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Saturday morning。 At sunrise； with Mexicans on one side and the Spruills on the other； we were in the trailer moving toward the fields。 I kept close to my father； for fear that the monster Hank might e after me again。 I hated all the Spruills that morning； perhaps with the exception of Trot； my lone defender。 They ignored me。 I hoped they were ashamed of themselves。
I tried not to think about the Spruills as we moved through the fields。 It was Saturday。 A magical day for all the poor souls who toiled the land。 On the Chandler farm； we'd work half a day； then head for town to join all the other farmers and their families who went there 。！ to buy food and supplies； to mix and mingle along Main Street； to catch the gossip； to escape for a few hours the drudgery of the cotton patch。 The Mexicans and the hill people went； too。 The men would gather in groups in front of the Tea Shoppe and the Co…op and pare crops and tell stories about floods。 The women would pack into Pop and Pearl's and take forever buying a few groceries。 The kids were allowed to roam the sidewalks on Main Street and its neighboring alleys until four o'clock； that wonderful hour when the Dixie opened for the matinee。
When the trailer stopped； we hopped off and found our cotton sacks。 I was half asleep； not paying attention to anything in particular； when the sweetest voice said； 〃Good mornin'； Luke。〃 It was Tally； just standing there smiling at me。 It was her way of saying she was sorry for yesterday。
Because I was a Chandler； I was capable of deep stubbornness。 I turned my back to her and walked away。 I told myself I hated all Spruills。 I attacked the first row of cotton as if I might just wipe out forty acres before lunch。 After a few minutes； though； I was tired。 I was lost in the stalks； in the dark； and I could still hear her voice and see her smile。
She was only ten years older than I was。
The Saturday bath was a ritual I hated more than all others。 It took place after lunch； under the stern supervision of my mother。 The tub； hardly big enough for me； was used later in the day by each member of the family。 It was kept in a remote corner of the back porch； shielded from view by an old bedsheets。
First； I had to haul the water from the pump to the back porch； where I filled the tub about a third full。 This took eight trips with a bucket； and I was exhausted before the bath began。 Then I pulled the bedsheets across the porch and stripped naked with remarkable speed。 The water was very cold。
With a bar of store…bought soap and a washcloth； I worked furiously to remove dirt and make bubbles and otherwise cloud the water so my mother couldn't see my privates when she came to direct matters。 She appeared first to collect my dirty clothes； then to bring me a clean change。 Then she went straight for the ears and neck。 In her hands the washcloth became a weapon。 She scraped my tender skin as if the soil I collected working in the fields offended her。 Throughout the process； she continued to marvel at how dirty I could get。
When my neck was raw； she attacked my hair as if it were filled with lice and gnats。 She poured cold water from the bucket over my head to rinse off the soap。 My humiliation was plete when she finished scouring my arms and feet…mercifully； she left the midsection for me。
The water was muddy when I hopped out…a week's worth of dirt collected from the Arkansas Delta。 I pulled the plug and watched it seep through the cracks of the porch as I toweled off and stepped into my clean overalls。 I felt fresh and clean and five pounds lighter； and I was ready for town。
Pappy decided that his truck would make only one run to Black （）ak。 That meant that Gran and my mother would ride in the front with him and my father and I would ride in the back with all ten Mexicans。 Getting packed into a box didn't bother the Mexicans at all； but it sure irritated me。
As we drove away； I watched the Spruills as they knocked down poles and unhitched ropes and hurried about the business of freeing their old truck so they could get to town。 Everyone was busy but Hank； who was eating something in the shade。
To prevent the dust from boiling over the fenders and choking us in the back； Pappy drove less than five miles per hour down our road。 While it was thoughtful of him； it didn't help matters much。 We were hot and suffocating。 The Saturday bath was a ritual in rural Arkansas。 In Mexico； apparently； it was not。
On Saturday； some farm families arrived in town by noon。 Pappy thought it was sinful to spend too much time enjoying Saturday； so we took our time getting there。 During the winter； he even threatened to avoid town； except for church on Sunday。 My mother said he once went a month without leaving the farm； and this included a boycott of church because the preacher had somehow offended him。 It didn't take much to offend Pappy。 But we were lucky。 A lot of sharecroppers never left the farm。 They didn't have money for groceries and didn't have a car to get to town。 And there were some renters like us and landowners who seldom went to town。 Mr。 Clovis Beckly from Caraway hadn't been to town in fourteen years； according to Gran。 And he hadn't been to church since before the First War。 I'd heard folks openly praying for him during revivals。
I loved the traffic and the crowded sidewalks and the uncertainty of whom you might see next。 I liked the groups of Mexicans camped under shade trees； eating ice cream and greeting their countrymen from other farms in excited bursts of Spanish。 I liked the crowds of strangers； hill people who would be gone before long。 Pappy told me once that when he was in St。 Louis before the First War； there were half a million other people there and that he got lost just walking down a street。
That would never happen to me。 When I walked down the streets in St。 Louis； everybody would know me。
I followed my mother and Gran to Pop and Pearl Watson's。 The men went to the Co…op because that's where all the farmers went on Saturday afternoon。 I could never determine exactly what they did there； besides gripe about the price of cotton and fret over the weather。
Pearl was busy at the cash register。 〃Hi； Mrs。 Watson；〃 I said when I could get close enough。 The store was packed with women and Mexicans。
〃Well； hello； Luke；〃 she said as she winked at me。 〃How's the cotton？〃 she asked。 It was the same question you heard over and over。
〃Pickin' well；〃 I said； as if I'd hauled in a ton。
It took Gran and my mother an hour to buy five pounds of flour； two pounds of sugar； two pounds of coffee； a bottle of vinegar； a pound of table salt； and two bars of soap。 The aisles were crowded with women more concerned with saying hello than with buying food。 They talked about their gardens and the weather and church the next day； and about who was definitely having a baby and who might be。 They prattled on about a funeral here； a revival there； an uping wedding。
Not one word about the Cardinals。
My only chore in town was to haul the groceries back to the truck。 When this was acplished； I was free to roam Main Street and its alleys without being supervised。 I moved with the languid foo