The Grapes of Wrath

  "What you think I want? I want to know who's in here."

  "Why, they's jus' us three in here. Me an' Granma an' my girl."

  "Where's your men?"

  "Why, they went down to clean up. We was drivin' all night."

  "Where'd you come from?"

  "Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma."

  "Well, you can't stay here."

  "We aim to get out tonight an' cross the desert, mister."

  "Well, you better. If you're here tomorra this time I'll run you in. We don't want none of you settlin' down here."

  Ma's face blackened with anger. She got slowly to her feet. She stooped to the utensil box and picked out the iron skillet. "Mister," she said, "you got a tin button an' a gun. Where I come from, you keep your voice down." She advanced on him with the skillet. He loosened the gun in the holster. "Go ahead," said Ma. "Scarin' women. I'm thankful the men folks ain't here. They'd tear ya to pieces. In my country you watch your tongue."

  The man took two steps backward. "Well, you ain't in your country now. You're in California, an' we don't want you goddamn Okies settlin' down."

  Ma's advance stopped. She looked puzzled. "Okies?" she said softly. "Okies."

  "Yeah, Okies! An' if you're here when I come tomorra, I'll run ya in." He turned and walked to the next tent and banged on the canvas with his hand. "Who's in here?" he said.

  Ma went slowly back under the tarpaulin. She put the skillet in the utensil box. She sat down slowly. Rose of Sharon watched her secretly. And when she saw Ma fighting with her face, Rose of Sharon closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  The sun sank low in the afternoon, but the heat did not seem to decrease. Tom awakened under his willow, and his mouth was parched and his body was wet with sweat, and his head was dissatisfied with his rest. He staggered to his feet and walked toward the water. He peeled off his clothes and waded into the stream. And the moment the water was about him, his thirst was gone. He lay back in the shallows and his body floated. He held himself in place with his elbows in the sand, and looked at his toes, which bobbed above the surface.

  A pale skinny little boy crept like an animal through the reeds and slipped off his clothes. And he squirmed into the water like a muskrat, and pulled himself along like a muskrat, only his eyes and nose above the surface. Then suddenly he saw Tom's head and saw that Tom was watching him. He stopped his game and sat up.

  Tom said, "Hello."

  "'Lo!"

  "Looks like you was playin' mushrat."

  "Well, I was." He edged gradually away toward the bank; he moved casually, and then he leaped out, gathered his clothes with a sweep of his arms, and was gone among the willows.

  Tom laughed quietly. And then he heard his name called shrilly. "Tom, oh, Tom!" He sat up in the water and whistled through his teeth, a piercing whistle with a loop on the end. The willows shook, and Ruthie stood looking at him.

  "Ma wants you," she said. "Ma wants you right away."

  "Awright." He stood up and strode through the water to the shore; and Ruthie looked with interest and amazement at his naked body.

  Tom seeing the direction of her eyes, said, "Run on now. Git!" And Ruthie ran. Tom heard her calling excitedly for Winfield as she went. He put the hot clothes on his cool, wet body and he walked slowly up through the willows toward the tent.

  Ma had started a fire of dry willow twigs, and she had a pan of water heating. She looked relieved when she saw him.

  "What's a matter, Ma?" he asked.

  "I was scairt," she said. "They was a policeman here. He says we can't stay here. I was scairt he talked to you. I was scairt you'd hit him if he talked to you."

  Tom said, "What'd I go an' hit a policeman for?"

  Ma smiled. "Well--he talked so bad--I nearly hit him myself."

  Tom grabbed her arm and shook her roughly and loosely, and he laughed. He sat down on the ground, still laughing. "My God, Ma. I knowed you when you was gentle. What's come over you?"

  She looked serious. "I don' know, Tom."

  "Fust you stan' us off with a jack handle, and now you try to hit a cop." He laughed softly, and he reached out and patted her bare foot tenderly. "A ol' hell-cat," he said.

  "Tom."

  "Yeah?"

  She hesitated a long time. "Tom, this here policeman--he called us--Okies. He says, 'We don' want you goddamn Okies settlin' down."'

  Tom studied her, and his hand still rested gently on her bare foot. "Fella tol' about that," he said. "Fella tol' how they say it." He considered, "Ma, would you say I was a bad fella? Oughta be locked up--like that?"

  "No," she said. "You been tried--No. What you ast me for?"

