“He says he won’t go.”
“I know,” she said, “An’ he’s stubborn. I ast you to come to say a prayer.”
“I ain’t a preacher,” he said softly. “My prayers ain’t no good.”
She moistened her lips. “I was there when the ol’ man died. You said one then.”
“It wasn’t no prayer.”
“It was a prayer,” she said.
“It wasn’t no preacher’s prayer.”
“It was a good prayer. I want you should say one for me.”
“I don’ know what to say.”
She closed her eyes for a minute and then opened them again. “Then say one to yourself. Don’t use no words to it. That’d be awright.”
“I got no God,” he said.
“You got a God. Don’t make no difference if you don’ know what he looks like.” The preacher bowed his head. She watched him apprehensively. And when he raised his head again she looked relieved. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s what I needed. Somebody close enough- to pray.”
He shook his head as though to awaken himself. “I don’ understan’ this here,” he said.
And she replied, “Yes- you know, don’t you?”
“I know,” he said, “I know, but I don’t understan’. Maybe you’ll res’ a few days an’ then come on.”
She shook her head slowly from side to side. “I’m jus’ pain covered with skin. I know what it is, but I won’t tell him. He’d be too sad. He wouldn’ know what to do anyways. Maybe in the night, when he’s a-sleepin’- when he waked up, it won’t be so bad.”
“You want I should stay with you an’ not go on?”
“No,” she said. “No. When I was a little girl I use’ ta sing. Folks roun’ about use’ ta say I sung as nice as Jenny Lind. Folks use’ ta come an’ listen when I sung. An’- when they stood- an’ me a-singin’, why, me an’ them was together more’n you could ever know. I was thankful. There ain’t so many folks can feel so full up, so close, an’ them folks standin’ there an’ me a-singin’. Thought maybe I’d sing in theaters, but I never done it. An’ I’m glad. They wasn’t nothin’ got in between me an’ them. An’- that’s why I wanted you to pray. I wanted to feel that clostness, oncet more. It’s the same thing, singin’ an’ prayin’, jus’ the same thing. I wisht you could a-heerd me sing.”
He looked down at her, into her eyes. “Good-by,” he said.
She shook her head slowly back and forth and closed her lips tight. And the preacher went out of the dusky tent into the blinding light.
The men were loading up the truck. Uncle John on top, while the others passed equipment up to him. He stowed it carefully, keeping the surface level. Ma emptied the quarter of a keg of salt pork into a pan, and Tom and Al took both little barrels to the river and washed them. They tied them to the running boards and carried water in buckets to fill them. Then over the tops they tied canvas to keep them from slopping the water out. Only the tarpaulin and Granma’s mattress were left to put on.
Tom said, “With the load we’ll take, this ol’ wagon’ll boil her head off. We got to have plenty water.”
Ma passed the boiled potatoes out and brought the half sack from the tent and put it with the pan of pork. The family ate standing, shuffling their feet and tossing the hot potatoes from hand to hand until they cooled.
Ma went to the Wilson tent and stayed for ten minutes, and then she came out quietly. “It’s time to go,” she said.
The men went under the tarpaulin. Granma still slept, her mouth wide open. They lifted the whole mattress gently and passed it up on top of the truck. Granma drew up her skinny legs and frowned in her sleep, but she did not awaken.
Uncle John and Pa tied the tarpaulin over the cross-piece, making a little tight tent on top of the load. They lashed it down to the side-bars. And then they were ready. Pa took out his purse and dug two crushed bills from it. He went to Wilson and held them out. “We want you should take this, an'”- he pointed to the pork and potatoes- “an’ that.”
Wilson hung his head and shook it sharply. “I ain’t a-gonna do it,” he said. “You ain’t got much.”
“Got enough to get there,” said Pa. “We ain’t left it all. We’ll have work right off.”
“I ain’t a-gonna do it,” Wilson said. “I’ll git mean if you try.”
