Tom said, “What’d I go an’ hit a policeman for?”
Ma smiled. “Well—he talked so bad—I nearly hit him myself.”
Tom grabbed her arm and shook her roughly and loosely, and he laughed. He sat down on the ground, still laughing. “My God, Ma. I knowed you when you was gentle. What’s come over you?”
She looked serious. “I don’ know, Tom.”
“Fust you stan’ us off with a jack handle, and now you try to hit a cop.” He laughed softly, and he reached out and patted her bare foot tenderly. “A ol’ hell-cat,” he said.
“Tom.”
“Yeah?”
She hesitated a long time. “Tom, this here policeman—he called us—Okies. He says, ’We don’ want you goddamn Okies settlin’ down.’”
Tom studied her, and his hand still rested gently on her bare foot. “Fella tol’ about that,” he said. “Fella tol’ how they say it.” He considered, “Ma, would you say I was a bad fella? Oughta be locked up—like that?”
“No,” she said. “You been tried—No. What you ast me for?”