  "Well, I dunno. I'd a took a sock at that cop."

  Ma smiled with amusement. "Maybe I oughta ast you that, 'cause I nearly hit 'im with a skillet."

  "Ma, why'd he say we couldn' stop here?"

  "Jus' says they don' want no damn Okies settlin' down. Says he's gonna run us in if we're here tomorra."

  "But we ain't use' ta gettin' shoved aroun' by no cops."

  "I tol' him that," said Ma. "He says we ain't home now. We're in California, and they do what they want."

  Tom said uneasily, "Ma, I got somepin to tell ya. Noah--he went on down the river. He ain't a-goin' on."

  It took a moment for Ma to understand. "Why?" she asked softly.

  "I don' know. Says he got to. Says he got to stay. Says for me to tell you."

  "How'll he eat?" she demanded.

  "I don' know. Says he'll catch fish."

  Ma was silent a long time. "Family's fallin' apart," she said. "I don' know. Seems like I can't think no more. I jus' can't think. They's too much."

  Tom said lamely, "He'll be awright, Ma. He's a funny kind a fella."

  Ma turned stunned eyes toward the river. "I jus' can't seem to think no more."

  Tom looked down the line of tents and he saw Ruthie and Winfield standing in front of a tent in decorous conversation with someone inside. Ruthie was twisting her skirt in her hands, while Winfield dug a hole in the ground with his toe. Tom called, "You, Ruthie!" She looked up and saw him and trotted toward him, with Winfield behind her. When she came up, Tom said, "You go get our folks. They're sleepin' down the willows. Get 'em. An' you, Winfiel'. You tell the Wilsons we're gonna get rollin' soon as we can." The children spun around and charged off.

  Tom said, "Ma, how's Granma now?"

  "Well, she got a sleep today. Maybe she's better. She's still a-sleepin'."

  "Tha's good. How much pork we got?"

  "Not very much. Quarter hog."

  "Well, we got to fill that other kag with water. Got to take water along." They could hear Ruthie's shrill cries for the men down in the willows.

  Ma shoved willow sticks into the fire and made it crackle up about the black pot. She said, "I pray God we gonna get some res'. I pray Jesus we gonna lay down in a nice place."

  The sun sank toward the baked and broken hills to the west. The pot over the fire bubbled furiously. Ma went under the tarpaulin and came out with an apronful of potatoes, and she dropped them into the boiling water. "I pray God we gonna be let to wash some clothes. We ain't never been dirty like this. Don't even wash potatoes 'fore we boil 'em. I wonder why? Seems like the heart's took out of us."

  The men came trooping up from the willows, and their eyes were full of sleep, and their faces were red and puffed with daytime sleep.

  Pa said, "What's a matter?"

  "We're goin'," said Tom. "Cop says we got to go. Might's well get her over. Get a good start an' maybe we'll be through her. Near three hunderd miles where we're goin'."

  Pa said, "I thought we was gonna get a rest."

  "Well, we ain't. We got to go. Pa," Tom said, "Noah ain't a-goin'. He walked on down the river."

  "Ain't goin'? What the hell's the matter with him?" And then Pa caught himself. "My fault," he said miserably. "That boy's all my fault."

  "No."

  "I don't wanta talk about it no more," said
Pa. "I can't--my fault."

  "Well, we got to go," said Tom.

  Wilson walked near for the last words. "We can't go, folks," he said. "Sairy's done up. She got to res'. She ain't gonna git acrost that desert alive."

  They were silent at his words; then Tom said, "Cop says he'll run us in if we're here tomorra."

  Wilson shook his head. His eyes were glazed with worry, and a paleness showed through his dark skin. "Jus' hafta do 'er, then. Sairy can't go. If they jail us, why, they'll hafta jail us. She got to res' an' get strong."

  Pa said, "Maybe we better wait an' all go together."

  "No," Wilson said. "You been nice to us; you been kin', but you can't stay here. You got to get on an' get jobs and work. We ain't gonna let you stay."

  Pa said excitedly, "But you ain't got nothing."

  Wilson smiled. "Never had nothin' when you took us up. This ain't none of your business. Don't you make me git mean. You got to go, or I'll get mean an' mad."

  Ma beckoned Pa into the cover of the tarpaulin and spoke softly to him.

  Wilson turned to Casy. "Sairy wants you should go see her."

