“I don’ know. It was dark. An’ somebody smacked me. I don’ know. I hope so. I hope I killed the bastard.”
“Tom!” Ma called. “Don’ talk like that.”
From the street came the sound of many cars moving slowly. Pa stepped to the window and looked out. “They’s a whole slew a new people comin’ in,” he said.
“I guess they bust the strike, awright,” said Tom. “I guess you’ll start at two an’ a half cents.”
“But a fella could work at a run, an’ still he couldn’ eat.”
“I know,” said Tom. “Eat win’fall peaches. That’ll keep ya up.”
Ma turned the dough and stirred the coffee. “Listen to me,” she said. “I’m gettin’ cornmeal today. We’re a-gonna eat cornmeal mush. An’ soon’s we get enough for gas, we’re movin’ away. This ain’t a good place. An’ I ain’t gonna have Tom out alone. No, sir.”
“Ya can’t do that, Ma. I tell you I’m jus’ a danger to ya.”
Her chin was set. “That’s what we’ll do. Here, come eat this here, an’ then get out to work. I’ll come out soon’s I get washed up. We got to make some money.”
They ate the fried dough so hot that it sizzled in their mouths. And they tossed the coffee down and filled their cups and drank more coffee.
Uncle John shook his head over his plate. “Don’t look like we’re a-gonna get shet of this here. I bet it’s my sin.”
“Oh, shut up!” Pa cried. “We ain’t got the time for your sin now. Come on now. Le’s get out to her. Kids, you come he’p. Ma’s right. We got to go outa here.”
When they were gone, Ma took a plate and a cup to Tom. “Better eat a little somepin.”
“I can’t, Ma. I’m so darn sore I couldn’ chew.”
“You better try.”
“No, I can’t, Ma.”
She sat down on the edge of his mattress. “You got to tell me,” she said. “I got to figger how it was. I got to keep straight. What was Casy a-doin’? Why’d they kill ’im?”
“He was jus’ standin’ there with the lights on’ ’im.”
“What’d he say? Can ya ’member what he says?”
Tom said, “Sure. Casy said, ‘You got no right to starve people.’ An’ then this heavy fella called him a red son-of-a-bitch. An’ Casy says, ‘You don’ know what you’re a-doin’.’ An’ then this guy smashed ’im.”
Ma looked down. She twisted her hands together. “Tha’s what he said—‘You don’ know what you’re doin’ ’?”
“Yeah!”
Ma said, “I wisht Granma could a heard.”
“Ma—I didn’ know what I was a-doin’, no more’n when you take a breath. I didn’ even know I was gonna do it.”
“It’s awright. I wisht you didn’ do it. I wisht you wasn’ there. But you done what you had to do. I can’t read no fault on you.” She went to the stove and dipped a cloth in the heating dishwater. “Here,” she said. “Put that there on your face.”
He laid the warm cloth over his nose and cheek, and winced at the heat. “Ma, I’m a-gonna go away tonight. I can’t go puttin’ this on you folks.”
Ma said angrily, “Tom! They’s a whole lot I don’ un’erstan’. But goin’ away ain’t gonna ease us. It’s gonna bear us down.” And she went on, “They was the time when we was on the lan’. They was a boundary to us then. Ol’ folks died off, an’ little fellas come, an’ we was always one thing—we was the fambly—kinda whole and clear. An’ now we ain’t clear no more. I can’t get straight. They ain’t nothin’ keeps us clear. Al—he’s a-hankerin’ an’ a-jibbitin’ to go off on his own. An’ Uncle John is jus’ a-draggin’ along. Pa’s lost his place. He ain’t the head no more. We’re crackin’ up, Tom. There ain’t no fambly now. An’ Rosasharn—” She looked around and found the girl’s wide eyes. “She gonna have her baby an’ they won’t be no fambly. I don’ know. I been a-tryin’ to keep her goin’. Winfiel’—what’s he gonna be, this-a-way? Gettin’ wild, an’ Ruthie too—like animals. Got nothin’ to trus’. Don’ go, Tom. Stay an’ help.”
“O.K.,” he said tiredly. “O.K. I shouldn’, though. I know it.”