I know how you’re a-feelin’, an’ I know you can’t he’p it, but you jus’ keep your mouth shut.”
She turned back to Tom.
“Don’t pay her no mind, Tom.
It’s awful hard, an’ I ’member how it is.
Ever’thing is a-shootin’ right at you when you’re gonna have a baby, an’ ever’thing anybody says is a insult, an’ ever’thing’s against you.
Don’t pay no mind.
She can’t he’p it.
It’s jus’ the way she feels.”
“I don’ wanta hurt her.”
“Hush! Jus’ don’ talk.” She set her bag down on the cold stove. “Didn’ hardly make nothin’,” she said. “I tol’ you, we’re gonna get outa here.
Tom, try an’ wrassle me some wood.
No—you can’t.
Here, we got on’y this one box lef’. Break it up.
I tol’ the other fellas to pick up some sticks on the way back.
Gonna have mush an’ a little sugar on.”
Tom got up and stamped the last box to small pieces.
Ma carefully built her fire in one end of the stove, conserving the flame under one stove hole.
She filled a kettle with water and put it over the flame.
The kettle rattled over the direct fire, rattled and wheezed.
“How was it pickin’ today?” Tom asked.
Ma dipped a cup into her bag of cornmeal.
“I don’ wanta talk about it.
I was thinkin’ today how they use’ to be jokes.
I don’ like it, Tom. We don’t joke no more.
When they’s a joke, it’s a mean bitter joke, an’ they ain’t no fun in it.
Fella says today,
‘Depression is over.
I seen a jackrabbit, an’ they wasn’t nobody after him.’
An’ another fella says,
‘That ain’t the reason.
Can’t afford to kill jackrabbits no more.
Catch ’em and milk ’em an’ turn ’em loose.
One you seen prob’ly gone dry.’
That’s how I mean.
Ain’t really funny, not funny like that time Uncle John converted an Injun an’ brang him home, an’ that Injun et his way clean to the bottom of the bean bin, an’ then backslid with Uncle John’s whisky.
Tom, put a rag with col’ water on your face.”
The dusk deepened.
Ma lighted the lantern and hung it on a nail.
She fed the fire and poured cornmeal gradually into the hot water.
“Rosasharn.” she said, “can you stir the mush?”
Outside there was a patter of running feet.
The door burst open and banged against the wall.
Ruthie rushed in.
“Ma!” she cried. “Ma. Winfiel’ got a fit!”
“Where?
Tell me!”
Ruthie panted,
“Got white an’ fell down.
Et so many peaches he skittered hisself all day.
Jus’ fell down.