‘What we comin’ to?’
You don’ wanta know.
Country’s movin’ aroun’, goin’ places.
They’s folks dyin’ all aroun’.
Maybe you’ll die pretty soon, but you won’t know nothin’.
I seen too many fellas like you.
You don’t want to know nothin’.
Just sing yourself to sleep with a song—‘What we comin’ to?”’ He looked at the gas pump, rusted and old, and at the shack behind it, built of old lumber, the nail holes of its first use still showing through the paint that had been brave, the brave yellow paint that had tried to imitate the big company stations in town.
But the paint couldn’t cover the old nail holes and the old cracks in the lumber, and the paint could not be renewed.
The imitation was a failure and the owner had known it was a failure.
And inside the open door of the shack Tom saw the oil barrels, only two of them, and the candy counter with stale candies and licorice whips turning brown with age, and cigarettes.
He saw the broken chair and the fly screen with a rusted hole in it.
And the littered yard that should have been graveled, and behind, the corn field drying and dying in the sun.
Beside the house the little stock of used tires and retreaded tires.
And he saw for the first time the fat man’s cheap washed pants and his cheap polo shirt and his paper hat.
He said, “I didn’ mean to sound off at ya, mister.
It’s the heat.
You ain’t got nothin’.
Pretty soon you’ll be on the road yourse’f.
And it ain’t tractors’ll put you there. It’s them pretty yella stations in town.
Folks is movin’,” he said ashamedly. “An’ you’ll be movin’, mister.”
The fat man’s hand slowed on the pump and stopped while Tom spoke.
He looked worriedly at Tom.
“How’d you know?” he asked helplessly. “How’d you know we was already talkin’ about packin’ up an’ movin’ west?”
Casy answered him.
“It’s ever’body,” he said. “Here’s me that used to give all my fight against the devil ’cause I figgered the devil was the enemy.
But they’s somepin worse’n the devil got hold a the country, an’ it ain’t gonna let go till it’s chopped loose.
Ever see one a them Gila monsters take hold, mister?
Grabs hold, an’ you chop him in two an’ his head hangs on.
Chop him at the neck an’ his head hangs on.
Got to take a screw-driver an’ pry his head apart to git him loose.
An’ while he’s layin’ there, poison is drippin’ an’ drippin’ into the hole he’s made with his teeth.” He stopped and looked sideways at Tom.
The fat man stared hopelessly straight ahead.
His hand started turning the crank slowly.
“I dunno what we’re comin’ to,” he said softly.
Over by the water hose, Connie and Rose of Sharon stood together, talking secretly.
Connie washed the tin cup and felt the water with his finger before he filled the cup again.
Rose of Sharon watched the cars go by on the highway.
Connie held out the cup to her.
“This water ain’t cool, but it’s wet,” he said.
She looked at him and smiled secretly.
She was all secrets now she was pregnant, secrets and little silences that seemed to have meanings.
She was pleased with herself, and she complained about things that didn’t really matter.
And she demanded services of Connie that were silly, and both of them knew they were silly.
Connie was pleased with her too, and filled with wonder that she was pregnant.
He liked to think he was in on the secrets she had.
When she smiled slyly, he smiled slyly too, and they exchanged confidences in whispers.
The world had drawn close around them, and they were in the center of it, or rather Rose of Sharon was in the center of it with Connie making a small orbit about her.
Everything they said was a kind of secret.
She drew her eyes from the highway.