Джон Гришэм - A Painted House

“Let’s walk,” she said, on our side of the bridge, and for a moment we stopped running. We walked in silence, both of us trying to catch our breath. Fatigue was quickly gaining on us; the adventure had been worth it, but we were paying the price. We were approaching our farm when there was a rumbling behind us. Headlights! On the bridge! In terror, we bolted into high gear. Tally could easily outrun me, which would’ve been humiliating except that I didn’t have time for shame, and she held back a step so she wouldn’t lose me.

I knew my father would not drive fast, not at night, on our dirt road with Gran and my mother with him, but the headlights were still gaining on us. When we were close to our house, we jumped the shallow ditch and ran along a field. The engine was getting louder.

“I’ll wait here, Luke,” she said, stopping near the edge of our yard. The truck was almost upon us. “You run to the back porch and sneak in. I’ll wait till they go inside. Hurry.”

I kept running, and darted around the back corner of the house just as the truck pulled into the yard. I crept into the kitchen without a sound, then to Ricky’s room, where I grabbed a pillow and curled up on the floor, next to the window. I was too dirty and wet to get into bed, and I prayed they’d be too tired to check on me.

They made little noise as they entered the kitchen. They whispered as they removed their shoes and boots. A ray of light slanted into my room. Their shadows moved through it, but no one looked in on little Luke. Within minutes they were in bed, and the house was quiet. I planned to wait a bit, then slip into the kitchen and wash my face and hands with a cloth. Afterward I’d crawl into the bed and sleep forever. If they heard me moving about, I’d simply say that they had awakened me when they got home.

Formulating this plan was the last thing I remember before falling fast asleep.

I don’t know how long I slept, but it felt like only minutes. Pappy was kneeling over me, asking me why I was on the floor. I tried to answer, but nothing worked. I was paralyzed from fatigue.

“It’s just me and you,” he said. “The rest of ’em’s sleepin’ in.” His voice was dripping with contempt.

Still unable to think or speak, I followed him to the kitchen, where the coffee was ready. We ate cold biscuits and sorghum in silence. Pappy, of course, was irritated because he expected a full breakfast. And he was furious because Gran and my parents were sleeping instead of preparing for the fields.

“That Latcher girl had a baby last night,” he said, wiping his mouth. That Latcher girl and her new baby were interfering with our cotton, and our breakfast, and Pappy could barely control his temper.

“She did?” I said, trying to appear surprised.

“Yeah, but they still ain’t found the daddy.”

“They haven’t?”

“No. They wanna keep it quiet, okay, so don’t say anything about it.”

“Yes sir.”

“Hurry up. We gotta go.”

“What time did they get in?”

“Around three.”

He left and started the tractor. I placed the dishes in the sink and looked in on my parents. They were deathly still; the only sounds were of deep breathing. I wanted to shake off my boots, crawl into bed with them, and sleep for a week. Instead, I dragged myself outside. The sun was just breaking over the trees to the east. In the distance, I could see the silhouettes of the Mexicans walking into the fields.

The Spruills were trudging over from the front yard. Tally was nowhere to be seen. I asked Bo, and he said she was feeling bad. Maybe an upset stomach. Pappy heard this, and his frustration jumped up another notch. Another picker in bed instead of in the fields.

All I could think was: Why hadn’t I thought of an upset stomach?

We rode a quarter of a mile to a spot where the half-full cotton trailer was parked, rising like a monument amid the flat fields and calling us back for another day of misery. We slowly took our sacks and began picking. I waited for Pappy to move down his row, then I moved far away from him, and far away from the Spruills.

I worked hard for an hour or so. The cotton was wet and soft to the touch, and the sun was not yet overhead. I was not motivated by money or fear; rather, I wanted a soft place to sleep. When I was so deep in the fields no one could find me, and there was enough cotton in my sack to make a nice little mattress, I hit the ground.

My father arrived mid-morning, and out of eighty acres of cotton, just happened to select the row next to mine. “Luke!” he said angrily as he stumbled upon me. He was too startled to scold me, and by the time I came to my senses, I was complaining of an upset stomach, a headache, and for good measure I threw in the fact that I had not slept much the night before.

“Why not?” he asked, hovering over me.

“I was waitin’ on y’all to get home.” There was an element of truth in this.

“And why were you waitin’ on us?”

“I wanted to know about Libby.”

“Well, she had a baby. What else do you wanna know?”

“Pappy told me.” I slowly got to my feet and tried to appear as sick as possible.

“Go to the house,” he said, and I left without a word.

Chinese and North Korean troops ambushed an American convoy near Pyonggang, killing at least eighty and taking many prisoners. Mr. Edward R. Murrow opened his nightly news with the story, and Gran started praying. As always, she was seated across the kitchen table from me. My mother was leaning on the kitchen sink, and she, too, stopped everything and closed her eyes. I heard Pappy cough on the back porch. He was also listening.

Peace talks had been abandoned again, and the Chinese were moving more troops into Korea. Mr. Murrow said that a truce, once so close, now seemed impossible. His words were a little heavier that night, or maybe we were just more exhausted than usual. He broke for a commercial, then returned with a story about an earthquake.

Gran and my mother were moving slowly around the kitchen when Pappy entered. He tousled my hair as if things were just fine. “What’s for supper?” he asked.

“Pork chops,” my mother answered.

Then my father drifted in, and we took our places. After Pappy blessed the food, all of us prayed for Ricky. There was practically no conversation; everyone was thinking about Korea, but nobody wanted to mention it.

My mother was talking about a project her Sunday school class was pondering, when I heard the faint squeaking of the screen door out on the back porch. No one heard the noise but me. There was no wind, nothing to shove the door one way or the other. I stopped eating.

“What is it, Luke?” Gran asked.

“I thought I heard somethin’,” I said.

Everyone looked at the door. Nothing. They resumed eating.

Then Percy Latcher stepped into the kitchen, and we froze. He took two steps through the door and stopped, as if he were lost. He was barefoot, covered with dirt from head to foot, and his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying for hours. He looked at us; we looked at him. Pappy started to stand up and deal with the situation. I said, “It’s Percy Latcher.”

Pappy remained in his seat, holding a knife in his right hand. Percy’s eyes were glazed, and when he breathed, a low moaning sound came forth as if he were trying to suppress a rage. Or maybe he was wounded, or somebody across the river was hurt and he’d raced to our house for help.

“What is it, boy?” Pappy barked at him. “It’s common courtesy to knock before you come in.”

Percy fixed his unflinching eyes upon Pappy and said, “Ricky done it.”

“Ricky done what?” Pappy asked, his voice suddenly softer, already in retreat.