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toward the living room； I let my thoughts drift to Korea； a place I never wanted to see。 My father would tell me nothing about war。 Not a hint。 There were a few glorious adventures of Pappy's father and his victories in the Civil War； but when it came to the wars of this century； he offered little。 I wanted to know how many people he'd shot。 How many battles he'd won。 I wanted to see his scars。 There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask him。
〃Don't talk about war；〃 my mother had cautioned me many times。 〃It's too awful。〃
And now Ricky was in Korea。 It had been snowing when he left us in February； three days after his nineteenth birthday。 It was cold in Korea； too。 I knew that much from a story on the radio。 I was safe and warm in his bed while he was lying in a trench shooting and getting shot at。
What if he didn't e home？
It was a question I tortured myself with every night。 I thought about him dying until I cried。 I didn't want his bed。 I didn't want his room。 I wanted Ricky home； so we could run the bases in the front yard and throw baseballs against the barn and fish in the St。 Francis。 He was really more of a big brother than an uncle。
Boys were getting killed over there； lots of them。 We prayed for them at church。 We talked about the war at school。 At the moment； Ricky was the only boy from Black Oak in Korea； which bestowed upon us Chandlers some odd distinction I cared nothing about。
〃Have you heard from Ricky？〃 was the great question that confronted us every time we went to town。
Yes or no； it didn't matter。 Our neighbors were just trying to be thoughtful。 Pappy wouldn't answer them。 My father would give a polite response。 Gran and my mother would chat quietly for a few minutes about his last letter。
I always said； 〃Yeah。 He's ing home soon。〃
Chapter 6
Shortly after breakfast； I followed Gran down the front steps and through the middle of the front yard。 She was a woman on a mission： Dr。 Gran making her early morning rounds； thrilled that a bona…fide sick person was present within her jurisdiction。
The Spruills were hunched over their makeshift table； eating quickly。 Trot's lazy eyes came to life when Gran said； 〃Good mornin'；〃 and went straight toward him。
〃How's Trot？〃 she said。
〃Much better；〃 said Mrs。 Spruill。
〃He's fine；〃 said Mr。 Spruill。
Gran touched the boy's forehead。 〃Any fever？〃 she demanded。 Trot shook his head with a vengeance。 There'd been no fever the day before。 Why would there be one this morning？
〃Are you light…headed？〃
Trot wasn't sure what that meant； nor were the rest of the Spruills。 I figured the boy went through life in a perpetual state of light…headedness。
Mr。 Spruill took charge； wiping a drip of sorghum from the corner of his mouth with a forearm。 〃We figure we'll take him to the fields and let him sit under the trailer； out of the sun。〃
〃If a cloud es up； then he can pick；〃 added Mrs。 Spruill。 It was evident the Spruills had already made plans for Trot。
Dammit； I thought。
Ricky had taught me a few cuss words。 I usually practiced them in I he woods by the river； then prayed for forgiveness as soon as I was alone。
I had envisioned another lazy day under the shade trees in the Front yard； guarding Trot while playing baseball and taking it easy。
〃I suppose；〃 said Gran as she took her thumb and index finger and pried one of his eyes wide open。 Trot shot a frightened look with his other eye。
〃I'll stay close by；〃 Gran said； clearly disappointed。 Over breakfast I'd heard her tell my mother that she'd decided the proper remedy would be a strong dose of castor oil； lemon； and some black herb she grew in a window box。 I'd stopped eating when I heard this。 It was her old standby； one she'd used on me several times。 It was more powerful than surgery。 My ailments were instantly cured as the dosage burned from my tongue to my toes； and kept burning。
She once mixed a surefire remedy for Pappy because he was constipated。 He'd spent two days in the outhouse； unable to farm； begging for water； which I hauled back and forth in a milk jug。 I thought she'd killed him。 When he emerged…pale； gaunt； somewhat thinner…he walked with a purpose to the house； angrier than anyone had ever seen him。 My parents threw me in the pickup； and we went for a long drive。
Gran again promised Trot she'd watch him during the day。 He said nothing。 He'd stopped eating and was staring blankly across the table； in the general direction of Tally； who was pretending I didn't exist。
We left and returned to the house。 I sat on the front steps； waiting for a glimpse of Tally； silently cussing Trot for being so stupid。 Maybe he'd collapse again。 Surely when the sun was overhead he'd succumb； and they'd need me to watch him on the mattress。
When we gathered at the trailer； I greeted Miguel as his gang emerged from the barn and took their places on one side of the trailer。 The Spruills took the other side。 My father sat in the middle； crowded between the two groups。 Pappy drove the tractor； and I observed them from my prized perch next to his seat。 Of particular interest this morning was any activity between the loathsome Cowboy and my beloved Tally。 I didn't notice any。 Everyone was in a daze； eyes half…open and downcast； dreading another day of sun and drudgery。
The trailer rocked and swayed as we slowly made our way into the white fields。 As I gazed at the fields of cotton； I couldn't think of my shiny red Cardinals baseball jacket。 I tried mightily to pull up images of the great Musial and his muscled teammates running across the manicured green grass of Sportsman's Park。 I tried to imagine all of them clad in their red and white uniforms with some no doubt wearing baseball jackets just like the one in the Sears； Roebuck catalog。 I tried to picture these scenes because they never failed to inspire me； but the tractor stopped； and all I could see was the looming cotton； just standing there； row after row； waiting。
Last year； Juan had revealed to me the pleasures of Mexican food； especially tortillas。 The workers ate them three times a day； so I figured they must be good。 I'd eaten lunch one day with Juan and his group； after I'd eaten in our house。 He'd fixed me two tortillas； and I'd devoured them。 Three hours later I was on hands and knees under the cotton trailer； as sick as a dog。 I was scolded by every Chandler present； my mother leading the pack。
〃You can't eat their food！〃 she said with as much scorn as I'd ever heard。
〃Why not？〃 I asked。
〃Because it's not clean。〃
I was expressly forbidden to eat anything cooked by the Mexicans。 And this； of course； made the tortillas taste even better。 I got caught again when Pappy made a surprise appearance at the barn to check on Isabel。 My father took me behind the tool shed and whipped me with his belt。 I laid off the tortillas for as long as I could。
But a new chef was with us； and I was eager to measure Miguel's food against Juan's。 After lunch； when I was certain everyone was asleep； I sneaked out the kitchen door and walked nonchalantly toward the barn。 It was a dangerous little excursion because Pappy and Gran did not nap well； even w