Ma shoved willow sticks in the fire and made it crackle up about the black pot. She said, “I pray God we gonna get some res’. I pray Jesus we gonna lay down in a nice place.”
The sun sank toward the baked and broken bills to the west. The pot over the fire bubbled furiously. Ma went under the tarpaulin and came out with an apronful of potatoes, and she dropped them into the boiling water. “I pray God we gonna be let to wash some clothes. We ain’t never been dirty like this. Don’t even wash potatoes ’fore we boil ’em. I wonder why? Seems like the heart’s took out of us.”
The men came trooping up from the willows, and their eyes were full of sleep, and their faces were red and puffed with daytime sleep.
Pa said, “What’s a matter?”
“We’re goin’,” said Tom. “Cop says we got to go. Might’s well get her over. Get a good start an’ maybe we’ll be through her. Near three hunderd miles where we’re goin’.”
Pa said, “I thought we was gonna get a rest.”
“Well, we ain’t. We got to go, Pa,” Tom said, “Noah, ain’t a-goin’. He walked on down the river.”
“Ain’t goin’? What the hell’s the matter with him?” And then Pa caught himself. “My fault,” he said miserably. “That boy’s all my fault.”
“No.”
“I don’t wanta talk about it no more,” said Pa. “I can’t—my fault.”