They passed the crest and coasted down to cool the engine.
They coasted down the long sweep to the floor of the desert, and the fan turned over to cool the water in the radiator.
In the driver’s seat, Tom and Al and Pa, and Winfield on Pa’s knee, looked into the bright descending sun, and their eyes were stony, and their brown faces were damp with perspiration.
The burnt land and the black, cindery hills broke the even distance and made it terrible in the reddening light of the setting sun.
Al said,
“Jesus, what a place.
How’d you like to walk acrost her?”
“People done it,” said Tom.
“Lots a people done it; an’ if they could, we could.”
“Lots must a died,” said Al.
“Well, we ain’t come out exac’ly clean.”
Al was silent for a while, and the reddening desert swept past.
“Think we’ll ever see them Wilsons again?” Al asked.
Tom flicked his eyes down to the oil gauge.
“I got a hunch nobody ain’t gonna see Mis’ Wilson for long.
Jus’ a hunch I got.”
Winfield said,
“Pa, I wanta get out.”
Tom looked over at him.
“Might’s well let ever’body out ’fore we settle down to drivin’ tonight.” He slowed the car and brought it to a stop.
Winfield scrambled out and urinated at the side of the road.
Tom leaned out. “Anybody else?”
“We’re holdin’ our water up here,” Uncle John called.
Pa said,
“Winfiel’, you crawl up on top.
You put my legs to sleep a-settin’ on ’em.” The little boy buttoned his overalls and obediently crawled up the back board and on his hands and knees crawled over Granma’s mattress and forward to Ruthie.
The truck moved on into the evening, and the edge of the sun struck the rough horizon and turned the desert red.
Ruthie said,
“Wouldn’ leave you set up there, huh?”
“I didn’ want to.
It wasn’t so nice as here.
Couldn’ lie down.”
“Well, don’ you bother me, a-squawkin’ an’ a-talkin’,” Ruthie said, “’cause I’m goin’ to sleep, an’ when I wake up, we gonna be there! ’Cause Tom said so!
Gonna seem funny to see pretty country.”
The sun went down and left a great halo in the sky.
And it grew very dark under the tarpaulin, a long cave with light at each end—a flat triangle of light.
Connie and Rose of Sharon leaned back against the cab, and the hot wind tumbling through the tent struck the backs of their heads, and the tarpaulin whipped and drummed above them.
They spoke together in low tones, pitched to the drumming canvas, so that no one could hear them.
When Connie spoke he turned his head and spoke into her ear, and she did the same to him.
She said,
“Seems like we wasn’t never gonna do nothin’ but move.
I’m so tar’d.”
He turned his head to her ear.
“Maybe in the mornin’. How’d you like to be alone now?” In the dusk his hand moved out and stroked her hip.
She said,
“Don’t.
You’ll make me crazy as a loon.
Don’t do that.” And she turned her head to hear his response.
“Maybe—when ever’body’s asleep.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But wait till they get to sleep.