Tom apologized. “I had to hit ’im a little to make ’im come. Poor fella.”
“Didn’ hurt ’im?” Ma asked.
“Don’ think so. He’s a-comin’ out of it.”
Uncle John was weakly sick on the ground. His spasms of vomiting came in little gasps.
Ma said, “I lef’ a plate a potatoes for you, Tom.”
Tom chuckled. “I ain’t just in the mood right now.”
Pa called, “Awright, Al. Sling up the tarp.”
The truck was loaded and ready. Uncle John had gone to sleep. Tom and Al boosted and pulled him up on the load while Winfield made a vomiting noise behind the truck and Ruthie plugged her mouth with her hand to keep from squealing.
“Awready,” Pa said.
Tom asked, “Where’s Rosasharn?”