Rose of Sharon blushed and looked down at the ground, and then peeked up, and the little shiny black eyes of the woman took her in. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.
The woman plopped the apple box on the ground. “Got a live tumor,” she said, and she cackled like a happy hen. “Which’d you ruther?” she demanded.
“I dunno—boy, I guess. Sure—boy.”
“You jus’ come in, didn’ ya?”
“Las’ night—late.”
“Gonna stay?”
“I don’ know. ’F we can get work, guess we will.”
A shadow crossed the woman’s face, and the little black eyes grew fierce. “’F you can git work. That’s what we all say.”
“My brother got a job already this mornin’.”
“Did, huh? Maybe you’re lucky. Look out for luck. You can’t trus’ luck.” She stepped close. “You can only git one kind a luck. Cain’t have more. You be a good girl,” she said fiercely. “You be good. If you got sin on you—you better watch out for that there baby.” She squatted down in front of Rose of Sharon. “They’s scandalous things goes on in this here camp,” she said darkly. “Ever’ Sat’dy night they’s dancin’, an’ not only squar’ dancin’, neither. They’s some does clutch-an’-hug dancin’! I seen’ em.”