Five of them rode in the sedan and seven on the trailer, and a dog on the trailer.
They got to California in two jumps.
The man who pulled them fed them.
And that’s true.
But how can such courage be, and such faith in their own species?
Very few things would teach such faith.
The people in flight from the terror behind—strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever.
Chapter 13
The ancient overloaded Hudson creaked and grunted to the highway at Sallisaw and turned west, and the sun was blinding.
But on the concrete road Al built up his speed because the flattened springs were not in danger any more.
From Sallisaw to Gore is twenty-one miles and the Hudson was doing thirty-five miles an hour.
From Gore to Warner thirteen miles; Warner to Checotah fourteen miles; Checotah a long jump to Henrietta—thirty-four miles, but a real town at the end of it.
Henrietta to Castle nineteen miles, and the sun was overhead, and the red fields, heated by the high sun, vibrated the air.
Al, at the wheel, his face purposeful, his whole body listening to the car, his restless eyes jumping from the road to the instrument panel.
Al was one with his engine, every nerve listening for weaknesses, for the thumps or squeals, hums and chattering that indicate a change that may cause a breakdown.
He had become the soul of the car.
Granma, beside him on the seat, half slept, and whimpered in her sleep, opened her eyes to peer ahead, and then dozed again.
And Ma sat beside Granma, one elbow out the window, and the skin reddening under the fierce sun.
Ma looked ahead too, but her eyes were flat and did not see the road or the fields, the gas stations, the little eating sheds.
She did not glance at them as the Hudson went by.
Al shifted himself on the broken seat and changed his grip on the steering wheel.
And he sighed,
“Makes a racket, but I think she’s awright.
God knows what she’ll do if we got to climb a hill with the load we got.
Got any hills ’tween here an’ California, Ma?”
Ma turned her head slowly and her eyes came to life.
“Seems to me they’s hills,” she said. “’Course I dunno. But seems to me I heard they’s hills an’ even mountains.
Big ones.”
Granma drew a long whining sigh in her sleep.
Al said,
“We’ll burn right up if we got climbin’ to do.
Have to throw out some a’ this stuff.
Maybe we shouldn’ a brang that preacher.”
“You’ll be glad a that preacher ’fore we’re through,” said Ma. “That preacher’ll help us.” She looked ahead at the gleaming road again.
Al steered with one hand and put the other on the vibrating gear-shift lever.
He had difficulty in speaking. His mouth formed the words silently before he said them aloud.
“Ma —” She looked slowly around at him, her head swaying a little with the car’s motion. “Ma, you scared a goin’?
You scared a goin’ to a new place?”
Her eyes grew thoughtful and soft.
“A little,” she said. “Only it ain’t like scared so much.
I’m jus’ a settin’ here waitin’.
When somepin happens that I got to do somepin—I’ll do it.”
“Ain’t you thinkin’ what’s it gonna be like when we get there?
Ain’t you scared it won’t be nice like we thought?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, I ain’t.
You can’t do that.
I can’t do that.
It’s too much—livin’ too many lives.
Up ahead they’s a thousan’ lives we might live, but when it comes, it’ll on’y be one.
If I go ahead on all of ’em, it’s too much.