Wisht we was home an’ never come. Connie wouldn’ a went away if we was home. He would a studied up an’ got someplace.” Neither Al nor Uncle John answered her. They were embarrassed about Connie.
At the white painted gate to the ranch a guard came to the side of the truck. “Goin’ out for good?”
“Yeah,” said Al. “Goin’ north. Got a job.” The guard turned his flashlight on the truck, turned it up into the tent. Ma and Pa looked stonily down into the glare. “O.K.” The guard swung the gate open. The truck turned left and moved toward 101, the great north-south highway.
“Know where we’re a-goin’?” Uncle John asked. “No,” said Al. “Jus’ goin’, an’ gettin’ goddamn sick of it.”
“I ain’t so tur’ble far from my time,” Rose of Sharon said threateningly. “They better be a nice place for me.”
The night air was cold with the first sting of frost. Beside the road the leaves were beginning to drop from the fruit trees. On the load, Ma sat with her back against the truck side, and Pa sat opposite, facing her.
Ma called, “You all right, Tom?” His muffled voice came back, “Kinda tight in here. We all through the ranch?”
“You be careful,” said Ma. “Might git stopped.” Tom lifted up one side of his cave. In the dimness of the truck the pots jangled. “I can pull her down quick.” he said. “’Sides, I don’ like gettin’ trapped in here.” He rested up on his elbow. “By God, she’s gettin’ cold, ain’t she?”
“They’s clouds up,” said Pa. “Fella says it’s gonna be an early winter.”
“Squirrels a-buildin’ high, or grass seeds?” Tom asked. “By God, you can tell weather from anythin’. I bet you could find a fella could tell weather from a old pair of underdrawers.”