He felt under the seat for the crank and jumped out.
The water was higher than the running board.
He ran to the front end.
Crank case was under water now.
Frantically he fitted the crank and twisted around and around, and his clenched hand on the crank splashed in the slowly flowing water at each turn.
At last his frenzy gave out.
The motor was full of water, the battery fouled by now.
On slightly higher ground two cars were started and their lights on.
They floundered in the mud and dug their wheels down until finally the drivers cut off the motors and sat still, looking into the headlight beams.
And the rain whipped white streaks through the lights.
Al went slowly around the truck, reached in, and turned off the ignition.
When Pa reached the cat-walk, he found the lower end floating.
He stepped it down into the mud, under water.
“Think ya can make it awright, John?” he asked.
“I’ll be awright.
Jus’ go on.”
Pa cautiously climbed the cat-walk and squeezed himself in the narrow opening.
The two lamps were turned low.
Ma sat on the mattress beside Rose of Sharon, and Ma fanned her still face with a piece of cardboard.
Mrs. Wainwright poked dry brush into the stove, and a dank smoke edged out around the lids and filled the car with a smell of burning tissue.
Ma looked up at Pa when he entered, and then quickly down.
“How—is she?” Pa asked.
Ma did not look up at him again.
“Awright, I think.
Sleepin’.”
The air was fetid and close with the smell of the birth.
Uncle John clambered in and held himself upright against the side of the car.
Mrs. Wainwright left her work and came to Pa.
She pulled him by the elbow toward the corner of the car.
She picked up a lantern and held it over an apple box in the corner.
On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy.
“Never breathed,” said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.”
Uncle John turned and shuffled tiredly down the car to the dark end.
The rain whished softly on the roof now, so softly that they could hear Uncle John’s tired sniffling from the dark.
Pa looked up at Mrs. Wainwright. He took the lantern from her hand and put it on the floor.
Ruthie and Winfield were asleep on their own mattress, their arms over their eyes to cut out the light.
Pa walked slowly to Rose of Sharon’s mattress. He tried to squat down, but his legs were too tired.
He knelt instead.
Ma fanned her square of cardboard back and forth.
She looked at Pa for a moment, and her eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s eyes.
Pa said,
“We—done—what we could.”
“I know.”
“We worked all night.
An’ a tree cut out the bank.”
“I know.”
“You can hear it under the car.”
“I know.
I heard it.”
“Think she’s gonna be all right?”