Though shaded, I was sweating profusely. My heart was racing, my mouth dry. Tally was hiding deep in the cotton with a man, doing something bad, or if not, then why was she hiding? I wanted to do something to stop them, but I had no right. I was just a little kid, a spy who was trespassing on their business. I thought about retreating, but the voices held me.
The snake was a water moccasin, a cottonmouth, one of many in our part of Arkansas. They lived around the creeks and rivers and occasionally ventured inland to sun or to feed. Each spring when we planted, it was common to see them ground up behind our disks and plows. They were short, black, thick, aggressive, and filled with venom. Their bites were rarely fatal, but I’d heard many tall tales of horrible deaths.
If you saw one, you simply killed it with a stick or a hoe or anything you could grab. They weren’t as quick as rattlers, nor did they have the striking range, but they were mean and nasty.
This one was crawling down the row directly at me, less than five feet away. We were eyeball-to-eyeball. I’d been so occupied with Tally and whatever she was doing that I’d forgotten everything else. I uttered something in horror and bolted upright, then I ran through a row of cotton, then another.
A man said something in a louder voice, but for the moment I was more concerned with the snake. I hit the ground near my cotton sack, strapped it over my shoulder, and began crawling toward the trailer. When I was certain the cottonmouth was far away, I stopped and listened. Nothing. Complete silence. No one was chasing me.
Slowly, I stood and peeked through the cotton. To my right, several rows away and already with her back to me, was Tally, her cotton sack strapped over her shoulder and her straw hat cocked to one side, steadily making her way along as if nothing had happened.
And to my left, cutting low through the cotton and escaping like a thief, was Cowboy.
On most Saturday afternoons Pappy could find some reason to delay our trip to town. We’d finish lunch, and I’d suffer the indignity of the bath, then he’d find something to do because he was determined to make us wait. The tractor had some ailment that suddenly needed his attention. He’d crawl around with his old wrenches, making a fuss about how it had to be repaired right then so he could buy the necessary parts in town. Or the truck wasn’t running just right, and Saturday after lunch was the perfect time to poke around the engine. Or the water pump needed his attention. Sometimes he sat at the kitchen table and attended to the small amount of paperwork it took to run the farming operation.
Finally, when everyone was good and mad, he’d take a long bath, and then we’d head to town.
My mother was anxious to see the newest member of Craighead County, even though he was a Latcher, so while Pappy piddled in the toolshed, we loaded four boxes of vegetables and headed across the river. My father somehow avoided the trip. The baby’s alleged father was his brother, and that, of course, made my father the baby’s alleged uncle, and that was something my father simply wasn’t ready to accept. And I was sure he had no interest in another encounter with Mr. Latcher.
My mother drove, and I prayed, and we somehow made it safely over the bridge. We rolled to a stop on the other side of the river. The truck stalled, and the engine died. As she was taking a deep breath, I decided to say, “Mom, there’s somethin’ I need to tell you.”
“Can it wait?” she asked, reaching for the ignition.
“No.”
We were sitting in a hot truck, just off the bridge, on a one-lane dirt road without a house or another vehicle in sight. It struck me as the perfect place and time for an important conversation.
“What is it?” she said, folding her arms across her chest as if she’d already decided I’d done something terrible.
There were so many secrets. Hank and the Sisco beating. Tally at the creek. The birth of Libby’s baby. But those had been tucked away for a while. I’d become adept at keeping them private. The current one, though, had to be shared with my mother.
“I think Tally and Cowboy like each other,” I said, and immediately I felt lighter.
“Is that so?” she said with a smile, as if I didn’t know much because I was just a kid. Then the smile slowly vanished as she considered this. I wondered if she, too, knew something about the secret romance.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And what makes you think this?”
“I caught them in the cotton patch this mornin’.”
“What were they doing?” she asked, seeming a little frightened that maybe I’d seen something I shouldn’t have.
“I don’t know, but they were together.”
“Did you see them?”
I told her the story, beginning with the voices, then the cottonmouth, then their escape. I omitted no details, and, amazingly, I did not exaggerate anything. Maybe the size of the snake, but for the most part I clung to the truth.
She absorbed it and seemed genuinely astounded.
“What were they doin’, Mom?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You didn’t see anything, did you?”
“No ma’am. Do you think they were kissin’?”
“Probably,” she said quickly.
She reached for the ignition again and said, “Oh well, I’ll talk to your father about it.”
We drove away in a hurry. After a moment or two I really couldn’t tell if I felt any better. She’d told me many times that little boys shouldn’t keep secrets from their mothers. But every time I confessed one, she was quick to shrug it off and tell my father what I’d told her. I’m not sure how I benefited from being so candid. But it was all I could do. Now the adults knew about Tally and Cowboy. Let them worry about the problem.
The Latchers were picking near their house, so by the time we rolled to a stop, we had an audience. Mrs. Latcher emerged from the house and managed a smile, then she helped us haul the food to the front porch.
“I guess you wanna see the baby,” she said softly to my mother.
I wanted to see it also, but I knew my chances were slim. The women went into the house. I found a spot under a tree near our truck, and I planned to loiter, alone, just minding my own business while I waited for my mother. I didn’t want to see any of the Latchers. The fact that we were now probably related by blood made me ill.
Three of them suddenly appeared from around the truck — three boys, with Percy leading the group. The other two were younger and smaller but just as lean and wiry as Percy. They approached me without a word.
“Howdy, Percy,” I said, trying to at least be polite.
“What’re you doin’ here?” he growled. He had a brother on each side, all three of them lined up against me.
“My mother made me come,” I said.
“You ain’t got no business here.” He was practically hissing through his teeth, and I wanted to back up. In fact, I wanted to tuck tail and run.
“I’m waitin’ for my mother,” I said.
“We’re gonna whup your ass,” Percy said, and all three of them clenched their fists.
“Why?” I managed to say.
“ ’Cause you’re a Chandler, and your Ricky did that to Libby.”
“Wasn’t my fault,” I said.
“Don’t matter.” The smallest one looked particularly fierce. He was squinting and twisting his mouth up at the corners, sort of snarling at me, and I figured the first punch would come from him.
“Three on one ain’t fair,” I said.
“Wasn’t fair what happened to Libby,” Percy said and then, quick as a cat, he punched me in the stomach. A horse could not have kicked any harder, and I went down with a shriek.
I’d had a few scuffles at school — playground push-and-shoves that were broken up by the teachers before serious blows were landed. Mrs. Emma Enos, the third-grade teacher, gave me three licks for trying to fight Joey Stallcup, and Pappy could not have been prouder. And Ricky used to be rough with me, wrestling and boxing and such. I was no stranger to violence. Pappy loved to fight, and when I hit the ground, I thought of him. Somebody kicked me; I grabbed a foot, and instantly there was a pile of little warriors, all kicking and clawing and cussing in the dirt. I grabbed the hair of the midsized one while the other two pounded my back. I was determined to yank his head off when Percy landed a nasty shot to my nose. I went blind for a second, and they, squealing like wild animals, piled on again.