“Well, goddamn it, you’re goin’ the wrong way. We ain’t gonna have no goddamn Okies in this town.”
Tom’s shoulders and arms were rigid, and a shiver went through him. Ma clung to his arm. The front of the truck was surrounded by the armed men. Some of them, to make a military appearance, wore tunics and Sam Browne belts.
Tom whined, “Which way is it at, mister?”
“You turn right around an’ head north. An’ don’t come back till the cotton’s ready.”
Tom shivered all over. “Yes, sir,” he said. He put the car in reverse, backed around and turned. He headed back the way he had come. Ma released his arm and patted him softly. And Tom tried to restrain his hard smothered sobbing.
“Don’ you mind.” Ma said. “Don’ you mind.”
Tom blew his nose out the window and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
“The sons-of-bitches—”
“You done good,” Ma said tenderly. “You done jus’ good.”
Tom swerved into a side dirt road, ran a hundred yards, and turned off his lights and motor. He got out of the car, carrying the jack handle.