‘A farm yonder.’
‘You’re a kidnapper,’ said Janie. ‘Know that?’
‘What’s a kidnapper?’
‘Man that steals babies, that’s what. When they find out about it the policeman will come and shoot you dead and put you in the electric chair.’
‘Well,’ said Lone, relieved, ‘ain’t nobody going to find out. Only man knows about it, I fixed it so he’s forgotten. That’s the daddy. The ma, she’s dead, but he don’t know that either. He thinks she’s back East. He’ll hang on waiting for her. Anyway, feed him.’
He pulled off his jacket. The kids kept it too hot in here. The baby lay still with its dull button eyes open, breathing too loudly. Janie stood before the fire, staring thoughtfully at the stewpot. Finally she dipped into it with a ladle and dribbled the juice into a tin can. ‘Milk,’ she said while she worked. ‘You got to start swiping milk for him, Lone. Babies, they eat more milk’n a cat.’
‘All right,’ said Lone.
The twins watched, wall-eyed, as Janie slopped the broth on the baby’s disinterested mouth.
‘He’s getting some,’ said Janie optimistically.
Without humour and only from visible evidence, Lone said, ‘Maybe through his ears.’