“I don’t care what you do,” Pappy shot back, his anger rising fast. “Just wait till the cotton’s in.”
“Surely you can wait a month,” my father said.
Stick chewed on the grass, spat, and said, “I suppose so.”
“He’s a good worker,” my father said. “And there’s plenty of cotton. You take him now, and we’ll lose six field hands. You know how those people are.”
“I suppose I could wait,” Stick said again. He seemed anxious to reach a compromise. “I been talkin’ to a lot of people, and I ain’t so sure your boy here is tellin’ the truth.” He gave me a long look as he said this, and I kicked gravel.
“Leave him out of it, Stick,” my father said. “He’s just a kid.”
“He’s seven years old!” Pappy snapped. “Why don’t you find you some real witnesses.”
Stick’s shoulders drew back as if he’d been hit.
“Here’s the deal,” Pappy said. “You leave Hank alone until the cotton’s in, then I’ll drive to town and let you know we’re finished with him. At that point, I don’t care what you do with him.”
“That’ll work,” Stick said.
“But I still think you ain’t got a case. It was three against one, Stick, and no jury will convict.”
“We’ll see,” Stick said smugly. He walked away, thumbs in his pockets, with just enough of a swagger to annoy us.
“Can I go to the carnival?” I asked.
“Of course you can,” Pappy said.
“How much money do you have?” my father asked.
“Four dollars.”
“How much you gonna spend?”
“Four dollars.”
“I think two’s enough.”
“How ’bout three?”
“Make it two-fifty, okay?”
“Yes sir.” I ran from the church, along the sidewalk, darting between people, and was soon at the baseball field, which was across the street from the Co-op, the Dixie theater, and the pool hall. The carnival covered it all, from the backstop to the outfield fence. The Ferris wheel stood in the middle, surrounded by the smaller rides, the booths, and the midway. Shrill music rattled from the loudspeakers on the merry-go-round and the carousel. Long lines of people were already waiting. I could smell popcorn and corn dogs and something frying in grease.
I found the trailer with the cotton candy. It cost a dime, but I would’ve paid much more for it. Dewayne saw me at the midway as I was watching some older boys shoot air guns at little ducks that swam in a pool. They never hit them, and this was because, according to Pappy, the gunsights were crooked.
Candied apples were also a dime. We bought one apiece and took our time inspecting the carnival. There was a witch in a long black dress, black hair, black everything, and for twenty-five cents she could tell your future. A dark-eyed old lady could do the same thing, for the same price, with tarot cards. A flamboyant man with a microphone could guess your age or your weight for a dime. If he didn’t get within three years or ten pounds you won a prize. The midway had the usual collection of games — softballs thrown at milk jugs, basketballs aimed at rims that were too small, darts at balloons, hoops over bottlenecks.
We strolled through the carnival, savoring the noise and excitement. A crowd was gathering at the far end, near the backstop, and we drifted over. A large sign proclaimed the presence of “Samson, the World’s Greatest Wrestler, Direct from Egypt,” and under it was a square mat with padded poles in the corners and ropes around it. Samson was not in the ring, but his appearance was only moments away, according to Delilah, a tall, shapely woman with the microphone. Her costume revealed all of her legs and most of her chest, and I was certain that never before had so much skin been exposed in public in Black Oak. She explained, to a silent crowd mostly of men, that the rules were simple. Samson paid ten-to-one to any person who could stay in the ring with him for one minute. “Only sixty seconds!” she yelled. “And the money is yours!” Her accent was strange enough to convince us that they were indeed from another land. I’d never seen anybody from Egypt, though I knew from Sunday school that Moses had had some adventures there.
She paraded back and forth in front of the ring, all eyes following her every move. “On his current tour, Samson has won three hundred matches in a row,” she said tauntingly. “In fact, the last time Samson lost was in Russia, when it took three men to beat him, and they had to cheat to do it.”
Music started blaring from a lone speaker hanging on the sign. “And now, ladies and gentlemen!” she shouted above the music, “I present to you, the one, the only, the greatest wrestler in the world, the incredible Samson!”
I held my breath.
He bounded from behind a curtain and jumped into the ring amid tepid applause. Why should we clap for him? He was there to whip us. His hair was the first thing I noticed. It was black and wavy and fell to his shoulders like a woman’s. I’d seen illustrations of Old Testament stories where the men had such hair, but that was five thousand years ago. He was a giant of a man, with a thick body and ridges of muscles clumped around his shoulders and down his chest. His arms were covered with black hair and looked strong enough to lift buildings. So that we might get the full benefit of his physique, Samson wasn’t wearing a shirt. Even after we’d spent months in the fields, his skin was much darker than ours, and now I was really convinced that he was from parts unknown. He had fought Russians!
He strutted around the ring in step with the music, curling his arms and flexing his mammoth muscles. He performed like this until we’d witnessed all he had, which was more than enough, in my opinion.
“Who’s first?” Delilah yelled into the microphone as the music died. “Two-dollar minimum!”
The crowd was suddenly still. Only a fool would crawl into that ring.
“I ain’t scared,” somebody yelled, and we watched in disbelief as a young man I’d never seen before stepped forward and handed two dollars to Delilah. She took the money and said, “Ten-to-one. Stay in the ring for sixty seconds, and you’ll win twenty dollars.” She shoved the microphone at the young man and said, “What’s your name?”
“Farley.”
“Good luck, Farley.”
He climbed into the ring as if he had no fear of Samson, who’d been watching without the slightest hint of worry. Delilah took a mallet and struck a bell on the side of the ring. “Sixty seconds!” she said.
Farley moved around a bit, then retreated to a corner as Samson took a step in his direction. Both men studied each other, Samson looking down with contempt, Farley looking up with anticipation.
“Forty-five seconds!” she called out.
Samson moved closer, and Farley darted to the other side of the ring. Being much smaller, he was also much quicker, and apparently was using the strategy of flight. Samson stalked him; Farley kept darting.
“Thirty seconds!”
The ring was not big enough to run much, and Samson had caught his share of scared rabbits. He tripped Farley during one of his sprints, and when he picked him up, he wrapped an arm tightly around the boy’s head and began a headlock.
“Oh, looks like the Guillotine!” Delilah gushed, with a little too much drama. “Twenty seconds!”
Samson twisted his prey and grimaced with sadistic pleasure, while poor Farley flailed at his side.
“Ten seconds!”
Samson whirled and then flung Farley across the ring. Before Farley could get up, the World’s Greatest Wrestler grabbed him by the foot, lifted him in the air, held him over the ropes, and with two seconds to go, dropped him to the ground for the victory.
“Wow, that was close, Samson!” Delilah said into the microphone.
Farley was in a daze, but he walked away in one piece and seemed to be proud of himself. He had proved his manhood, had shown no fear, and had come within two seconds of winning twenty bucks. The next volunteer was likewise a stranger, a bulky young man named Claude, who paid three dollars for a chance to win thirty. He weighed twice as much as Farley but was much slower, and within ten seconds Samson had nailed him with a Flying Dropkick and wrapped him into a Pretzel. With ten seconds to go, he hoisted Claude over his head, and in a magnificent display of strength, walked to the edge of the ring and tossed him.