“Wonder if the roof leaks.”
“No, I don’ think so. Be nice an’ dry, but we got to have wood. Got to keep warm. Take Ruthie an’ Winfiel’ too. They can get twigs. This here girl ain’t well.” Ma got out, and Rose of Sharon tried to follow, but her knees buckled and she sat down heavily on the running board.
Fat Mrs. Wainwright saw her. “What’s a matter? Her time come?”
“No, I don’ think so,” said Ma. “Got a chill. Maybe took col’. Gimme a han’, will you?” The two women supported Rose of Sharon. After a few steps her strength came back—her legs took her weight.
“I’m awright, Ma,” she said. “It was jus’ a minute there.” The older women kept hands on her elbows. “Feet in hot water,” Ma said wisely. They helped her up the cat-walk and into the boxcar.
“You rub her,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “I’ll get a far’ goin’.” She used the last of the twigs and built up a blaze in the stove. The rain poured now, scoured at the roof of the car.
Ma looked up at it. “Thank God we got a tight roof,” she said. “Them tents leaks, no matter how good. Jus’ put on a little water, Mis’ Wainwright.”
Rose of Sharon lay still on a mattress. She let them take off her shoes and rub her feet. Mrs. Wainwright bent over her. “You got pain?” she demanded.
“No. Jus’ don’ feel good. Jus’ feel bad.”
“I got pain killer an’ salts,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “You’re welcome to ’em if you want ’em. Perfec’ly welcome.”