“You sure?
You won’t go?”
“No, Ma.
I’ll be here.”
“Awright. ’Member, Rosasharn.” She went out and closed the door firmly behind her.
Tom lay still—and then a wave of sleep lifted him to the edge of unconsciousness and dropped him slowly back and lifted him again.
“You—Tom!”
“Huh?
Yeah!” He started awake.
He looked over at Rose of Sharon.
Her eyes were blazing with resentment. “What you want?”
“You killed a fella!”
“Yeah.
Not so loud!
You wanta rouse somebody?”
“What da I care?” she cried. “That lady tol’ me.
She says what sin’s gonna do. She tol’ me.
What chance I got to have a nice baby?
Connie’s gone, an’ I ain’t gettin’ good food.
I ain’t gettin’ milk.” Her voice rose hysterically. “An’ now you kill a fella.
What chance that baby got to get bore right?
I know—gonna be a freak—a freak!
I never done no dancin’.”
Tom got up.
“Sh!” he said. “You’re gonna get folks in here.”
“I don’ care.
I’ll have a freak!
I didn’ dance no hug-dance.”
He went near to her.
“Be quiet.”
“You get away from me.
It ain’t the first fella you killed, neither.” Her face was growing red with hysteria.
Her words blurred. “I don’ wanta look at you.” She covered her head with her blanket.
Tom heard the choked, smothered cries.
He bit his lower lip and studied the floor.
And then he went to Pa’s bed.
Under the edge of the mattress the rifle lay, a lever-action Winchester .38, long and heavy.
Tom picked it up and dropped the lever to see that a cartridge was in the chamber. He tested the hammer on half-cock. And then he went back to his mattress.
He laid the rifle on the floor beside him, stock up and barrel pointing down.
Rose of Sharon’s voice thinned to a whimper.
Tom lay down again and covered himself, covered his bruised cheek with the blanket and made a little tunnel to breathe through.
He sighed,
“Jesus, oh, Jesus!”
Outside, a group of cars went by, and voices sounded.
“How many men?”
“Jes’ us—three.
Whatcha payin’?”
“You go to house twenty-five.
Number’s right on the door.”
“O.K., mister.