“Yes,” I say. Dewey Dell tears a piece of paper from the package and wipes the cement from the top of it as it drips from Cash’s leg.
“How does that feel?”
“It feels fine,” he says. “It’s cold. It feels fine.”
“If it’ll just help you,” pa says. “I asks your forgiveness. I never forseen it no more than you.”
“It feels fine,” Cash says.
If you could just ravel out into time. That would be nice. It would be nice if you could just ravel out into time.
We replace the splints, the cords, drawing them tight, the cement in thick pale green slow surges among the cords, Cash watching us quietly with that profound questioning look.
“That’ll steady it,” I say.
“Ay,” Cash says. “I’m obliged.”
Then we all turn on the wagon and watch him. He is coming up the road behind us, wooden-backed, wooden-faced, moving only from his hips down. He comes up without a word, with his pale rigid eyes in his high sullen face, and gets into the wagon.
“Here’s a hill,” pa says. “I reckon you’ll have to get out and walk.”