按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
I wasn't sure what she was waiting for。 Mr。 Murrow was not going lo announce to the nation that Ricky Chandler was dead or alive。
My mother listened； too。 She stood with her back to the sink； wiping her hands with a towel； staring blankly at the table。 This happened almost every night in the summer and fall of 1952。
Peace efforts had been started； then abandoned。 The Chinese withdrew； then attacked again。 Through Mr。 Murrow's reports and Ricky's letters； we lived the war。
Pappy and my father would not listen to the news。 They busied themselves outside； at the tool shed or the water pump； doing small chores that could've waited； talking about the crops； searching for something to worry about besides Ricky。 Both had fought in wars。 They didn't need Mr。 Murrow in New York to read some correspondent's cable from Korea and tell the nation what was occurring in one battle or the next。 They knew。
In any case； it was a short report that night about Korea； and this was taken in our little farmhouse as something good。 Mr。 Murrow moved along to other matters； and Gran finally smiled at me。 〃Ricky's okay；〃 she said； rubbing my hand。 〃He'll be home before you know it。〃
She'd earned the right to believe this。 She had waited for Pappy during the First War； and she had prayed long distance for my father and his wounds during the Second。 Her boys always came home； and Ricky would not let us down。
She turned the radio off。 The potatoes and okra needed her attention。 She and my mother returned to cooking； and we waited for Pappy to walk through the back screen door。
I think Pappy expected the worst from the war。 The Chandlers had been lucky so far in the century。 He wouldn't listen to the news； but he wanted to know if things looked good or bad。 When he heard the radio go off； he usually made his way into the kitchen。 That evening he stopped at the table and tousled my hair。 Gran looked at him。 She smiled and said； 〃No bad news。〃
My mother told me that Gran and Pappy often slept less than an hour or two before waking and worrying about their younger son。 Gran was convinced Ricky was ing home。 Pappy was not。
At six…thirty； we sat around the table； held hands； and gave thanks for all the food and all the blessings。 Pappy led the praying； at least over dinner。 He thanked God for the Mexicans and for the Spruills； and for the fine crops around us。 I prayed quietly； and only for Ricky。 I was grateful for the food； but it didn't seem nearly as important as he did。
The adults ate slowly and talked about nothing but cotton。 I was not expected to add much to the conversation。 Gran in particular was of the opinion that children should be seen and not heard。
I wanted to go to the barn and check out the Mexicans。 And I wanted to sneak around front and maybe catch a glimpse of Tally。 My mother suspected something； and when we finished eating； she told me to help her with the dishes。 I would've preferred a whipping； but I had no choice。
We drifted to the front porch for our nightly sitting。 It seemed like a simple enough ritual； but it wasn't。 First we would let the meal settle； then we'd tend to baseball。 We would turn on the radio and Harry Caray at KMOX in St。 Louis would deliver the play…by…play of our beloved Cardinals。 My mother and grandmother would shell peas or butter beans。 Any loose ends of dinner gossip would be wrapped up。 Of course； the crops were fretted over。
But that night it was raining two hundred miles away in St。 Louis； and the game had been canceled。 I sat on the steps； holding my Rawlings glove； squeezing my baseball inside it； watching the shadows of the Spruills in the distance and wondering how anyone could be so thoughtless as to build a fire on home plate。
The outside radio was a small General Electric that my father had bought in Boston when he left the hospital during the war。 Its sole purpose was to bring the Cardinals into our lives。 We seldom missed a game。 It sat on a wooden crate near the creaking swing where the men rested。 My mother and grandmother sat in padded wooden chairs not far away； on the other side of the porch； shelling peas。 I was in the middle； on the front steps。
Before the Mexicans arrived； we'd had a portable fan we put near the screen door。 Each night it would hum away quietly and manage to push the heavy air around just enough to make things bearable。 But； thanks to my mother； it was now in the loft of our barn。 This had caused friction； though most of it had been kept away from me。
And so the night was very quiet…no ball game； no fan…just the slow talk of weary farm people waiting for the temperature to drop a few more degrees。
The rain in St。 Louis inspired the men to worry about the weather。 The rivers and creeks in the Arkansas Delta flooded with frustrating regularity。 Every four or five years they left their banks and washed away the crops。 I couldn't remember a flood； but I'd heard so much about them I felt like a veteran。 We would pray for weeks for a good rain。 One would e； and as soon as the ground was soaked； Pappy and my father would start watching the clouds and telling flood stories。
The Spruills were winding down。 Their voices were fading。 I could see their shadows moving around the tents。 Their fire flickered low； then died。
All was quiet on the Chandler farm。 We had hill people。 We had Mexicans。 The cotton was waiting。
Chapter 4
At some point in the vast darkness of the night； Pappy； our human alarm clock； awoke； put on his boots； and began stomping around the kitchen making the first pot of coffee。 The house was not largethree bedrooms； a kitchen； a living room…and it was so old the plank floors sagged in places。 If one person chose to wake up the rest； he or she could certainly do so。
I was allowed to stay in bed until my father came after me。 It was difficult to sleep； though； with all those people on the farm and all that cotton to pick。 I was already awake when he shook me and said it was time to go。 I dressed quickly and met him on the back porch。
There was no hint of sunrise as we walked across the backyard； the dew soaking our boots。 We stopped at the chicken coop； where he bent low and slipped inside。 I was told to wait in front of it； since last month while gathering eggs in the darkness； I'd stepped on a huge rat snake and cried for two days。 At first my father had not been sympathetic； rat snakes are harmless and just a part of life on the farm。 My mother； however； intervened with a fury； and for the time being； I was not permitted to collect eggs alone。
My father filled a straw bowl with a dozen eggs and handed it to me。 We headed to the barn； where Isabel was waiting。 Now that we'd roused the chickens； the roosters began crowing。
The only light came from a pale bulb hanging from the hayloft。 The Mexicans were awake。 A fire had been lit behind the barn； and they were huddled near it as if they were cold。 I was already warm from the humidity。
I could milk the cow； and on most mornings that chore belonged to me。 But the rat snake still had me frightened； plus we were in a hurry because we had to be in the fields by sunrise。 My father rapidly milked two gallons；