"Don't never count on nothing," Carleton said wisely.

Which turned out to be good advice: that evening the crew leader, a puffy-faced, lumpy man Carleton had always hated, came to the camp to tell them it was all off.

"Come all the way here an' the f.u.c.kin b.a.s.t.a.r.d changed his mind, says he's gonna let them rot out there," the man shouted. Flecks of saliva flew from his angry mouth. "Gonna let them rot! Don't want them picked! He says the price ain't high enough an's gonna let them rot an' the h.e.l.l with us!"

Carleton had heard announcements like this before and just stood back, resting on his heels to absorb the surprise. Around him people were making angry wailing noises.

"What the h.e.l.l is it?" Nancy said faintly.

"It's his tomatoes, he can let them rot if he wants," Carleton said, his face stiff as if he wanted to let everyone know he was miles away from this, miles and years away. It did not touch him.

It turned out finally that they got a contract to pick at another farm the next morning, so they had to ride there in the school bus, an hour each way, and could still stay at the campsite-it was the only one around-if they paid that farmer rent (a dollar a day for a cabin); and out at the second farm they had to pay that farmer for a lunch of rice and spaghetti out of the can and beans out of the can and bread (fifty cents for each lunch, thirty cents for kids); and they had to pay the crew leader who was also the recruiter and the bus driver for the ride (ten cents each way, including kids), and then had to pay the recruiter twenty cents on each basket for finding them this other job, because he was their recruiter, and, when that job ended, they had to pitch in to give him fifty cents apiece so that he could ride around the country looking for another farm, which he did locate in a day or two, some fifty miles away, a ride that would cost them fifteen cents each way. At the end of the first day, when they were paid, Carleton won five dollars in a poker game and felt his heart pound with a fierce, certain joy. The rest of these people were like mud on the bottom of a crick, that soft heavy mud where snakes and turtles slept. But he, Carleton, could rise up out of that mud and leave them far behind.

6.

Tom's River was the name of the town: Clara smiled wondering if there was a boy named Tom, and it was his river. was the name of the town: Clara smiled wondering if there was a boy named Tom, and it was his river.

People talked of the Pine Barrens Pine Barrens, too. Clara whispered "Pine Barrens." No idea what it was except cranberry farmers lived there. And sometimes they hauled in day-pickers, and sometimes they did not.

Tom's River was seven miles from their camp. Always they were being driven through it on their way out, on their way back from where they were day-hauled. Whenever they rode through Tom's River, Clara and her friend gazed hungrily out the grimy window hoping to catch somebody's eye. Hi! h.e.l.lo! Hi! h.e.l.lo! they would wave and giggle like little kids being tickled. they would wave and giggle like little kids being tickled.

Clara believed that towns were special places with their grids of streets, some of them paved and some not; stores built so close together they were in a row; and some of them double-decked on the others so your eye lifted up to the second story, surprised. Clara had never set foot above any first-floor place. She wondered what it was to live so high, like it was nothing special to look out a window and see where you were like in a tree!

"Don't you get lost in Tom's River. n.o.body is goin to come fetch you, miss."

Nancy was moping, it wasn't right for Clara who was her daddy's d.a.m.n favorite to take an afternoon off. A d.a.m.n big hungry girl always eating more than her share. But if Nancy voiced such an opinion, Carleton told her shut up. Like that: "Shut up." In front of the kids disrespecting her.

So Clara had permission to go. It was Rosalie's birthday: that day Rosalie was thirteen. Rosalie's father gave her fifty cents saying it was her special day, and Carleton winked (so Nancy wouldn't see) and gave Clara a dime. A coin so small it grew moist and hot in your hand right away and would be easy to lose, if you weren't careful.

They were going to hitch a ride, walking along the edge of the road toward Tom's River and waiting for a car to come along, or a pickup. It was what all the kids did and n.o.body got in trouble except if a sheriff 's car came cruising by, then you might. A deputy in dark gla.s.ses staring at you like he'd like to run you off the road. But mostly people were friendly. People tended to feel sorry for you, and were friendly. The girls were excited and uneasy, walking in the road, waiting, and when their eyes met they laughed together breathlessly.

"What's it feel like to be thirteen?"

Rosalie shrugged. A blush rose into her face. "You'll find out." And right away she changed the subject saying with a sn.i.g.g.e.r, "Guess you showed that b.i.t.c.h back there."

