A Painted House Read Online Free PDF

back to the barn, making no move to acknowledge us. I could see him watching my mother from under the brim of his hat. It frightened me for a second; then I realized Jesse Chandler would snap Cowboy’s skinny little neck if he made one wrong move.
    We had learned a lot about the Mexicans the year before. They did not eat butter beans, snap beans, squash, eggplant, or turnips, but preferred tomatoes, onions, potatoes, peppers, and corn. And they would never ask for food from our garden. It had to be offered.
    My mother explained to Miguel and the other men that our garden was full and that she would bring them vegetables every other day. They were not expected to pay for the food. It was part of the package.
    We took another basket to the front of the house, where Camp Spruill seemed to be expanding by the hour. They had crept even farther across the yard, and therewere more cardboard boxes and burlap sacks strewn about. They’d laid three planks across a box on one end and a barrel on the other to make a table, and they were crowded around it eating dinner when we approached them. Mr. Spruill got to his feet and shook my father’s hand.
    “Leon Spruill,” he said with food on his lip. “Nice to meet you.”
    “Happy to have you folks here,” my father said pleasantly.
    “Thank you,” Mr. Spruill said, pulling up his pants. “This here is my wife, Lucy.” She smiled and kept chewing slowly.
    “This is my daughter, Tally,” he said, pointing. When she looked at me, I could feel my cheeks burning.
    “And these are my nephews, Bo and Dale,” he said, nodding to the two boys who’d been resting on the mattress when they had stopped on the highway. They were teenagers, probably fifteen or so. And sitting next to them was the giant I’d first seen on the tailgate, half-asleep.
    “This is my son Hank,” Mr. Spruill said. Hank was at least twenty and was certainly old enough to stand up and shake hands. But he kept eating. Both jaws were ballooned with what appeared to be corn bread. “He eats a lot,” Mr. Spruill said, and we tried to laugh.
    “And this here is Trot,” he said. Trot never looked up. His limp left arm hung by his side. He clutched a spoon with his right hand. His standing in the family was left undeclared.
    My mother presented the large basket of vegetables, and for a second, Hank stopped his chomping and looked up at the fresh supply. Then he returned to his beans. “The tomatoes and corn are especially good thisyear,” my mother was saying. “And there’s plenty. Just let me know what you like.”
    Tally chewed slowly and stared at me. I studied my feet.
    “That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am,” Mr. Spruill said, and Mrs. Spruill added a quick thanks. There was no danger of the Spruills going without food, not that they had missed any meals. Hank was burly with a thick chest that narrowed only slightly where it met his neck. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill were both stocky and appeared strong. Bo and Dale were lean but not thin. Tally, of course, was perfectly proportioned. Only Trot was gaunt and skinny.
    “Didn’t mean to interrupt dinner,” my father said, and we began backing away.
    “Thanks again,” Mr. Spruill said.
    I knew from experience that within a short time we would know more than we wanted about the Spruills. They would share our land, our water, our outhouse. We would take them vegetables from the garden, milk from Isabel, eggs from the coop. We would invite them to town on Saturday and to church on Sunday. We would work beside them in the fields from sunrise until almost dark. And when the picking was over, they would leave and return to the hills. The trees would turn, winter would come, and we would spend many cold nights huddled around the fire telling stories about the Spruills.
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    Dinner was potatoes, sliced thin and fried, boiled okra, corn on the cob, and hot corn bread—but no meats because it was almost fall, and because we’d had aroast the day