A little light came in through the cracks between the boards.
“Lay down, Rosasharn,” Ma said.
“Lay down an’ res’.I’ll try to figger some way to dry you off.”
Winfield said,
“Ma!” and the rain roaring on the roof drowned his voice. “Ma!”
“What is it?
What you want?”
“Look!
In the corner.”
Ma looked.
There were two figures in the gloom; a man who lay on his back, and a boy sitting beside him, his eyes wide, staring at the newcomers.
As she looked, the boy got slowly up to his feet and came toward her.
His voice croaked. “You own this here?”
“No,” Ma said. “Jus’ come in outa the wet.
We got a sick girl.
You got a dry blanket we could use an’ get her wet clothes off ?”
The boy went back to the corner and brought a dirty comfort and held it out to Ma.
“Thank ya,” she said. “What’s the matter’th that fella?”
The boy spoke in a croaking monotone.
“Fust he was sick—but now he’s starvin’.”
“What?”
“Starvin’.
Got sick in the cotton.
He ain’t et for six days.”
Ma walked to the corner and looked down at the man.
He was about fifty, his whiskery face gaunt, and his open eyes were vague and staring.
The boy stood beside her.
“Your pa?” Ma asked.
“Yeah!
Says he wasn’ hungry, or he jus’ et.
Give me the food.
Now he’s too weak.
Can’t hardly move.”
The pounding of the rain decreased to a soothing swish on the roof.
The gaunt man moved his lips.
Ma knelt beside him and put her ear close.
His lips moved again.
“Sure,” Ma said. “You jus’ be easy.
He’ll be awright.
You jus’ wait’ll I get them wet clo’es off’n my girl.”
Ma went back to the girl.
“Now slip ’em off,” she said. She held the comfort up to screen her from view.
And when she was naked, Ma folded the comfort about her.
The boy was at her side again explaining,
“I didn’ know.
He said he et, or he wasn’ hungry.
Las’ night I went an’ bust a winda an’ stoled some bread.
Made ’im chew ’er down.
But he puked it all up, an’ then he was weaker.
Got to have soup or milk.