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Chapter 9
There’sapremiumgoeswiththispileofjunkandthebayhorses—sobeautiful—apacketofbitternesstogrowinyourhouseandtoflower,someday.Wecouldhavesavedyou,butyoucutusdown,andsoonyouwillbecutdownandthere’llbenoneofustosaveyou.
Andthetenantmencamewalkingback,handsintheirpockets,hatspulleddown.Someboughtapintanddrankitfasttomaketheimpacthardandstunning.Buttheydidn’tlaughandtheydidn’tdance.Theydidn’tsingorpicktheguitars.Theywalkedbacktothefarms,handsinpocketsandheadsdown,shoeskickingthereddustup.
Maybewecanstartagain,inthenewrichland—inCalifornia,wherethefruitgrows.We’llstartover.
Butyoucan’tstart.Onlyababycanstart.Youandme—why,we’reallthat’sbeen.Theangerofamoment,thethousandpictures,that’sus.Thisland,thisredland,isus;andthefloodyearsandthedustyearsandthedroughtyearsareus.Wecan’tstartagain.Thebitternesswesoldtothejunkman—hegotitallright,butwehaveitstill.Andwhentheownermentoldustogo,that’sus;andwhenthetractorhitthehouse,that’susuntilwe’redead.ToCaliforniaoranyplace—everyoneadrummajorleadingaparadeofhurts,marchingwithourbitterness.Andsomeday—thearmiesofbitternesswillallbegoingthesameway.Andthey’llallwalktogether,andthere’llbeadeadterrorfromit.
Thetenantmenscuffedhometothefarmsthroughthereddust.
