They climbed back on the load, and they avoided the long stiff figure covered and tucked in a comforter, even the head covered and tucked. They moved to their places and tried to keep their eyes from it—from the hump on the comforter that would be the nose, and the steep cliff that would be the jut of the chin. They tried to keep their eyes away, and they could not. Ruthie and Winfield, crowded in a forward corner as far away from the body as they could get, stared at the tucked figure.
And Ruthie whispered, “Tha’s Granma, an’ she’s dead.”
Winfield nodded solemnly. “She ain’t breathin’ at all. She’s awful dead.”
And Rose of Sharon said softly to Connie, “She was a-dyin’ right when we—”
“How’d we know?” he reassured her.
Al climbed on the load to make room for Ma in the seat. And Al swaggered a little because he was sorry. He plumped down beside Casy and Uncle John. “Well, she was ol’. Guess her time was up,” Al said. “Ever’body got to die.” Casy and Uncle John turned eyes expressionlessly on him and looked at him as though he were a curious talking bush. “Well, ain’t they?” he demanded. And the eyes looked away, leaving Al sullen and shaken.
Casy said in wonder, “All night long, an’ she was alone.” And he said, “John, there’s a woman so great with love—she scares me. Makes me afraid an’ mean.”
John asked, “Was it a sin? Is they any part of it you might call a sin?”
Casy turned on him in astonishment, “A sin? No, there ain’t no part of it that’s a sin.”
“I ain’t never done nothin’ that wasn’t part sin,” said John, and he looked at the long wrapped body.