Tom was chuckling. “With me I was always gonna get Uncle John after ’em, but he never would do it. That’s jus’ kid talk, Ma. That’s awright.”
“No, it ain’t,” Ma said. “Them kids’ll tell it aroun’ an’ then the folks’ll hear, an’ they’ll tell aroun’, an’ pretty soon, well, they liable to get men out to look, jus’ in case. Tom, you got to go away.”
“That’s what I said right along. I was always scared somebody’d see you put stuff in that culvert, an’ then they’d watch.”
“I know. But I wanted you near. I was scared for you. I ain’t seen you. Can’t see you now. How’s your face?”
“Gettin’ well quick.”
“Come clost, Tom. Let me feel it. Come clost.” He crawled near.
Her reaching hand found his head in the blackness and her fingers moved down to his nose, and then over his left cheek. “You got a bad scar, Tom. An’ your nose is all crooked.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing. Nobody wouldn’t know me, maybe. If my prints wasn’t on record, I’d be glad.” He went back to his eating. “Hush,” she said. “Listen!”
“It’s the wind, Ma. Jus’ the wind.” The gust poured down the stream, and the trees rustled under its passing.
She crawled close to his voice. “I wanta touch ya again, Tom. It’s like I’m blin’, it’s so dark. I wanta remember, even if it’s on’y my fingers that remember. You got to go away, Tom.”