"I don't know."
Rickey was drunk; now all he was saying was,
"Dah you go, man – dah you go, man," in a tender and tired voice.
It had been a long day.
None of us knew what was going on, or what the Good Lord appointed.
Poor little Johnny fell asleep on my arm.
We drove back to Sabinal.
On the way we pulled up sharp at a roadhouse on Highway 99. Rickey wanted one last beer.
In back of the roadhouse were trailers and tents and a few rickety motel-style rooms.
I inquired about the price and it was two bucks. I asked Terry how about it, and she said fine because we had the kid on our hands now and had to make him comfortable.
So after a few beers in the saloon, where sullen Okies reeled to the music of a cowboy band, Terry and I and Johnny went into a motel room and got ready to hit the sack.
Ponzo kept hanging around; he had no place to sleep.
Rickey slept at his father's house in the vineyard shack.
"Where do you live, Ponzo?" I asked.
"Nowhere, man.
I'm supposed to live with Big Rosey but she threw me out last night.
I'm gonna get my truck and sleep in it tonight."
Guitars tinkled.
Terry and I gazed at the stars together and kissed.
"Manana" she said.
"Everything'll be all right tomorrow, don't you think, Sal-honey, man?"
"Sure, baby, manana."
It was always manana.
For the next week that was all I heard – manana, a lovely word and one that probably means heaven.
Little Johnny jumped in bed, clothes and all, and went to sleep; sand spilled out of his shoes, Madera sand.
Terry and I got up in the middle of the night and brushed the sand off the sheets.
In the morning I got up, washed, and took a walk around the place.
We were five miles out of Sabinal in the cotton fields and grape vineyards.
I asked the big fat woman who owned the camp if any of the tents were vacant.
The cheapest one, a dollar a day, was vacant.
I fished up a dollar and moved into it.
There were a bed, a stove, and a cracked mirror hanging from a pole; it was delightful.
I had to stoop to get in, and when I did there was my baby and my baby boy.
We waited for Rickey and Ponzo to arrive with the truck.
They arrived with beer bottles and started to get drunk in the tent.
"How about the manure?"
"Too late today.
Tomorrow, man, we make a lot of money; today we have a few beers.
What do you say, beer?"
I didn't have to be prodded.
"Dah you go – dah you go!" yelled Rickey.
I began to see that our plans for making money with the manure truck would never materialize.
The truck was parked outside the tent.
It smelled like Ponzo.
That night Terry and I went to bed in the sweet night air beneath our dewy tent.
I was just getting ready to go to sleep when she said,
"You want to love me now?"
I said, "What about Johnny?"
"He don't mind. He's asleep."
But Johnny wasn't asleep and he said nothing.