A Painted House Read Free Page B

time, in one wave after another. They spilled forth, emptying in front of the Co-op, and gathered on the sidewalk in small bewildered groups. They stretched and bent and looked around as if they had landed on another planet. I counted sixty-two of them. To my great disappointment, Juan was not there.
    They were several inches shorter than Pappy, very thin, and they all had black hair and brown skin. Each carried a little bag of clothing and supplies.
    Pearl Watson stood on the sidewalk in front of her store, hands on hips, glaring. They were her customers, and she certainly didn’t want them mistreated. I knew that before church on Sunday the ladies would be in an uproar again. And I knew my mother would quiz me as soon as we arrived home with our gang.
    Harsh words erupted between the man in charge of labor and the driver of the truck. Somebody down in Texas had, in fact, promised that the Mexicans would be shipped in a bus. This was the second load to arrive in a dirty trailer. Pappy never shied away from a fight, and I could tell he wanted to jump into the fray and finish off the truck driver. But he was also angry with the labor man, and I guess he saw no point in whipping both of them. We sat on the tailgate of our truck and waited for the dust to clear.
    When the yelling stopped, the paperwork began. The Mexicans clung together on the sidewalk in front of the Co-op. Occasionally, they would glance at us and the other farmers who were gathering along Main Street. Word was out—the new batch had arrived.
    Pappy got the first ten. The leader was Miguel. Heappeared to be the oldest and, as I noticed from my initial inspection, he had the only cloth bag. The rest of them carried their belongings in paper sacks.
    Miguel’s English was passable, but not nearly as good as Juan’s had been. I chatted him up while Pappy finished the paperwork. Miguel introduced me to the group. There was a Rico, a Roberto, a José, a Luis, a Pablo, and several I couldn’t understand. I remembered from a year earlier that it would take a week to distinguish among them.
    Although they were clearly exhausted, each of them seemed to make some effort to smile—except for one who sneered at me when I looked at him. He wore a western-style hat, which Miguel pointed to and said, “He thinks he’s a cowboy. So that’s what we call him.” Cowboy was very young, and tall for a Mexican. His eyes were narrow and mean. He had a thin mustache that only added to the fierceness. He frightened me so badly that I gave a passing thought to telling Pappy. I certainly didn’t want the man living on our farm for the weeks to come. But instead I just backed away.
    Our group of Mexicans followed Pappy down the sidewalk to Pop and Pearl’s. I trailed along, careful not to step close to Cowboy. Inside the store, I assumed my position near the cash register, where Pearl was waiting for someone to whisper to.
    “They treat them like animals,” she said.
    “Eli says they’re just happy to be here,” I whispered back. My grandfather was waiting by the door, arms folded across his chest, watching the Mexicans gather what few items they needed. Miguel was rattling instructions to the rest of them.
    Pearl was not about to criticize Eli Chandler. Butshe shot him a dirty look, though he didn’t see it. Pappy wasn’t concerned with either me or Pearl. He was fretting because the cotton wasn’t getting picked.
    “It’s just awful,” she said. I could tell Pearl couldn’t wait for us to clear out so she could find her church friends and again stir up the issue. Pearl was a Methodist.
    As the Mexicans, holding their goods, drifted to the cash register, Miguel gave each name to Pearl, who in turn opened a charge account. She rang up the total, entered the amount in a ledger by the worker’s name, then showed the entry to both Miguel and the customer. Instant credit, American style.
    They bought flour and shortening to make tortillas, lots of beans in both cans