Ora isn’t sure where she’s going, or what she’s doing; all she knows is that standing there in the yard with Dale she had to get away, and she damn well wasn’t going back inside the station. She walks briskly through the rows of cotton, ignoring the stalks and sticks among the dirt clods that no doubt are bloodying her feet. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care, either, about the dry bolls scraping her bare legs, or that the fabric of her skirt will likely tear.
I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. She repeats the words to herself over and over as she pushes blindly through the field, one word for every step until she has come to the far end, where she sinks down in the clearing beneath a single tree. There, she allows herself to weep, not the silent tears she yields to at the station, but in gasping, noisy, childish sobs, because there’s no one there to hear her.
When finally she can’t cry anymore, Ora rests her head back against the rough bark. She can feel the cuts on her feet now, the scratches on her shins, the throb and sting. But she still doesn’t care. She looks across the field to where the station stands in the distance, just a blip on the flat horizon. She imagines going back. She imagines washing off in the tub, having a glass of water, putting on a nightshirt. She imagines slipping into bed, lying through another hot night, and waking to face another hot day—of what? Chickens, hogs, Dale, the store. It used to be enough. When Tobe was home, and even before Tobe, it was a life where she found meaning. But her sense of purpose went with Tobe to war.
She closes her eyes; her body shudders with each breath, the aftershocks of anguish.
After some time, she hears footsteps, but she is ready now. She will allow Dale to offer a hand, pull her up. She will not speak, but she will allow herself to be led home, back to the station. She is too tired to do anything else. She waits calmly for Dale to speak, but it is a boy’s voice that she hears instead.
“Ma’am?”
Ora opens her eyes, turns her head. The boy is standing at the edge of the clearing. Though she was expecting Dale, she is not altogether surprised. “Well, you and I sure are seeing a lot of each other today,” she remarks. She dries her tears against her shoulders.
“You lost this.” The boy holds out the ribbon that had been holding back her hair. “In the field.”
“Thank you,” she says, and takes the ribbon from him. She gathers her hair behind her and ties it back in place. Then she looks at the boy with disapproval. “I tol’ y’all to hold on to that last piece of candy,” she scolds. “Y’all were s’posed to save it for tomorrow. Very least wait till morning before coming back for more. Get yourself in all kinds of trouble, this hour.”
“I did save it!” the boy says, and he produces the candy from his pocket. “See here?”
Ora looks at the candy in his hand. “Then what did you come back for?”
The boy looks at the ground, scrapes at the dirt with a bare toe. Then he looks up. “You said not to keep away,” he offers, unconvincingly.
Ora’s eyebrows lift. For a moment, she only regards the boy, unspeaking. “Why’d you really come back?” Ora asks, gently. “This time of night?”
The boy looks at the ground again.
“You can have all the eggs you like,” Ora continues. “Not the chickens, but all the eggs you like. Just need to ask, hear? Thievin’s not real neighborly, but I’m glad to share.”
The boy’s head jerks up. “Ain’t been thievin’, ma’am.” His tone is adamant. “On my mama’s life.”
Ora sighs. “What’s yer name, anyway, son?”
“Manny,” the boy replies.
“Manny.” Ora nods. “I’m Ora. Now, Manny, if you weren’t thievin’, and you weren’t back for more candy, then what were you creeping round for?”
Manny looks at Ora, pulls his mouth to the side. “Don’t much matter anymore, now,” he says.
“Matters to me,” Ora replies. “If we’re gonna be friends, matters to me.”
Manny bends down to scratch at a scab on his knee. “Just thought y’all might be able to give some help.”
Ora frowns. “Help?” She tilts her head, looks at the boy quizzically. “’Course I’ll help,” she says, “if I can. Here, sit.” She pats the ground beside her. “Tell me the trouble.”