Джон Гришэм - A Painted House

“Any word from number ten?”

“Nope. He’s long gone, and we ain’t had time to worry about him.”

“Riggs knows some farmers up north of Blytheville who’ll take the Mexicans.”

“Where’s Riggs?” my father asked.

“He’ll be back directly.”

Hill people were leaving in droves, and the conversation settled on them and the Mexicans. The exodus of labor was further evidence that the crops were finished. The dreary mood in the rear of the Co-op grew even darker, so I left to check on Pearl and perhaps cajole a Tootsie Roll out of her.

Pop and Pearl’s grocery store was closed, a first for me. A small sign gave its hours as nine to six, Monday through Friday, and nine to nine on Saturday. Closed on Sundays, but that went without saying. Mr. Sparky Dillon, the mechanic down at the Texaco place, came up behind me and said, “Ain’t open till nine, son.”

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Eight-twenty.”

I’d never been in Black Oak at such an early hour. I looked up and down Main Street, uncertain as to where I should shop next. I settled on the drugstore, with the soda fountain in the rear, and I was walking toward it when I heard traffic. Two trucks were approaching from the south, from our end of the county. They were obviously hill people, going home, with their belongings stacked high and strapped to the frames of the trucks. The family in the first truck could have passed for the Spruills, with teenagers squatting on an old mattress and gazing sadly at the stores as they passed. The second truck was much nicer and cleaner. It, too, was loaded with wooden boxes and burlap bags, but they were packed neatly together. The husband drove, and the wife sat in the passenger’s seat. From the woman’s lap a small child waved at me as they passed. I waved back.

Gran always said that some of the hill people had nicer homes than we did. I could never understand why they packed up and came down from the Ozarks to pick cotton.

I saw my father go into the hardware store, so I followed him. He was in the back, near the paint, talking with the clerk. Four gallons of white Pittsburgh Paint were on the counter. I thought about the Pittsburgh Pirates. They had finished last again in the National League. Their only great player was Ralph Kiner, who’d hit thirty-seven home runs.

Someday I would play in Pittsburgh. I would proudly wear my Cardinal red and crush the lowly Pirates.

It had taken all the paint we had left to finish the rear of the house the day before. The Mexicans were about to leave. To me it made sense to buy more paint and take advantage of the free labor present on our farm. Otherwise they’d be gone, and I’d once again get stuck with the entire project.

“That’s not enough paint,” I whispered to my father as the clerk added the bill.

“It’ll do for now,” he said with a frown. The issue was money.

“Ten dollars plus tax of thirty-six cents,” the clerk said. My father reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin roll of bills. He slowly counted them out, as if he didn’t want to let go.

He stopped at ten — ten one-dollar bills. When it was painfully clear he didn’t have enough, he faked a laugh and said, “Looks like I just brought ten bucks. I’ll pay you the tax next time I’m in.”

“Sure, Mr. Chandler,” the clerk said.

They carried two gallons each and loaded the paint into the back of our truck. Mr. Riggs was back at the Co-op, so my father went to have their talk about our Mexicans. I returned to the hardware store and went straight to the clerk.

“How much is two gallons?” I asked.

“Two-fifty a gallon, total of five dollars.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my money. “Here’s five,” I said as I handed him the bills. At first he didn’t want to take it.

“Did you pick cotton for that money?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Does your daddy know you’re buyin’ paint?”

“Not yet.”

“What’re y’all paintin’ out there?”

“Our house.”

“Why you doin’ that?”

“’Cause it ain’t never been painted.”

He reluctantly took my money. “Plus eighteen cents for tax,” he said. I handed him a dollar bill and said, “How much does my daddy owe for the tax?”

“Thirty-six cents.”

“Take it out of this.”

“Okay.” He gave me the change, then loaded two more gallons into our truck. I stood on the sidewalk watching our paint as if someone might try to steal it.

Next to Pop and Pearl’s I saw Mr. Lynch Thornton, the postmaster, unlock the door to the post office and step inside. I walked toward him, keeping a watchful eye on the truck. Mr. Thornton was usually a cranky sort, and many believed that this was because he was married to a woman who had a problem with whiskey. All forms of alcohol were frowned upon by almost everyone in Black Oak. The county was dry. The nearest liquor store was in Blytheville, though there were some bootleggers in the area who did quite well. I knew this because Ricky’d told me. He’d said he didn’t like whiskey, but he had a beer every now and then. I’d heard so many sermons on the evils of alcohol that I was worried about Ricky’s soul. And while it was sinful enough for men to sneak around and drink, for women to do so was scandalous.

I wanted to ask Mr. Thornton how I could go about mailing my letter to Ricky, and do so in a way that no one would know it. The letter was three pages long, and I was quite proud of my effort. But it had all the Latcher baby details, and I still wasn’t sure I should send it to Korea.

“Howdy,” I said to Mr. Thornton, who was behind the counter adjusting his visor and settling in for the morning.

“You that Chandler boy?” he said, barely looking up.

“Yes sir.”

“Got somethin’ for you.” He disappeared for a second, then handed me two letters. One was from Ricky.

“That all?” he said.

“Yes sir. Thank you.”

“How’s he doin’?”

“He’s fine, I guess.”

I ran from the post office back to our truck, clutching the letters. The other was from the John Deere place in Jonesboro. I studied the one from Ricky. It was addressed to all of us: Eli Chandler and Family, Route 4, Black Oak, Arkansas. In the upper left corner was the return address, a confusing collection of letters and numbers with San Diego, California, on the last line.

Ricky was alive and writing letters; nothing else really mattered. My father was walking toward me. I ran to meet him with the letter, and we sat in the doorway of the dry goods store and read every word. Ricky was again in a hurry, and his letter was only one page. He wrote us that his unit had seen little action, and though he seemed frustrated by this, it was music to our ears. He also said that rumors of a ceasefire were everywhere, and that there was even talk of being home by Christmas.

The last paragraph was sad and frightening. One of his buddies, a kid from Texas, had been killed by a land mine. They were the same age and had gone through boot camp together. When Ricky got home, he planned to go to Fort Worth to see his friend’s mother.

My father folded the letter and stuck it in his overalls. We got in the truck and left town.

Home by Christmas. I couldn’t think of a finer gift.

We parked under the pin oak, and my father went to the back of the truck to collect the paint. He stopped, counted, then looked at me.

“How’d we end up with six gallons?”

“I bought two,” I said. “And I paid the tax.”

He didn’t seem sure what to say. “You use your pickin’ money?” he finally asked.

“Yes sir.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“I want to help.”

He scratched his forehead and studied the issue for a minute or so, then said, “I reckon that’s fair enough.”