A Painted House (19 page)

“It’s Trot,” she said softly, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

I hadn’t thought of him, hadn’t yet had time to consider a culprit, but it immediately became clear that he was the painter. Who else could it be? Who else loitered around the front yard all day with nothing to do while the rest of us slaved in the fields? Who else would work at such a pitiful pace? Who else would be dense enough to paint another man’s house without permission?

And it had been Trot who’d yelled at Hank to stop torturing me about our little unpainted, sodbuster house. Trot had come to my rescue.

But where would Trot get the money to buy paint? And why would he do it in the first place? Oh, there were dozens of questions.

She took a step back, then left the garden. I followed her to the corner of the house, where we examined the paint. We could smell it there, and it appeared to be sticky. She surveyed the front yard. Trot was nowhere to be seen.

“What’re we gonna do?” I asked.

“Nothing, at least not now.”

“You gonna tell anybody?”

“I’ll talk to your father about it. In the meantime, let’s keep it a secret.”

“You told me secrets were bad for boys.”

“They’re bad when you keep them from your parents.”

We filled two straw baskets with vegetables and loaded them into the truck. My mother drove about once a month. She could certainly handle Pappy’s truck, but she could not relax behind the wheel. She gripped it fiercely, pumped the clutch and brakes, then turned the key. We jerked and lurched in reverse, and even laughed as the old truck slowly got turned around. As we left, I saw Trot lying under the Spruill truck, watching us from behind a rear tire.

The frolicking stopped minutes later when we got to the river. “Hang on, Luke,” she said as she shifted into low and leaned over the wheel, her eyes wild with fear. Hang on to what? It was a one-lane bridge with no guardrails. If she drove off, then we’d both drown.

“You can do it, Mom,” I said without much conviction.

“Of course I can,” she said. I’d crossed the bridge with her before, and it was always an adventure. We crept over it, both afraid to look down. We didn’t breathe until we hit dirt on the other side.

“Good job, Mom,” I said.

“Nothin’ to it,” she said, finally exhaling.

At first I couldn’t see any Latchers in the fields, but as we approached the house, I saw a cluster of straw
hats deep in the cotton, at the far end of their crop. I couldn’t tell if they heard us, but they did not stop picking. We parked close to the front porch as the dust settled around the truck. Before we could get out, Mrs. Latcher was coming down the front steps, wiping her hands nervously on a rag of some sort. She seemed to be talking to herself and appeared very worried.

“Hello, Mrs. Chandler,” she said, looking off. I never knew why she didn’t use my mother’s first name. She was older and had at least six more children.

“Hello, Darla. We’ve brought some vegetables.”

The two women were facing each other. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Latcher said, her voice very anxious.

“What’s the matter?”

Mrs. Latcher glanced at me, but only for a second. “I need your help. It’s Libby. I think she’s about to have a baby.”

“A baby?” my mother said, as if she hadn’t a clue.

“Yes. I think she’s in labor.”

“Then let’s call the doctor.”

“Oh no. We can’t do that. No one can know about this. No one. It has to be kept quiet.”

I had moved to the rear of the truck, and I was crouching down a bit so Mrs. Latcher couldn’t see me. That way, I figured she’d talk more. Something big was about to happen, and I didn’t want to miss any of it.

“We’re so ashamed,” she said, her voice cracking. “She won’t tell us who the father is, and right now I don’t care. I just want the baby to get here.”

“But you need a doctor.”

“No ma’am. Nobody can know about this. If the doctor comes, then the whole county’ll know. You gotta keep it quiet, Mrs. Chandler. Can you promise me?”

The poor woman was practically crying. She was desperate to keep a secret that had been the talk of Black Oak for months.

“Let me see her,” my mother said without answering the question, and the women started for the house. “Luke, you stay here at the truck,” she said over her shoulder.

As soon as they disappeared inside, I walked around the house and peeked into the first window I saw. It was a tiny living room with old, dirty mattresses on the floor. At the next window, I heard their voices. I froze and listened. The fields were behind me.

“Libby this is Mrs. Chandler,” Mrs. Latcher was saying. “She’s here to help you.”

