“Why—why, sure.”
“Don’t hurry yourself.”
Ma poured a tin cup of coffee from the gallon can. She said, “We ain’t got sugar yet. Maybe we’ll get some today. If you need sugar, it won’t taste good.”
“Never use sugar,” he said. “Spoils the taste of good coffee.”
“Well, I like a little sugar,” said Ma. She looked at him suddenly and closely, to see how he had come so close so quickly. She looked for motive on his face, and found nothing but friendliness. Then she looked at the frayed seams on his white coat, and she was reassured.
He sipped the coffee. “I guess the ladies’ll be here to see you this morning.”
“We ain’t clean,” Ma said. “They shouldn’t be comin’ till we get cleaned up a little.”
“But they know how it is,” the manager said. “They came in the same way. No, sir. The committees are good in this camp because they do know.” He finished his coffee and stood up. “Well, I got to go on. Anything you want, why, come over to the office. I’m there all the time. Grand coffee. Thank you.” He put the cup on the box with the others, waved his hand, and walked down the line of tents. And Ma heard him speaking to the people as he went.
Ma put down her head and she fought with a desire to cry.
Pa came back leading the children, their eyes still wet with pain at the ear-scrounging. They were subdued and shining. The sunburned skin on Winfield’s nose was scrubbed off. “There,” Pa said. “Got dirt an’ two layers a skin. Had to almost lick ’em to make ’em stan’ still.”