“What’s a matter, Ma?” he asked.
“I was scairt,” she said. “They was a policeman here.
He says we can’t stay here.
I was scairt he talked to you.
I was scairt you’d hit him if he talked to you.”
Tom said,
“What’d I go an’ hit a policeman for?”
Ma smiled.
“Well—he talked so bad—I nearly hit him myself.”
Tom grabbed her arm and shook her roughly and loosely, and he laughed.
He sat down on the ground, still laughing.
“My God, Ma. I knowed you when you was gentle.
What’s come over you?”
She looked serious.
“I don’ know, Tom.”
“Fust you stan’ us off with a jack handle, and now you try to hit a cop.” He laughed softly, and he reached out and patted her bare foot tenderly. “A ol’ hell-cat,” he said.
“Tom.”
“Yeah?”
She hesitated a long time.
“Tom, this here policeman—he called us—Okies.
He says,
‘We don’ want you goddamn Okies settlin’ down.”’
Tom studied her, and his hand still rested gently on her bare foot.
“Fella tol’ about that,” he said.
“Fella tol’ how they say it.” He considered, “Ma, would you say I was a bad fella?
Oughta be locked up—like that?”
“No,” she said. “You been tried—No.
What you ast me for?”
“Well, I dunno.
I’d a took a sock at that cop.”
Ma smiled with amusement.
“Maybe I oughta ast you that, ’cause I nearly hit ’im with a skillet.”
“Ma, why’d he say we couldn’ stop here?”
“Jus’ says they don’ want no damn Okies settlin’ down.
Says he’s gonna run us in if we’re here tomorra.”
“But we ain’t use’ ta gettin’ shoved aroun’ by no cops.”
“I tol’ him that,” said Ma.
“He says we ain’t home now.
We’re in California, and they do what they want.”
Tom said uneasily,
“Ma, I got somepin to tell ya. Noah—he went on down the river.
He ain’t a-goin’ on.”
It took a moment for Ma to understand.
“Why?” she asked softly.
“I don’ know.
Says he got to.
Says he got to stay.
Says for me to tell you.”
“How’ll he eat?” she demanded.
“I don’ know.