“Keep your eye on ’em, John. Don’ let ’em talk to nobody.” She built the fire as Pa broke the boxes that had held the goods. She made her dough, put a pot of coffee to boil. The light wood caught and roared its flame in the chimney.
Pa finished breaking the boxes. He came near to Tom. “Casy—he was a good man. What’d he wanta mess with that stuff for?” Tom said dully, “They come to work for fi’ cents a box.”
“That’s what we’re a-gettin’.”
“Yeah. What we was a-doin’ was breakin’ strike. They give them fellas two an’ a half cents.”
“You can’t eat on that.”
“I know,” Tom said wearily. “That’s why they struck. Well, I think they bust the strike las’ night. We’ll maybe be gettin’ two an’ a half cents today.”
“Why, the sons-a-bitches—”
“Yeah! Pa. You see? Casy was still a—good man. Goddamn it, I can’t get that pitcher outa my head. Him layin’ there—head jus’ crushed flat an’ oozin’. Jesus!” He covered his eyes with his hand. “Well, what we gonna do?” Uncle John asked. Al was standing up now. “Well, by God, I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get out of it.”
“No, you ain’t, Al,” Tom said. “We need you now. I’m the one. I’m a danger now. Soon’s I get on my feet I got to go.”
Ma worked at the stove. Her head was half turned to hear. She put grease in the frying pan, and when it whispered with heat, she spooned the dough into it.