“There's nothing you can do to them now, except spit. I said I caught them.”
“You…?”
Gary pointed to his automatic. “That.”
The farmer stared at him without really seeing him, and then carefully wrapped the clothing about the body and picked it up. “Bring the guns,” he said to Gary and turned his back. “Come on up to the house.”
Gary followed him in.
Hoffman carried the body into an inner bedroom, the entire family trailing after. Left alone, Gary looked about the room in which he found himself and sat down, remembering to take off his ragged cap. It seemed to be a combination living room and dining room, opening directly off the kitchen. Something was cooking on the kitchen stove, something that bubbled and hissed, carrying to him a taunting odor that excited his hunger and caused the saliva to flow in his mouth. He held himself in the chair with difficulty, his eyes attempting to see the stove and the kettle around a corner. The room was comfortable and warm and he thought it had been years since he had known anything like it; there was a rocking chair and a long leather couch at the far end, three or four other chairs scattered about and some ancient magazines piled on the floor. From behind a closed door came the sounds of grief.
He pulled his eyes away from the kitchen doorway and tried to shut off the smell of cooking. The wallpaper around him was old and creased with yellow lines, yet it did not detract from the comfort and ease the room suggested. In the center of the floor stood a heavy oaken table from which the family took their meals, and the faded oilcloth covering it contained hardened, dried spots of spilled food. The little girl's doll lay on the table. Gary looked across the doll and discovered the radio.
He half rose from his chair, fingers already reaching out to snap the switch, and abruptly sat down again.
Hoffman walked into the room, hand outstretched. Gary stood up, took it.
“I ain't quite got the words to thank you.”