  "Sure," said the preacher. He walked to the Wilson tent, tiny and gray, and he slipped the flaps aside and entered. It was dusky and hot inside. The mattress lay on the ground, and the equipment was scattered about, as it had been unloaded in the morning. Sairy lay on the mattress, her eyes wide and bright. He stood and looked down at her, his large head bent and the stringy muscles of his neck tight along the sides. And he took off his hat and held it in his hand.

  She said, "Did my man tell ya we couldn' go on?"

  "Tha's what he said."

  Her low, beautiful voice went on, "I wanted us to go. I knowed I wouldn' live to the other side, but he'd be acrost anyways. But he won't go. He don' know. He thinks it's gonna be all right. He don' know."

  "He says he won't go."

  "I know," she said. "An' he's stubborn. I ast you to come to say a prayer."

  "I ain't a preacher," he said softly. "My prayers ain't no good."

  She moistened her lips. "I was there when the ol' man died. You said one then."

  "It wasn't no prayer."

  "It was a prayer," she said.

  "It wasn't no preacher's prayer."

  "It was a good prayer. I want you should say one for me."

  "I don' know what to say."

  She closed her eyes for a minute and then opened them again. "Then say one to yourself. Don't use no words to it. That'd be awright."

  "I got no God," he said.

  "You got a God. Don't make no difference if you don' know what he looks like." The preacher bowed his head. She watched him apprehensively. And when he raised his head again she looked relieved. "That's good," she said. "That's what I needed. Somebody close enough--to pray."

  He shook his head as though to awaken himself. "I don' understan' this here," he said.

  And she replied, "Yes--you know, don't you?"

  "I know," he said, "I know, but I don't understan'. Maybe you'll res' a few days an' then come on."

  She shook her head slowly from side to side. "I'm jus' pain covered with skin. I know what it is, but I won't tell him. He'd be too sad. He wouldn' know what to do anyways. Maybe in the night, when he's a-sleepin'--when he waked up, it won't be so bad."

  "You want I should stay with you an' not go on?"

  "No," she said. "No. When I was a little girl I use' ta sing. Folks roun' about use' ta say I sung as nice as Jenny Lind. Folks use' ta come an' listen when I sung. An'--when they stood--an' me a-singin', why, me an' them was together more'n you could ever know. I was thankful. There ain't so many folks can feel so full up, so close, an' them folks standin' there an' me a-singin'. Thought maybe I'd sing in theaters, but I never done it. An' I'm glad. They wasn't nothin' got in between me an' them. An'--that's why I wanted you to pray. I wanted to feel that clostness, oncet more. It's the same thing, singin' an' prayin', jus' the same thing. I wisht you could a-heerd me sing."

  He looked down at her, into her eyes. "Good-by," he said.

  She shook her head slowly back and forth and closed her lips tight. And the preacher went out of the dusky tent into the blinding light.

  The men were loading up the truck, Uncle John on top, while the others passed equipment up to him. He stowed it carefully, keeping the surface level. Ma emptied the quarter of a keg of salt pork into a pan, and Tom and Al took both little barrels to the river and washed them. They tied them to the running boards and carried water in buckets to fill them. Then over the tops they tied canvas to keep them from slopping the water out. Only the tarpaulin and Granma's mattress were left to be put on.

  Tom said, "With the load we'll take, this ol' wagon'll boil her head off. We got to have plenty water."

  Ma passed the boiled potatoes out and brought the half sack from the tent and put it with the pan of pork. The family ate standing, shuffling their feet and tossing the hot potatoes from hand to hand until they cooled.

  Ma went to the Wilson tent and stayed for ten minutes, and then she came out quietly. "It's time to go," she said.

  The men went under the tarpaulin. Granma still slept, her mouth wide open. They lifted the whole mattress gently and passed it up on top of the truck. Granma drew up her skinny legs and frowned in her sleep, but she did not awaken.

  Uncle John and Pa tied the tarpaulin over the cross-piece, making a little tight tent on top of the load. They lashed it down to the side-bars. And then they were ready. Pa took out his purse and dug two crushed bills from it. He went to Wilson and held them out. "We want you should take this, an"'--he pointed to the pork and potatoes--"an' that."

  Wilson hung his head and shook it sharply. "I ain't a-gonna do it," he said. "You ain't got much."

  "Got enough to get there," said Pa. "We ain't left it all. We'll have work right off."

