Ma colored, “You keep away from me today.”
Luke returned with a towel. He rubbed on a fresh spot of soap. “No. She don’t think she’ll dress this morning.” His mouth was hidden by a stiff arm. “I guess she better stay behind.”
“I guess you shouldn’t use his things! On a day like this.”
Luke turned. He saw the hair which was fluffed out and starting to rise, the walnut ears, the fat shadow on the sand.
“He won’t be shaving anymore. Not him.”
Ma rose, laid aside the bag ready for loading, filled a bucket, and started for the coop.
“Don’t wake him,” she said. “Yet.”
That was the day Ma sang. She carried a tune on dry nostrils and the Lampson ranch, by the sound of a woman’s voice, livened in its bed of star thistle. Ma’s song was louder when she passed the cabin, she raised it to leaning walls and the hidden flower of a man culled from the desert.
“My mother says it’s time to start. If you’re going to.”
“I’ll take her in my wagon. You tell her not to bother herself.”