“Nothing wrong with that,” Pappy said.

“They say that hillbilly is working out at your place.”

“I didn’t see the fight, Stick,” Pappy said, his quick temper already rising. “You got a name?”

“Hank something or other.”

“We got lots of somethings and others.”

“Mind if I ride out tomorrow and look around?” Stick asked.

“I can’t stop you.”

“No, you can’t.” Stick wheeled on his good leg and gave the Mexicans a look as if they were guilty as sin.

I eased around to the other side of the truck and said, “What was that all about?”

As usual, when it was something I was not supposed to know or hear, they simply ignored me.

We rode home in the dark, the lights of Black Oak fading behind us, the cool wind from the road blowing our hair. At first, I wanted to tell my father about the fight, but I couldn’t do it in front of the Mexicans. Then I decided not to be a witness. I wouldn’t tell anybody since there was no way to win. Any involvement with the Siscos would make my life dangerous, and I didn’t want the Spruills to get mad and leave. The picking had hardly begun, and I was already tired of it. And most important, I didn’t want Hank Spruill angry with me or my father or Pappy.

Their old truck was not in our front yard when we arrived home. They were still in town, probably visiting with other hill people.

After supper, we took our places on the porch as Pappy fiddled with his radio. The Cardinals were at Philadelphia, playing under the lights. Musial came to bat in the top of the second, and I began to dream.

We awoke at dawn Sunday to the crack of lightning and the rumble of low thunder. A storm blew from the southwest, delaying sunrise, and as I lay in the darkness of Ricky’s room, I again asked the great question of why it rained on Sundays. Why not during the week, so I wouldn’t be forced to pick cotton? Sunday was already a day of rest.

My grandmother came for me and told me to sit on the porch so we could watch the rain together. She fixed my coffee, mixing it with plenty of milk and sugar, and we rocked gently in the swing as the wind howled. The Spruills were scurrying about, throwing things in boxes, trying to find shelter away from their leaking tents.

The rain fell in waves, as if trying to make up for two weeks of dry weather. A mist swirled around the porch like a fog, and above us the tin roof sang under the torrents.

Gran carefully picked her moments to speak. There were times, usually once a week, when she would take me for a walk, or meet me on the porch, just the two of us. Because she’d been married to Pappy for thirty-five years, she’d learned the art of silence. She could walk or swing for long periods of time while saying little.

“How’s the coffee?” she asked, barely audible above the storm.

“It’s fine, Gran,” I said.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“Biscuits.”

“Then I’ll make us some biscuits.”

The Sunday routine was a little more relaxed. We generally slept later, though the rain had awakened us early today. And for breakfast we skipped the usual eggs and ham and somehow managed to survive on biscuits and molasses. The kitchen work was a little lighter. It was, after all, a day of rest.

The swing moved slowly back and forth, going nowhere, its rusty chains squeaking softly above us. Lightning popped across the road, somewhere on the Jeter property.

“I had a dream about Ricky last night,” she said.

“A good dream?”

“Yes, very good. I dreamed the war suddenly ended, but they forgot to tell us. And one night we were sitting here on the porch, listening to the radio, and out there on the road we saw a man running toward us. It was Ricky. He was in his army uniform, and he started yelling about the war being over.”

“I wish I could have a dream like that,” I said.

“I think the Lord’s telling us something.”

“Ricky’s coming home?”

“Yes. Maybe not right away, but the war’ll be over soon. We’ll look up one day and see him walking across the yard there.”

I looked at the yard. Puddles and streams were beginning to form and run down toward the Spruills. The grass was almost gone, and the wind was blowing the first of the dead leaves from our oaks.

“I pray for Ricky every night, Gran,” I said, quite proud.

“I pray for him every hour,” she said, with a hint of mist in her eyes.

We rocked and watched the rain. My thoughts about Ricky were rarely of a soldier in uniform, with a gun, under fire, hopping from one safe place to another. Rather, my memories were of my best friend, my uncle who was more like a brother, a buddy with a fishing pole or a baseball glove. He was only nineteen, an age that seemed both old and young to me.

Before long my mother came to the door. The Saturday bath was followed by the Sunday scrubbing, a quick but brutal ritual in which my neck and ears were scraped by a woman possessed. “We need to get ready,” she said. I could already feel the pain.

I followed Gran to the kitchen for more coffee. Pappy was at the kitchen table, reading the Bible and preparing his Sunday school lesson. My father was on the back porch, watching the storm and gazing into the distance at the river, no doubt beginning to worry that floodwaters were coming.

The rains stopped long before we left for church. The roads were muddy, and Pappy drove even slower than usual. We puttered along, sometimes sliding in the ruts and puddles of the old dirt road. My father and I were in the back, holding tightly to the sides of the bed, and my mother and Gran rode up front, everybody dressed in their best. The sky had cleared, and now the sun was overhead, already baking the wet ground so that you could see the humidity drifting lazily above the cotton stalks.

“It’s gonna be a hot one,” my father said, issuing the same forecast he uttered every day from May through September.

When we reached the highway, we stood and leaned on the cab so the wind was in our faces. It was much cooler that way. The fields were vacant; not even the Mexicans were allowed to work on the Sabbath. Every harvest season brought the same rumors of heathen farmers sneaking around and picking cotton on Sunday, but I personally had never witnessed such sinful behavior.

Most things were sinful in rural Arkansas, especially if you were a Baptist. And a great part of our Sunday worship ritual was to be preached at by the Reverend Akers, a loud and angry man who spent too much of his time conjuring up new sins. Of course, I didn’t care for the preaching-most kids didn’t-but there was more to Sunday church than worship. It was a time for visiting, and spreading news and gossip. It was a festive gathering, with everyone in good spirits, or at least pretending to be. Whatever the worries of the world-the coming floods, the war in Korea, the fluctuating price of cotton-they were all put aside during church.

The Lord didn’t intend for His people to worry, Gran always said, especially when we were in His house. This forever struck me as odd, because she worried almost as much as Pappy.

Other than the family and the farm, nothing was as important to us as the Black Oak Baptist Church. I knew every single person in our church, and they of course knew me. It was a family, for better or worse. Everybody loved one another, or at least professed to, and if one of our members was the slightest bit ill, then all manner of prayer and Christian caring poured forth. A funeral was a weeklong, almost holy event. The fall and spring revivals were planned for months and greatly anticipated. At least once a month we had some form of dinner-on-the-grounds-a potluck picnic under the trees behind the church-and these often lasted until late afternoon. Weddings were important, especially for the ladies, but they lacked the high drama of funerals and burials.