"Big one."
"Come on, Luke. We already have secrets, don't we?"
"I guess."
"I haven't told anybody that you watched me at the creek, have I?"
"I guess not."
"And if I did, you'd get in big trouble, wouldn't you?"
"I reckon I would."
"So there. I can keep a secret, you can keep a secret. Now what's goin' on over at the Latchers'?"
"You promise you won't tell."
"I promise."
The whole town already knew Libby was pregnant. What was the use in pretending it was a secret anyway? "Well, there's this girl, Libby Latcher, and she's havin' a baby. Right now."
"How old is she?"
"Fifteen."
"Gosh."
"And they're tryin' to keep it quiet. They wouldn't call a real doctor 'cause then everybody would know about it. So they asked Gran to come over and birth the baby."
"Why are they keepin' it quiet?"
" 'Cause she ain't married."
"No kiddin'. Who's the daddy?"
"She ain't sayin'."
"Nobody knows?"
"Nobody but Libby."
"Do you know her?"
"I've seen her before, but there's a bunch of Latchers. I know her brother Percy. He says he's twelve, but I'm not so sure. Hard to tell 'cause they don't go to school."
"Do you know how girls get pregnant?"
"I reckon not."
"Then I'd better not tell you."
That was fine with me. Ricky had tried once to talk about girls, but it was sickening.
Her feet swung faster as she digested this wonderful gossip. "The river ain't far," she said.
" 'Bout a mile."
"How far on the other side do they live?"
"Just a little ways down a dirt trail."
"You ever see a baby birthed, Luke?"
"Nope. Seen cows and dogs but not a real baby."
"Me neither."
She dropped to her feet, grabbed my hand, and yanked me off the porch. Her strength was surprising. "Let's go, Luke. Let's go see what we can see." She was dragging me before I could think of anything to say.
"You're crazy, Tally," I protested, trying to stop her.
"No, Luke," she whispered. "It's an adventure, just like down at the creek the other day. You liked that, didn't you?"
"Sure did."
"Then trust me."
"What if we get caught?"
"How we gonna get caught? Everybody's sound asleep around here. Your grandpa just woke up and didn't think about lookin' in on you. Come on, don't be a chicken."
I suddenly realized I would've followed Tally anywhere.
We crept behind the trees, through the ruts where the truck should've been, along the short drive, staying as far away from the Spruills as possible. We could hear snoring and the heavy breathing of weary people asleep at last. We made it to the road without a sound. Tally was quick and agile, and she cut through the night. We turned toward the river, and the moon broke free and lit our path. The one-lane road was barely wide enough for two trucks to squeeze past each other, and cotton grew close to its edges. With no moon we had to watch our steps, but with the light we could look up and see ahead. We were both barefoot. There was just enough gravel in the road to keep our steps short and quick, but the soles of our feet were like the leather of my baseball glove.
"A Painted House"
I was scared but determined not to show it. She seemed to have no fear-no fear of getting caught, no fear of the darkness, no fear of sneaking up on a house where a baby was being born. At times Tally was aloof, almost moody and dark, and seemed as old as my mother. Then she could be a kid who laughed when she played baseball, liked being looked at when she bathed, took long walks in the dark, and most important, enjoyed the company of a seven-year-old.
We stopped in the center of the bridge and carefully looked over its side at the water below. I told her about the channel catfish down there, about how big they were and the trash they fed on, and about the forty-four-pound one that Ricky had caught. She held my hand as we crossed to the other side, a gentle squeeze, one of affection and not safeguarding.
The trail to the Latchers' was much darker. We slowed considerably because we were trying to see the house while staying on the trail. Since they had no electricity, there were no lights, nothing but blackness in their bend of the river.
She heard something and stopped cold. Voices, off in the distance. We stepped to the edge of their cotton and waited patiently for the moon. I pointed here and there and gave her my best guess as to the location of their house. The voices were of children, no doubt the Latcher brood.
The moon finally cooperated, and we got a look at the landscape. The dark shadow of the house was the same distance as our barn was to our back porch, about 350 feet, same as home plate is from the outfield wall in Sportsman's Park. Most great distances in my life were measured by that wall. Pappy's truck was parked in the front.
"We'd better go around this way," she said calmly, as if she'd led many such raids. We sank into the cotton and followed one row and then another as we silently moved in a great semicircle through their crops. In most places, their cotton was almost as tall as I was. When we came to a gap where the stalks were thin, we stopped and studied the terrain. There was a faint light in the back room of the house, the room where they kept Libby. When we were directly east of it, we began cutting across rows of cotton, very quietly moving toward the house.
The chances of someone seeing us were slim. We weren't expected, of course, and they were thinking of other matters. And the crops were thick and dark at night; a kid could crawl on hands and knees through the stalks without ever being seen.
My partner in crime moved deftly, as ably as any soldier I'd seen in the movies. She kept her eyes on the house and carefully brushed the stalks aside, always clearing a path for me. Not a word was spoken. We took our time, slowly advancing on the side of the house. The cotton grew close to the narrow dirt yard, and when we were ten rows away, we settled in a spot and surveyed the situation.
We could hear the Latcher kids gathered near our pickup, which was parked as far away from the front porch as possible. My father and Mr. Latcher sat on the tailgate, talking softly. The children were quiet, and then they all talked at once. Everyone seemed to be waiting, and after a few minutes I got the impression they'd been waiting for a long time.
Before us was the window, and from our hiding place we were closer to the action than the rest of the Latchers and my father. And we were wonderfully hidden from everything; a searchlight from the roof of the house could not have spotted us.
There was a candle on a table of some sort just inside the window. The women moved around, and judging from the shadows that rose and fell, I figured there were several candles in the room. The light was dim, the shadows heavy.
"Let's move forward," Tally whispered. By then we'd been there for five minutes, and though I was frightened, I didn't think we would ever get caught.
We advanced ten feet, and then nestled down in another safe place.
"This is close enough," I said.
"Maybe."
The light from the room fell to the ground outside. The window had no screen, no curtains. As we waited, my heart slowed, and my breathing returned to normal. My eyes focused on the surroundings, and I began to hear the sounds of the night-the crickets' chorus, the bullfrogs croaking down by the river, the murmuring of the deep voices of the men in the distance.