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“That’s him,” was the reply.

“He’s almost as big as Samson.”

He was a few inches shorter, and not as thick in the chest, but Hank seemed oblivious to any danger. Samson started dancing around on one side of the ring while Hank watched him and stretched his arms.

“Are you ready?” Delilah wailed into the microphone, and the crowd pressed forward. She hit the bell. Both fighters eyed each other fiercely. Hank stayed in his corner, though. The clock was on his side. After a few seconds, Samson, whom I suspected knew he had his hands full, waded in, dancing and juking and bobbing like a real wrestler is supposed to do. Hank was still. “Come on out, boy!” Samson boomed from five feet away, but Hank kept to his corner. “Forty-five seconds,” Delilah said.

Samson’s mistake was to assume that it was a wrestling match, instead of a brawl. He came in low, in an effort to apply one of his many grips or holds, and for a split second left his face open. Hank struck like a rattler. His right hand shot forward with a punch that was almost too quick to be seen, and it landed flush on the mighty Samson’s jaw.

Samson’s head jerked sharply, his handsome hair slung in all directions. The impact caused a cracking sound. Stan Musial could not have hit a baseball any harder.

Samson’s eyes rolled back in his gigantic head. Because of its size, it took Samson’s body a second to realize that its head had been crippled. One leg went woozy and bent at the knee. Then the other leg collapsed, and the World’s Greatest Wrestler, Direct from Egypt, landed on his back with a thud. The small ring bounced and its ropes shook. Samson appeared to be dead.

Hank relaxed in his corner by placing his arms on the top ropes. He was in no hurry. Poor Delilah was speechless. She tried to say something to assure us that this was just part of the exhibition, but at the same time she wanted to jump into the ring and tend to Samson. The crowd was stunned. In the center of the ring, Samson began groaning and trying to get to his feet. He made it to his hands and knees, and rocked back and forth a few times before he managed to pull a foot forward. With one great lurch he tried to stand, but his feet weren’t with him. He lunged toward the ropes and managed to catch them to break his fall. He was looking directly at us, but the poor guy saw nothing. His eyes were red and wild, and he seemed to have no idea where he was. He hung on the ropes, tottering, trying to regain his senses, still searching for his feet.

Mr. Horsefly Walker ran up to the ring and yelled to Hank, “Kill the sonofabitch! Go ahead, finish him off!”

But Hank didn’t move. Instead, he just yelled, “Time!” but Delilah had forgotten about the clock. There were a few cheers and jeers from the crowd, but for the most part, it was subdued. The spectators were shocked at the sight of Samson floundering, his senses knocked out of him. Samson turned and tried to focus his eyes on Hank. Clutching the ropes for support, he stumbled a couple of steps, then made one last, desperate lunge. Hank simply ducked out of the way, and Samson landed hard on the corner pole. The ropes strained with his weight and the other three poles seemed ready to break. Samson was groaning and thrashing about like a bear who’d been shot. He

pulled his feet under him and steadied himself enough to turn around. He should’ve stayed on the mat. Hank darted in and threw an overhand right, a punch that began in the center of the ring and landed exactly where the first one did. Since his target was defenseless, he reloaded and landed a third and final blow. Samson went down in a heap. Delilah screamed and scrambled into the ring. Hank relaxed in his corner, arms on the top ropes, grinning, no concern whatsoever for his opponent.

I wasn’t sure what to do, and most of the other spectators were quiet, too. On the one hand, it was good to see an Arkansas boy so thoroughly crush this Egyptian giant. But on the other hand, it was Hank Spruill, and he’d used his fists. His victory was tainted, not that it mattered to him. All of us would’ve felt better if a local boy had battled Samson evenly.

When Hank was certain that time had expired, he stepped through the ropes and jumped to the ground. Bo and Dale had the money, and the three of them disappeared.

“He done killed Samson,” someone behind me said. The World’s Greatest Wrestler was flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide, his woman crouched over him, trying to wake him. I felt sony for them. They were wonderfully colorffil, an act we wouldn’t see again for a long time, if ever. In fact, I doubted if Samson and Delilah would ever return to Black Oak, Arkansas.

When he sat up, we relaxed. A handful of good folks clapped softly for him, then the crowd began to break up.

Why couldn’t Hank join the carnival? He could get paid for beating up people, and it would get him off our farm. I decided to mention it to Tally.

Poor Samson had worked hard all day in the heat, and in a split second had lost the day’s wages. What a way to make a living. I’d finally seen a worse job than picking cotton.

