"We keep our secrets, remember?" she said, moving away.
"Yeah."
I ate lunch quickly, then hurried about the task of getting myself scrubbed and bathed. My mother knew I was anxious to get to town, so she wasted no time with her scouring.
All ten Mexicans piled into the back of the truck with me and my father, and we pulled away from our farm. Cowboy had picked cotton all week with broken ribs, a fact that had not gone unnoticed by Pappy and my father. They admired him greatly. "They're tough people," Pappy had said.
The Spruills were scurrying about, trying to catch us. Tally had spread the word about the carnival, and even Trot seemed to be moving with a purpose.
When we crossed the river, I looked long and hard down the field road that led to the Latchers' place, but their little shack was not visible. I glanced at my father. He was looking, too, his eyes hard, almost angry. How could those people have intruded into our lives?
We crept along the gravel road, and soon the Latcher fields were behind us. By the time we stopped at the highway, I was once again dreaming of the carnival.
Our driver, of course, would never get in a hurry. With the truck so loaded with people, I doubted if it would do thirty-seven, and Pappy certainly didn't push it. It took an hour, it seemed.
Stick's patrol car was parked by the Baptist church. Traffic on Main was already slow, the sidewalks brimming with activity. We parked, and the Mexicans scattered. Stick appeared from under a shade tree and walked straight for us. Gran and my mother headed for the stores. I hung back with the men, certain that serious matters were about to be discussed.
"Howdy, Eli. Jesse," Stick said, his hat tilted to one side, a blade of grass in the corner of his mouth.
"Afternoon, Stick," Pappy said. My father just nodded. They had not come to town to spend time with Stick, and their irritation was just under the surface.
"A Painted House"
"I'm thinkin' 'bout arrestin' that Spruill boy," he said.
"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 gun sights 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!
"A Painted House"
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.