“Wisht I wouldn’t think how it is home,” said Ma. “It ain’t our home no more. Wisht I’d forget it. An’ Noah.”
“He wasn’t ever right—I mean—well, it was my fault.”
“I tol’ you never to say that. Woudn’ a lived at all, maybe.”
“But I should a knowed more.”
“Now stop,” said Ma. “Noah was strange. Maybe he’ll have a nice time by the river. Maybe it’s better so. We can’t do no worryin’. This here is a nice place, an’ maybe you’ll get work right off.”
Pa pointed at the sky. “Look—more ducks. Big bunch. An’ Ma, ‘Winter’s a-comin’ early.”’
She chuckled. “They’s things you do, an’ you don’ know why.”
“Here’s John,” said Pa. “Come on an’ set, John.”
Uncle John joined them. He squatted down in front of Ma. “We didn’ get nowheres,” he said. “Jus’ run aroun’. Say, Al wants to see ya. Says he got to git a tire. Only one layer a cloth lef’, he says.”
Pa stood up. “I hope he can git her cheap. We ain’t got much lef’. Where is Al?”
“Down there, to the nex’ cross-street an’ turn right. Says gonna blow out an’ spoil a tube if we don’ get a new one.” Pa strolled away, and his eyes followed the giant V of ducks down the sky.
Uncle John picked a stone from the ground and dropped it from his palm and picked it up again. He did not look at Ma. “They ain’t no work,” he said.
“You didn’ look all over,” Ma said.
“No, but they’s signs out.”
“Well, Tom musta got work. He ain’t been back.”
Uncle John suggested, “Maybe he went away—like Connie, or like Noah.”
Ma glanced sharply at him, and then her eyes softened. “They’s things you know,” she said. “They’s stuff you’re sure of. Tom’s got work, an’ he’ll come in this evenin’. That’s true,” She smiled in satisfaction. “Ain’t he a fine boy!” she said. “Ain’t he a good boy!”
The cars and trucks began to come into the camp, and the men trooped by toward the sanitary unit. And each man carried clean overalls and shirt in his hand.
Ma pulled herself together. “John, you go find Pa. Get to the store. I want beans an’ sugar an’—a piece of fryin’ meat an’ carrots an’—tell Pa to get somepin nice—anything—but nice—for tonight. Tonight—we’ll have—somepin nice.”
Chapter 23
The migrant people, scuttling for work, scrabbling to live, looked always for pleasure, dug for pleasure, manufactured pleasure, and they were hungry for amusement. Sometimes amusement lay in speech, and they climbed up their lives with jokes. And it came about in the camps along the roads, on the ditch banks beside the streams, under the sycamores, that the story teller grew into being, so that the people gathered in the low firelight to hear the gifted ones. And they listened while the tales were told, and their participation made the stories great.
I was a recruit against Geronimo——
And the people listened, and their quiet eyes reflected the dying fire.
Them Injuns was cute—slick as snakes, an’ quiet when they wanted. Could go through dry leaves, an’ make no rustle. Try to do that sometime.
And the people listened and remembered the crash of dry leaves under their feet.
Come the change of season an’ the clouds up. Wrong time. Ever hear of the army doing anything right? Give the army ten chances, an’ they’ll stumble along. Took three regiments to kill a hundred braves—always.
And the people listened, and their faces were quiet with listening. The story tellers, gathering attention into their tales, spoke in great rhythms, spoke in great words because the tales were great, and the listeners became great through them.
They was a brave on a ridge, against the sun. Knowed he stood out. Spread his arms an’ stood. Naked as morning, an’ against the sun. Maybe he was crazy. I don’ know. Stood there, arms spread out; like a cross he looked. Four hunderd yards. An’ the men—well, they raised their sights an’ they felt the wind with their fingers; an’ then they jus’ lay there an’ couldn’ shoot. Maybe that Injun knowed somepin. Knowed we couldn’ shoot. Jes’ laid there with the rifles cocked, an’ didn’ even put ’em to our shoulders. Lookin’ at him. Head-band, one feather. Could see it, an’ naked as the sun. Long time we laid there an’ looked, an’ he never moved. An’ then the captain got mad. “Shoot, you crazy bastards, shoot!” he yells. An’ we jus’ laid there. “I’ll give you to a five-count, an’ then mark you down,” the captain says. Well, sir—we put up our rifles slow, an’ ever’ man hoped somebody’d shoot first. I ain’t never been so sad in my life. An’ I laid my sights on his belly, ’cause you can’t stop a Injun no other place—an’—then. Well, he jest plunked down an’ rolled. An’ we went up. An’ he wasn’ big—he’d looked so grand—up there. All tore to pieces an’ little. Ever see a cock pheasant, stiff and beautiful, ever’ feather drawed an’ painted, an’ even his eyes drawed in pretty? An’ bang! You pick him up—bloody an’ twisted, an’ you spoiled somepin better’n you; an’ eatin’ him don’t never make it up to you, ’cause you spoiled somepin in yaself, an’ you can’t never fix it up.