A Painted House (16 page)

“Will you do me a favor, Luke?” she asked ever so sweetly. My cheeks turned red. I had no idea what favor she wanted, but there was no doubt she’d get it from me.

“What?” I asked, trying to be difficult.

“Your grandma told my mom that there’s a creek close by where we can bathe. Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah. Siler’s Creek. ’Bout a half a mile that way,” I said, pointing to the north.

“Are there any snakes?”

I laughed like snakes shouldn’t bother anyone. “Maybe just a little water snake or two. No cottonmouths.”

“And the water’s clear, not muddy?”

“Should be clear. It hasn’t rained since Sunday.”

She looked around to make sure no one was listening, then she said, “Will you go with me?”

My heart stopped, and my mouth was suddenly dry. “Why?” I managed to ask.

She grinned again and rolled her eyes away.

“I don’t know,” she cooed. “To make sure nobody sees me.”

She could’ve said, “Because I don’t know where the creek is,” or “To make sure there are no snakes.” Or something, anything that had nothing to do with seeing her bathe.

But she didn’t.

“Are you scared?” I asked.

“Maybe a little.”

We took the field road until the house and barn were out of sight, then turned onto a narrow path we used for spring planting. Once we were alone, she began to talk. I had no idea what to say, and I was relieved that she knew how to handle the situation.

“I’m real sorry ’bout Hank,” she said. “He’s always causin’ trouble.”

“Did you see the fight?” I asked.

“Which one?”

“The one in town.”

“No. Was it awful?”

“Yeah, pretty bad. He beat those boys so bad. He beat ’em long after the fight was over.”

She stopped, then I stopped, too. She walked close to me, both of us breathing heavily. “Tell me the truth, Luke. Did he pick up that stick first?”

Looking at her beautiful brown eyes, I almost said, “Yes.” But in a flash something caught me. I thought I’d better play it safe. He was, after all, her brother, and in the midst of one of the many Spruill fights, she
might tell him everything I said. Blood’s thicker than water, Ricky always said. I didn’t want Hank coming after me.

“It happened real fast,” I said, and started walking off. She caught up immediately and said nothing for a few minutes.

“Do you think they’ll arrest him?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What does your grandpa think?”

“Hell if I know.” I thought I might impress her by using some of Ricky’s words.

“Luke, your language!” she said, quite unimpressed.

“Sorry.” We walked on. “Has he ever killed anybody before?” I asked.

“Not that I know of,” she said.

“He went up North once,” she continued as we approached the creek. “And there was some trouble. But we never knew what happened.”

I was certain there was trouble wherever Hank went.

Siler’s Creek ran along the northern boundary of our farm, where it snaked its way into the St. Francis, at a point you could almost see from the bridge. Heavy trees lined both sides, so in the summer it was usually a cool place to swim and bathe. It would dry up, though, and quickly, and more often than not, there wasn’t much water.

I led her down the bank to a gravel bar, where the water was deepest. “This is the best spot,” I said.

“How deep is it?” she asked, looking around.

The water was clear. “ ’Bout here,” I said, touching a spot not far below my chin.

“There’s nobody around here, right?” She seemed a bit nervous.

“No. Everybody’s back at the farm.”

“You go back up by the trail and look out for me, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, without moving.

“Go on, Luke,” she said, placing her bag on the bank.

“Okay,” I said, and started away.

“And, Luke, no peeking, okay?”

I felt as if I’d just been caught. I waved her off as if the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “Of course not,” I said.

I crawled up the bank and found a spot a few feet above the ground, on the limb of an elm. Perched there, I could almost see the top of our barn.

“Luke!” she called.

“Yes!”

“Is everything clear?”

“Yep!”

I heard water splash but kept my eyes to the south. After a minute or two, I slowly turned around and looked down the creek. I couldn’t see her, and I was somewhat relieved. The gravel bar was just around a slight bend, and the trees and limbs were thick.

Another minute passed, and I began to feel useless. No one knew we were here, so no one would be trying to sneak up on her. How often would I have the chance to see a pretty girl bathing? I could recall no specific prohibition from the church or the Scriptures, though I knew it was wrong. But maybe it wasn’t terribly sinful.

