Джон Гришэм - A Painted House

“You are?”

“Yes. Next summer.”

“Can it be a boy?”

“I’ll try, but no promises.”

“If you gotta have one, I’d like a little brother.”

“Are you excited?”

“Yes ma’am. Does Daddy know about it?”

“Oh yes, he’s in on the deal.”

“Is he happy, too?”

“Very much so.”

“That’s good.” It took some time to digest this, but I knew right away that it was a fine thing. All of my friends had brothers and sisters.

An idea hit, one that I couldn’t shake. Since we were on the subject of having babies, I was overcome with an urge to unload one of my secrets. It seemed like a harmless one now, and an old one, too. So much had happened since Tally and I sneaked off to the Latchers’ house that the episode was now sort of funny.

“I know all about how babies are born,” I said, a little defensively.

“Oh you do?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“How’s that?”

“Can you keep a secret, too?”

“I certainly can.”

I began the story, laying sufficient blame on Tally for everything that might get me in trouble. She’d planned it. She’d begged me to go. She’d dared me. She’d done this and that. Once my mother realized where the story was leading, her eyes began to dance, and she said every so often, “Luke, you didn’t!”

I had her. I embellished here and there, to help move the story and build tension, but for the most part I stuck to the facts. She was hooked.

“You saw me in the window?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yes ma’am. Gran, too, and Mrs. Latcher.”

“Did you see Libby?”

“No ma’am, but we sure heard her. Does it always hurt like that?”

“Well, not always. Keep going.”

I spared no detail. As Tally and I raced back to the farm, the headlights in pursuit, my mother clutched my elbow almost hard enough to break it. “We had no idea!” she said.

“Of course not. I barely beat y’all in the house. Pappy was still snorin’, and I was afraid y’all would come check on me and see that I was covered with sweat and dirt.”

“We were too tired.”

“It was a good thing. I slept about two hours, then Pappy woke me up to go to the fields. I’ve never been so sleepy in my life.”

“Luke, I can’t believe you did that.” She wanted to scold, but she was too caught up in the story.

“It was fun.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Tally made me do it.”

“Don’t blame Tally.”

“I wouldn’t’ve done it without her.”

“I can’t believe the two of you did it,” she said, but I could tell she was impressed with the story. She grinned and shook her head in amazement. “How often did y’all go roamin’ around at night?”

“I think that was it.”

“You liked Tally, didn’t you?”

“Yes ma’am. She was my friend.”

“I hope she’s happy.”

“Me too.”

I missed her, but I hated to admit it to myself. “Mom, do you think we’ll see Tally up North?”

She smiled and said, “No, I don’t think so. Those cities up there — St. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, Cincinnati — have millions of people. We’ll never see her.”

I thought about the Cardinals and the Cubs and the Reds. I thought about Stan Musial racing around the bases in front of thirty thousand fans at Sportsman’s Park. Since the teams were up North, then that was where I was headed anyway. Why not leave a few years early?

“I guess I’ll go,” I said.

“It’ll be fun, Luke,” she said again.

When Pappy and my father returned from town, they looked as though they’d been whipped. I guess they had. Their labor was gone, their cotton was soaked. If the sun broke through and the floodwaters receded, they didn’t have enough hands to work the fields. And they weren’t sure if the cotton would dry out. This time, the sun was not to be seen, and the water was still rising.

After Pappy went into the house, my father unloaded two gallons of paint and set them on the front porch. He did this without saying a word, though I was watching his every move. When he was finished, he went to the barn.

Two gallons would not paint the front of the house. I was irritated by this, then I realized why my father had not bought more. He didn’t have the money. He and Pappy had paid the Mexicans, and there was nothing left.

I suddenly felt rotten because I had kept the painting alive after Trot had gone. I had pushed the project along, and in doing so had forced my father to spend what little money he had.

I stared at the two buckets set side by side, and tears came to my eyes. I hadn’t realized how broke we were.

My father had poured his guts into the soil for six months, and now he had nothing to show for it. When the rains came, I, for some reason, had decided that the house should be painted.

My intentions had been good, I thought. So why did I feel so awful?

I got my brush, opened a can, and began the final phase of the job. As I slowly made the short strokes with my right hand, I wiped tears with my left.

The first frost would kill what was left of our garden. It usually came in the middle of October, though the almanac that my father read as devoutly as he read the Bible had already missed its predicted date twice. Undaunted, he kept checking the almanac every morning with his first cup of coffee. It provided endless opportunities for worry.

Since we couldn’t pick cotton, the garden got our attention. All five of us marched to it just after breakfast. My mother was certain that the frost was coming that very night and, if not, then for sure the next night. And so on.

For a miserable hour I pulled black-eyed peas off vines. Pappy, who hated garden work more than I did, was nearby picking butter beans and doing so with commendable effort. Gran was helping my mother pick the last of the tomatoes. My father hauled baskets back and forth, under the supervision of my mother. When he walked by me, I said, “I really want to go paint.”

“Ask your mother,” he said.

I did, and she said I could after I picked one more basket of peas. The garden was getting harvested like never before. By noon there wouldn’t be a stray bean anywhere.

I soon returned to the solitude of house painting. With the clear exception of operating a road grader, it was a job I preferred over all others. The difference between the two was that I couldn’t actually operate a road grader, and it would be years before I’d be able to. But I could certainly paint. After watching the Mexicans, I’d learned even more and improved my technique. I applied the paint as thinly as possible, trying my best to stretch the two gallons.

By mid-morning one bucket was empty. My mother and Gran were now in the kitchen, washing and canning the vegetables.

I didn’t hear the man walk up behind me. But when he coughed to get my attention, I jerked around and dropped my paintbrush.

It was Mr. Latcher, wet and muddy from the waist down. He was barefoot, and his shirt was torn. He’d obviously walked from their place to ours.

“Where’s Mr. Chandler?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure which Mr. Chandler he wanted. I picked up my brush and ran to the east side of the house. I yelled for my father, who poked his head through some vines. When he saw Mr. Latcher beside me, he stood up quickly. “What is it?” he asked as he hurried toward us.

Gran heard voices and was suddenly on the front porch, my mother right behind her. A glance at Mr. Latcher told us something was very wrong.

“The water’s up in the house,” he said, unable to look my father in the eye. “We gotta get out.”

My father looked at me, then at the women on the porch. Their wheels were already spinning.