A Painted House by John Grisham

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.

Chapter 8
    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