An’ take her slow, Tom.
She’s overloaded.”
Tom laughed.
“I’ll watch her,” he said. “You can res’ easy.”
The family piled on top of the truck again.
Ma settled herself beside Granma in the seat, and Tom took his place and started the motor.
“Sure is loose,” he said, and he put it in gear and pulled away down the highway.
The motor droned along steadily and the sun receded down the sky in front of them.
Granma slept steadily, and even Ma dropped her head forward and dozed.
Tom pulled his cap over his eyes to shut out the blinding sun.
Paden to Meeker is thirteen miles; Meeker to Harrah is fourteen miles; and then Oklahoma City—the big city.
Tom drove straight on.
Ma waked up and looked at the streets as they went through the city.
And the family, on top of the truck, stared about at the stores, at the big houses, at the office buildings.
And then the buildings grew smaller and the stores smaller.
The wrecking yards and hot-dog stands, the out-city dance halls.
Ruthie and Winfield saw it all, and it embarrassed them with its bigness and its strangeness, and it frightened them with the fine-clothed people they saw.
They did not speak of it to each other.
Later—they would, but not now.
They saw the oil derricks in the town, on the edge of the town; oil derricks black, and the smell of oil and gas in the air.
But they didn’t exclaim.
It was so big and so strange it frightened them.
In the street Rose of Sharon saw a man in a light suit.
He wore white shoes and a flat straw hat.
She touched Connie and indicated the man with her eyes, and then Connie and Rose of Sharon giggled softly to themselves, and the giggles got the best of them.
They covered their mouths.
And it felt so good that they looked for other people to giggle at.
Ruthie and Winfield saw them giggling and it looked such fun that they tried to do it too—but they couldn’t. The giggles wouldn’t come.
But Connie and Rose of Sharon were breathless and red with stifling laughter before they could stop.
It got so bad that they had only to look at each other to start over again.
The outskirts were wide spread.
Tom drove slowly and carefully in the traffic, and then they were on 66—the great western road, and the sun was sinking on the line of the road.
The windshield was bright with dust.
Tom pulled his cap lower over his eyes, so low that he had to tilt his head back to see out at all.
Granma slept on, the sun on her closed eyelids, and the veins on her temples were blue, and the little bright veins on her cheeks were wine-colored, and the old brown marks on her face turned darker.
Tom said,
“We stay on this road right straight through.”
Ma had been silent for a long time.
“Maybe we better fin’ a place to stop ’fore sunset,” she said. “I got to get some pork a-boilin’ an’ some bread made.
That takes time.”
“Sure,” Tom agreed. “We ain’t gonna make this trip in one jump.
Might’s well stretch ourselves.”
Oklahoma City to Bethany is fourteen miles.
Tom said,
“I think we better stop ’fore the sun goes down.
Al got to build that thing on the top.
Sun’ll kill the folks up there.”
Ma had been dozing again.
Her head jerked upright.
“Got to get some supper a-cookin’,” she said. And she said, “Tom, your pa tol’ me about you crossin’ the State line——”