She looked at him and smiled secretly. She was all secrets now she was pregnant, secrets and little silences that seemed to have meanings. She was pleased with herself, and she complained about things that didn’t really matter. And she demanded services of Connie that were silly, and both of them knew they were silly. Connie was pleased with her too, and filled with wonder that she was pregnant. He liked to think he was in on the secrets she had. When she smiled slyly, he smiled slyly too, and they exchanged confidences in whispers. The world had drawn close around them, and they were in the center of it, or rather Rose of Sharon was in the center of it with Connie making a small orbit about her. Everything they said was a kind of secret.
She drew her eyes from the highway. “I ain’t very thirsty,” she said daintily. “But maybe I ought to drink.”
And he nodded, for he knew well what she meant. She took the cup and rinsed her mouth and spat and then drank the cupful of tepid water. “Want another?” he asked.
“Jus’ a half.” And so he filled the cup just half, and gave it to her. A Lincoln Zephyr, silvery and low, whisked by. She turned to see where the others were and saw them clustered about the truck. Reassured, she said, “How’d you like to be goin’ along in that?”
Connie sighed, “Maybe—after.” They both knew what he meant. “An’ if they’s plenty work in California, we’ll git our own car. But them”—he indicated the disappearing Zephyr—“them kind costs as much as a good size house. I ruther have the house.”
“I like to have the house an’ one a them,” she said. “But ’course the house would be first because—” And they both knew what she meant. They were terribly excited about the pregnancy.
“You feel awright?” he asked.
“Tar’d. Jus’ tar’d ridin’ in the sun.”
“We got to do that or we won’t never get to California.”
“I know,” she said.