I sat in the front with them and paid close attention to the speedometer. Once we turned onto the main highway and headed north toward Black Oak, my father finished shifting and sped up to forty-five miles an hour. As far as I could tell, the truck ran the same as it did at thirty-seven, but I wasn't about to mention this to Pappy.
It was oddly comforting to see the other farms idled by the rain. No one was trudging through the fields, trying to pick. Not a single Mexican could be seen.
Our land was low, prone to early flooding, and we'd lost crops before when other farmers had not. Now it appeared as if everybody was getting soaked in equal measure.
It was midday with nothing to do but wait, and so families were gathered on porches, watching the traffic. The women were shelling peas. The men were talking and worrying. The children were either sitting on the steps or playing in the mud. We knew them all, every house. We waved, they waved back, and we could almost hear them say, "Reckon why the Chandlers are headin' to town?"
Main Street was quiet. We parked in front of the hardware store. Three doors down at the Co-op, a group of farmers in overalls was engaged in serious conversation. My father felt obliged to report there first, or at least to listen to their thoughts and opinions on when the rain might end. I followed my mother to the drugstore, where they sold ice cream at a soda fountain in the rear. A pretty town girl named Cindy had worked there for as long as I could remember. Cindy had no other customers at the moment, and I received an especially generous helping of vanilla ice cream covered with cherries. It cost my mother a nickel. I perched myself on a stool. When it was clear that I had found my spot for the next thirty minutes, my mother left to buy a few things.
Cindy had an older brother who'd been killed in a gruesome car wreck, and every time I saw her I thought about the stories I'd heard. There'd been a fire, and they couldn't get her brother out of the wreckage. And there'd been a crowd, which, of course, meant there were many versions of just how awful it really was. She was pretty, but she had sad eyes, and I knew this was because of the tragedy. She didn't want to talk, and that was fine with me. I ate slowly, determined to make the ice cream last a long time, and watched her move around behind the counter.
I'd heard enough whispers between my parents to know that they were planning to make some sort of telephone call. Since we didn't own a phone, we'd have to borrow one. I was guessing it would be the phone at Pop and Pearl's store.
Most of the homes in town had phones, as did all the businesses. And the farmers who lived two or three miles from town had phones, too, since the lines ran that far. My mother once told me it would be years before they strung phone lines out to our place. Pappy didn't want one anyway. He said that if you had a phone then you had to talk to folks whenever it was convenient for them, not you. A television might be interesting, but forget a phone.
Jackie Moon came through the door and made his way back to the soda counter. "Hey, little Chandler," he said, then tousled my hair and sat down beside me. "What brings you here?" he asked.
"Ice cream," I said, and he laughed.
Cindy stepped in front of us and said, "The usual?"
"Yes ma'am," he said. "And how are you?"
"I'm fine, Jackie," she cooed. They studied each other carefully, and I got the impression that something was going on. She turned to prepare the usual, and Jackie examined her from head to toe.
"Y'all heard from Ricky?" he asked me, his eyes still on Cindy.
"Not lately," I said, staring too.
"Ricky's a tough guy. He'll be all right."
"I know," I said.
He lit a cigarette and puffed on it for a moment. "Y'all wet out there?" he asked.
"Soaked."
Cindy placed a bowl of chocolate ice cream and a cup of black coffee in front of Jackie.
"They say it's supposed to rain for the next two weeks," he said. "I don't doubt it."
"Rain, rain, rain," Cindy said. "That's all people talk about these days. Don't you get tired of talkin' about the weather?"
"Ain't nothin' else to talk about," Jackie said. "Not if you're farmin'."
"Only a fool would farm," she said, then tossed her hand towel on the counter and walked to the front register.
Jackie finished a bite of ice cream. "She's probably right about that, you know."
"Probably so."
"Your daddy goin' up North?" he asked.
"Goin' where?"
"Up North, to Flint. I hear some of the boys are already makin' calls, tryin' to get on at the Buick plant. They say the jobs are tight this year, can't take as many as they used to, so folks are already scramblin' to get on. Cotton's shot to hell again. Another good rain and the river's over the banks. Most farmers'll be lucky to make half a crop. Kind of silly, ain't it? Farm like crazy for six months, lose everything, then run up North to work and bring back enough cash to pay off debts. Then plant another crop."
"You goin' up North?" I asked.
"Thinkin' about it. I'm too young to get stuck on a farm for the rest of my life."
"Yeah, me too."
He sipped his coffee, and for a few moments we silently contemplated the foolishness of farming.
"I hear that big hillbilly took off," Jackie finally said.
Fortunately I had a mouthful of ice cream, so I just nodded.
"I hope they catch him," he said. "I'd like to see him go to trial, get what's comin' to him. I already told Stick Powers that I'd be a witness. I saw the whole thing. Other folks are comin' out now, tellin' Stick what really happened. The hillbilly didn't have to kill that Sisco boy."
I shoveled in another scoop and kept nodding. I had learned to shut up and look stupid when the subject of Hank 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.