“Ma, Connie gonna study nights an’ get to be somepin.”
“Yeah. You tol’ me about that. Get some rest.”
The girl lay down on the edge of Granma’s mattress. “Connie’s got a new plan. He’s thinkin’ all a time. When he gets all up on ’lectricity he gonna have his own store, an’ then guess what we gonna have?”
“What?”
“Ice—all the ice you want. Gonna have a ice box. Keep it full. Stuff don’t spoil if you got ice.”
“Connie’s thinkin’ all a time,” Ma chuckled. “Better get some rest now.”
Rose of Sharon closed her eyes. Ma turned over on her back and crossed her hands under her head. She listened to Granma’s breathing and to the girl’s breathing. She moved a hand to start a fly from her forehead. The camp was quiet in the blinding heat, but the noises of hot grass—of crickets, the hum of flies—were a tone that was close to silence. Ma sighed deeply and then yawned and closed her eyes. In her half-sleep she heard footsteps approaching, but it was a man’s voice that started her awake.
“Who’s in here?”
Ma sat up quickly. A brown-faced man bent over and looked in. He wore boots and khaki pants and a khaki shirt with epaulets. On a Sam Browne belt a pistol holster hung, and a big silver star was pinned to his shirt at the left breast. A loose-crowned military cap was on the back of his head. He beat on the tarpaulin with his hand, and the tight canvas vibrated like a drum.
“Who’s in here?” he demanded again.