Pa and Ma, Al and Uncle John, each at a corner, lifted Rose of Sharon’s mattress, with the girl on it, and put it on top of the pile.
And the girl protested,
“I can walk.
I’m awright.” And the water crept over the floor, a thin film of it.
Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma, and Ma put her hand under the blanket and felt her breast and nodded.
In the other end of the boxcar, the Wainwrights were pounding, building a platform for themselves.
The rain thickened, and then passed away.
Ma looked down at her feet.
The water was half an inch deep on the car floor by now.
“You, Ruthie—Winfiel’!” she called distractedly. “Come get on top of the pile.
You’ll get cold.” She saw them safely up, sitting awkwardly beside Rose of Sharon.
Ma said suddenly, “We got to git out.”
“We can’t,” Pa said. “Like Al says, all our stuff’s here.
We’ll pull off the boxcar door an’ make more room to set on.”
The family huddled on the platforms, silent and fretful.
The water was six inches deep in the car before the flood spread evenly over the embankment and moved into the cotton field on the other side.
During that day and night the men slept soddenly, side by side on the boxcar door.
And Ma lay close to Rose of Sharon.
Sometimes Ma whispered to her and sometimes sat up quietly, her face brooding.
Under the blanket she hoarded the remains of the store bread.
The rain had become intermittent now—little wet squalls and quiet times.
On the morning of the second day Pa splashed through the camp and came back with ten potatoes in his pockets.
Ma watched him sullenly while he chopped out part of the inner wall of the car, built a fire, and scooped water into a pan.
The family ate the steaming boiled potatoes with their fingers.
And when this last food was gone, they stared at the gray water; and in the night they did not lie down for a long time.
When the morning came they awakened nervously.
Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma.
Ma nodded her head.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s time for it.” And then she turned to the car door, where the men lay. “We’re a-gettin’ outa here,” she said savagely, “gettin’ to higher groun’.
An’ you’re comin’ or you ain’t comin’, but I’m takin’ Rosasharn an’ the little fellas outa here.”
“We can’t!” Pa said weakly.
“Awright, then.
Maybe you’ll pack Rosasharn to the highway, any-ways, an’ then come back.
It ain’t rainin’ now, an’ we’re a-goin’.”
“Awright, we’ll go,” Pa said.
Al said,
“Ma, I ain’t goin’.”
“Why not?”
“Well—Aggie—why, her an’ me——”
Ma smiled. “’Course,” she said. “You stay here, Al.
Take care of the stuff.
When the water goes down—why, we’ll come back.
Come quick, ’fore it rains again,” she told Pa. “Come on, Rosasharn.
We’re goin’ to a dry place.”
“I can walk.”
“Maybe a little, on the road.
Git your back bent, Pa.”
Pa slipped into the water and stood waiting.
Ma helped Rose of Sharon down from the platform and steadied her across the car.
Pa took her in his arms, held her as high as he could, and pushed his way carefully through the deep water, around the car, and to the highway.