I didn’t say any more. Quentin sat there, crumbling the biscuit until I quit eating, then she says,
“Can I go now?” without looking at anybody.
“What?” I says. “Sure, you can go. Were you waiting on us?”
She looked at me. She had crumbled all the biscuit, but her hands still went on like they were crumbling it yet and her eyes looked like they were cornered or something and then she started biting her mouth like it ought to have poisoned her, with all that red lead.
“Grandmother,” she says, “Grandmother—”
“Did you want something else to eat?” I says.
“Why does he treat me like this, Grandmother?” she says. “I never hurt him.”
“I want you all to get along with one another,” Mother says, “You are all that’s left now, and I do want you all to get along better.”
“It’s his fault,” she says, “He wont let me alone, and I have to. If he doesn’t want me here, why wont he let me go back to—”
“That’s enough,” I says, “Not another word.”