  "I ain't a-gonna do it," Wilson said. "I'll git mean if you try."

  Ma took the two bills from Pa's hand. She folded them neatly and put them on the ground and placed the pork pan over them. "That's where they'll be," she said. "If you don' get 'em, somebody else will." Wilson, his head still down, turned and went to his tent; he stepped inside and the flaps fell behind him.

  For a few moments the family waited, and then, "We got to go," said Tom. "It's near four, I bet."

  The family climbed on the truck, Ma on top, beside Granma. Tom and Al and Pa in the seat, and Winfield on Pa's lap. Connie and Rose of Sharon made a nest against the cab. The preacher and Uncle John and Ruthie were in a tangle on the load.

  Pa called, "Good-by, Mister and Mis' Wilson." There was no answer from the tent. Tom started the engine and the truck lumbered away. And as they crawled up the rough road toward Needles and the highway, Ma looked back. Wilson stood in front of his tent, staring after them, and his hat was in his hand. The sun fell full on his face. Ma waved her hand at him, but he did not respond.

  Tom kept the truck in second gear over the rough road, to protect the springs. At Needles he drove into a service station, checked the worn tires for air, checked the spares tied to the back. He had the gas tank filled, and he bought two five-gallon cans of gasoline and a two-gallon can of oil. He filled the radiator, begged a map, and studied it.

  The service-station boy, in his white uniform, seemed uneasy until the bill was paid. He said, "You people sure have got nerve."

  Tom looked up from the map. "What you mean?"

  "Well, crossin' in a jalopy like this."

  "You been acrost?"

  "Sure, plenty, but not in no wreck like this."

  Tom said, "If we broke down maybe somebody'd give us a han'."

  "Well, maybe. But folks are kind of scared to stop at night. I'd hate to be doing it. Takes more nerve than I've got."

  Tom grinned. "It don't take no nerve to do somepin when there ain't nothin' else you can do. Well, thanks. We'll drag on." And he got in the truck and moved away.

  The boy in white went into the iron building where his
helper labored over a book of bills. "Jesus, what a hard-looking outfit!"

  "Them Okies? They're all hard-lookin'."

  "Jesus, I'd hate to start out in a jalopy like that."

  "Well, you and me got sense. Them goddamn Okies got no sense and no feeling. They ain't human. A human being wouldn't live like they do. A human being couldn't stand it to be so dirty and miserable. They ain't a hell of a lot better than gorillas."

  "Just the same I'm glad I ain't crossing the desert in no Hudson Super-Six. She sounds like a threshing machine."

  The other boy looked down at his book of bills. And a big drop of sweat rolled down his finger and fell on the pink bills. "You know, they don't have much trouble. They're so goddamn dumb they don't know it's dangerous. And, Christ Almighty, they don't know any better than what they got. Why worry?"

  "I'm not worrying. Just thought if it was me, I wouldn't like it."

  "That's 'cause you know better. They don't know any better." And he wiped the sweat from the pink bill with his sleeve.

  The truck took the road and moved up the long hill, through the broken, rotten rock. The engine boiled very soon and Tom slowed down and took it easy. Up the long slope, winding and twisting through dead country, burned white and gray, and no hint of life in it. Once Tom stopped for a few moments to let the engine cool, and then he traveled on. They topped the pass while the sun was still up, and looked down on the desert--black cinder mountains in the distance, and the yellow sun reflected on the gray desert. The little starved bushes, sage and greasewood, threw bold shadows on the sand and bits of rock. The glaring sun was straight ahead. Tom held his hand before his eyes to see at all. They passed the crest and coasted down to cool the engine. They coasted down the long sweep to the floor of the desert, and the fan turned over to cool the water in the radiator. In the driver's seat, Tom and Al and Pa, and Winfield on Pa's knee, looked into the bright descending sun, and their eyes were stony, and their brown faces were damp with perspiration. The burnt land and the black, cindery hills broke the even distance and made it terrible in the reddening light of the setting sun.

  Al said, "Jesus, what a place. How'd you like to walk acrost her?"

  "People done it," said Tom. "Lots a people done it; an' if they could, we could."

  "Lots must a died," said Al.

  "Well, we ain't come out exac'ly clean."

  Al was silent for a while, and the reddening desert swept past. "Think we'll ever see them Wilsons again?" Al asked.