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n； whether I needed it or not。
When he was washed up and dried off； she handed him a fresh shirt。 It was time to wele our guests。 In a large basket； my mother had assembled a collection of her finest vegetables； all handpicked； of course； and washed within the past two hours。 Indian tomatoes； Vidalia onions； red…skin potatoes； green and red bell peppers； ears of corn。 We carried it to the back of the barn； where the Mexicans were resting and talking and waiting for their small fire to burn low so they could make their tortillas。 I introduced my father to Miguel； who in turn presented some of his gang。
Cowboy sat alone； his back to the barn； making no move to acknowledge us。 I could see him watching my mother from under the brim of his hat。 It frightened me for a second； then I realized Jesse Chandler would snap Cowboy's skinny little neck if he made one wrong move。
We had learned a lot from the Mexicans the year before。 They did not eat butter beans； snap beans； squash； eggplant； or turnips； but preferred tomatoes； onions； potatoes； peppers； and corn。 And they would never ask for food from our garden。 It had to be offered。
My mother explained to Miguel and the other men that our garden was full and that she would bring them vegetables every other day。 They were not expected to pay for the food。 It was part of the package。
We took another basket to the front of the house； where Camp Spruill seemed to be expanding by the hour。 They had crept even farther across the yard； and there were more cardboard boxes and burlap sacks strewn about。 They'd laid three planks across a box on one end and a barrel on the other to make a table； and they were crowded around it eating dinner when we approached them。 Mr。 Spruill got to his feet and shook my father's hand。
〃Leon Spruill；〃 he said with food on his lip。 〃Nice to meet you。〃
〃Happy to have you folks here；〃 my father said pleasantly。
〃Thank you；〃 Mr。 Spruill said； pulling up his pants。 〃This here is my wife； Lucy。〃 She smiled and kept chewing slowly。
〃This is my daughter； Tally；〃 he said； pointing。 When she looked at me； I could feel my cheeks burning。
〃And these are my nephews； Bo and Dale；〃 he said； nodding to the two boys who'd been resting on the mattress when they had stopped on the highway。 They were teenagers； probably fifteen or so。 And sitting next to them was the giant I'd first seen on the tailgate； half…asleep。
〃This is my son Hank；〃 Mr。 Spruill said。 Hank was at least twenty and was certainly old enough to stand up and shake hands。 But he kept eating。 Both jaws were ballooned with what appeared to be corn bread。 〃He eats a lot；〃 Mr。 Spruill said； and we tried to laugh。
〃And this here is Trot；〃 he said。 Trot never looked up。 His limp left arm hung by his side。 He clutched a spoon with his right hand。 His standing in the family was left undeclared。
My mother presented the large basket of vegetables； and for a second； Hank stopped his chomping and looked up at the fresh supply。 Then he returned to his beans。 〃The tomatoes and corn are especially good this year；〃 my mother was saying。 〃And there's plenty。 Just let me know what you like。〃
Tally chewed slowly and stared at me。 I studied my feet。
〃That's mighty nice of you； ma'am；〃 Mr。 Spruill said； and Mrs。 Spruill added a quick thanks。 There was no danger of the Spruills going without food； not that they had missed any meals。 Hank was burly with a thick chest that narrowed only slightly where it met his neck。 Mr。 and Mrs。 Spruill were both stocky and appeared strong。 Bo and Dale were lean but not thin。 Tally； of course； was perfectly proportioned。 Only Trot was gaunt and skinny。
〃Didn't mean to interrupt dinner；〃 my father said； and we began backing away。
〃Thanks again；〃 Mr。 Spruill said。
I knew from experience that within a short time we would know more than we wanted about the Spruills。 They would share our land； our water； our outhouse。 We would take them vegetables from the garden； milk from Isabel； eggs from the coop。 We would invite them to town on Saturday and to church on Sunday。 We would work beside them in the fields from sunrise until almost dark。 And when the picking was over； they would leave and return to the hills。 The trees would turn； winter would e； and we would spend many cold nights huddled around the fire telling stories about the Spruills。
Dinner was potatoes； sliced thin and fried； boiled okra； corn on the cob； and hot corn bread…but no meats because it was almost fall； and because we'd had a roast the day before。 Gran fried chicken twice a week； but never on Wednesdays。 My mother's garden was producing enough tomatoes and onions to feed all of Black Oak； so she sliced a platter of them for every meal。
The kitchen was small and hot。 A round oscillating fan rattled away on top of the refrigerator and tried to keep the air circulating as my mother and grandmother prepared dinner。 Their movements were slow but steady。 They were tired； and it was too hot to hurry up。
They were not particularly fond of each other； but both were determined to exist in peace。 I never heard them argue； never heard my mother say anything bad about her mother…in…law。 They lived in the same house； cooked the same meals； did the same laundry； picked the same cotton。 With so much work to do； who had time to bicker？
But Gran had been born and bred deep in the cotton patch。 She knew she would be buried in the soil she worked。 My mother longed for an escape。
Through daily ritual； they had silently negotiated a method to their kitchen work。 Gran hovered near the stove； checking the corn bread； stirring the potatoes； okra； and corn。 My mother kept to the sink； where she peeled tomatoes and stacked the dirty dishes。 I studied this from the kitchen table； where I sat every night and peeled cucumbers with a paring knife。 They both loved music； and occasionally one would hum while the other sang softly。 The music kept the tension buried。
But not tonight。 They were too preoccupied to sing and hum。 My mother was stewing over the fact that the Mexicans had been hauled in like cattle。 My grandmother was pouting because the Spruills had invaded our front yard。
At exactly six o'clock； Gran removed her apron and sat across from me。 The end of the table was flush against the wall and served as a large shelf that accumulated things。 In the center was an RCA radio in a walnut casing。 She turned on the switch and smiled at me。
The CBS news was delivered to us by Edward R。 Murrow； live from New York。 For a week there'd been heavy fighting in Pyongyang； near the Sea of Japan； and from an old map that Gran kept on her night table； we knew that Ricky's infantry division was in the area。 His last letter had arrived two weeks earlier。 It was a quickly written note； but between the lines it gave the impression that he was in the thick of things。
When Mr。 Murrow got past his lead story about a spat with the Russians； he started on Korea； and Gran closed her eyes。 She folded her hands together； put both index fingers to her lips； and waited。
I wasn't sure what she was waiting for。 Mr。 Murrow was not going lo announce to the nation that Ricky Chandler was