“I can’t,” said Casy. “I don’t know what to pray for or who to pray to.”
Granma’s eyes wandered away and came to rest on Sairy. “He won’t pray,” she said. “D’I ever tell ya how Ruthie prayed when she was a little skinner? Says, ’Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. An’ when she got there the cupboard was bare, an’ so the poor dog got none. Amen.’ That’s jus’ what she done.” The shadow of someone walking between the tent and the sun crossed the canvas.
Grampa seemed to be struggling; all his muscles twitched. And suddenly he jarred as though under a heavy blow. He lay still and his breath was stopped. Casy looked down at the old man’s face and saw that it was turning a blackish purple. Sairy touched Casy’s shoulder. She whispered, “His tongue, his tongue, his tongue.”
Casy nodded. “Get in front a Granma.” He pried the tight jaws apart and reached into the old man’s throat for the tongue. And as he lifted it clear, a rattling breath came out, and a sobbing breath was indrawn. Casy found a stick on the ground and held down the tongue with it, and the uneven breath rattled in and out.
Granma hopped about like a chicken. “Pray,” she said. “Pray, you. Pray, I tell ya.” Sairy tried to hold her back. “Pray, goddamn you!” Granma cried.
Casy looked up at her for a moment. The rasping breath came louder and more unevenly. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—”
“Glory!” shouted Granma.
“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done—on earth—as it is in Heaven.”
“Amen.”
A long gasping sigh came from the open mouth, and then a crying release of air.