Tom was chuckling. “With me I was always gonna get Uncle John after ’em, but he never would do it. That’s jus’ kid talk, Ma. That’s awright.”
“No, it ain’t,” Ma said. “Them kids’ll tell it aroun’ an’ then the folks’ll hear, an’ they’ll tell aroun’, an’ pretty soon, well, they liable to get men out to look, jus’ in case. Tom, you got to go away.”
“That’s what I said right along. I was always scared somebody’d see you put stuff in that culvert, an’ then they’d watch.”
“I know. But I wanted you near. I was scared for you. I ain’t seen you. Can’t see you now. How’s your face?”
“Gettin’ well quick.”
“Come clost, Tom. Let me feel it. Come clost.” He crawled near. Her reaching hand found his head in the blackness and her fingers moved down to his nose, and then over his left cheek. “You got a bad scar, Tom. An’ your nose is all crooked.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. Nobody wouldn’t know me, maybe. If my prints wasn’t on record, I’d be glad.” He went back to his eating.
“Hush,” she said. “Listen!”
“It’s the wind, Ma. Jus’ the wind.” The gust poured down the stream, and the trees rustled under its passing.
She crawled close to his voice. “I wanta touch ya again, Tom. It’s like I’m blin’, it’s so dark. I wanta remember, even if it’s on’y my fingers that remember. You got to go away, Tom.”
“Yeah! I knowed it from the start.”
“We made purty good,” she said. “I been squirrelin’ money away. Hol’ out your han’, Tom. I got seven dollars here.”
“I ain’t gonna take ya money,” he said. “I’ll get ‘long all right.”
“Hol’ out ya han’, Tom. I ain’t gonna sleep none if you got no money. Maybe you got to take a bus, or somepin. I want you should go a long ways off, three-four hunderd miles.”
“I ain’t gonna take it.”
“Tom,” she said sternly. “You take this money. You hear me? You got no right to cause me pain.”
“You ain’t playin’ fair,” he said.
“I thought maybe you could go to a big city. Los Angeles, maybe. They wouldn’ never look for you there.”
“Hm-m,” he said. “Lookie, Ma. I been all day an’ all night hidin’ alone. Guess who I been thinkin’ about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin’ what he said, an’ I can remember- all of it. Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an’ he foun’ he didn’ have no soul that was his’n. Says he foun’ he jus’ got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain’t no good, ’cause his little piece of a soul wasn’t no good ‘less it was with the rest, an’ was whole. Funny how I remember. Didn’ think I was even listenin’. But I know now a fella ain’t no good alone.”
“He was a good man,” Ma said.
Tom went on, “He spouted out some Scripture once, an’ it didn’ soun’ like no hellfire Scripture. He tol’ it twicet, an’ I remember it. Says it’s from the Preacher.”
“How’s it go, Tom?”
“Goes, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lif’ up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.’ That’s part of her.”
“Go on,” Ma said. “Go on, Tom.”
“Jus’ a little bit more. ‘Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a three-fold cord is not quickly broken.'”
“An’ that’s Scripture?”
“Casy said it was. Called it the Preacher.”
“Hush- listen.”
“On’y the wind, Ma. I know the wind. An’ I got to thinkin’, Ma- most of the preachin’ is about the poor we shall have always with us, an’ if you got nothin’, why, jus’ fol’ your hands an’ to hell with it, you gonna git ice cream on gol’ plates when you’re dead. An’ then this here Preacher says two get a better reward for their work.”
“Tom,” she said. “What you aimin’ to do?”
He was quiet for a long time. “I been thinkin’ how it was in that gov’ment camp, how our folks took care a theirselves, an’ if they was a fight they fixed it theirself; an’ they wasn’t no cops wagglin’ their guns, but they was better order than them cops ever give. I been a-wonderin’ why we can’t do that all over. Throw out the cops that ain’t our people. All work together for our own thing- all farm our own lan’.”
“Tom,” Ma repeated, “what you gonna do?”
“What Casy done,” he said.
“But they killed him.”
“Yeah,” said Tom. “He didn’ duck quick enough. He wasn’ doing nothin’ against the law, Ma. I been thinkin’ a hell of a lot, thinkin’ about our people livin’ like pigs, an’ the good rich lan’ layin’ fallow, or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hunderd thousan’ good farmers is starvin’. An’ I been wonderin’ if all our folks got together an’ yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of ’em at the Hooper ranch-”
Ma said, “Tom, they’ll drive you, an’ cut you down like they done to young Floyd.”
“They gonna drive me anyways. They drivin’ all our people.”
“You don’t aim to kill nobody, Tom?”
“No. I been thinkin’, long as I’m a outlaw anyways, maybe I could- Hell, I ain’t thought it out clear, Ma. Don’ worry me now. Don’ worry me.”
They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, “How’m I gonna know ’bout you? They might kill ya an’ I wouldn’ know. They might hurt ya. How’m I gonna know?”
Tom laughed uneasily, “Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one- an’ then-”
“Then what, Tom?”
“Then it don’ matter. Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where- wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’- I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build- why, I’ll be there. See? God, I’m talkin’ like Casy. Comes of thinkin’ about him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes.”
“I don’ un’erstan’,” Ma said. “I don’ really know.”
“Me neither,” said Tom. “It’s jus’ stuff I been thinkin’ about. Get thinkin’ a lot when you ain’t movin’ aroun’. You got to get back, Ma.”
“You take the money then.”
He was silent for a moment. “Awright,” he said.
“An’, Tom, later- when it’s blowed over, you’ll come back. You’ll find us?”
“Sure,” he said. “Now you better go. Here, gimme your han’.” He guided her toward the entrance. Her fingers clutched his wrist. He swept the vines aside and followed her out. “Go up to the field till you come to a sycamore on the edge, an’ then cut acrost the stream. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” she said, and she walked quickly away. Her eyes were wet and burning, but she did not cry. Her footsteps were loud and careless on the leaves as she went through the brush. And as she went, out of the dim sky the rain began to fall, big drops and few, splashing on the dry leaves heavily. Ma stopped and stood still in the dripping thicket. She turned about- took three steps back toward the mound of vines; and then she turned quickly and went back toward the boxcar camp. She went straight out to the culvert and climbed up on the road. The rain had passed now, but the sky was overcast. Behind her on the road she heard footsteps, and she turned nervously. The blinking of a dim flashlight played on the road. Ma turned back and started for home. In a moment a man caught up with her. Politely, he kept his light on the ground and did not play it in her face.
“Evenin’,” he said.
Ma said, “Howdy.”
“Looks like we might have a little rain.”
“I hope not. Stop the pickin’. We need the pickin’.”
“I need the pickin’, too. You live at the camp there?”
“Yes, sir.” Their footsteps beat on the road together.
“I got twenty acres of cotton. Little late, but it’s ready now. Thought I’d go down and try to get some pickers.”
“You’ll get ’em awright. Season’s near over.”
“Hope so. My place is only a mile up that way.”