A Painted House (21 page)

The women were reaching and shoving and urging her to push and breathe and push and breathe, all the while assuring her that things were going to be fine. Things didn’t sound fine. The poor girl was bawling and grunting, occasionally yelling—high piercing
shrieks that were hardly muffled by the walls of the room. Her anguished voice carried deep through the still night, and I wondered what her little brothers and sisters thought of it all.

When Libby wasn’t grunting and crying, she was saying, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” It went on and on, time after time, a mindless chant from a suffering girl.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” her mother replied a thousand times.

“Can’t they do something?” I whispered.

“Nope, not a thing. The baby comes when it wants to.”

I wanted to ask Tally just exactly how she knew so much about childbirthing, but I held my tongue. It was none of my business, and she would probably tell me so.

Suddenly, things were quiet and still inside the room. The Chandler women backed away, then Mrs. Latcher leaned down with a glass of water. Libby was silent.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

The break in the action gave me time to think of other things, namely getting caught. I’d seen enough. This adventure had run its course. Tally had likened it to the trip to Siler’s Creek, but it paled in comparison with that little escapade. We’d been gone for hours. What if Pappy stumbled into Ricky’s room to check on me? What if one of the Spruills woke up and started looking for Tally? What if my father got bored with it all and went home?

The beating I’d get would hurt for days, if in fact I survived it. I was beginning to panic when Libby
started heaving loudly again, while the women implored her to breathe and push.

“There it is!” my mother said, and a frenzy followed as the women hovered frantically over their patient.

“Keep pushin’!” Gran said loudly.

Libby groaned even more. She was exhausted, but at least the end was in sight.

“Don’t give up, sweetie,” her mother said. “Don’t give up.”

Tally and I were perfectly still, mesmerized by the drama. She took my hand and squeezed it tightly. Her jaws were clenched, her eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s comin’!” my mother said, and for a brief moment things were quiet. Then we heard the cry of a newborn, a quick gurgling protest, and a new Latcher had arrived.

“It’s a boy,” Gran said, and she lifted up the tiny infant, still covered in blood and afterbirth.

“It’s a boy,” Mrs. Latcher repeated.

There was no response from Libby.

I’d seen more than I bargained for. “Let’s go,” I said, trying to pull away, but Tally wasn’t moving.

Gran and my mother continued working on Libby while Mrs. Latcher cleaned the baby, who was furious about something and crying loudly. I couldn’t help but think of how sad it would be to become a Latcher, to be born into that small, dirty house with a pack of other kids.

A few minutes passed, and Percy appeared at the window. “Can we see the baby?” he asked, almost afraid to look in.

“In a minute,” Mrs. Latcher replied.

They gathered at the window, the entire collection of Latchers, including the father, who was now a grandfather, and waited to see the baby. They were just in front of us, halfway between home and the mound, it seemed, and I stopped breathing for fear they would hear us. But they weren’t thinking about intruders. They were looking at the open window, all still with wonder.

Mrs. Latcher brought the infant over and leaned down so he could meet his family. He reminded me of my baseball glove; he was almost as dark, and wrapped in a towel. He was quiet for the moment and appeared unimpressed with the mob watching him.

“How’s Libby?” one of them asked.

“She’s fine,” Mrs. Latcher said.

“Can we see her?”

“No, not right now. She’s very tired.” She withdrew the baby, and the other Latchers retreated slowly to the front of the house. I could not see my father, but I knew he was hiding somewhere near his truck. Hard cash could not entice him to look at an illegitimate newborn.

For a few minutes, the women seemed as busy as they’d been just before the birth, but then they slowly finished their work.

My trance wore off, and I realized that we were a long way from home. “We gotta go, Tally!” I whispered urgently. She was ready and I followed her as we backtracked, cutting our way through the stalks until we were away from the house, then turning south and running with the rows of cotton. We stopped to get our bearings. The light from the window could not be
seen. The moon had disappeared. There were no shapes or shadows from the Latcher place. Total darkness.

We turned west, again stepping across the rows, cutting through the stalks, pushing them aside so they wouldn’t scrape our faces. The rows ended, and we found the trail leading to the main road. My feet hurt, and my legs ached, but we couldn’t waste time. We ran to the bridge. Tally wanted to watch the waters swirling below, but I made her keep going.

“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.

Chapter 17

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-f 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.

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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.

“Ricky done it.”

“Ricky done what?” Pappy repeated.

“That baby’s his,” Percy said. “It’s Ricky’s.”

“Shut up, boy!” Pappy snapped at him and clutched the edge of the table as if he might bolt for the door to whip the poor kid.

“She didn’t wanna do it, but he talked her into it,” Percy said, staring at me instead of Pappy. “Then he went off to the war.”

“Is that what she’s tellin’?” Pappy asked angrily.

“Don’t yell, Eli,” Gran said. “He’s just a boy.” Gran took a deep breath, and seemed to be the first to at least consider the possibility that she had delivered her own grandchild.

“That’s what she’s tellin’,” Percy said. “And it’s true.”

“Luke, go to your room and shut the door,” my father said, jolting me out of a trance.

“No,” my mother said before I could move. “This affects all of us. He can stay.”

“He shouldn’t hear this.”

“He’s already heard it.”

“He should stay,” Gran said, siding with my mother and settling the matter. They were assuming I wanted to stay. What I really wanted to do at that moment was
to run outside, find Tally, and go for a long walk—away from her crazy family, away from Ricky and Korea, away from Percy Latcher. But I didn’t move.

“Did your parents send you over here?” my mother asked.

“No ma’am. They don’t know where I am. The baby cried all day. Libby’s gone crazy, talkin’ ’bout jumpin’ off the bridge, killin’ herself, stuff like that, and she told me what Ricky done to her.”