A Painted House

Chapter 35

Having a barn full of Latchers was an event that we certainly had not pla

Pappy had the opinion that they would be gone as soon as the floodwaters receded. Living in another farmer’s barn was tolerable under the most urgent of circumstances, but no one with an ounce of self-respect would stay a day longer than necessary.

“What are they go

My father speculated that their dilapidated house couldn’t withstand the flood, and that there’d be no place for them to return to. Plus, they had no truck, no means of transportation. They’d been starving on their land for the last ten years. Where else would they go? Pappy seemed a little depressed by this view.

My mother mainly listened, but at one point she did say that the Latchers were not the type of people who’d be embarrassed by living in someone else’s barn. And she worried about the children, not only the obvious problems of health and nutrition, but also their education and spiritual growth.

Pappy’s prediction of a swift departure was batted around the table and eventually voted down. Three against one. Four, if you counted my vote.

“We’ll survive,” Gran said. “We have enough food to feed us and them all winter. They’re here, they have no place else to go, and we’ll take care of them.” No one was about to argue with her.

“God gave us a bountiful garden for a reason,” she added, nodding at my mother. “In Luke, Jesus said, ‘Invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed. ‘”

“We’ll kill two hogs instead of one,” Pappy said. “We’ll have plenty of meat for the winter.”

The hog-killing would come in early December, when the air was cold and the bacteria dead. Every year a hog was shot in the head, dipped in boiling water, and hung from a tree next to the tool shed, then gutted and butchered into a thousand pieces. From it we got bacon, ham, loin, sausage, and ribs. Everything was used-tongue, brains, feet. “Everything but the squeal” was a line I’d heard all my life. Mr. Jeter from across the road was a fair butcher. He would supervise the gutting, then perform the delicate removals. For his time he took a fourth of the best cuts.

My first memory of a hog-killing was that I ran behind the house and puked. With time, though, I’d come to look forward to it. If you wanted ham and bacon, you had to kill a hog. But it would take more than two hogs to feed the Latchers until spring. There were eleven of them, including the baby, who at the moment was living off vanilla ice cream.

As we talked about them, I began to dream of heading North.

The trip now seemed more appealing. I had sympathy for the Latchers, and I was proud that we’d rescued them. I knew that as Christians we were expected to help the poor. I understood all that, but I could not imagine living through the winter with all those little kids ru

And now that they lived with us, it was just a matter of time before the big secret got out. Ricky would be fingered as the father. Pearl would figure out where all the vanilla ice cream was going. Something would leak somehow, and we’d be ruined.

“Luke, are you finished?” my father asked, jolting me from my thoughts.

My plate was clean. Everyone looked at it. They had adult matters to discuss. It was my cue to go find something to do.

“Supper was good. May I be excused?” I said, reciting my standard lines.

Gran nodded and I went to the back porch and pushed the screen door so that it would slam. Then I slid back into the darkness to a bench by the kitchen door. From there I could hear everything. They were worried about money. The crop loan would be “rolled over” until next spring, and they would deal with it then. The other farming bills could be delayed, too, though Pappy hated the thought of riding his creditors.

Surviving the winter was much more urgent. Food was not a concern. We had to have money for such necessities as electricity, gas and oil for the truck, and staples like coffee, flour, and sugar. What if someone got sick and needed a doctor or medicine? What if the truck broke down and needed parts?

“We haven’t given anything to the church this year,” Gran said.

Pappy estimated that as much as thirty percent of the crop was still out there, standing in water. If the weather broke and things got dry, we might be able to salvage a small portion of it. That would provide some income, but the gin would keep most of it. Neither he nor my father was optimistic about picking any more cotton in 1952.

The problem was cash. They were almost out of it, and there was no hope of any coming in. They barely had enough to pay for electricity and gasoline until Christmas.

“Jimmy Dale’s holdin’ a job for me at the Buick plant,” my father said. “But he can’t wait long. The jobs are tight right now. We need to get on up there.”

According to Jimmy Dale, the current wage was three dollars an hour, for forty hours a week, but overtime was available, too. “He says I can earn close to two hundred dollars a week,” my father said.

“We’ll send home as much as we can,” my mother added.

Pappy and Gran went through the motions of protesting, but everyone knew the decision had been made. I heard a noise in the distance, a vaguely familiar sound. As it drew closer, I cringed and wished I’d hidden on the front porch.

The baby was back, upset again and no doubt craving vanilla ice cream. I sneaked off the porch and walked a few steps toward the barn. In the shadows I saw Libby and Mrs. Latcher approaching the house. I ducked beside the chicken coop and listened as they went by. The constant wailing echoed around our farm.

Gran and my mother met them at the back porch. A light was switched on, and I watched as they huddled around the little monster then carried him inside. Through the window I could see my father and Pappy scramble for the front porch.

With four women working on him, it took only a few minutes to stop the crying. Once things were quiet Libby left the kitchen and went outside. She sat on the edge of the porch in the same place Cowboy had occupied the day he had shown me his switchblade. I walked to the house and said, “Hi, Libby,” when I was a few feet away.

She jumped, then caught herself. Poor girl’s nerves were rattled by her baby’s colic. “Luke,” she said. “What’re you doin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Come sit here,” she said, patting the spot next to her. I did as I was told.

“Does that baby cry all the time?” I asked.

“Seems like it. I don’t mind, though.”

“You don’t?”

“No. He reminds me of Ricky.”

“He does?”

“Yes, he does. When’s he comin’ home? Do you know, Luke?”

“No. His last letter said he might be home by Christmas.”

“That’s two months away.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t so sure about it. Gran says every soldier says he’s comin’ home by Christmas.”

“I just can’t wait,” she said, visibly excited by the prospect.

“What’s go

“We’re go

“You are?”

“Yes, he promised.”