Ma took the two bills from Pa’s hand. She folded them neatly and put them on the ground and placed the pork pan over them. “That’s where they’ll be,” she said. “If you don’ get ’em, somebody else will.” Wilson, his head still down, turned and went to his tent; he stepped inside and the flaps fell behind him.
For a few moments the family waited, and then, “We got to go,” said Tom. “It’s near four, I bet.”
The family climbed on the truck, Ma on top, beside Granma. Tom and Al and Pa in the seat, and Winfield on Pa’s lap. Connie and Rose of Sharon made a nest against the cab. The preacher and Uncle John and Ruthie were in a tangle on the load.
Pa called, “Good-by, Mister and Mis’ Wilson.” There was no answer from the tent. Tom started the engine and the truck lumbered away. And as they crawled up the rough road toward Needles and the highway, Ma looked back. Wilson stood in front of his tent, staring after them, and his hat was in his hand. The sun fell full on his face. Ma waved her hand at him, but he did not respond.
Tom kept the truck in second gear over the rough road, to protect the springs. At Needles he drove into a service station, checked the worn tires for air, checked the spares tied to the back. He had the gas tank filled, and he bought two five-gallon cans of gasoline and a two-gallon can of oil. He filled the radiator, begged a map, and studied it.
The service-station boy, in his white uniform, seemed uneasy until the bill was paid. He said, “You people sure have got nerve.”
Tom looked up from the map. “What you mean?”
“Well, crossin’ in a jalopy like this.”
“You been acrost?”
“Sure, plenty, but not in no wreck like this.”
Tom said, “If we broke down maybe somebody’d give us a han’.”
“Well, maybe. But folks are kind of scared to stop at night. I’d hate to be doing it. Takes more nerve than I’ve got.”
Tom grinned. “It don’t take no nerve to do somepin when there ain’t nothin’ else you can do. Well, thanks. We’ll drag on.” And he got in the truck and moved away.
The boy in white went into the iron building where his helper labored over a book of bills. “Jesus, what a hard-looking outfit!”
“Them Okies? They’re all hard-lookin’.”
“Jesus, I’d hate to start out in a jalopy like that.”
“Well, you and me got sense. Them goddamn Okies got no sense and no feeling. They ain’t human. A human being wouldn’t live like they do. A human being couldn’t stand it to be so dirty and miserable. They ain’t a hell of a lot better than gorillas.”
“Just the same I’m glad I ain’t crossing the desert in no Hudson Super-Six. She sounds like a threshing machine.”
The other boy looked down at his book of bills. And a big drop of sweat rolled down his finger and fell on the pink bills. “You know, they don’t have much trouble. They’re so goddamn dumb they don’t know it’s dangerous. And, Christ Almighty, they don’t know any better than what they got. Why worry?”
“I’m not worrying. Just thought if it was me, I wouldn’t like it.”
“That’s ’cause you know better. They don’t know any better.” And he wiped the sweat from the pink bill with his sleeve.
THE TRUCK took the road and moved up the long hill, through the broken, rotten rock. The engine boiled very soon and Tom slowed down and took it easy. Up the long slope, winding and twisting through dead country, burned white and gray, and no hint of life in it. Once Tom stopped for a few moments to let the engine cool, and then he traveled on. They topped the pass while the sun was still up, and looked down on the desert- black cinder mountains in the distance, and the yellow sun reflected on the gray desert. The little starved bushes, sage and greasewood, threw bold shadows on the sand and bits of rock. The glaring sun was straight ahead. Tom held his hand before his eyes to see at all. They passed the crest and coasted down to cool the engine. They coasted down the long sweep to the floor of the desert, and the fan turned over to cool the water in the radiator. In the driver’s seat, Tom and Al and Pa, and Winfield on Pa’s knee, looked into the bright descending sun, and their eyes were stony, and their brown faces were damp with perspiration. The burnt land and the black, cindery hills broke the even distance and made it terrible in the reddening light of the setting sun.