The three children were drifting farther and farther away from shore. The mother, who may or may not have been pregnant, and who may or may not have been able to swim, was fixing lunch under a shade tree when she heard the screams of her children. She flung herself into the river, whereupon she, too, was soon in trouble.
The father was fishing off a bridge when he heard the commotion, and rather than waste time running to the shore and entering from that venue, he simply jumped headlong into the St. Francis and broke his neck.
The entire family perished. Some of the bodies were found. Some were not. Some were eaten by the channel cats, and the others were swept out to sea, wherever the sea was. There was no shortage of theories as to what finally happened to the bodies of this poor family, which, oddly, had remained nameless through the decades.
This story was repeated so that kids like myself would appreciate the dangers of the river. Ricky loved to scare me with it, but often got his versions confused. My mother said it was all fiction.
Even Brother Akers managed to weave it through a sermon to illustrate how Satan was always at work spreading misery and heartache around the world. I was awake and listening very closely, and when he left out the part about the broken neck, I figured he was exaggerating, too.
But I was determined not to drown. The fish were biting, small bream that I hooked and threw back. I found a seat on a stump near a lagoon and caught one fish after another. It was almost as much fun as playing baseball. The afternoon passed slowly by, and I was thankful for the solitude. Our farm was crowded with strangers. The fields were waiting with the promise of backbreaking labor. I’d seen a man get killed, and I had somehow gotten myself in the middle of it.
The gentle rushing sound of the shallow water was soothing. Why couldn’t I just fish all day? Sit by the river in the shade? Anything but pick cotton. I wasn’t going to be a farmer. I didn’t need the practice.
“Luke,” came my father’s voice from down the bank. I pulled in the hook and worm, and walked to where they were sitting.
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Sit down,” he said. “Let’s talk.”
I sat at the very edge of the quilt, as far from them as possible. They didn’t appear to be angry; in fact, my mother’s face was pleasant.
But my father’s voice was stern enough to worry me. “Why didn’t you tell us about the fight?” he asked.
The fight that wouldn’t go away.
I wasn’t really surprised to hear the question. “I was scared, I guess.”
“Scared of what?”
“Scared of gettin’ caught behind the Co-op watchin’ a fight.”
“Because I told you not to, right?” asked my mother.
“Yes ma’am. And I’m sorry.”
Watching a fight was not a major act of disobedience, and all three of us knew it. What were boys supposed to do on Saturday afternoon when the town was packed and excitement was high? She smiled because I said I was sorry. I was trying to look as pitiful as possible.
“I’m not too worried about you watchin’ a fight,” my father said. “But secrets can get you in trouble. You shoulda told me what you saw.”
“I saw a fight. I didn’t know Jerry Sisco was gonna die.”
My logic stopped him for a moment. Then he said, “Did you tell Stick Powers the truth?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did one of the Siscos pick up the piece of wood first? Or was it Hank Spruill?”
If I told the truth, then I would be admitting that I had lied in my earlier version. Tell the truth or tell a lie, that was the question that always remained. I decided to try to blur things a bit. “Well, to be honest, Dad, things happened so fast. There were bodies fallin’ and flyin’ everywhere. Hank was just throwin’ those boys around like little toys. And the crowd was movin’ and hollerin’. Then I saw a stick of wood.”
Surprisingly, this satisfied him. After all, I was only seven years old, and had been caught up in a mob of spectators, all watching a horrible brawl unfold behind the Co-op. Who could blame me if I wasn’t sure about what happened?
“Don’t talk to anyone about this, all right? Not a soul.”
“Yes sir.”
“Little boys who keep secrets from their parents get into big trouble,” my mother said. “You can always tell us.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now go fish some more,” my father said, and I ran back to my spot.
Chapter 11
The week began in the semidarkness of Monday morning. We met at the trailer for the ride into the fields, a ride that grew shorter each day as the picking slowly moved away from the river back toward the house.
Not a word was spoken. Before us were five endless days of overwhelming labor and heat, followed by Saturday, which on Monday seemed as far away as Christmas.
I looked down from my perch on the tractor and prayed for the day when the Spruills would leave our farm. They were grouped together, as dazed and sleepy as I was. Trot was not with them, nor would he be joining us in the fields. Late Sunday, Mr. Spruill had asked Pappy if it would be all right if Trot hung around the front yard all day. “The boy can’t take the heat,” Mr. Spruill said. Pappy didn’t care what happened to Trot. He wasn’t worth a nickel in the fields.
When the tractor stopped, we took our sacks and disappeared into the rows of cotton. Not a word from anyone. An hour later, the sun was baking us. I thought of Trot, wasting the day under the shade tree, napping when he felt like it, no doubt happy about the work he was missing. He might have been a little off in the head, but right then he was the smartest of all the Spruills.
Time stopped when we were picking cotton. The days dragged on, each yielding ever so slowly to the next.
Over supper on Thursday, Pappy announced, “We won’t be goin’ to town Saturday.”
I felt like crying. It was harsh enough to labor in the fields all week, but to do so without the reward of popcorn and a movie was downright cruel. What about my weekly Coca-Cola?
A long silence followed. My mother watched me carefully. She did not seem surprised, and I got the impression that the adults had already had this discussion. Now they were just going through the motions for my benefit.
I thought, What is there to lose? So I gritted my teeth and said, “Why not?”
“Because I said so,” Pappy fired back at me, and I knew I was in dangerous territory.
I looked at my mother. There was a curious grin on her face.
“You’re not scared of the Siscos, are you?” I asked, and I half-expected one of the men to make a grab for me.
There was a moment of deathly silence. My father cleared his throat and said, “It’s best if the Spruills stay out of town for a while. We’ve discussed it with Mr. Spruill, and we’ve agreed that we’ll all stay put Saturday. Even the Mexicans.”
“I ain’t afraid of nobody, son,” Pappy growled down the table. I refused to look at him. “And don’t sass me,” he threw in for good measure.
My mother’s grin was still firmly in place, and her eyes were twinkling. She was proud of me.
“I’ll need a couple of things from the store,” Gran said. “Some flour and sugar.”
“I’ll run in,” Pappy said. “I’m sure the Mexicans’ll need some things, too.”
Later, they moved to the front porch for our ritual of sitting, but I was too wounded to join them. I lay on the floor of Ricky’s room, in the darkness, listening to the Cardinals through the open window and trying to ignore the soft, slow talk of the adults. I tried to think of new ways to hate the Spruills, but I was soon overwhelmed by the sheer volume of their misdeeds. At some point in the early evening, I grew too still, and fell asleep on the floor.