A Painted House by John Grisham

with the field hands. It squeaked and rattled away from the house, past the barn, down the field road, and was finally lost among the rows of cotton. I couldn’t help but wonder whether Tally and Cowboy were making eyes at each other. If I found the courage, I would ask my mother about this.
    When I walked to the mattress, Trot was lying perfectly still with his eyes closed. He didn’t appear to be breathing.
    “Trot,” I said loudly, suddenly terrified that he had died on my watch.
    He opened his eyes, and very slowly sat up and looked at me. Then he glanced around, as if to make certain we were alone. His withered left arm wasn’tmuch thicker than a broom handle, and it hung from his shoulder without moving much. His black hair shot out in all directions.
    “Are you okay?” I asked. I’d yet to hear him speak, and I was curious to know if he could do so.
    “I guess,” he grunted, his voice thick and his words blurred. I couldn’t tell if he had a speech impediment or if he was just tired and dazed. He kept looking around to make sure everyone else was gone, and it occurred to me that perhaps Trot had been faking a bit. I began to admire him.
    “Does Tally like baseball?” I asked, one of a hundred questions I wanted to drill him with. I thought it was a simple question, but he was overcome by it and immediately closed his eyes and rolled to one side, then curled his knees to his chest and began another nap.
    A breeze rustled the top of the pin oak. I found a thick, grassy spot in the shade near his mattress, and stretched out. Watching the leaves and branches high above, I considered my good fortune. The rest of them were sweating in the sun as time crept along. For a moment I tried to feel guilty, but it didn’t work. My luck was only temporary, so I decided to enjoy it.
    As did Trot. While he slept like a baby, I watched the sky. Soon, though, boredom hit. I went to the house to get a ball and my baseball glove. I threw myself pop flies near the front porch, something I could do for hours. At one point I caught seventeen in a row.
    Throughout the afternoon, Trot never left the mattress. He would sleep, then sit up and look around, then watch me for a moment. If I tried to strike up aconversation, he usually rolled over and continued his nap. At least he wasn’t dying.
    The next casualty from the cotton patch was Hank. He ambled in late in the day, walking slowly and complaining about the heat. Said he needed to check on Trot.
    “I picked three hundred pounds,” he said, as if this would impress me. “Then the heat got me.” His face was red with sunburn. He wore no hat, which said a lot about his intelligence. Every head was covered in the fields.
    He looked Trot over for a second, then went to the back of the truck and began rummaging through their boxes and sacks like a starving bear. He crammed a cold biscuit into his huge mouth, then stretched out under the tree.
    “Fetch me some water, boy,” he growled abruptly in my direction.
    I was too surprised to move. I’d never heard a hill person give an order to one of us. I wasn’t sure what to do. But he was grown, and I was just a kid.
    “Sir?” I said.
    “Fetch me some water!” he repeated, his voice rising.
    I was certain they had water stored somewhere among their things. I took a very awkward step toward their truck. This upset him.
    “Cold water, boy! From the house. And hurry! I been workin’ all day. You ain’t.”
    I rushed into the house, to the kitchen, where Gran kept a gallon jug of water in the refrigerator. My hands shook as I poured the water into a glass. I knew that when I reported this, it would cause trouble. My father would have words with Leon Spruill.
    I handed Hank the glass. He drained it quickly, smacked his lips, then said, “Gimme another glass.”
    Trot was sitting and watching this. I ran back to the house and refilled it. When Hank finished the second, he spat near my feet. “You’re a good boy,” he said,