By the time I had lubed Red Hannah and given her enough fuel and water, that sun was slipping up behind the trees. When I came back down the quarter, I saw John and Freddie waiting for me in front of John’s house. John and Freddie were two punks. John was the big punk, Freddie was the little one. Together they pulled more corn than any other two men I had ever seen; in church on Sunday they shouted more than any two women. The funny thing about it, John and Freddie were ushers in church and they were supposed to look after the women when the women started shouting. But it always ended up with everybody else looking after John and Freddie. A couple of good-size women could hold down Freddie when he started shouting, but it always took seven or eight men to hold down big John.
John and Freddie hopped in the trailer before the tractor had stopped good. Then, as I came farther down the quarter, I saw Playboy Marcus coming out the yard. He had on a short-sleeve green shirt and a pair of brown pants. No hat—not even a handkerchief round his neck. He had on a pair of brown and white dress shoes.
“Where the hell you think you’re going in that?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer me; he didn’t even glance my way. He got in the front trailer because John and Freddie were in the other one. John and Freddie, in their big straw hats and khakis, were looking at him. They wanted to laugh (they were the laughing-est two you ever saw), but you could see they were afraid of him.
“You better get back in there, boy, and put something else on,” I told Marcus.
He didn’t move.
“There’s a hat in my room on that armoire, Marcus,” I said.
He still didn’t move. I jumped off the tractor and ran inside to get the straw hat because I was already late. While I was in there I got a khaki shirt too and brought it out and threw it in the trailer where he was. He didn’t pick up either one; he didn’t even glance down at them; he just stood there with his arms folded and his back against the side of the trailer.
I put Red Hannah in gear and started out for the field. The whole quarter was up now. The people who didn’t have to go in the field for Marshall Hebert were getting ready to go out in their own little patches. Besides corn-pulling time, this was the cotton-picking season, too. And most of the women you saw now wore old dresses and big yellow straw hats with a piece of rag or handkerchief under the hat.
The plantation (or what was left of the plantation now) had all its crop far back in the field. The front land was for the sharecroppers. The Cajuns had the front-est and best land, and the colored people (those who were still hanging on) had the middle and worst land. The plantation land was farther back still, almost to the swamps. We had to pass through three different gates, through a cow pasture (in the early morning the cows were lazy and didn’t want to move out your way), before we got to the patch of corn where we were working today.
I parked the end-trailer up the headland, then I swung Red Hannah down a set of rows. John and Freddie took the two side rows and gave Marcus the flat row in the middle. That was the easiest row because the corn was already down and all you had to do was walk there and jerk it off the stalk. But even giving Marcus the easiest row, they knew they could kill him off any time they wanted to. They started slow, just talking and giggling between the two of them. “Child, you know this; child, you know that—” and then all of a sudden they would bust out laughing at something that only they knew about. But Marcus, back of the trailer in his short-sleeve green shirt and brown pants, wasn’t saying a thing. The hat and the long-sleeve khaki shirt I had brought out the house were still in the trailer where I had thrown them.
“Just wait,” I thought. “Just wait. Before this day is over—hah …”
Marcus stuck pretty close with John and Freddie on the first trailer, but soon as we had loaded it and started on the second one, I could see them picking up speed. They weren’t going fast—no, that was coming later this evening when Bonbon was out there. Right now they were going about three-fourths, the way a good pitcher go in the sixth or seventh inning when he’s leading by a comfortable amount of runs. But even that three-fourths speed was starting to tell on Marcus. Already he was starting to jerk on one ear of corn two or three times before he broke it from the stalk. Couple times there he dropped so far back, he couldn’t even reach the trailer throwing the corn overhand.
The best way to pull corn is snatch it with one jerk and flip it underhand into the trailer or the wagon. But when you get so far back where you can’t go underhand, then you got to go overhand, and that’s when it start telling on you. Because to draw that corn back over your shoulder and throw it like that, you use twice the energy. And I don’t care how good you are, how strong you are, by the time you go a day like that it’s going to be telling on you. So it was like that with Marcus. Each time he threw it from over his shoulder, it took just a little bit more from what he was going to need the rest of the day. And that whiskey he had drunk last night and that pussy he had wallowed in last night, and that no-sleeping and that no-eating and that short-sleeve green shirt and them thin, brown pants and that white, hot bitch way up in the sky were all working together against him to make matters worse. Every now and then I stopped when he got too far back. While I’d be waiting for him to catch up, John and Freddie would get together on the shady side of the trailer and talk and giggle and slap each other on the back like they hadn’t seen each other in about ten years. Then soon as he had caught up, they would move back on their rows, never giving him one second of rest. By the time we had finished that second load, Marcus was so tired I thought he was going to drop before he got up on the trailer. But he made it, and we hooked up the other trailer and started toward the front for dinner.