"The h.e.l.l with her." Clara liked how her daddy uttered these words like pa.s.sing p.r.o.nouncement from a high throne.

"Thinks she's so special hookin up with you people," Rosalie said. "I wouldn't let no nasty b.i.t.c.h like that in my house if my ma died."

Clara didn't like such talk. Ma died. Ma died. n.o.body in their family talked like that ever, they'd have got their mouths slapped hard. n.o.body in their family talked like that ever, they'd have got their mouths slapped hard.

"Oh, Nancy is-" Clara paused. She was going to say Nancy is nice, sometimes. Nancy is nice, sometimes. She wanted to say She wanted to say Without Nancy we'd be lonely! Without Nancy we'd be lonely! But it was a mistake to argue with Rosalie on this special day. But it was a mistake to argue with Rosalie on this special day.

They fell silent not knowing where to look: a car was fast approaching.

"What if it's some guy tries to get smart?" Rosalie muttered.

Clara gritted her teeth as the car came closer. She hoped it would go past.

The car went past. A man's face behind the wheel and in the pa.s.senger's seat some prune-faced old woman with eyegla.s.ses.

"Sonsab.i.t.c.hes." Rosalie stooped to pick up a handful of pebbles and tossed them after the car, not hard enough to hit. A cloud of dust rose in the car's wake.

Another car pa.s.sed, more slowly. And then a pickup, its back loaded with tomatoes in bushel baskets. The front seat was crowded with a driver, a teenaged shirtless boy, a yellow Lab sitting up like a person. "No room, girlies." The driver grinned at them and wagged his hand out the window.

"f.u.c.k you, mister." Rosalie mouthed this after the pickup, not loud enough to be heard.

Yet each time a car approached the girls straightened their faces to looking polite, serious. Like at school. Rosalie had washed her hair in the sink and her ma had brushed it so it didn't look halfway so stringy as usual. Clara had washed her hair too and brushed it herself so it hung down past her shoulders and it was a gleaming ash-blond, like her father's hair. Except Clara's hair was growing in thick and Carleton's was thinning out so sometimes you could see his scalp at the crown of his head like something you hadn't ought to see.

The girls' faces, lost inside their long hair, were furtive and hopeful at the same time. Rosalie had all kinds of faces, Clara admired how her friend could switch from one to another. Like somebody turning the dial on a radio. Sometimes Rosalie could look halfway pretty, and sometimes Rosalie looked like a rat with darting eyes and a nervous mouth. At school Rosalie had one kind of face for when the teacher was looking at her, and another kind of face for when the teacher had turned her back; Rosalie had one kind of face when she and Clara had to walk past the kids who called them white trash, and another kind of face when Rosalie was with her own kind. And still another, kind of sly-comical, when she was with just Clara alone.

Everybody said how Clara had her daddy's eyes-that frank, perplexed blue-but a nice-looking blue, like the sky on a clear day-and her cheekbones were high like his, so people said she'd be real good-looking someday, more than just cute. But also like Carleton she could look haughty, and suspicious.

"Kind of make your mouth smile, Clara," Rosalie said, annoyed. "You got to act like you deserve a ride not just want one."

So Clara tried. Clara watched how Rosalie made her mouth smile, and tried. It should have helped that both girls were wearing their best dresses, cotton floral prints, with short sleeves and sashes that tied behind, and both dresses were just a little tight for them, uncomfortable under the arms. Rosalie kept shrugging her chest, where the cotton made her itch from being tight.

Finally they got a ride with a man who didn't look like a farmer. "Room for both of you up front," he said kindly. They slid in. The man drove along slowly as if not wanting to jar them. The girls stared out at the familiar road; it looked different, seen from a car window instead of from the bus. From time to time the man glanced over at them. He was about forty, with slow eyes. "You girls from the camp back there?" he said. Clara, who was in the middle, nodded without bothering to look at him. She was inhaling carefully the odors of an automobile. It was the first time she had ever been in one; she sat with her sc.r.a.ped legs stuck out, her feet flat on the floor. Rosalie was investigating a dirty ashtray attached to the door, poking around with her fingers.

"Where are you girls from?" the man said.

"Not from nowhere," Clara said politely. She spoke the way she spoke to schoolteachers, who only asked questions for a few minutes and then moved on to someone else.

"Not from nowhere?" the man laughed. "What about you, Red? Where you from?"

"Texas," said Rosalie in the same voice Clara had used.