Chapter 19

In the spring and winter, Sunday afternoons were often used as a time for visiting. We’d finish lunch and take our naps, then load into the pickup and drive to Lake City or Paragould and drop in completely unannounced on some relatives or old friends, who’d always be delighted to see us. Or perhaps they’d drop in on us. “Y’all come see us” was the common phrase, and folks took it literally. No arrangements or forewarnings were necessary, or even possible. We didn’t have a telephone and neither did our relatives or friends.

But visiting was not a priority in the late summer and fall because the work was heavier and the afternoons were so hot. We forgot about aunts and uncles for a time, but we knew we’d catch up later.

I was sitting on the front porch, listening to the Cardinals and watching my mother and Gran shell peas and butter beans, when I saw a cloud of dust coming from the bridge. “Car’s comin’,” I said, and they looked in that direction.

Traffic on our road was rare. It was almost always one of the Jeters from across the way or one of the Tollivers east of us. Occasionally a strange car or truck would pass, and we’d watch it without a word until the dust had settled, then we’d talk about it over dinner and speculate as to who it was and what they were doing in our part of Craighead County. Pappy and my father would mention it

at the Co-op, and my mother and Gran would tell all the ladies before Sunday school, and sooner or later they’d find someone else who’d seen the strange vehicle. Usually the mystery was solved, but occasionally one passed through and we never found out where it came from.

This car moved slowly. I saw a hint of red that grew bigger and brighter, and before too long a shiny two-door sedan was turning into our driveway. The three of us were now standing on the porch, too surprised to move. The driver parked behind our pickup. From the front yard the Spruills were gawking, too.

The driver opened his door and got out. Gran said, “Well, it’s Jimmy Dale.”

“It certainly is,” my mother said, losing some of her anticipation.

“Luke, run and get Pappy and your father,” Gran said. I sprinted through the house yelling for the men, but they’d heard the door slam and were coming from the backyard.

We all met in front of the car, which was new and clean and undoubtedly the most beautiful vehicle I’d ever seen. Everybody hugged and shook hands and exchanged greetings, then Jimmy Dale introduced his new wife, a thin little thing who looked younger than Tally. Her name was Stacy. She was from Michigan, and when she spoke her words came through her nose. She clipped them quickly and efficiently, and within seconds she made my skin crawl.

“Why does she talk like that?” I whispered to my mother as the group moved to the porch. “She’s a Yankee” was the simple explanation.

Jimmy Dale’s father was Ernest Chandler, Pappy’s older brother. Ernest had farmed in Leachville until a heart attack killed him a few years earlier. I did not personally remember Ernest, or Jimmy Dale, though I’d heard plenty of stories about them. I knew that Jimmy Dale had fled the farm and migrated to Michigan, where he found a job in a Buick factory making three dollars an hour, an unbelievable wage by Black Oak standards. He’d helped other local boys get good jobs up there. Two years earlier, after another bad crop, my father had spent a miserable winter in Flint, putting windshields into new Buicks. He’d brought home a thousand dollars and had spent it all on outstanding farm debts.

“That’s some car,” my father said as they sat on the front steps. Gran was in the kitchen making iced tea. My mother had the unpleasant task of chatting up Stacy, a misfit from the moment she stepped out of the car.

“Brand new,” Jimmy Dale said proudly. “Got it last week, just in time to drive home. Me and Stacy here got married a month ago, and that’s our wedding present.”

“Stacy and I got married, not me and Stacy,” said the new wife, cutting in from across the porch. There was a slight pause in the conversation as the rest of us absorbed the fact that Stacy had just corrected her husband’s grammar in the presence of others. I’d never heard this before in my life. “Is it a fifty-two?” Pappy asked.

“No, it’s a fifty-three, newest thing on the road. Built it myself”

“You don’t say.”

“Yep. Buick lets us custom order our own cars, then we get to watch when they come down the line. I put the dashboard in that one.”

“How much did it cost?” I asked, and I thought my mother would come for my throat. “Luke!” she shouted. My father and Pappy cast hard looks at me, and I was about to say something when Jimmy Dale blurted out, “Twenty-seven hundred dollars. It’s no secret. Every dealer in the country knows how much they cost.”

By now the Spruills had drifted over and were inspecting the car- every Spruill but Tally, who was nowhere to be seen. It was Sunday afternoon and time, in my way of thinking, for a cool bath at Siler’s Creek. I had been hanging around the porch waiting for her to appear.