Libby whimpered something I couldn’t understand. She seemed to be in great pain. Then I heard her say, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” my mother said. “When did the labor start?”

“About an hour ago,” Mrs. Latcher replied.

“I’m so scared, Mama,” Libby said, much louder. Her voice was pure terror. Both ladies tried to calm her.

Now that I was no longer a novice on the subject of female anatomy, I was quite anxious to have a look at a pregnant girl. But she sounded too close to the window, and if I got caught peeking in, my father would beat me for a week. An unauthorized view of
a woman in labor was undoubtedly a sin of the greatest magnitude. I might even be stricken blind on the spot.

But I couldn’t help myself. I crouched and slinked just under the windowsill. I removed my straw hat and was easing upward when a heavy clod of dirt landed less than two feet from my head. It crashed onto the side of the house with a boom, rattling the rickety boards and scaring the women to the point of making them yell. Bits of dirt splattered and hit the side of my face. I hit the ground and rolled away from the window. Then I scrambled to my feet and looked at the fields.

Percy Latcher was not far away, standing between two rows of cotton, holding another clod of dirt with one hand, and pointing at me with another.

“It’s your boy,” a voice said.

I looked at the window and got a glimpse of Mrs. Latcher’s head. One more look at Percy, and I raced like a scalded dog back to the pickup. I jumped into the front seat, rolled up the window, and waited for my mother.

Percy disappeared into the fields. It would be quitting time soon, and I wanted to leave before the rest of the Latchers drifted in.

A couple of toddlers appeared on the porch, both of them naked, a boy and a girl, and I wondered what they thought of their big sister having yet another one. They just stared at me.

My mother came out in a hurry, Mrs. Latcher on her heels, talking rapidly as they walked to the truck.

“I’ll get Ruth,” my mother said, meaning Gran.

“Please do, and hurry,” Mrs. Latcher said.

“Ruth’s done this many times.”

“Please get her. And please don’t tell anyone. Can we trust you, Mrs. Chandler?”

My mother was opening the door, trying to get inside. “Of course you can.”

“We’re so ashamed,” Mrs. Latcher said, wiping tears. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“It’s goin’ to be all right, Darla,” my mother said, turning the key. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

We lunged into reverse, and after a few bolts and stops, we were turned around and leaving the Latcher place. She was driving much faster, and this kept her attention, mostly.

“Did you see Libby Latcher?” she finally asked.

“No ma’am,” I said quickly and firmly. I knew the question was coming, and I was ready with the truth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What were you doin’ beside the house?”

“I was just walkin’ around when Percy threw a dirt clod at me. That’s what hit the house. It wasn’t my fault, it was Percy’s.” My words were fast and sure, and I know she wanted to believe me. More important matters were on her mind.

We stopped at the bridge. She shifted into low, held her breath, and again said, “Hang on, Luke.”

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Gran was in the backyard, at the pump drying her face and hands and about to start supper. I had to run to keep up with my mother.

“We have to go to the Latchers’,” she said. “That girl is in labor, and her mother wants you to deliver it.”

“Oh, dear,” Gran said, her weary eyes suddenly alive with adventure. “So she’s really pregnant.”

“Very much so. She’s been in labor for over an hour.”

I was listening hard and thoroughly enjoying my involvement, when suddenly and for no apparent reason, both women turned and stared at me. “Luke, go to the house,” my mother said rather sternly, and began pointing, as if I didn’t know where the house was.

“What’d I do?” I asked, wounded.

“Just go,” she said, and I began to slink away. Arguing would get me nowhere. They resumed their conversation in hushed tones, and I was at the back porch when my mother called to me.

“Luke, run to the fields and get your father! We need him!”

“And hurry!” Gran said. She was thrilled with the prospect of doctoring on a real patient.

I didn’t want to go back to the fields, and I would’ve argued but for the fact that Libby Latcher was having a baby at that very moment. I said, “Yes ma’am,” and sprinted past them.

My father and Pappy were at the trailer, weighing cotton for the last time that day. It was almost five, and the Spruills had gathered with their heavy sacks. The Mexicans were nowhere to be seen.