"Texas? You're real far from home then. But ain't you sisters?"

"Yeah, we're sisters," Clara said quickly. "I'm from Texas too."

"You people travel all over, huh. Must be lots of fun."

When the girls did not reply he went on, "You must work hard, huh? Your pa makes you work hard for him, don't he?" He tapped on Clara's leg. "You got yourself some scratches on your nice little legs. That's from out in the fields, huh?"

Clara glanced at her legs in surprise.

"Them cuts don't hurt, do they?" said the man.

"No."

"Ought to have some bandages or somethin on them. Iodine. You know what that is?"

Clara was staring out at the houses they pa.s.sed. Small frame farmhouses, set back from the road at the end of long narrow lanes. She squinted to see if there were any cats or dogs around. In a field there were several horses, their heads drooping to the gra.s.s and their bodies gaunt and fragile.

"Pa had a horse once," she said to Rosalie.

"What was that?" said the man.

Clara said nothing. The man said, "Did you say they hurt?"

Clara looked at him. He had skin like skin on a potato pulled out of the ground. His smile looked as if it had been stretched on his mouth by someone else.

"I mean the scratches on your legs. Do they hurt?"

"No," said Clara. She paused. "I got a dime, I'm gonna buy somethin in town."

"Is that so?" said the man. He squirmed with pleasure at being told this. "What are you gonna buy?"

"Some nice things."

"Can't get much with a dime, little girl."

Clara frowned.

"Your pa only gave you a dime?"

Clara said nothing. The man leaned over and waved a finger in front of Rosalie. "Your pa ought to be nicer to two nice little girls like you." They were approaching a gas station. The road had turned from dirt to blacktop, getting ready for town. "Could be there's some soda pop at this garage," the man said. "Anybody like some?"

Clara and Rosalie both said yes at once.

The man stopped and an old man came out to wait on him, wearing a cowboy hat made of straw. Clara watched every part of the ceremony; she was fascinated by the moving dials on the gas pump. The driver, standing outside with his foot on the running board to show he owned the car, bent down once in a while to smile in at the girls. "Wouldn't mind some pop myself," he said. They said nothing. His foot disappeared after a moment and he went into the gas station. It was a small wooden building, once painted white. As soon as the screen door flopped closed behind him, Rosalie opened the glove compartment and looked through the things in there- some rags, a flashlight, keys. "G.o.dd.a.m.n junk," Rosalie said. She put the keys in her pocket. "Never can tell what keys might open," she said vaguely. Clara was looking in the backseat. One brown glove lay on the floor, stiff with dirt. She lunged over and got it, then sat on it because there was nowhere to hide it.

The man came back carrying three bottles of pop, all orange. As he drove he drank his, making loud satisfied noises. The girls drank theirs down as fast as they could.

"Ain't this good for a hot day?" he said, sighing.

They were nearing the town now. To Clara and Rosalie this town was very big. It was ringed with houses that were not farmhouses and buildings that did not seem to have anything for sale in them. There were areas of wild land, then more houses, a gas station, a railroad crossing, and then before them on an incline was the main street-lined with old red-brown brick buildings that reared up to face each other.

"You girls never said where you were goin. I bet you're goin to the show."

"Yeah," said Rosalie.

"You like them shows?"

He had slowed the car. It came to a stop. Clara was surprised to see nothing much about them. They had just crossed the railroad tracks and now there was a great field with old automobiles parked in it.

"The show don't begin till five o'clock, so you got lots of time till then. Two cute little girls like you. You want to come visit at my house?"

They sat in silence. Finally Rosalie said cautiously, "We got to be home again fast."

"How fast is fast?" the man said loudly, trying to make a joke. He was pressing against Clara while he talked. "Only this minute got into town; you ain't already goin back, are you?"

"I need to get somethin for my leg, my leg hurts," Clara said. She was leaning over against Rosalie to get away from him.

"Does your leg hurt?" the man said in surprise.

"Stings real bad," said Clara. She could sense Rosalie listening to her, puzzled. Clara did not know what she was saying but her voice seemed to know. It was not nervous and it went on by itself. "It hurt when I fell down yesterday and made me cry."

"Did it make you cry?" the man said. He put his hand on her knee, cupping it gently. She stared at his hand. It had small black hairs on its back, and fingernails that were ragged and edged with dirt; but it was a hand she felt sorry for. "A little girl like you oughtn't to be workin in the fields. There's a law against it, you know. They can put your pa in jail for it."

