Tom said quietly, “Hey, wait! Where do I come in?”
Uncle John turned his head. “Who you?”
“You forgot me awready? You had four drinks to my one.”
“No, Tom. Don’t try fool me. I’m all alone here. You ain’t been here.”
“Well, I’m sure here now. How ’bout givin’ me a snort?”
Uncle John raised the pint again and the whisky gurgled. He shook the bottle. It was empty. “No more,” he said. “Wanta die so bad. Wanta die awful. Die a little bit. Got to. Like sleepin’. Die a little bit. So tar’d. Tar’d. Maybe—don’ wake up no more.” His voice crooned off. “Gonna wear a crown—a golden crown.”
Tom said, “Listen here to me, Uncle John. We’re gonna move on. You come along, an’ you can go right to sleep up on the load.”
John shook his head. “No. Go on. Ain’t goin’. Gonna res’ here. No good goin’ back. No good to nobody—jus’ a-draggin’ my sins like dirty drawers ’mongst nice folks. No. Ain’t goin’.”
“Come on. We can’t go ’less you go.”
“Go ri’ ’long. I ain’t no good. I ain’t no good. Jus’ a-draggin’ my sins, a-dirtyin’ ever’body.”