Читать книгу Red Earth White Earth - Will Weaver - Страница 18

8

“Niggers,” Jewell Hartmeir said from underneath the tractor, “they’ve taken over everything from Des Moines, Iowa, south. That’s why we came up here. Cheap land and no niggers.”

Martin grunted and pulled harder on the chain hoist. Guy and Tom and Mary Ann sat on Martin’s tractor. Guy operated the hydraulic loader that supported the Hartmeir Massey-Ferguson. They were in Hartmeir’s field. Guy’s father was helping to fix the front axle of the Hartmeir tractor. Billy, or maybe it was Bob, had been harrowing at road-gear speed. The front tractor tires hit a large stone, the axle snapped, the tractor flipped onto its side and threw either Billy or Bob fifteen feet out into the soft dirt of the field. Since neither would admit to being the driver, Jewell had whipped them both with a cattle cane. Now the two boys stood stiffly on either side of the tractor. From a long arm’s reach they handed their father wrenches and sockets and pry bars.

“Should have bought a new axle,” Martin said again. “That weld might not hold.”

“Some people ain’t got a hundred bucks,” Hartmeir replied. “Besides, my own daddy showed me how to weld.” He fit the socket onto another nut.

Martin was silent.

“But the niggers,” Hartmeir continued, “I could tolerate working with niggers when I had to. But not for niggers. Take that last place we farmed. No crop two years in a row. But that didn’t matter to the landowner. If we were a day late with the payment, we’d get a letter the next day. Never saw who it was we gave our money to. Didn’t think it mattered at the time. But then we got behind, couldn’t make the payments. Got letter after letter. Finally the owner comes out to the farm. Drives a big Lincoln. A hundred degrees outside and the windows are rolled up. Air-conditioning. He gets out of the car. A big nigger, he was. Purple as an eggplant. Wearing an expensive suit. At first I thought he was some kind of salesman. Then he serves us the papers. Turns out he’s an attorney from Atlanta who owns a lot of land he rents out to poor whites and other niggers. I looked at him. I said, ‘Mister, for two years this farm hasn’t grown any more cotton than fuzz on a baby’s cunt and now I know the reason why.’”

Guy and Tom snickered.

“Shut up,” Mary Ann said, and jabbed at them with her elbow.

Martin did not hear them because he had leaned over to stare at Hartmeir’s work.

“Tighten that third hub bolt more,” he said.

“I did.”

“Give it another turn,” Martin said.

Hartmeir spit but gave the nut another yank with the wrench.

“Course up here you got Indians,” Hartmeir said.

Beside him Guy felt Tom stiffen.

“Niggers, Indians,” Hartmeir said. “Throw ’em all in a toilet, flush it, and you can’t tell one turd from the other, they say.”

“I never met any coloreds,” Martin said, easing up on the chain hoist. “But I met lots of Indians and I know this. None of them want to work. They want everything handed to them while the rest of us work.”

Guy drew in his breath.

“Shall I let down the loader?” Guy called to his father.

“No,” his father said immediately and turned. He stared. He had forgotten they were there. He glanced beside Guy to Tom, who met his gaze. Martin looked back to the axle. “Not until everybody’s out from underneath—you know that.”

Guy knew that. He was thirteen now.

“That’s what I figured,” Hartmeir said. “Bunch of parasites on the rest of us. Indians probably steal like niggers too.”

“Don’t have much trouble with that,” Martin mumbled.

“I catch any of ’em around my place, I’ll let the air out of ’em in a hurry,” Hartmeir said. “No law against protecting yourself, least not down where I came from.”

Jewell Hartmeir climbed out from underneath the tractor and slapped a cloud of dust from his shin. Then he and Martin knelt to work on the chain-hoist bolts.

“I gotta go,” Tom said suddenly to Guy. He leaped down from the tractor and started across the field.

“Wait,” Guy said. He climbed off the tractor and ran after Tom.

“Let’s go to my house,” Guy said, grabbing his arm.

