“You ain’t gonna be mad? You know I got to?”
“Christ, yes,” said Pa. “You know what you got to do.”
“I wouldn’ be able to get through this night no other way,” he said.
He turned to Ma. “You ain’t gonna hold her over me?”
Ma didn’t look up.
“No,” she said softly. “No—you go ’long.”
He stood up and walked forlornly away in the evening.
He walked up to the concrete highway and across the pavement to the grocery store.
In front of the screen door he took off his hat, dropped it into the dust, and ground it with his heel in self-abasement.
And he left his black hat there, broken and dirty.
He entered the store and walked to the shelves where the whisky bottles stood behind wire netting.
Pa and Ma and the children watched Uncle John move away.
Rose of Sharon kept her eyes resentfully on the potatoes.
“Poor John,” Ma said. “I wondered if it would a done any good if—no—I guess not. I never seen a man so drove.”
Ruthie turned on her side in the dust. She put her head close to Winfield’s head and pulled his ear against her mouth. She whispered,
“I’m gonna get drunk.”
Winfield snorted and pinched his mouth tight.
The two children crawled away, holding their breath, their faces purple with the pressure of their giggles. They crawled around the tent and leaped up and ran squealing away from the tent.
They ran to the willows, and once concealed, they shrieked with laughter.
Ruthie crossed her eyes and loosened her joints; she staggered about, tripping loosely, with her tongue hanging out.
“I’m drunk,” she said.
“Look,” Winfield cried. “Looka me, here’s me, an’ I’m Uncle John.” He flapped his arms and puffed, he whirled until he was dizzy.
“No,” said Ruthie. “Here’s the way.
Here’s the way.
I’m Uncle John.
I’m awful drunk.”
Al and Tom walked quietly through the willows, and they came on the children staggering crazily about.
The dusk was thick now.
Tom stopped and peered.
“Ain’t that Ruthie an’ Winfiel’?
What the hell’s the matter with ’em?” They walked nearer. “You crazy?” Tom asked.
The children stopped, embarrassed.
“We was—jus’ playin’,” Ruthie said.
“It’s a crazy way to play,” said Al.
Ruthie said pertly,
“It ain’t no crazier’n a lot of things.”
Al walked on. He said to Tom,
“Ruthie’s workin’ up a kick in the pants.
She been workin’ it up a long time. ’Bout due for it.”
Ruthie mushed her face at his back, pulled out her mouth with her forefingers, slobbered her tongue at him, outraged him in every way she knew, but Al did not turn back to look at her.
She looked at Winfield again to start the game, but it had been spoiled.
They both knew it.
“Le’s go down the water an’ duck our heads,” Winfield suggested.
They walked down through the willows, and they were angry at Al.
Al and Tom went quietly in the dusk.
Tom said,
“Casy shouldn’ of did it.
I might of knew, though.
He was talkin’ how he ain’t done nothin’ for us.
He’s a funny fella, Al.