I heard the women yell from the porch. It’s about time! I thought. Mrs. Latcher arrived first and began pulling boys from the heap, scolding them loudly as she flung them around. Since I was on the bottom, I got up last. My mother looked at me in horror. My clean clothes were covered with dirt. My nose was oozing warm blood.
“Luke, are you all right?” she said, grabbing my shoulders.
My eyes were watery, and I was beginning to ache. I nodded my head yes, no problem.
“Cut me a switch!” Mrs. Latcher yelled at Percy. She was growling and still flinging the two smaller ones around. “Whatta you mean beatin’ up that little boy like that? He ain’t done nothin’.”
The blood was really flowing now, dripping off my chin and staining my shirt. My mother made me lie down and tilt my head back to stop the bleeding, and while we were doing this, Percy produced a stick.
“I want you to watch this,” Mrs. Latcher said in my direction.
“No, Darla,” my mother said. “We’re leaving.”
“No, I want your boy to see this,” she said. “Now bend over, Percy.”
“I ain’t gonna do it, Ma,” Percy said, obviously scared.
“Bend over, or I’ll get your father. I’ll teach you some manners. Beatin’ up that little boy, a visitor to our place.”
“No,” Percy said, and she hit him in the head with the stick. He screamed, and she whacked him across the ear.
She made him bend over and grab his ankles. “You let go and I’ll beat you for a week,” she threatened him. He was already crying when she started flogging away. Both my mother and I were stunned by her anger and brutality. After eight or ten very hard licks, Percy started yelping. “Shut up!” she shouted.
Her arms and legs were as thin as the stick, but what she lacked in size she made up for in quickness. Her blows landed like machine-gun fire, fast and crisp, popping like a bullwhip. Ten, twenty, thirty shots, and Percy was bawling, “Please stop it, Ma! I’m sorry!”
The beating went on and on, far past the point of punishment. When her arm was tired, she shoved him to the ground, and Percy curled into a tight ball and wept. By then the other two were already in tears. She grabbed the middle one by the hair. She called him Rayford and said, “Bend over.” Rayford slowly clutched his ankles and somehow withstood the assault that followed.
“Let’s go,” my mother whispered to me. “You can lie down in the back.”
She helped me up to the bed of the truck, and by then Mrs. Latcher was pulling on the other boy, yanking him by the hair. Percy and Rayford were lying in the dirt, victims of the battle they’d started. My mother turned the truck around, and as we drove off, Mrs. Latcher was battering the youngest one. There were loud voices, and I sat up just enough to see Mr. Latcher running around the house with a trail of children behind him. He yelled at his wife; she ignored him and kept hammering away. When he reached her, he grabbed her. Kids were swarming everywhere; everyone seemed to be either screaming or crying.
The dust boiled behind us, and I lost sight of them. As I lay down again and tried to get comfortable, I prayed that I would never again set foot on their farm. I never wanted to see any of those people for the rest of my life. And I prayed long and hard that no one would ever hear the rumor that the Chandlers and the Latchers were related.
My return home was triumphant. The Spruills were cleaned up and ready for town. They were sitting under a tree, drinking iced tea with Pappy and Gran and my father, when we rolled to a stop less than twenty feet away. As dramatically as I could, I stood in the back of the truck, and with great satisfaction watched them react in shock at the sight of me. There I was — beaten, bloodied, dirty, clothes ripped, but still standing.
I climbed down, and everyone gathered around me. My mother stormed forward and very angrily said, “You’re not gonna believe what happened! Three of them jumped Luke! Percy and two others caught him when I was in the house. The little criminals! We’re takin’ food over, and they pull a stunt like this.”
Tally was concerned, too, and I think she wanted to reach out and touch me, to make sure I was all right.
“Three of ’em?” Pappy repeated, his eyes dancing.
“Yes, and they were all bigger than Luke,” my mother said, and the legend began to grow. The size of my three attackers would increase as the days and months went by.
Gran was in my face, staring at my nose, which had a small cut on it. “Might be broken,” she said, and though I was thrilled to hear it, I was not looking forward to her treatment.
“You didn’t run, did you?” Pappy asked. He, too, was moving in closer.
“No sir,” I said proudly. I’d still be running if given half a chance.
“He did not,” my mother said sternly. “He was kickin’ and clawin’ just as hard as they were.”
Pappy beamed, and my father smiled.
“We’ll go back tomorrow and finish ’em off,” Pappy said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” my mother said. She was irritated because Pappy loved a brawl. But then, she came from a house full of girls. She did not understand fighting.
“Did you land a good punch?” Pappy asked.
“They were all cryin’ when I left,” I said.
My mother rolled her eyes.
Hank shoved his way through the group and bent down to inspect the damage. “Say there was three of ’em, huh?” he growled at me.
“Yes sir,” I said, nodding.
“Good for you, boy. It’ll make you tough.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“If you want me to, I’ll show you some tricks on how to handle a three-on-one situation,” he said with a smile.
“Let’s get cleaned up,” my mother said.
“I think it’s broken,” Gran said.
“You okay, Luke?” Tally asked.
“Yep,” I said, as tough as I could.
They led me away in a victory march.
Chapter 23
The Fall Picnic was always held on the last Sunday in September, though no one knew exactly why. It was simply a tradition in Black Oak, a ritual as ingrained as the carnival and the spring revival. It was supposed to somehow link the coming of a new season, the beginning of the end of the harvest, and the end of baseball. It wasn’t clear if all this was accomplished with one picnic, but at least the effort was made.
We shared the day with the Methodists, our friends and friendly rivals. Black Oak was too small to be divided. There were no ethnic groups, no blacks or Jews or Asians, no permanent outsiders of any variety. We were all of Anglo-Irish stock, maybe a strain or two of German blood, and everybody farmed or sold to the farmers. Everybody was a Christian or claimed to be. Disagreements flared up when a Cubs fan said too much at the Tea Shoppe, or when some idiot declared John Deere to be inferior to another brand of tractor, but for the most part life was peaceful. The older boys and younger men liked to fight behind the Co-op on Saturdays, but it was more sport than anything else. A beating like the one Hank gave the Siscos was so rare that the town was still talking about it.
Individual grudges lasted a lifetime; Pappy carried more than his share. But there were no serious enemies. There was a clear social order, with the sharecroppers at the bottom and the merchants at the top, and everyone was expected to know his place. But folks got along.