"n.o.body's gonna put my pa in jail," Clara said fiercely. "He'd kill them. He killed a man anyway, one time." She looked at the man to see how he would take this. "He killed him with a knife but I'm not s'post to tell."

The man smiled to show he did not quite believe this.

"I ain't s'post to tell," Clara said. "They let him go 'cause the other man started it an' my pa was only doin right."

She looked at the man. A strange dizzy sensation overcame her, a sense of daring and excitement. She met his gaze with her own and smiled slowly, feeling her lips part slowly to show her teeth. She and the man looked at each other for a moment. He took his hand away from her knee. Something strange seemed to be happening but Clara did not know what it was. She seemed to be doing something, keeping something going. The sun was warm and dazzling. Then she forgot what she was doing, lost control, and her smile went away. She was a child again. She leaned against Rosalie to get away from the man's smell.

"We got to get out now," she said.

Rosalie tried the door handle. "That door opens hard. It's tricky," the man said. His face was damp and he kept looking at Clara. "You got to be smart to open it...."

"It don't come open," Rosalie muttered.

"It's a little tricky...."

Clara held her breath because she didn't want to smell him. He leaned over to tug at the door handle, pretending to have trouble with it.

"Open it up!" Rosalie said. Clara's heart was pounding so hard she could not say anything. The man grinned apologetically at her, his face right up against hers, and finally he got the door open. Rosalie jumped out. Clara started to slide out but he took hold of her arm.

"Listen, little girl," he said, "how old are you?"

Clara slashed at his hand with her nails. He winced and released her. "G.o.dd.a.m.n old a.s.shole!" Clara cried, jumping out. "Go f.u.c.k yourself ! Take this-it ain't no good!" She threw the glove at his face and ran away. She and Rosalie jumped the ditch and ran into the field, laughing. She could hear Rosalie laughing ahead of her.

They hid behind one of the junked cars. The man was still parked by the road. Clara peered through a yellowed, cracked old windshield and watched him. He leaned around, looking outside like a lost dog. Clara pressed her knuckles against her mouth to keep from laughing.

"Think he's gonna tell the police?" said Rosalie.

"My pa will kill him if he does."

Finally he closed the door and drove away.

It was a warm, bright afternoon. Both girls forgot about the man in the car and looked around, ready to be surprised and pleased. The junked automobiles all around them looked as if they had crawled here and died; their grilles were like teeth lowered into the earth. The girls walked along, bending to look inside at the tattered seats and the torn upholstery. Once Clara slid into an old car and turned the steering wheel, making a noise with her mouth that was supposed to be the sound of an engine. She tapped at the horn but it did not work.

"I'm gonna have a car like this, only a real one," she said.

They kept smiling, they didn't know why. Nothing smelled bad here. There was only a faint metallic odor, and the odor from occasional pools of oil. No smell of garbage or sewage. A few dragonflies flew about, but no flies. And every car was something new to look at. There were old convertibles with the tops half ripped off, as if someone had attacked them with knives. There were old trucks that looked saddest of all, like tough strong men who couldn't keep going. There were red cars, yellow cars, black cars, the paint peeling and rusty or overlaid with another color so that the two colors together made a third strange color that was like a wound. Clara could not examine anything close enough. They had come to town and already they were seeing things they'd never seen before. Windows everywhere were cracked as if jerking back from something in astonishment; the cracks were like spiderwebs, like frozen ripples in water. Clara stared and stared, and what she saw got transformed into new, strange things. A piece of rubber was a snake, sleeping in the sun. A sc.r.a.ped mark on a car was a flower, ready to fall into pieces. In a yellowed car window was a face that might have been under water, so blocked out by the sun behind it that she could not make it out-it was her own face. Clara and Rosalie stared at everything. They kept smoothing their dresses down, wiping their hands on them, as if they'd been invited to visit and were ashamed of the way they looked.

"This one here-lookit. What's wrong with this?" Clara said sadly. The car was a dull, dark blue and looked new to her. She tried to imagine her father sitting in the driver's seat, one arm hanging loosely out the window. They looked under the hood and saw some weeds: no engine. "My father used to have a car like this, in Florida," Clara said.

They climbed up on the hood of one old truck, then up on the roof of the cab. The metal surface was hot and smelled hot. On the roof of the truck was an old tire. Clara sat on it and hugged her knees.