Ma turned on Rose of Sharon. “What you doin’?”
The girl said resentfully, “How’m I gonna have a nice baby with stuff like this?”
Ma said, “Hush! You hush now. I know how you’re a-feelin’, an’ I know you can’t he’p it, but you jus’ keep your mouth shut.”
She turned back to Tom. “Don’t pay her no mind, Tom. It’s awful hard, an’ I ’member how it is. Ever’thing is a-shootin’ right at you when you’re gonna have a baby, an’ ever’thing anybody says is a insult, an’ ever’thing’s against you. Don’t pay no mind. She can’t he’p it. It’s jus’ the way she feels.”
“I don’ wanta hurt her.”
“Hush! Jus’ don’ talk.” She set her bag down on the cold stove. “Didn’ hardly make nothin’,” she said. “I tol’ you, we’re gonna get outa here. Tom, try an’ wrassle me some wood. No—you can’t. Here, we got on’y this one box lef’. Break it up. I tol’ the other fellas to pick up some sticks on the way back. Gonna have mush an’ a little sugar on.”
Tom got up and stamped the last box to small pieces. Ma carefully built her fire in one end of the stove, conserving the flame under one stove hole. She filled a kettle with water and put it over the flame. The kettle rattled over the direct fire, rattled and wheezed.
“How was it pickin’ today?” Tom asked.
Ma dipped a cup into her bag of cornmeal. “I don’ wanta talk about it. I was thinkin’ today how they use’ to be jokes. I don’ like it, Tom. We don’t joke no more. When they’s a joke, it’s a mean bitter joke, an’ they ain’t no fun in it. Fella says today, ‘Depression is over. I seen a jackrabbit, an’ they wasn’t nobody after him.’ An’ another fella says, ‘That ain’t the reason. Can’t afford to kill jackrabbits no more. Catch ’em and milk ’em an’ turn ’em loose. One you seen prob’ly gone dry.’ That’s how I mean. Ain’t really funny, not funny like that time Uncle John converted an Injun an’ brang him home, an’ that Injun et his way clean to the bottom of the bean bin, an’ then backslid with Uncle John’s whisky. Tom, put a rag with col’ water on your face.”
The dusk deepened. Ma lighted the lantern and hung it on a nail. She fed the fire and poured cornmeal gradually into the hot water. “Rosasharn.” she said, “can you stir the mush?”
Outside there was a patter of running feet. The door burst open and banged against the wall. Ruthie rushed in. “Ma!” she cried. “Ma. Winfiel’ got a fit!”
“Where? Tell me!”
Ruthie panted, “Got white an’ fell down. Et so many peaches he skittered hisself all day. Jus’ fell down. White!”
“Take me!” Ma demanded. “Rosasharn, you watch that mush.”
She went out with Ruthie. She ran heavily up the street behind the little girl. Three men walked toward her in the dusk, and the center man carried Winfield in his arms. Ma ran up to them. “He’s mine,” she cried. “Give ’im to me.”
“I’ll carry ’im for you, ma’am.”
“No, here, give ’im to me.” She hoisted the little boy and turned back; and then she remembered herself. “I sure thank ya,” she said to the men.
“Welcome, ma’am. The little fella’s purty weak. Looks like he got worms.”
Ma hurried back, and Winfield was limp and relaxed in her arms. Ma carried him into the house and knelt down and laid him on a mattress. “Tell me. What’s the matter?” she demanded. He opened his eyes dizzily and shook his head and closed his eyes again.
Ruthie said, “I tol’ ya, Ma. He skittered all day. Ever’ little while. Et too many peaches.”
Ma felt his head. “He ain’t fevered. But he’s white and drawed out.”
Tom came near and held the lantern down. “I know,” he said. “He’s hungered. Got no strength. Get him a can a milk an’ make him drink it. Make ’im take milk on his mush.”
“Winfiel’,” Ma said. “Tell how ya feel.”
“Dizzy,” said Winfield, “jus’ a-whirlin’ dizzy.”
“You never seen sech skitters,” Ruthie said importantly.
Pa and Uncle John and Al came into the house. Their arms were full of sticks and bits of brush. They dropped their loads by the stove. “Now what?” Pa demanded.
“It’s Winfiel’. He needs some milk.”