Oh Lord, Hammer griped, almost like somebody suffering in a church pew, do we have a lot to do here. Look at all this. He stepped around a leak dripping from the ceiling to survey the disorganized, musty space, and then, overwhelmed, made a gesture with his hand first toward the crew, then toward the chaos, implying that somehow the two should interact. Get to work, y’all, he told them. He scampered toward the garage doors, and after a few moments Eddie smelled cigarette smoke floating in from his general direction.
The crew milled around in confusion until Eddie suggested to Tuck and Hannibal that maybe they should start organizing the place by putting like things with like, exactly the phrase he’d heard a teacher use in grade school. In minutes, the three of them were delegating various responsibilities to the rest of the crew members; some of them piling hoes and shovels near one another, separating the useful ones from the broken ones, others taking inventory of bags of lime and concrete, a few more stacking paint cans, sweeping, and clearing out floor space. Eddie found a stash of lightbulbs and decided to replace the many broken lights on the three tractors stored in that particular garage (and later many others) and to patch up part of the paint job on one of them.
The spirit of cooperation and focus produced a nearly joyful frame of mind in the group, raising the collective mood despite the worsening weather. For the first time in weeks, Tuck broke out in song. His version of Robert Johnson’s “I Believe I’ll Dust My Broom” perfected the song’s bittersweet quality, and some of the other guys joined in, responding either with grunts and encouragement or by trying to learn the melody and sing along as Tuck gained conviction and roared each new stanza a little bit louder and gruffer. Then he and everybody else, to the extent that they could follow, sang “Struggling Blues,” “Disgusted Blues,” and “Troubled ’Bout My Mother.” At times Tuck sang directly to Eddie, the lyrics standing in for what he could never express directly. But then Hammer came back into the garage and waved his hands disapprovingly without saying anything coherent. He adopted a pained look that gave everybody the impression that they all had to stop singing not because of any imminent punishment but because they had screwed up by finding a way to make the work bearable. Nevertheless, the crew had discovered a secret portal to escape the tyranny of their superiors, and Tuck continued to lead them in singing the blues whenever possible; someone else would lead them less effectively when Tuck wasn’t available.
One afternoon they’d journeyed out to pick carrots, a grueling, thankless task, especially since few of the vegetables had grown very large or looked particularly healthy once you shook the dirt off the plants. Eddie sometimes heard other workers complain that some of the produce ought to go to feed them, and some folks would sneak a bite of something whenever they could, despite the strict rules against it, and How’s assertion that he had once fined somebody four hundred dollars for biting a sweet potato—and not even a clean one. It sounded like bravado, but Eddie wouldn’t have put it past him.
By midafternoon, the temperature leveled off. A parade of cumulus clouds lunged across the sky, occasionally providing shade in the middle of the vast flat field. Eddie could just make out the nearest line of taller trees if he squinted into the hazy distance.
Hammer had parked the school bus in the field, its cab pointed in Eddie’s direction as he trudged toward it, his tub halfway full. He approached and walked down one flank, hearing voices reverberating inside. Only when he turned the corner to hand his harvest to someone did he notice Sextus’s well-maintained antique tractor parked behind the truck, and Sextus himself at the helm, spine erect as a porch support, gripping the wheel as one might a horse’s reins.
Eddie failed to make himself invisible.
Hey, Sixteen, Sextus called out.
Eddie froze. He looked back and forth at Sextus and at Hammer, who stood by the truck counting tubs and dumping their contents into the payload, for confirmation that he could respond without repercussions; it seemed to be the case since Hammer didn’t register any concern. But by that time, he’d taken too long to reply.
Why’s your bin half empty, Sixteen?
All these carrots are heavy, sir, he explained halfheartedly, at a low volume.
Sextus asked him to repeat it twice. It came as a surprise to Eddie, but not a relief to his wounded pride, that the boss responded with hearty laughter rather than punishment. Later he wondered whether Sextus had heard him the first time and asked him to say the phrase again just for his own entertainment.
I work fast, he said.
This set Sextus laughing harder.
Even Hammer could not deny Eddie’s ability, though. He do, he said, as if trying to jam a plug into Sextus’s laughter.
I hear you also fixed all thesyer taillights and such. You’s a good fix-it man?
I reckon.
I got some stuff up the house could use some fixin.
Maybe I can fix it.
What’s the biggest thing you ever fixed, son?
A TV.
The sound of Sextus’s laughter slapped back out over the field. A TV! Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! That so?
Yes, sir.
How’s about I come get you tomorrow and you have a look at some of what’s broke up there. I got one of thesyer new computers and I’ll be dang if me or Elmunda or anybody up the house can get it to print. You think you can handle that, Sixteen?
Nothing beats a try but a failure, Eddie said.
What Sextus called tomorrow turned into ten days, but eventually the boss came looking for him in the chicken house—in his own vehicle, not the usual tractor. In the interim, Eddie had discussed with his mother the possibility of his going to the main house, and to his distress, she’d insisted on going with him, refusing to let him go alone.