Al flipped the radiator cap and it jumped into the air with a head of steam behind it, and a hollow bubbling sound came out of the radiator. On top of the truck, the suffering hound dog crawled timidly to the edge of the load and looked over, whimpering, toward the water. Uncle John climbed up and lifted him down by the scruff of the neck. For a moment the dog staggered on stiff legs, and then he went to lap the mud under the faucet. In the highway the cars whizzed by, glistening in the heat, and the hot wind of their going fanned into the service-station yard. Al filled the radiator with the hose.
“It ain’t that I’m tryin’ to git trade outa rich folks,” the fat man went on. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to git trade. Why, the folks that stops here begs gasoline an’ they trades for gasoline. I could show you in my back room the stuff they’ll trade for gas an’ oil: beds an’ baby buggies an’ pots an’ pans. One family traded a doll their kid had for a gallon. An’ what’m I gonna do with the stuff, open a junk shop? Why, one fella wanted to gimme his shoes for a gallon. An’ if I was that kinda fella I bet I could git-” He glanced at Ma and stopped.
Jim Casy had wet his head, and the drops still coursed down his high forehead, and his muscled neck was wet, and his shirt was wet. He moved over beside Tom. “It ain’t the people’s fault,” he said. “How’d you like to sell the bed you sleep on for a tankful a gas?”
“I know it ain’t their fault. Ever’ person I talked to is on the move for a damn good reason. But what’s the country comin’ to? That’s what I wanta know. What’s it comin’ to? Fella can’t make a livin’ no more. Folks can’t make a livin’ farmin’. I ask you, what’s it comin’ to? I can’t figure her out. Ever’body I ask, they can’t figure her out. Fella wants to trade his shoes so he can git a hunderd miles on. I can’t figure her out.” He took off his silver hat and wiped his forehead with his palm. And Tom took off his cap and wiped his forehead with it. He went to the hose and wet the cap through and squeezed it and put it on again. Ma worked a tin cup out through the side bars of the truck, and she took water to Granma and to Grampa on top of the load. She stood on the bars and handed the cup to Grampa, and he wet his lips, and then shook his head and refused more. The old eyes looked up at Ma in pain and bewilderment for a moment before the awareness receded again.
Al started the motor and backed the truck to the gas pump. “Fill her up. She’ll take about seven,” said Al. “We’ll give her six so she don’t spill none.”
The fat man put the hose in the tank. “No, sir,” he said. “I jus’ don’t know what the country’s comin’ to. Relief an’ all.”
Casy said, “I been walkin’ aroun’ in the country. Ever’body’s askin’ that. What we comin’ to? Seems to me we don’t never come to nothin’. Always on the way. Always goin’ and goin’. Why don’t folks think about that? They’s movement now. People moving. We know why, an’ we know how. Movin’ ’cause they got to. That’s why folks always move. Movin’ ’cause they want somepin better’n what they got. An’ that’s the on’y way they’ll ever git it. Wantin’ it an’ needin’ it, they’ll go out an’ git it. It’s bein’ hurt that makes folks mad to fightin’. I been walkin’ aroun’ the country, an’ hearin’ folks talk like you.”
The fat man pumped the gasoline and the needle turned on the pump dial, recording the amount. “Yeah, but what’s it comin’ to? That’s what I want ta know.”
Tom broke in irritably, “Well, you ain’t never gonna know. Casy tries to tell ya an’ you jest ast the same thing over. I seen fellas like you before. You ain’t askin’ nothin’; you’re jus’ singin’ a kinda song. ‘What we comin’ to?’ You don’ wanta know. Country’s movin’ aroun’, goin’ places. They’s folks dyin’ all aroun’. Maybe you’ll die pretty soon, but you won’t know nothin’. I seen too many fellas like you. You don’t want to know nothin’. Just sing yourself to sleep with a song- ‘What we comin’ to?'” He looked at the gas pump, rusted and old, and at the shack behind it, built of old lumber, the nail holes of its first use still showing through the paint that had been brave, the brave yellow paint that had tried to imitate the big company stations in town. But the paint couldn’t cover the old nail holes and the old cracks in the lumber, and the paint could not be renewed. The imitation was a failure and the owner had known it was a failure. And inside the open door of the shack Tom saw the oil barrels, only two of them, and the candy counter with stale candies and licorice whips turning brown with age, and cigarettes. He saw the broken chair and the fly screen with a rusted hole in it. And the littered yard that should have been graveled, and behind, the corn field drying and dying in the sun. Beside the house the little stock of used tires and retreaded tires. And he saw for the first time the fat man’s cheap washed pants and his cheap polo shirt and his paper hat. He said, “I didn’ mean to sound off at ya, mister. It’s the heat. You ain’t got nothin’. Pretty soon you’ll be on the road yourse’f. And it ain’t tractors’ll put you there. It’s them pretty yella stations in town. Folks is movin’,” he said ashamedly. “An’ you’ll be movin’, mister.”
The fat man’s hand slowed on the pump and stopped while Tom spoke. He looked worriedly at Tom. “How’d you know?” he asked helplessly. “How’d you know we was already talkin’ about packin’ up an’ movin’ west?”
Casy answered him. “It’s ever’body,” he said. “Here’s me that used to give all my fight against the devil ’cause I figgered the devil was the enemy. But they’s somepin worse’n the devil got hold a the country, an’ it ain’t gonna let go till it’s chopped loose. Ever see one a them Gila monsters take hold, mister? Grabs hold, an’ you chop him in two an’ his head hangs on. Chop him at the neck an’ his head hangs on. Got to take a screw-driver an’ pry his head apart to git him loose. An’ while he’s layin’ there, poison is drippin’ an’ drippin’ into the hole he’s made with his teeth.” He stopped and looked sideways at Tom.
The fat man stared hopelessly straight ahead. His hand started turning the crank slowly. “I dunno what we’re comin’ to,” he said softly.
Over by the water hose, Connie and Rose of Sharon stood together, talking secretly. Connie washed the tin cup and felt the water with his finger before he filled the cup again. Rose of Sharon watched the cars go by on the highway. Connie held out the cup to her. “This water ain’t cool, but it’s wet,” he said.
She looked at him and smiled secretly. She was all secrets now she was pregnant, secrets and little silences that seemed to have meanings. She was pleased with herself, and she complained about things that didn’t really matter. And she demanded services of Connie that were silly, and both of them knew they were silly. Connie was pleased with her too, and filled with wonder that she was pregnant. He liked to think he was in on the secrets she had. When she smiled slyly, he smiled slyly too, and they exchanged confidences in whispers. The world had drawn close around them, and they were in the center of it, or rather Rose of Sharon was in the center of it with Connie making a small orbit about her. Everything they said was a kind of secret.
She drew her eyes from the highway. “I ain’t very thirsty,” she said daintily. “But maybe I ought to drink.”
And he nodded, for he knew well what she meant. She took the cup and rinsed her mouth and spat and then drank the cupful of tepid water. “Want another?” he asked.
“Jus’ a half.” And so he filled the cup just half, and gave it to her. A Lincoln Zephyr, silvery and low, whisked by. She turned to see where the others were and saw them clustered about the truck. Reassured, she said, “How’d you like to be goin’ along in that?”
Connie sighed, “Maybe- after.” They both knew what he meant. “An’ if they’s plenty work in California, we’ll git our own car. But them”- he indicated the disappearing Zephyr- “them kind costs as much as a good size house. I ruther have the house.”