Free A Painted House by John Grisham Page A

said.
    “How’s Trot?” I asked.
    “Reckon he’ll be all right,” Mr. Spruill said. They were eating crackers and Vienna sausages, a favorite pick-me-up in the fields. Sitting next to Trot was Tally, who completely ignored me.
    “You got anything to eat, boy?” Hank suddenly demanded, his liquid eyes flashing at me. For a second I was too surprised to say anything. Mrs. Spruill shook her head and studied the ground.
    “Do you?” he demanded, shifting his weight so that he faced me squarely.
    “Uh, no,” I managed to say.
    “You mean ‘No sir,’ don’t you, boy?” he said angrily.
    “Come on, Hank,” Tally said. The rest of the family seemed to withdraw. All heads were lowered.
    “No sir,” I said.
    “No sir what?” His voice was sharper. It was obvious Hank enjoyed picking fights. They’d probably been through this many times.
    “No sir,” I said again.
    “You farm people are right uppity, you know that? You think you’re better than us hill folk ’cause you have this land and ’cause you pay us to work it. Ain’t that right, boy?”
    “That’s enough, Hank,” Mr. Spruill said, but he lacked conviction. I suddenly hoped Pappy or my father would appear. I was ready for these people to leave our farm.
    My throat constricted, and my lower lip began to shake. I was hurt and embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.
    Hank wasn’t about to be quiet. He reclined on an elbow, and with a nasty smile said, “We’re just one notch above them wetbacks, ain’t we, boy? Just hired labor. Just a bunch of hillbillies who drink moonshine and marry our sisters. Ain’t that right, boy?”
    He paused for a split second as if he really wanted me to respond. I was tempted to run away, but I just stared at my boots. The rest of the Spruills may have felt sorry for me, but none of them came to my rescue.
    “We got a house nicer than yours, boy. You believe that? A lot nicer.”
    “Quiet down, Hank,” Mrs. Spruill said.
    “It’s bigger, got a long front porch, got a tin roof without tar patches, and you know what else it’s got? You ain’t gonna believe this, boy, but our house’s got paint on it. White paint. You ever see paint, boy?”
    With that, Bo and Dale, the two teenagers who rarely made a sound, began chuckling to themselves, as if they wanted to appease Hank while not offending Mrs. Spruill.
    “Make him stop, Momma,” Tally said, and my humiliation was interrupted, if only for a second.
    I looked at Trot, and to my surprise he was resting on his elbows, his eyes as wide as I’d ever seen them, absorbing this one-sided little confrontation. He seemed to be enjoying it.
    Hank gave a goofy grin to Bo and Dale, and they laughed even louder. Mr. Spruill also looked amused now. Perhaps he’d been called a hillbilly once too often.
    “Why don’t you sodbusters paint your houses?” Hank boomed in my direction.
    The word “sodbusters’’ hit their nerves. Bo and Dale shook with laughter. Hank bellowed at his own punch line. The entire bunch seemed on the verge of knee-slapping when Trot said, with as much volume as he could muster, “Stop it, Hank!”
    His words were slurred slightly so that “Hank” came out “Hane,” but he was clearly understood by the rest of them. They were startled, and their little joke came to an abrupt end. Everyone looked at Trot, who was glaring at Hank with as much disgust as possible.
    I was on the verge of tears, so I turned and ran past the trailer and along the field road until I was safelyout of their sight. Then I ducked into the cotton and waited for friendly voices. I sat on the hot ground, surrounded by stalks four feet tall, and I cried, something I really hated to do.
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    The trailers from the better farms had tarps to hold the cotton and keep it from blowing onto the roads leading to the gin. Our old tarp was tied firmly in place, securing the fruits of our labor, ninety pounds of which had been picked by me over the past two