Trot waddled around the car while Bo and Dale circled it, too. Hank was peering inside, probably looking for the keys. Mr. and Mrs. Spruill were admiring it from a distance.

Jimmy Dale watched them carefully. “Hill people?”

“Yeah, they’re from Eureka Springs.”

“Nice folks?”

“For the most part,” Pappy said.

“What’s that big one doin’?”

“You never know.”

We’d heard at church that morning that Samson had eventually gotten to his feet and walked from the ring, so Hank had not added another casualty to his list. Brother Alcers had preached for an hour on the sinfulness of the carnival-wagering, fighting, lewdness, vulgar costumes, mingling with gypsies, all sorts of filth. Dewayne and I listened to every word, but our names were never mentioned.

“Why do they live like that?” Stacy asked, looking at Camp Spruill. Her crisp words knifed through the air.

“How else could they live?” Pappy asked. He, too, had already made the decision that he did not like the new Mrs. Jimmy Dale Chandler. She sat perched like a little bird on the edge of a rocker, looking down on everything around her.

“Can’t you provide housing for them?” she asked.

I could tell that Pappy was starting to burn.

“Anyway, Buick’ll let us finance the cars for twenty-four months,” Jimmy Dale said.

“Is that so?” said my father, still staring at it. “I think that’s ‘bout the finest car I’ve ever seen.” Gran brought a tray to the porch and served tall glasses of iced tea with sugar. Stacy declined. “Tea with ice,” she said. “Not for me. Do you have any hot tea?”

Hot tea? Who’d ever heard of such foolishness?

“No, we don’t drink hot tea around here,” Pappy said from his swing as he glared at Stacy. “Well, up in Michigan we don’t drink it with ice,” she said.

“This ain’t Michigan,” Pappy shot back.

“Would you like to see my garden?” my mother said abruptly.

“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Jimmy Dale said. “Go on, sweetheart, Kathleen has the prettiest garden in Arkansas.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gran said in an effort to shove the girl off the porch and away from controversy. The three women disappeared, and Pappy waited just long enough to say, “Where in God’s name did you find her, Jimmy Dale?”

“She’s a sweet girl, Uncle Eli,” he answered without much conviction.

“She’s a damned Yankee.”

“Yankees aint so bad. They were smart enough to avoid cotton. They live in nice houses with indoor plumbing and telephones and televisions. They make good money and they build good schools. Stacy’s had two years of college. Her family’s had a television for three years. Just last week I watched the Indians and Tigers on it. Can you believe that, Luke? Watching baseball on television.”

“No sir.”

“Well, I did. Bob Lemon pitched for the Indians. Tigers ain’t much; they’re in last place again.” “I don’t much care for the American League,” I said, repeating words I’d heard my father and grandfather say since the day I started remembering.

“What a surprise,” Jimmy Dale said with a laugh. “Spoken like a true Cardinal fan. I was the same way till I went up North. I’ve been to eleven games this year in Tiger Stadium, and the American League kinda grows on you. Yankees were in town two weeks ago; place was sold out. They got this new guy, Mickey Mantle, ‘bout as smooth as I’ve seen. Good power, great speed, strikes out a lot, but when he hits it, it’s gone. He’ll be a great one. And they got Berra and Rizzuto.”

“I still hate ‘em,” I said, and Jimmy Dale laughed again.

“You still gonna play for the Cardinals?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“You aint gonna farm?”

“No sir.”

“Smart boy.”

I’d heard the grown-ups talk about Jimmy Dale. He was quite smug that he’d managed to flee the cotton patch and make a better living up North. He liked to talk about his money. He’d found the better life and was quick with his advice to other farm boys around the county.

Pappy thought that farming was the only honorable way a man should work, with the possible exception of playing professional baseball.

We sipped our tea for a while, then Jimmy Dale said, “So how’s the cotton?”

“So far so good,” Pappy said. “The first pickin’ went well.”

“Now we’ll go through it again,” my father added. “Probably be done in a month or so.” Tally emerged from the depths of Camp Spruill, holding a towel or some type of cloth. She circled

wide around the red car, where her family still stood entranced; they didn’t notice her. She looked at me from the distance but made no sign. I was suddenly bored with baseball and cotton and cars and such, but I couldn’t just race off. It would be rude to leave company in such a manner, and my father would suspect something. So I sat there and watched Tally disappear past the house. “How’s Luther?” my father asked.