“That’s what we’re a-gettin’.”
“Yeah.
What we was a-doin’ was breakin’ strike.
They give them fellas two an’ a half cents.”
“You can’t eat on that.”
“I know,” Tom said wearily. “That’s why they struck.
Well, I think they bust that strike las’ night.
We’ll maybe be gettin’ two an’ a half cents today.”
“Why, the sons-a-bitches——”
“Yeah! Pa.
You see?
Casy was still a—good man. Goddamn it, I can’t get that pitcher outa my head.
Him layin’ there—head jus’ crushed flat an’ oozin’.
Jesus!” He covered his eyes with his hand.
“Well, what we gonna do?” Uncle John asked.
Al was standing up now.
“Well, by God, I know what I’m gonna do.
I’m gonna get out of it.”
“No, you ain’t, Al,” Tom said. “We need you now.
I’m the one.
I’ma danger now.
Soon’s I get on my feet I got to go.”
Ma worked at the stove.
Her head was half turned to hear.
She put grease in the frying pan, and when it whispered with heat, she spooned the dough into it.
Tom went on,
“You got to stay, Al.
You got to take care a the truck.”
“Well, I don’ like it.”
“Can’t help it, Al.
It’s your folks.
You can help ’em.
I’m a danger to ’em.”
Al grumbled angrily.
“I don’ know why I ain’t let to get me a job in a garage.”
“Later, maybe.” Tom looked past him, and he saw Rose of Sharon lying on the mattress. Her eyes were huge—opened wide. “Don’t worry,” he called to her. “Don’t you worry. Gonna get you some milk today.” She blinked slowly, and didn’t answer him.
Pa said,
“We got to know, Tom.
Think ya killed this fella?”
“I don’ know.
It was dark.
An’ somebody smacked me.
I don’ know. I hope so. I hope I killed the bastard.”
“Tom!” Ma called. “Don’ talk like that.”
From the street came the sound of many cars moving slowly.
Pa stepped to the window and looked out.
“They’s a whole slew a new people comin’ in,” he said.
“I guess they bust the strike, awright,” said Tom. “I guess you’ll start at two an’ a half cents.”
“But a fella could work at a run, an’ still he couldn’ eat.”
“I know,” said Tom. “Eat win’fall peaches.