Because it involved mischief, I thought of Ricky. What would he do in a situation like this?

I climbed down from the elm and sneaked through weeds and brush until I was above the gravel bar, then I slowly crawled through the bushes.

Her dress and underclothes were hung over a branch. Tally was deep in the water, her head covered with white lather as she gently washed her hair. I was sweating, but not breathing. Lying on my stomach in the grass, peering through two big limbs, I was invisible to her. The trees were moving more than I was.

She was humming, just a pretty girl bathing in a creek, enjoying the cool water. She wasn’t looking around in fear; she trusted me.

She dipped her head under the water, rinsing out the shampoo, sending the lather away in the slight current. Then she stood and reached for a bar of soap. Her back was to me, and I saw her rear end, all of it. She was wearing nothing, which was exactly what I wore during my weekly baths, and it was what I expected. But confirming it sent a shudder throughout my body. Instinctively, I raised my head, I guess for a closer look, then ducked again when I regained my senses.

If she caught me, she’d tell her father, who’d tell my father, who’d beat me until I couldn’t walk. My mother would scold me for a week. Gran wouldn’t speak to me, she’d be so hurt. Pappy would give me a tongue-lashing, but only for the benefit of the others. I’d be ruined.

In water up to her waist, she bathed her arms and chest, which I could see from the side. I had never seen a woman’s breasts before, and I doubted if any seven-year-old
boy in Craighead County had. Maybe some kid had stumbled upon his mother, but I was certain no boy my age had ever had this view.

For some reason, I thought of Ricky again, and a wicked idea came from nowhere. Having seen most of her privates, I now wanted to see everything. If I yelled “Snake!” at the top of my voice, she would scream in horror. She would forget the soap and the washcloth and the nudity and all that, and she would scamper for dry land. She would go for her clothes, but for a few glorious seconds I would see it all.

I swallowed hard, tried to clear my throat, but realized how dry my mouth was. With my heart racing away, I hesitated, and in doing so learned a valuable lesson in patience.

To wash her legs, Tally stepped closer to the bank. She rose from the creek until the water covered nothing but her feet. Slowly, with the soap and cloth she bent and stretched and caressed her legs and buttocks and stomach. My heart pounded at the ground.

She rinsed by splashing water over her body. And when she was finished, and still standing in ankle-deep water, wonderfully naked, Tally turned and stared directly at the spot where I happened to be hiding.

I dropped my head and burrowed even deeper into the weeds. I waited for her to yell something, but she did not. This sin was unforgivable, I was now certain.

I inched backward, very slowly, not making a sound, until I was near the edge of the cotton. Then I crawled furiously along the tree line and resumed my position near the trail, as if nothing had happened. I tried to look bored when I heard her coming.

Her hair was wet; she’d changed dresses. “Thanks, Luke,” she said.

“Uh, sure,” I managed to say.

“I feel so much better.”

So do I, I thought.

We walked slowly back toward the house. Nothing was said at first, but when we were halfway home she asked, “You saw me, didn’t you, Luke?” Her voice was light and playful, and I didn’t want to lie.

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I guess it’s only natural, you know, for boys to look at girls.”

It certainly seemed natural. I could think of nothing to say.

She continued. “If you’ll go with me to the creek the next time, and be my lookout, then you can do it again.”

“Do what again?”

“Watch me.”

“Okay,” I said, a little too quickly.

“But you can’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t.”

⋅   ⋅   ⋅

Over supper, I picked at my food and tried to behave as if nothing had happened. It was difficult eating, though, with my stomach still turning flips. I could see Tally just as clearly as if we were still at the creek.

I’d done a terrible thing. And I couldn’t wait to do it again.

“What’re you thinkin’ ’bout, Luke?” Gran asked. “Nothin’ much,” I said, jolted back into reality. “Come on,” Pappy said. “Something’s on your mind.”

Inspiration hit fast. “That switchblade,” I said. All four adults shook their heads in disapproval. “Think pleasant thoughts,” Gran said. Don’t worry, I thought to myself. Don’t worry.

