Tom flicked his eyes down to the oil gauge. "I got a hunch nobody ain't gonna see Mis' Wilson for long. Jus' a hunch I got."
Winfield said, "Pa, I wanta get out."
Tom looked over at him. "Might's well let ever'body out 'fore we settle down to drivin' tonight." He slowed the car and brought it to a stop. Winfield scrambled out and urinated at the side of the road. Tom leaned out. "Anybody else?"
"We're holdin' our water up here," Uncle John called.
Pa said, "Winfiel', you crawl up on top. You put my legs to sleep a-settin' on 'em." The little boy buttoned his overalls and obediently crawled up the back board and on his hands and knees crawled over Granma's mattress and forward to Ruthie.
The truck moved on into the evening, and the edge of the sun struck the rough horizon and turned the desert red.
Ruthie said, "Wouldn' leave you set up there, huh?"
"I didn' want to. It wasn't so nice as here. Couldn' lie down."
"Well, don' you bother me, a-squawkin' an' a-talkin'," Ruthie said, "'cause I'm goin' to sleep, an' when I wake up, we gonna be there! 'Cause Tom said so! Gonna seem funny to see pretty country."
The sun went down and left a great halo in the sky. And it grew very dark under the tarpaulin, a long cave with light at each end--a flat triangle of light.
Connie and Rose of Sharon leaned back against the cab, and the hot wind tumbling through the tent struck the backs of their heads, and the tarpaulin whipped and drummed above them. They spoke together in low tones, pitched to the drumming canvas, so that no one could hear them. When Connie spoke he turned his head and spoke into her ear, and she did the same to him. She said, "Seems like we wasn't never gonna do nothin' but move. I'm so tar'd."
He turned his head to her ear. "Maybe in the mornin'. How'd you like to be alone now?" In the dusk his hand moved out and stroked her hip.
She said, "Don't. You'll make me crazy as a loon. Don't do that." And she turned her head to hear his response.
"Maybe--when ever'body's asleep."
"Maybe," she said. "But wait till they get to sleep. You'll make me crazy, an' maybe they won't get to sleep."
"I can't hardly stop," he said.
"I know. Me neither. Le's talk about when we get there; an' you move away 'fore I get crazy."
He shifted away a little. "Well, I'll get to studyin' nights right off," he said. She sighed deeply. "Gonna get one a them books that tells about it an' cut the coupon, right off."
"How long, you think?" she asked.
"How long what?"
"How long 'fore you'll be makin' big money an' we got ice?"
"Can't tell," he said importantly. "Can't really rightly tell. Fella oughta be studied up pretty good 'fore Christmus."
"Soon's you get studied up we could get ice an' stuff, I guess."
He chuckled. "It's this here heat," he said. "What you gonna need ice roun' Christmus for?"
She giggled. "Tha's right. But I'd like ice any time. Now don't. You'll get me crazy!"
The dusk passed into dark and the desert stars came out in the soft sky, stars stabbing and sharp, with few points and rays to them, and the sky was velvet. And the heat changed. While the sun was up, it was a beating, flailing heat, but now the heat came from below, from the earth itself, and the heat was thick and muffling. The lights of the truck came on, and they illuminated a little blur of highway ahead, and a strip of desert on either side of the road. And sometimes eyes gleamed in the lights far ahead, but no animal showed in the lights. It was pitch dark under the canvas now. Uncle John and the preacher were curled in the middle of the truck, resting on their elbows, and staring out the back triangle. They could see the two bumps that were Ma and Granma against the outside. They could see Ma move occasionally, and her dark arm moving against the outside.
Uncle John talked to the preacher. "Casy," he said, "you're a fella oughta know what to do."
"What to do about what?"
"I dunno," said Uncle John.
Casy said, "Well, that's gonna make it easy for me!"
"Well, you been a preacher."
"Look, John, ever'body takes a crack at me 'cause I been a preacher. A preacher ain't nothin' but a man."
"Yeah, but--he's--a kind of a man, else he wouldn' be a preacher. I wanna ast you--well, you think a fella could bring bad luck to folks?"