I managed to pull my father aside and explain the situation. He said something to Pappy, and we trotted back to the house. Gran was gathering supplies—rubbing alcohol, towels, painkillers, bottles of nasty remedies that would make Libby forget about childbirthing. She was arranging her arsenal on the kitchen table, and I had never seen her move so fast.

“Get cleaned up!” she said sharply to my father. “You’ll drive us there. It might take some time.” I could tell he was less than excited about getting dragged into this, but he wasn’t about to argue with his mother.

“I’ll get cleaned up, too,” I said.

“You’re not going anywhere,” my mother said to me. She was at the kitchen sink, slicing a tomato. Pappy and I would get leftovers for supper, in addition to the usual platter of cucumbers and tomatoes.

They left in a rush, my father driving, my mother wedged between him and Gran, the three of them off to rescue Libby. I stood on the front porch and watched them speed away, a cloud of dust boiling behind the truck until it stopped at the river. I really wanted to go.

Supper would be beans and cold biscuits. Pappy hated leftovers. He thought the women should’ve prepared supper before tending to the Latchers, but then, he was opposed to sending them food in the first place.

“Don’t know why both women had to go,” he mumbled as he sat down. “They’re as curious as cats, aren’t they, Luke? They can’t wait to get over there, and see that pregnant girl.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

He blessed the food with a quick prayer, and we ate in silence.

“Who are the Cardinals playin’?” he asked.

“Reds.”

“You wanna listen to it?”

“Sure.” We listened to the game every night. What else was there to do?

We cleared the table and placed our dirty dishes in the
sink. Pappy would never consider washing them; that was work for the women. After dark, we sat on the porch in our usual positions and waited for Harry Caray and the Cardinals. The air was heavy and still dreadfully hot.

“How long does it take to have a baby?” I asked.

“Depends,” Pappy said from his swing. That was all he said, and after waiting long enough, I asked, “Depends on what?”

“Oh, lots of things. Some babies pop right out, others take days.”

“How long did I take?”

He thought for a moment. “Don’t guess I remember. First babies usually take longer.”

“Were you around?”

“Nope. I was on a tractor.” The arrival of babies was not a subject Pappy cared to dwell on, and the conversation lagged.

I saw Tally ease away from the front yard and disappear into the darkness. The Spruills were settling in; their cooking fire was just about out.

The Reds scored four runs in the top of the first inning. Pappy got so upset he went to bed. I turned off the radio and sat on the porch, watching for Tally. Before long, I heard Pappy snoring.

Chapter 16

I was determined to sit on the front steps and wait for my parents and Gran to return from the Latchers’. I could almost see the scene over there; the women in the back room with Libby, the men sitting outside with all those children, as far away from the birthing as possible. Their house was just across the river, not far at all, and I was missing it.

Fatigue was hitting hard, and I almost fell asleep. Camp Spruill was still and dark, but I hadn’t seen Tally come back yet.

I tiptoed through the house, heard Pappy in a deep sleep, and went to the back porch. I sat on the edge with my legs hanging off. The fields beyond the barn and the silo were a soft gray when the moon broke through the scattered clouds. Otherwise, they were hidden in black. I saw her walking alone on the main field road, just as moonlight swept the land for a second. She was in no hurry. Then everything was black again. There was not a sound for a long time, until she stepped on a twig near the house.

“Tally,” I whispered as loudly as I could.

After a long pause, she answered, “Is that you, Luke?”

“Over here,” I said. “On the porch.”

She was barefoot and made no sound when she walked. “What’re you doin’ out here, Luke?” she said, standing in front of me.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked.

“Just takin’ a walk.”

“Why are you takin’ a walk?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I have to get away from my family.”

That certainly made sense to me. She sat beside me on the porch, pulled her skirt up past her knees, and began swinging her legs. “Sometimes I want to just run away from them,” she said, very softly. “You ever want to run away, Luke?”

“Not really. I’m only seven. But I’m not gonna live here for the rest of my life.”

“Where you gonna live?”

“St. Louis.”

“Why St. Louis?”