And the girl protested, “I can walk. I’m awright.” And the water crept over the floor, a thin film of it. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma, and Ma put her hand under the blanket and felt her breast and nodded.
In the other end of the boxcar, the Wainwrights were pounding, building a platform for themselves. The rain thickened, and then passed away.
Ma looked down at her feet. The water was half an inch deep on the car floor by now. “You, Ruthie- Winfiel’!” she called distractedly. “Come get on top of the pile. You’ll get cold.” She saw them safely up, sitting awkwardly beside Rose of Sharon. Ma said suddenly, “We got to git out.”
“We can’t,” Pa said. “Like Al says, all our stuff’s here. We’ll pull off the boxcar door an’ make more room to set on.”
THE FAMILY huddled on the platforms, silent and fretful. The water was six inches deep in the car before the flood spread evenly over the embankment and moved into the cotton field on the other side. During that day and night the men slept soddenly, side by side on the boxcar door. And Ma lay close to Rose of Sharon. Sometimes Ma whispered to her and sometimes sat up quietly, her face brooding. Under the blanket she hoarded the remains of the store bread.
The rain had become intermittent now- little wet squalls and quiet times. On the morning of the second day Pa splashed through the camp and came back with ten potatoes in his pockets. Ma watched him sullenly while he chopped out part of the inner wall of the car, built a fire, and scooped water into a pan. The family ate the steaming boiled potatoes with their fingers. And when this last food was gone, they stared at the gray water; and in the night they did not lie down for a long time.
When the morning came they awakened nervously. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma.
Ma nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “It’s time for it.” And then she turned to the car door, where the men lay. “We’re a-gettin’ outa here,” she said savagely, “gettin’ to higher groun’. An’ you’re comin’ or you ain’t comin’, but I’m takin’ Rosasharn an’ the little fellas outa here.”
“We can’t!” Pa said weakly.
“Awright, then. Maybe you’ll pack Rosasharn to the highway, anyways, an’ then come back. It ain’t rainin’ now, an’ we’re a’goin’.”
“Awright, we’ll go,” Pa said.
Al said, “Ma, I ain’t goin’.”
“Why not?”
“Well- Aggie- why, her an’ me-”
Ma smiled. “‘Course,” she said. “You stay here, Al. Take care of the stuff. When the water goes down- why, we’ll come back. Come quick, ‘fore it rains again,” she told Pa. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re goin’ to a dry place.”
“I can walk.”
“Maybe a little, on the road. Git your back bent, Pa.”
Pa slipped into the water and stood waiting. Ma helped Rose of Sharon down from the platform and steadied her across the car. Pa took her in his arms, held her as high as he could, and pushed his way carefully through the deep water, around the car, and to the highway. He set her down on her feet and held onto her. Uncle John carried Ruthie and followed. Ma slid down into the water, and for a moment her skirts billowed out around her.
“Winfiel’, set on my shoulder. Al- we’ll come back soon’s the water’s down. Al-” She paused. “If- if Tom comes- tell him we’ll be back. Tell him be careful. Winfiel’! Climb on my shoulder- there! Now, keep your feet still.” She staggered off through the breast-high water. At the highway embankment they helped her up and lifted Winfield from her shoulder.
They stood on the highway and looked back over the sheet of water, the dark red blocks of the cars, the trucks and automobiles deep in the slowly moving water. And as they stood, a little misting rain began to fall.
“We got to git along,” Ma said. “Rosasharn, you feel like you could walk?”
“Kinda dizzy,” the girl said. “Feel like I been beat.”
Pa complained, “Now we’re a-goin’, where we goin’?”
“I dunno. Come on, give your han’ to Rosasharn.” Ma took the girl’s right arm to steady her, and Pa her left. “Goin’ someplace where it’s dry. Got to. You fellas ain’t had dry clothes on for two days.” They moved slowly along the highway. They could hear the rushing of the water in the stream beside the road. Ruthie and Winfield marched together, splashing their feet against the road. They went slowly along the road. The sky grew darker and the rain thickened. No traffic moved along the highway.
