shitsnakes at the creek?"
He barely got the words out before he cracked up.
I looked around the table. Gran's jaws were clenched as if she were determined not to smile. My mother covered her mouth with her napkin, but her eyes betrayed her; she wanted to laugh, too. My father had a large bite of something in his mouth, and he managed to chew it while keeping a straight face.
But Pappy was determined to howl. He roared at the end of the table while the rest of them fought to maintain their composure. "That was a good one, Luke!" he managed to say while catching his breath. "Served her right."
I finally laughed, too, but not at my own actions. The sight of Pappy laughing so hard while the other three so gamely tried not to struck me as funny.
"That's enough, Eli," Gran said, finally moving her jaws.
I took a large bite of peas and stared at my plate. Things grew quiet again, and we ate for a while with nothing said.
After dinner, my father took me for a walk to the tool shed. On its door he kept a wooden hickory stick, one that he'd cut himself and polished to a shine. It was reserved for me.
I'd been taught to take my punishment like a man. Crying was forbidden, at least openly. In these awful moments, Ricky always inspired me. I'd heard horror stories of the beatings Pappy had given him, and never, according to his parents and mine, had he been brought to tears. When Ricky was a kid, a whipping was a challenge.
"That was a mean thing you did to Stacy," my father began. "She was a guest on our farm, and she's married to your cousin."
"Yes sir."
"Why'd you do it?"
" 'Cause she said we were stupid and backward." A little embellishment here wouldn't hurt.
"She did?"
"Yes sir. I didn't like her, neither did you or anybody else."
"That may be true, but you still have to respect your elders. How many licks you think that's worth?" The crime and the punishment were always discussed beforehand. When I bent over, I knew exactly how many licks I'd receive.
"One," I said. That was my usual assessment.
"I think two," he said. "Now what about the bad language?"
"I don't think it was that bad," I said.
"You used a word that was unacceptable."
"Yes sir."
"How many licks for that?"
"One."
"Can we agree on three, total?" he asked. He never whipped me when he was angry, so there was usually a little room for negotiation. Three sounded fair, but I always pushed a little. After all, I was on the receiving end. Why not haggle?
"Two's more fair," I said.
"It's three. Now bend over."
I swallowed hard, gritted my teeth, turned around, bent over, and grabbed my ankles. He smacked my rear three times with the hickory stick. It stung like hell, but his heart wasn't in it. I'd received far worse.
"Go to bed, right now," he said, and I ran to the house.
Chapter 20
Now that Hank had $250 of Samson's money in his pocket, he was even less enthusiastic about picking cotton. "Where's Hank?" Pappy asked Mr. Spruill as we took the sacks and began our work on Monday morning. "Sleepin', I reckon" was the abrupt response, and nothing else was said at that moment.
He arrived in the fields sometime in the middle of the morning. I didn't know exactly when because I was at the far end of a row of cotton, but soon I heard voices and knew that the Spruills were once again at war.
An hour or so before lunch, the sky began to darken, and a slight breeze came from the west. When the sun disappeared, I stopped picking and studied the clouds. A hundred yards away I saw Pappy do the same thing-hands on hips, straw hat cocked to one side, face frowning upward. The wind grew stronger and the sky darker, and before long the heat was gone. All of our storms came from Jonesboro, which was known as Tornado Alley.
"A Painted House"
Hail hit first, hard tiny specks the size of pea gravel, and I headed for the tractor. The sky to the southwest was dark blue, almost black, and the low clouds were bearing down on us. The Spruills were moving quickly down their rows, all heading for the trailer. The Mexicans were running toward the barn.
I began to run, too. The hail stung the back of my neck and prompted me to run even faster. The wind was howling through the trees along the river and pushing the cotton stalks to their sides. Lightning cracked somewhere behind me, and I heard one of the Spruills, Bo, probably, give a yell.