“There’s fruit,” he said aloud.
Casy and Uncle John, Connie and Rose of Sharon climbed down.
And they stood silently.
Rose of Sharon had started to brush her hair back, when she caught sight of the valley and her hand dropped slowly to her side.
Tom said,
“Where’s Ma?
I want Ma to see it.
Look, Ma!
Come here, Ma.”
Ma was climbing slowly, stiffly, down the back board.
Tom looked at her.
“My God, Ma, you sick?”
Her face was stiff and putty-like, and her eyes seemed to have sunk deep into her head, and the rims were red with weariness.
Her feet touched the ground and she braced herself by holding the truck-side.
Her voice was a croak.
“Ya say we’re acrost?”
Tom pointed to the great valley.
“Look!”
She turned her head, and her mouth opened a little.
Her fingers went to her throat and gathered a little pinch of skin and twisted gently.
“Thank God!” she said. “The fambly’s here.” Her knees buckled and she sat down on the running board.
“You sick, Ma?”
“No, jus’ tar’d.”
“Didn’ you get no sleep?”
“No.”
“Was Granma bad?”
Ma looked down at her hands, lying together like tired lovers in her lap.
“I wisht I could wait an’ not tell you.
I wisht it could be all—nice.”
Pa said,
“Then Granma’s bad.”
Ma raised her eyes and looked over the valley.
“Granma’s dead.”
They looked at her, all of them, and Pa asked,
“When?”
“Before they stopped us las’ night.”
“So that’s why you didn’ want ’em to look.”
“I was afraid we wouldn’ get acrost,” she said. “I tol’ Granma we couldn’ he’p her.
The fambly had ta get acrost.
I tol’ her, tol’ her when she was a-dyin’.
We couldn’ stop in the desert.
There was the young ones—an’ Rosasharn’s baby.
I tol’ her.” She put up her hands and covered her face for a moment. “She can get buried in a nice green place,” Ma said softly.
“Trees aroun’ an’ a nice place.
She got to lay her head down in California.”
The family looked at Ma with a little terror at her strength.
Tom said,
“Jesus Christ!
You layin’ there with her all night long!”
“The fambly hadda get acrost,” Ma said miserably.