In the kitchen one lantern burned and the plate of pork bones was still piled high. Tom said, “Listen, I know Grampa got the right to say he ain’t goin’, but he can’t stay. We know that.”
“Sure he can’t stay,” said Pa.
“Well, look. If we got to catch him an’ tie him down, we li’ble to hurt him, an’ he’ll git so mad he’ll hurt himself. Now we can’t argue with him. If we could get him drunk it’d be all right. You got any whisky?”
“No,” said Pa. “There ain’t a drop a’ whisky in the house. An’ John got no whisky. He never has none when he ain’t drinkin’.” Ma said, “Tom, I got a half bottle soothin’ sirup I got for Winfiel’ when he had them earaches. Think that might work? Use ta put Winfiel’ ta sleep when his earache was bad.”
“Might,” said Tom. “Get it, Ma. We’ll give her a try anyways.”
“I throwed it out on the trash pile,” said Ma. She took the lantern and went out, and in a moment she came back with a bottle half full of black medicine.
Tom took it from her and tasted it. “Don’t taste bad,” he said. “Make up a cup a black coffee, good an’ strong. Le’s see—says one teaspoon. Better put in a lot, coupla tablespoons.”
Ma opened the stove and put a kettle inside, down next to the coals, and she measured water and coffee into it. “Have to give it to ’im in a can,” she said. “We got the cups all packed.”
Tom and his father went back outside. “Fella got a right to say what he’s gonna do. Say, who’s eatin’ spareribs?” said Grampa. “We’ve et,” said Tom. “Ma’s fixin’ you a cup a coffee an’ some pork.”
He went into the house, and he drank his coffee and ate his pork. The group outside in the growing dawn watched him quietly, through the door. They saw him yawn and sway, and they saw him put his arms on the table and rest his head on his arms and go to sleep.