“Pa,” she said, “we ain’t goin’ to have much. We et so late.”
Pa and Uncle John stuck close to the camp, watching Ma peeling potatoes and slicing them raw into a frying pan of deep grease. Pa said, “Now what the hell made the preacher do that?”
Ruthie and Winfield crept close and crouched down to hear the talk.
Uncle John scratched the earth deeply with a long rusty nail. “He knowed about sin. I ast him about sin, an’ he tol’ me; but I don’ know if he’s right. He says a fella’s sinned if he thinks he’s sinned.” Uncle John’s eyes were tired and sad. “I been secret all my days,” he said. “I done things I never tol’ about.”
Ma turned from the fire. “Don’ go tellin’, John,” she said. “Tell ’em to God. Don’ go burdenin’ other people with your sins. That ain’t decent.”
“They’re a-eatin’ on me,” said John.
“Well, don’ tell ’em. Go down the river an’ stick your head under an’ whisper ’em in the stream.”
Pa nodded his head slowly at Ma’s words. “She’s right,” he said. “It gives a fella relief to tell, but it jus’ spreads out his sin.”
Uncle John looked up to the sun-gold mountains, and the mountains were reflected in his eyes. “I wisht I could run it down,” he said.
“But I can’t. She’s a-bitin’ in my guts.”