“We got to hurry,” Ma said. “If this here girl gits good an’ wet- I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”
“You ain’t said where-at we’re a-hurryin’ to,” Pa reminded her sarcastically.
The road curved along beside the stream. Ma searched the land and the flooded fields. Far off the road, on the left, on a slight rolling hill a rain-blackened barn stood. “Look!” Ma said. “Look there! I bet it’s dry in that barn. Let’s go there till the rain stops.”
Pa sighed. “Prob’ly get run out by the fella owns it.”
Ahead, beside the road, Ruthie saw a spot of red. She raced to it. A scraggly geranium gone wild, and there was one rain-beaten blossom on it. She picked the flower. She took a petal carefully off and stuck it on her nose. Winfield ran up to see.
“Lemme have one?” he said.
“No, sir! It’s all mine. I foun’ it.” She stuck another red petal on her forehead, a little bright-red heart.
“Come on, Ruthie! Lemme have one. Come on, now.” He grabbed at the flower in her hand and missed it, and Ruthie banged him in the face with her open hand. He stood for a moment, surprised, and then his lips shook and his eyes welled.
The others caught up. “Now what you done?” Ma asked. “Now what you done?”
“He tried to grab my fl’ar.”
Winfield sobbed, “I- on’y wanted one- to- stick on my nose.”
“Give him one, Ruthie.”
“Leave him find his own. This here’s mine.”
“Ruthie! You give him one.”
Ruthie heard the threat in Ma’s tone, and changed her tactics. “Here,” she said with elaborate kindness. “I’ll stick on one for you.” The older people walked on. Winfield held his nose near to her. She wet a petal with her tongue and jabbed it cruelly on his nose. “You little son-of-a-bitch,” she said softly. Winfield felt for the petal with his fingers, and pressed it down on his nose. They walked quickly after the others. Ruthie felt how the fun was gone. “Here,” she said. “Here’s some more. Stick some on your forehead.”
From the right of the road there came a sharp swishing. Ma cried, “Hurry up. They’s a big rain. Le’s go through the fence here. It’s shorter. Come on, now! Bear on, Rosasharn.” They half dragged the girl across the ditch, helped her through the fence. And then the storm struck them. Sheets of rain fell on them. They plowed through the mud and up the little incline. The black barn was nearly obscured by the rain. It hissed and splashed, and the growing wind drove it along. Rose of Sharon’s feet slipped and she dragged between her supporters.
“Pa! Can you carry her?”
Pa leaned over and picked her up. “We’re wet through anyways,” he said. “Hurry up. Winfiel’- Ruthie! Run on ahead.”
They came panting up to the rain-soaked barn and staggered into the open end. There was no door in this end. A few rusty farm tools lay about, a disk plow and a broken cultivator, an iron wheel. The rain hammered on the room and curtained the entrance. Pa gently set Rose of Sharon down on an oily box. “God Awmighty!” he said.
Ma said, “Maybe they’s hay inside. Look, there’s a door.” She swung the door on its rusty hinges. “They is hay,” she cried. “Come on in, you.”
It was dark inside. A little light came in through the cracks between the boards.
“Lay down, Rosasharn,” Ma said. “Lay down an’ res’. I’ll try to figger some way to dry you off.”
Winfield said, “Ma!” and the rain roaring on the roof drowned his voice. “Ma!”
“What is it? What you want?”
“Look! In the corner.”
Ma looked. There were two figures in the gloom; a man who lay on his back, and a boy sitting beside him, his eyes wide, staring at the newcomers. As she looked, the boy got slowly up to his feet and came toward her. His voice croaked. “You own this here?”
“No,” Ma said. “Jus’ come in outa the wet. We got a sick girl. You got a dry blanket we could use an’ get her wet clothes off?”
The boy went back to the corner and brought a dirty comfort and held it out to Ma.