“Get myself a piece a line. I’ll catch fish. Fella can’t starve beside a nice river.”
Tom said, “How ’bout the fam’ly? How ’bout Ma?”
“I can’t he’p it. I can’t leave this here water.” Noah’s wide-set eyes were half closed. “You know how it is, Tom. You know how the folks are nice to me. But they don’t really care for me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I ain’t. I know how I am. I know they’re sorry. But—Well, I ain’t a-goin’. You tell Ma—Tom.”
“Now you look-a-here,” Tom began.
“No. It ain’t no use. I was in that there water. An’ I ain’t a-gonna leave her. I’m a-gonna go now, Tom—down the river. I’ll catch fish an’ stuff, but I can’t leave her. I can’t.” He crawled back out of the willow cave. “You tell Ma, Tom.” He walked away.
Tom followed him to the river bank. “Listen, you goddamn fool—”
“It ain’t no use,” Noah said. “I’m sad, but I can’t he’p it. I got to go.” He turned abruptly and walked downstream along the shore. Tom started to follow, and then he stopped. He saw Noah disappear into the brush, and then appear again, following the edge of the river. And he watched Noah growing smaller on the edge of the river, until he disappeared into the willows at last. And Tom took off his cap and scratched his head. He went back to his willow cave and lay down to sleep.
UNDER THE SPREAD tarpaulin Granma lay on a mattress, and Ma sat beside her. The air was stiflingly hot, and the flies buzzed in the shade of the canvas. Granma was naked under a long piece of pink curtain. She turned her old head restlessly from side to side, and she muttered and choked. Ma sat on the ground beside her, and with a piece of cardboard drove the flies away and fanned a stream of moving hot air over the tight old face. Rose of Sharon sat on the other side and watched her mother.