Джон Гришэм - A Painted House

“Oh, thank you, Luke,” she said, almost squealing. She hugged my neck hard. “I’ll give you the letter tomorrow,” she said. “And you promise you’ll mail it for me?”

“I promise.” I thought about Mr. Thornton at the post office and how curious he’d be if he saw a letter from Libby Latcher to Ricky in Korea. I’d figure it out somehow. Perhaps I should ask my mother about it.

The women brought baby Latcher to the back porch, where Gran rocked it while it slept. My mother and Mrs. Latcher talked about how tired the little fellow was — all that nonstop crying had worn it out — so that when it did fall off, it slept hard. I was soon bored with all the talk about the baby.

My mother woke me just after sunrise, and instead of scolding me out of bed to face another day on the farm, she sat next to my pillow and talked. “We’re leavin’ tomorrow mornin’, Luke. I’m going to pack today. Your father will help you paint the front of the house, so you’d better get started.”

“Is it rainin’?” I asked, sitting up.

“No. It’s cloudy, but you can paint.”

“Why are we leavin’ tomorrow?”

“It’s time to go.”

“When’re we comin’ back?”

“I don’t know. Go eat your breakfast. We have a busy day.”

I started painting before seven, with the sun barely above the tree line in the east. The grass was wet and so was the house, but I had no choice. Before long, though, the boards dried, and my work went smoothly. My father joined me, and together we moved the scaffold so he could reach the high places. Then Mr. Latcher found us, and after watching the painting for a few minutes he said, “I’d like to help.”

“You don’t have to,” my father said from eight feet up.

“I’d like to earn my keep,” he said. He had nothing else to do.

“All right. Luke, go fetch that other brush.”

I ran to the toolshed, delighted that I’d once again attracted some free labor. Mr. Latcher began painting with a fury, as if to prove his worth.

A crowd gathered to watch. I counted seven Latchers on the ground behind us, all of the kids except Libby and the baby, just sitting there studying us with blank looks on their faces.

I figured they were waiting for breakfast. I ignored them and went about my work.

Work, however, would prove difficult. Pappy came for me first. He said he wanted to ride down to the creek to inspect the flood. I said I really needed to paint. My father said, “Go ahead, Luke,” and that settled my protest.

We rode the tractor away from the house, through the flooded fields until the water was almost over the front wheels. When we could go no farther, Pappy turned off the engine. We sat for a long time on the tractor, surrounded by the wet cotton we’d worked so hard to grow.

“You’ll be leavin’ tomorrow,” he finally said.

“Yes sir.”

“But you’ll be comin’ back soon.”

“Yes sir.” My mother, not Pappy, would determine when we came back. And if Pappy thought we’d one day return to our little places on the family farm and start another crop, he was mistaken. I felt sorry for him, and I missed him already.

“Been thinkin’ more ’bout Hank and Cowboy,” he said, his eyes never moving from the water in front of the tractor. “Let’s leave it be, like we agreed. Can’t nothin’ good come from tellin’ anybody. It’s a secret we’ll take to our graves.” He offered his right hand for me to shake. “Deal?” he said.

“Deal,” I repeated, squeezing his thick, calloused hand.

“Don’t forget about your pappy up there, you hear?”

“I won’t.”

He started the tractor, shifted into reverse, and backed through the floodwaters.

When I returned to the front of the house, Percy Latcher had taken control of my brush and was hard at work. Without a word, he handed it to me and went to sit under a tree. I painted for maybe ten minutes, then Gran walked onto the porch and said, “Luke, come here. I need to show you somethin’.”

She led me around back, in the direction of the silo. Mud puddles were everywhere, and the flood had crept to within thirty feet of the barn. She wanted to take a stroll and have a chat, but there was mud and water in every direction. We sat on the edge of the flatbed trailer.

“What’re you gonna show me?” I said after a long silence.

“Oh, nothin’. I just wanted to spend a few minutes alone. You’re leavin’ tomorrow. I was tryin’ to remember if you’d ever spent a night away from here.”

“I can’t remember one,” I said. I knew that I’d been born in the bedroom where my parents now slept. I knew Gran’s hands had touched me first, she’d birthed me and taken care of my mother. No, I had never left our house, not even for one night.

“You’ll do just fine up North,” she said, but with little conviction. “Lots of folks from here go up there to find work. They always do just fine, and they always come home. You’ll be home before you know it.”

I loved my gran as fiercely as any kid could love his grandmother, yet somehow I knew I’d never again live in her house and work in her fields.

We talked about Ricky for a while, then about the Latchers. She put her arm around my shoulders and held me close, and she made me promise more than once that I’d write letters to her. I also had to promise to study hard, obey my parents, go to church and learn my Scriptures, and to be diligent in my speech so I wouldn’t sound like a Yankee.

When she was finished extracting all the promises, I was exhausted. We walked back to the house, dodging puddles.

The morning dragged on. The Latcher horde dispersed after breakfast, but they were back in time for lunch. They watched as my father and their father tried to outpaint each other across the front of our house.

We fed them on the back porch. After they ate, Libby pulled me aside and handed over her letter to Ricky. I had managed to sneak a plain white envelope from the supply we kept at the end of the kitchen table. I’d addressed it to Ricky, via the army mail route in San Diego, and I’d put a stamp on it. She was quite impressed. She carefully placed her letter inside, then licked the envelope twice.

“Thank you, Luke,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.

I put the envelope under my shirt so no one could see it. I had decided to mention it to my mother but hadn’t found the opportunity.

Events were moving quickly. My mother and Gran spent the afternoon washing and pressing the clothes we would take with us. My father and Mr. Latcher painted until the buckets were empty. I wanted time to slow down, but for some reason the day became hurried.

We endured another quiet supper, each of us worried about the trip North, but for different reasons. I was sad enough to have no appetite.

“This’ll be your last supper here for a spell, Luke,” Pappy said. I don’t know why he said that, because it sure didn’t help matters.

“They say the food up North is pretty bad,” Gran said, trying to lighten things up. That, too, fell flat.

It was too chilly to sit on the porch. We gathered in the living room and tried to chat as if things were the same. But no topic seemed appropriate. Church matters were dull. Baseball was over. No one wanted to mention Ricky. Not even the weather could hold our attention.

We finally gave up and went to bed. My mother tucked me in and kissed me good night. Then Gran did the same. Pappy stopped for a few words, something he’d never done before.

When I was finally alone, I said my prayers. Then I stared at the dark ceiling and tried to believe that this was my last night on the farm.

My father had been wounded in Italy in 1944. He was treated there, then on a hospital boat, then shipped to Boston, where he spent time in physical rehabilitation. When he arrived at the bus station in Memphis, he had two U.S. Army duffel bags stuffed with clothes and a few souvenirs. Two months later he married my mother. Ten months after that, I arrived on the scene.