DARL“H
ERE’S a place,” pa says. He pulls the team up and sits looking at the house. “We could get some water over yonder.”
“All right,” I say. “You’ll have to borrow a bucket from them, Dewey Dell.”
“God knows,” pa says. “I wouldn’t be beholden, God knows.”
“If you see a good-sized can, you might bring it,” I say. Dewey Dell gets down from the wagon, carrying the package. “You had more trouble than you expected, selling those cakes in Mottson,” I say. How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind, no-sound, the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-strings: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes, dead gestures of dolls. Cash broke his leg and now the sawdust is running out. He is bleeding to death is Cash.
“I wouldn’t be beholden,” pa says.