“Don’t want to,” Tom said, jerking away. He walked forward without looking back.

“Guy—give the chain some slack,” Martin called.

Guy stopped. Tom kept walking.

“Guy, goddammit!” Martin called.

Two days later Guy was harrowing the north forty with Helmer’s little orange Allis-Chalmers. He was not yet old enough to run the big tractor. But soon.

Tom rode with him perched on the fender. As soon as Guy was finished harrowing they were going to look for agates in the washout. Across Hank Schroeder’s field they could see the red Hartmeir Massey-Ferguson moving in and out of a cloud of dust. Occasionally its tall aluminum-colored rear wheels glinted dully through the dusty haze. The Hartmeir tractor made a round and a half to their one.

“Billy?” Guy called to Tom over the tractor’s noise.

“Bob,” Tom said.

“Bet?”

“Quarter.”

Guy nodded and began to circle the Allis-Chalmers farther north toward the fence, where they could see better. He was watching the harrow behind when Tom shouted and pointed across the field.

Dust drifted and thinned in the Hartmeir field. The red nose of the Massey-Ferguson lay on the ground below the big rear wheels. The tractor had overturned.

“Jesus!” Guy shouted. “Unhook the drag!”

Tom leaped to the ground. As Guy backed up, Tom unbuckled the clevis, then leaped aboard as Guy gunned the tractor down the fence line toward the road.

It took them five minutes at full throttle to reach the accident. And neither Guy nor Tom won the bet. It was not Billy nor Bob who lay pinned beneath his tractor.

“You sonsabitches help me!” Jewell Hartmeir shouted. Then he screamed. The tractor lay on its side, its engine across his legs. The hot engine block and exhaust manifold had charred his pants legs and Guy could smell burned meat. In the dirt, like the pattern of a brown snow angel, Hartmeir had tried with his hands to fan himself away from the tractor.

Jewell Hartmeir saw Tom. “You Indian bastard, what the hell are you standing there for—run—get Bub.”

“Bub’s dead,” Tom said softly.

Hartmeir’s eyes widened. Then he screamed long and loud.

“The chain—quick,” Guy shouted to Tom. Guy hooked the thin harrow chain onto the side of the Massey-Ferguson and began to pull with the Allis-Chalmers. The chain tightened. The Massey creaked an inch upward. Then the chain parted—a link hummed past Guy’s head like a spent rifle bullet—and Hartmeir screamed louder as the Massey rocked back onto his legs.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he shouted at Tom. “You niggers you Indians you’re trying to kill me I know that! All of you—you’re trying to do me in well it won’t work, I’ll get even with you sonsabitches!”

Guy shouted at Tom to step aside. Then he wheeled the little tractor forward toward the Massey. When its nose pushed against the Massey’s big rear wheel, he gunned the throttle. With the Allis he pushed the big tractor two inches upward. Then the wheels of the little Allis began to slip and spin and dig themselves down. He killed the engine and set the brake. Though the Massey was too heavy to push farther, he had taken some of the weight off Jewell Hartmeir. There was a full water bottle on the Allis. He threw it to Tom, then leaped down. “Give him water—I’ll run for help,” Guy shouted.

“Water,” Hartmeir groaned, and reached up for the bottle in Tom’s hands.

Guy ran.

By the time Martin and Helmer arrived with the big John Deere, the sheriff’s car was wailing toward the field. The Massey creaked upward. Jewell Hartmeir’s legs looked like burned steak. Martin and the deputy slid him, mumbling curses, onto the stretcher. Hartmeir groaned something.

“Shock,” the deputy said. He leaned closer to try and make out the words.

“Water,” Jewell Hartmeir groaned.

“Water?” the deputy said. “He wants water. Anybody got any water?”

Guy turned to Tom. “Is there water left?”

Tom nodded. He handed Guy the jug. From its weight Guy knew there was a lot of water left. He spun off the lid. The jar was still full.