Across the Fruited Plain | Page 8

pity you didn't tell
her sooner, young-one," he said. "The cranberries will be over in a few
more days, and we'll be going back."
"Back to Philadelphia?" Rose-Ellen demanded. "Where? Not to a
Home? I won't! I'd rather go on and shuck oysters like Pauline Isabel
and her folks. I'd rather go on where they're cutting marsh hay. I'd
rather--"

"Well, now," Grandpa's words were slow, "what about it, kids? What
about it, Grandma? Do we go back to the city and-and part company till
times are better? Or go on into oysters together?"
The tears stole down Jimmie's cheeks, but he didn't say anything.
Daddy didn't say anything, either. He picked Sally up and hugged her
so hard that she grunted and then put her tiny hands on his cheeks and
peered into his eyes, chirping at him like a little bird.
"I calculate we'll go on into oysters," said Grandpa.

3: SHUCKING OYSTERS
This picnic way of living had one advantage; it made moving easy. One
day the Beechams were picking; the next day they had joined with two
other families and hired a truck to take them and their belongings to
Oystershell, on the inlet of the bay near by.
Pauline Isabel's family were going to a Negro oystershucking village
almost in sight of Oystershell. "It's sure nice there!" Pauline assured
them happily. "I belong to a girls' club that meets every day after
school; in the Meth'dis' church. We got a sure good school, too, good as
any white school, up the road a piece."
The Beechams said good-by to Pauline's family, who had become their
friends. Then they said good-by to Miss Abbott. That was hard for
Jimmie. He butted his shaven little head against Her and then limped
away as fast as he could.
The ride to Oystershell was exciting. Autumn had changed the look of
the land. "God has taken all the red and yellow he's got, and just
splashed it on in gobs," said Rose-Ellen as they traveled toward the
seashore.
"What I like," Dick broke in, "is to see the men getting in the salt hay
with their horses on sleds."

The marshes were too soft to hold up anything so small as a hoof, so
when farmers used horses there, they fastened broad wooden shoes on
the horses' feet. Nowadays, though, horses were giving place to
tractors.
The air had an increasingly queer smell, like iodized salt in boiling
potatoes. The Beechams were nearing the salt-water inlets of the bay,
where the tides rose and fell like the ocean-of which the inlets were
part.
The tide was high when they drove down from Phillipsville to the
settlement of Oystershell. The rows of wooden houses, the oyster-sheds
and the company store seemed to be wading on stilts, and most people
wore rubber boots.
Grandma said, "If the bog was bad for my rheumatiz, what's this going
to be?"
A man showed the Beechams a vacant house in the long rows. "Not
much to look at," he acknowledged, "but the rent ain't much, either.
The roofs are tight and a few have running water, case you want it bad
enough to pay extra."
"To think a rusty pipe and one faucet in my kitchen would ever be a
luxury!" Grandma muttered. "But, my land, even the humpy wall-paper
looks good now."
It was gay, clean paper, though pasted directly on the boards. The
house had a kitchen-dining-sitting room and one bedroom, with walls
so thin they let through every word of the next-door radio.
"That's going to be a peekaneeka, sure," Grandma said grimly.
Children were not allowed to work in the oysters, but Grandma was
going to try. The children could tell she was nervous about it, by the
way her foot jerked up and down when she gave Sally her bottle that
night; but she said she expected she wasn't too dumb to do what other
folks could.

The children were still asleep when the grown-ups went to work in the
six o'clock darkness of that November Saturday. When they woke,
mush simmered on the cookstove and a bottle of milk stood on the
table. It took time to feed Sally and wash dishes and make beds; and
then Dick and Rose-Ellen ran over to the nearest long oyster-house and
peeked through a hole in the wall.
Down each side, raised above the fishy wet floor, ran a row of booths,
each with a desk and step, made of rough boards. On each step stood a
man or woman, in boots and heavy clothes, facing the desk. Only
instead of pen and paper, these people had buckets, oysters, knives. As
fast as they could, they were opening the big, horny oyster shells and
emptying the oysters into the buckets.
Next time, Dick