Chapter 13

For the second Sunday in a row, death dominated our worship. Mrs. Letha Haley Dockery was a large, loud woman whose husband had left her many years earlier and fled to California. Not surprisingly, there were a few rumors of what he did once he arrived there, and the favorite, which I’d heard a few times, was that he had taken up with a younger woman of another race—possibly Chinese, though, like a lot of gossip around Black Oak, it couldn’t be confirmed. Who’d ever been to California?

Mrs. Dockery had raised two sons, neither of whom had received much distinction but who had the good sense to leave the cotton patch. One was in Memphis; the other out West, wherever, exactly, that was.

She had other family scattered around northeastern Arkansas, and in particular there was a distant cousin who lived in Paragould, twenty miles away. Very distant, according to Pappy, who didn’t like Mrs. Dockery at all. This cousin in Paragould had a son who was also fighting in Korea.

When Ricky was mentioned in prayer in our church, an uncomfortable event that happened all the time, Mrs. Dockery was quick to jump forward and remind the congregation that she, too, had family in the
war. She’d corner Gran and would whisper gravely about the burden of waiting for news from the front. Pappy talked to no one about the war, and he had rebuked Mrs. Dockery after one of her early attempts to commiserate with him. As a family, we simply tried to ignore what was happening in Korea, at least in public.

Months earlier, during one of her frequent plays for sympathy, someone had asked Mrs. Dockery if she had a photo of her nephew. As a church, we’d been praying for him so much, somebody wanted to see him. She’d been humiliated when she couldn’t produce one.

When he was first shipped off, his name had been Jimmy Nance, and he was a nephew of her fourth cousin—her “very close cousin.” As the war progressed, he became Timmy Nance, and he also became not just a nephew, but a genuine cousin himself, something of the second or third degree. We couldn’t keep it straight. Though she preferred the name Timmy, occasionally Jimmy would sneak back into the conversation.

Whatever his real name, he’d been killed. We heard the news in church that Sunday before we could get out of the truck.

They had her in the fellowship hall, surrounded by ladies from her Sunday school class, all of them bawling and carrying on. I watched from a distance while Gran and my mother waited in line to comfort her, and I truly felt sorry for Mrs. Dockery. However thick or thin the kinship, the woman was in great agony.

Details were discussed in whispers: He’d been driving a jeep for his commander when they hit a land mine. The body wouldn’t be home for two months, or maybe never. He was twenty years old and had a young wife at home, up in Kennett, Missouri.

While all this conversation was going on, the Reverend Akers entered the room and sat beside Mrs. Dockery. He held her hand, and they prayed long and hard and silently. The entire church was there, watching her, waiting to offer sympathies.

After a few minutes, I saw Pappy ease out of the door.

So this is what it will look like, I thought, if our worst fears come true: From the other side of the world, they will send the news that he’s dead. Then friends will gather around us, and everybody will cry.

My throat suddenly ached and my eyes were beginning to moisten. I said to myself, “This cannot happen to us. Ricky doesn’t drive a jeep over there, and if he did, he’d have better sense than to run over a land mine. Surely, he’s coming home.”

I wasn’t about to get caught crying, so I sneaked out of the building just in time to see Pappy get in his truck, where I joined him. We sat and stared through the windshield for a long time; then without a word, he started the engine, and we left.

We drove past the gin. Though it was silent on Sunday mornings, every farmer secretly wanted it roaring at full throttle. It operated for only three months out of the year.

We left town with no particular destination in mind, at least I couldn’t determine one. We stayed on
the back roads, graveled and dusty with the rows of cotton just a few feet off the shoulders.

His first words were, “That’s where the Siscos live.” He nodded to his left, unwilling to take a hand off the wheel. In the distance, just barely visible over the acres of cotton stalks, was a typical sharecropper’s house. The rusted tin roof sagged, the porch sloped, the yard was dirt, and the cotton grew almost to the clothesline. I didn’t see anyone moving around, and that was a relief. Knowing Pappy, he might get the sudden urge to pull up in the front yard and start a brawl.

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.