The men shoveled a while without talking and when the silence broke again, it was about something new, not about Del.
Woot caught his interest when he said, “My brother wrote me, said there’s work to be had in some a them turpentine camps. Mentioned one called Swallow Hill somewheres east of Valdosta.”
Hicky said, “Them camps is all over here and Floridy. Hoowee. Now that’s a rough life.”
“Can’t be no worse’n working for Moe, ain’t it right, Del?”
Del said, “Wonder if they’re hiring?”
Woot said, “Could be. You done turpentine work, have you?”
Del had. Actually, his family had been turpentiners starting with his granddaddy, then his pap.
He said, “Some,” then he got quiet.
He felt dizzy, sort a strange, and his mind was on Moe. He didn’t trust the man not to try again. By the end of the day, the last bin was emptied, and Moe had returned, gnawing on a fried pork chop.
He inspected what had been done, pointed at Del, and said, “Tomorrow, we’re gonna bring in some field corn. I want you back inside these bins here, ever one of ’em, and make sure they’s ready. Clean’em out good, then we fill’em again. Maybe this’ll be your reg’lar job. What’choo think about that?”
Del made a gesture like he didn’t care.
Moe said, “All right. Quitting time.”
Del went back to his shack and laid on the bed knowing he wouldn’t ever go back inside a bin. He didn’t like to hightail it and run. It made him look bad, like he was weak, scared, or plain worthless. These days, a man’s name and his reputation were all one had, and the most one could hope to keep, but he determined the best thing for him to do would be to slip away in the dark. Who cared what Moe Sutton or any of the rest thought of him?
Night came, a black blanket pulled up and over the landscape, and that’s when he gathered what little he had. The extra pants and shirt. He didn’t have any more beans or Vienna sausages, but he had leftover corn bread. He wrapped it in some brown paper he had and tucked it in a tin bucket he’d saved from one of the farms he’d been on. He looped the handle of the bucket through his belt so he wouldn’t have to carry it while wishing he had a water bag, like Woot’s, but wishing got him nothing. He patted his shirt pocket, made sure he had Melody, grabbed his shotgun from over the door, and worked his arm through the leather sling.
He stepped outside, silent as the sundown, and eased the door shut. To his left was Baker’s shack and beyond it, Tuttle’s. Across the way was the Joneses. Nothing to hold him here, not really. These people had been nice and all, but he was ready to move on. He stood on his porch, letting his eyes adjust to a moonlit path, the pale, cream-colored sandy soil showing him the way, to what, he wasn’t sure. He only knew if he stayed, there’d be a reckoning. He set off, eyes occasionally on the night sky speckled with stars, a honey-colored moon hung low.
A couple days into his wanderings he was hot, thirsty, and a bit hungry. He spotted a small store and went inside to find a young woman behind the counter, fanning her face with a section of the daily paper. He picked up a package of Nabs, and over at the vending machine in the corner, he put in a nickel and pulled out a cold RC Cola. After popping off the top, he went to the counter to pay for his crackers. She was a real looker. She leaned forward, her arms bolstering her breasts so they rose above the top of her flowered dress, eyes slowly roving over him. Confident too, he’d give her that.
She said, “Ain’t seen you round here before.”
“I’m only passing through.”
Sweet talcum powder mixed with a hint of sweat wafted into his nose. Her attractiveness and her apparent interest failed to produce his usual reaction. She blinked and raised an eyebrow.
He dropped his gaze and said, “How much?”
She appeared offended. “Hey. I ain’t that kind of girl.”
He pointed at the Nabs. “For them.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. Embarrassment and finally irritation made her face an open map for him to read.
Annoyed, she frowned and said, “Nickel.”
He set the coin on the counter, spun on his heels, and headed for the door.
She called after him, “You ain’t all that good looking.”
He stopped and faced her again. “I ain’t? Well, darn.”
She relaxed, and a hint of a smile curved her mouth. “You’re real good looking is what I mean.”
Why not. He flipped the sign to CLOSED, strolled around the back of the counter, pulled her close, and slid his hand under her dress.