Wants to drive the truck!” she said spitefully. “Well, he ain’t goin’ ta.”
Grampa choked, and a mouthful of paste sprayed into his lap, and he coughed weakly.
Granma smiled up at Tom.
“Messy, ain’t he?” she observed brightly.
Noah stood on the step, and he faced Tom, and his wideset eyes seemed to look around him.
His face had little expression.
Tom said,
“How ya, Noah?”
“Fine,” said Noah. “How a’ you?”
That was all, but it was a comfortable thing.
Ma waved the flies away from the bowl of gravy.
“We ain’t got room to set down,” she said. “Jus’ get yaself a plate an’ set down wherever ya can.
Out in the yard or someplace.”
Suddenly Tom said,
“Hey!
Where’s the preacher?
He was right here.
Where’d he go?”
Pa said,
“I seen him, but he’s gone.”
And Granma raised a shrill voice,
“Preacher?
You got a preacher?
Go git him.
We’ll have a grace.” She pointed at Grampa. “Too late for him—he’s et.
Go git the preacher.”
Tom stepped out on the porch.
“Hey, Jim!
Jim Casy!” he called. He walked out in the yard.
“Oh, Casy!”
The preacher emerged from under the tank, sat up, and then stood up and moved toward the house.
Tom asked, “What was you doin’, hidin’?”
“Well, no.
But a fella shouldn’ butt his head in where a fambly got fambly stuff.
I was jus’ settin’ a-thinkin’.”
“Come on in an’ eat,” said Tom. “Granma wants a grace.”
“But I ain’t a preacher no more,” Casy protested.
“Aw, come on.
Give her a grace.
Don’t do you no harm, an’ she likes ’em.” They walked into the kitchen together.
Ma said quietly,
“You’re welcome.”
And Pa said,
“You’re welcome.
Have some breakfast.”
“Grace fust,” Granma clamored. “Grace fust.”
Grampa focused his eyes fiercely until he recognized Casy.
“Oh, that preacher,” he said. “Oh, he’s all right.
I always liked him since I seen him —” He winked so lecherously that Granma thought he had spoken and retorted,
“Shut up, you sinful ol’ goat.”