“Now you look-a-here,” Tom began.
“No.
It ain’t no use.
I was in that there water. An’ I ain’t a-gonna leave her.
I’m a-gonna go now, Tom—down the river.
I’ll catch fish an’ stuff, but I can’t leave her.
I can’t.” He crawled back out of the willow cave. “You tell Ma, Tom.” He walked away.
Tom followed him to the river bank.
“Listen, you goddamn fool——”
“It ain’t no use,” Noah said. “I’m sad, but I can’t he’p it.
I got to go.”
He turned abruptly and walked downstream along the shore.
Tom started to follow, and then he stopped.
He saw Noah disappear into the brush, and then appear again, following the edge of the river.
And he watched Noah growing smaller on the edge of the river, until he disappeared into the willows at last.
And Tom took off his cap and scratched his head.
He went back to his willow cave and lay down to sleep.
Under the spread tarpaulin Granma lay on a mattress, and Ma sat beside her.
The air was stiflingly hot, and the flies buzzed in the shade of the canvas.
Granma was naked under a long piece of pink curtain.
She turned her old head restlessly from side to side, and she muttered and choked.
Ma sat on the ground beside her, and with a piece of cardboard drove the flies away and fanned a stream of moving hot air over the tight old face.
Rose of Sharon sat on the other side and watched her mother.
Granma called imperiously,
“Will!
Will!
You come here, Will.” And her eyes opened and she looked fiercely about. “Tol’ him to come right here,” she said.
“I’ll catch him.
I’ll take the hair off ’n him.”
She closed her eyes and rolled her head back and forth and muttered thickly.
Ma fanned with the cardboard.
Rose of Sharon looked helplessly at the old woman.
She said softly, “She’s awful sick.”
Ma raised her eyes to the girl’s face.
Ma’s eyes were patient, but the lines of strain were on her forehead.
Ma fanned and fanned the air, and her piece of cardboard warned off the flies.
“When you’re young, Rosasharn, ever’thing that happens is a thing all by itself. It’s a lonely thing.
I know, I ’member, Rosasharn.” Her mouth loved the name of her daughter. “You’re gonna have a baby, Rosasharn, and that’s somepin to you lonely and away.
That’s gonna hurt you, an’ the hurt’ll be lonely hurt, an’ this here tent is alone in the worl’, Rosasharn.” She whipped the air for a moment to drive a buzzing blow fly on, and the big shining fly circled the tent twice and zoomed out into the blinding sunlight.
And Ma went on, “They’s a time of change, an’ when that comes, dyin’ is a piece of all dyin’, and bearin’ is a piece of all bearin’, an’ bearin’ an’ dyin’ is two pieces of the same thing.
An’ then things ain’t lonely any more.
An’ then a hurt don’t hurt so bad, ’cause it ain’t a lonely hurt no more, Rosasharn. I wisht I could tell you so you’d know, but I can’t.” And her voice was so soft, so full of love, that tears crowded into Rose of Sharon’s eyes, and flowed over her eyes and blinded her. “Take an’ fan Granma,” Ma said, and she handed the cardboard to her daughter. “That’s a good thing to do. I wisht I could tell you so you’d know.”
Granma, scowling her brows down over her closed eyes, bleated,
“Will!
You’re dirty!
You ain’t never gonna get clean.” Her little wrinkled claws moved up and scratched her cheek.
A red ant ran up the curtain cloth and scrambled over the folds of loose skin on the old lady’s neck.
Ma reached quickly and picked it off, crushed it between thumb and forefinger, and brushed her fingers on her dress.
Rose of Sharon waved the cardboad fan. She looked up at Ma.
“She—?” And the words parched in her throat.