“Ain’t you got a place, Tom?”
“Yeah—but if—well, s’pose somebody seen you with me—whole fambly’d be in a jam.”
“I got to, Tom.”
“Then come along. Come quiet.” He crossed the little stream, wading carelessly through the water, and Ma followed him. He moved through the brush, out into a field on the other side of the thicket, and along the plowed ground. The blackening stems of the cotton were harsh against the ground, and a few fluffs of cotton clung to the stems. A quarter of a mile they went along the edge of the field, and then he turned into the brush again. He approached a great mound of wild blackberry bushes, leaned over and pulled a mat of vines aside. “You got to crawl in,” he said.
Ma went down on her hands and knees. She felt sand under her, and then the black inside of the mound no longer touched her, and she felt Tom’s blanket on the ground. He arranged the vines in place again. It was lightless in the cave.
“Where are you, Ma?”
“Here. Right here. Talk soft, Tom.”
“Don’t worry. I been livin’ like a rabbit some time.” She heard him unwrap his tin plate. “Pork chops,” she said. “And fry potatoes.”
“God Awmighty, an’ still warm.” Ma could not see him at all in the blackness, but she could hear him chewing, tearing at the meat and swallowing. “It’s a pretty good hide-out,” he said. Ma said uneasily, “Tom—Ruthie tol’ about you.” She heard him gulp. “Ruthie? What for?”
“Well, it wasn’ her fault. Got in a fight, an’ says her brother’ll lick that other girl’s brother. You know how they do. An’ she tol’ that her brother killed a man an’ was hidin’.”