The blackening stems of the cotton were harsh against the ground, and a few fluffs of cotton clung to the stems.
A quarter of a mile they went along the edge of the field, and then he turned into the brush again.
He approached a great mound of wild blackberry bushes, leaned over and pulled a mat of vines aside.
“You got to crawl in,” he said.
Ma went down on her hands and knees.
She felt sand under her, and then the black inside of the mound no longer touched her, and she felt Tom’s blanket on the ground.
He arranged the vines in place again.
It was lightless in the cave.
“Where are you, Ma?”
“Here. Right here.
Talk soft, Tom.”
“Don’t worry.
I been livin’ like a rabbit some time.”
She heard him unwrap his tin plate.
“Pork chops,” she said. “And fry potatoes.”
“God Awmighty, an’ still warm.”
Ma could not see him at all in the blackness, but she could hear him chewing, tearing at the meat and swallowing. “It’s a pretty good hide-out,” he said.
Ma said uneasily,
“Tom—Ruthie tol’ about you.”
She heard him gulp.
“Ruthie?
What for?”
“Well, it wasn’ her fault.
Got in a fight, an’ says her brother’ll lick that other girl’s brother.
You know how they do. An’ she tol’ that her brother killed a man an’ was hidin’.”
Tom was chuckling.
“With me I was always gonna get Uncle John after ’em, but he never would do it.
That’s jus’ kid talk, Ma.
That’s awright.”
“No, it ain’t,” Ma said. “Them kids’ll tell it aroun’ an’ then the folks’ll hear, an’ they’ll tell aroun’, an’ pretty soon, well, they liable to get men out to look, jus’ in case.
Tom, you got to go away.”
“That’s what I said right along.
I was always scared somebody’d see you put stuff in that culvert, an’ then they’d watch.”
“I know.
But I wanted you near. I was scared for you.
I ain’t seen you. Can’t see you now. How’s your face?”
“Gettin’ well quick.”
“Come clost, Tom.
Let me feel it.
Come clost.” He crawled near.
Her reaching hand found his head in the blackness and her fingers moved down to his nose, and then over his left cheek. “You got a bad scar, Tom.
An’ your nose is all crooked.”
“Maybe tha’s a good thing.
Nobody wouldn’t know me, maybe. If my prints wasn’t on record, I’d be glad.” He went back to his eating.
“Hush,” she said. “Listen!”
“It’s the wind, Ma.
Jus’ the wind.”
The gust poured down the stream, and the trees rustled under its passing.
She crawled close to his voice.
“I wanta touch ya again, Tom.