An owl called, and Little Tib remembered the little buzzy clock that stood beside his mother’s bed in the new place. Early in the morning the clock would ring, and then his father had to get up. When they had lived in the old place, and his father had a lot of work to do, he had not needed a clock. Owls must be the real clocks; they made their noise so he would wake up to the real place.
He slept. Then he was awake again, but he could not see. “You best eat something,” Nitty said. “You didn’t eat nothing last night. You went to sleep, and I didn’t want to rouse you.” He gave Little Tib a scrap of corn bread, pressing it into his hands. “It’s just leftovers now,” he said, “but it’s good.”
“Are we going to get on another train?”
“Train doesn’t go to Martinsburg. Now, we don’t have a plate, so I’m putting this on a piece of newspaper for you. You get your lap smoothed out so it doesn’t fall off.”
Little Tib straightened his legs. He was hungry, and he decided it was the first time he had been hungry in a long while. He asked, “Will we walk?”
“Too far. Going to hitchhike. All ready now? It’s right in the middle.”
Little Tib felt the thick paper, still cool from the night before, laid upon his thighs. There was weight in the center; he moved his fingers to it and found a yam. The skin was still on it, but it had been cut in two. “Baked that in the fire last night,” Nitty said. “There’s a piece of ham there too that we saved for you. Don’t miss that.”
Little Tib held the half yam like an ice-cream cone in one hand, and peeled back the skin with the other. It was loose from having been in the coals, and crackly and hard. It broke away in flakes and chips like the bark of an old sycamore. He bit into the yam and it was soft but stringy, and its goodness made him want a drink of water.
“Went to a poor woman’s house,” Nitty said. “That’s where you go if you want something to eat for sure. A rich person is afraid of you. Mr. Parker and I, we can’t buy anything. We haven’t got credit for September yet—we were figuring we’d have that in Macon.”
“They won’t give anything for me,” Little Tib said. “Mama had to feed me out of hers.”
“That’s only because they can’t get no pattern. Anyway, what difference does it make? That credit’s so little- bitty that you almost might not have anything. Mr. Parker gets a better draw than I do because he was making more when we were working, but that’s not very much, and you wouldn’t get but the minimum.”
“Where is Mr. Parker?”
“Down a way, washing. See, hitchhiking is hard if you don’t look clean. Nobody will pick you up. We got one of those disposable razor things last night, and he’s using it now.”
“Should I wash?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Nitty said. “You got tear streaks on your face from cryin’ last night.” He took Little Tib’s hand and led him along a cool, winding path with high weeds on the sides. The weeds were wet with dew, and the dew was icy cold. They met Mr. Parker at the edge of the water. Little Tib took off his shoes and clothes and waded in. It was cold, but not as cold as the dew had been. Nitty waded in after him and splashed him, and poured water from his cupped hands over Little Tib’s head, and at last ducked him under—telling him first—to get his hair clean. Then the two of them washed their clothes in the water and hung them on bushes to dry.
“Going to be hard, hitchhiking this morning,” Nitty said.
Little Tib asked why.
“Too many of us. The more there is, the harder to get rides.”
“We could separate,” Mr. Parker suggested. “I’ll draw straws with you to see who gets George.”
“No.”
“I’m all right. I’m fine.”
“You’re fine now.”
Mr. Parker leaned forward. Little Tib knew because he could hear his clothes rustle, and his voice got closer as well as louder. “Nitty, who’s the boss here?”
“You are, Mr. Parker. Only if you went off by yourself like that, I’d worry so I’d about go crazy. What have I ever done to you that you would want to worry me like that?”
Mr. Parker laughed. “All right, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll try until ten o’clock together. If we haven’t gotten a ride by then, I’ll walk half a mile down the road and give the two of you the first shot at anything that comes along.” Little Tib heard him get to his feet. “You think George’s clothes are dry by now?”
“Still a little damp.”
“I can wear them,” Little Tib said. He had worn wet clothing before, when he had been drenched by rain.
“That’s a good boy. Help him put them on, Nitty.”
When they were walking out to the road and he could tell that Mr. Parker was some distance ahead of them, Little Tib asked Nitty if he thought they would get a ride before ten.
“I know we will,” Nitty said.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been praying for it hard, and what I pray hard for I always get.”
Little Tib thought about that. “You could pray for a job,” he said. He remembered that Nitty had told him he wanted a job.
“I did that, right after I lost my old one. Then I saw Mr. Parker again and how he had got to be, and I started going around with him to look after him. So then I had a job—I’ve got it now. Mr. Parker’s the one that doesn’t have a job.”