"I dunno," said Casy. "I dunno."
"Well--see--I was married--fine, good girl. An' one night she got a pain in her stomach. An' she says, 'You better get a doctor.' An' I says, 'Hell, you jus' et too much."' Uncle John put his hand on Casy's knee and he peered through the darkness at him. "She give me a look. An' she groaned all night, an' she died the next afternoon." The preacher mumbled something. "You see," John went on, "I kil't her. An' sence then I tried to make it up--mos'ly to kids. An' I tried to be good, an' I can't. I get drunk, an' I go wild."
"Ever'body goes wild," said Casy. "I do too."
"Yeah, but you ain't got a sin on your soul like me."
Casy said gently, "Sure I got sins. Ever'body got sins. A sin is somepin you ain't sure about. Them people that's sure about ever'thing an' ain't got no sin--well, with that kind a son-of-a-bitch, if I was God I'd kick their ass right outa heaven! I couldn' stand 'em!"
Uncle John said, "I got a feelin' I'm bringin' bad luck to my own folks. I got a feelin' I oughta go away an' let 'em be. I ain't comf 'table bein' like this."
Casy said quickly, "I know this--a man got to do what he got to do. I can't tell you. I can't tell you. I don't think they's luck or bad luck. On'y one thing in this worl' I'm sure of, an' that's I'm sure nobody got a right to mess with a fella's life. He got to do it all hisself. Help him, maybe, but not tell him what to do."
Uncle John said disappointedly, "Then you don' know?"
"I don' know."
"You think it was a sin to let my wife die like that?"
"Well," said Casy, "for anybody else it was a mistake, but if you think it was a sin--then it's a sin. A fella builds his own sins right up from the groun'."
"I got to give that a goin'-over," said Uncle John, and he rolled on his back and lay with his knees pulled up.
The truck moved on over the hot earth, and the hours passed. Ruthie and Winfield went to sleep. Connie loosened a blanket from the load and covered himself and Rose of Sharon with it, and in the heat they struggled together, and held their breaths. And after a time Connie threw off the blanket and the hot tunneling wind felt cool on their wet bodies.
On the back of the truck Ma lay on the mattress beside Granma, and she could not see with her eyes, but she could feel the struggling body and the struggling heart; and the sobbing breath was in her ear. And Ma said over and over, "All right. It's gonna be all right." And she said hoarsely, "You know the family got to get acrost. You know that."
Uncle John called, "You all right?"
It was a moment before she answered. "All right. Guess I dropped off to sleep." And after a time Granma was still, and Ma lay rigid beside her.
The night hours passed, and the dark was in against the truck. Sometimes cars passed them, going west and away; and sometimes great trucks came up out of the west and rumbled eastward. And the stars flowed down in a slow cascade over the western horizon. It was near midnight when they neared Daggett, where the inspection station is. The road was floodlighted there, and a sign illuminated, "KEEP RIGHT AND STOP." The officers loafed in the office, but they came out and stood under the long covered shed when Tom pulled in. One officer put down the license number and raised the hood.
Tom asked, "What's this here?"
"Agricultural inspection. We got to look over your stuff. Got any vegetables or seeds?"
"No," said Tom.
"Well, we got to look over your stuff. You got to unload."
Now Ma climbed heavily down from the truck. Her face was swollen and her eyes were hard. "Look, mister. We got a sick ol' lady. We got to get her to a doctor. We can't wait." She seemed to fight with hysteria. "You can't make us wait."
/> "Yeah? Well, we got to look you over."
"I swear we ain't got any thing!" Ma cried. "I swear it. An' Granma's awful sick."
"You don't look so good yourself," the officer said.
Ma pulled herself up the back of the truck, hoisted herself with huge strength. "Look," she said.
The officer shot a flashlight beam up on the old shrunken face. "By God, she is," he said. "You swear you got no seeds or fruits or vegetables, no corn, no oranges?"
"No, no. I swear it!"
"Then go ahead. You can get a doctor in Barstow. That's only eight miles. Go on ahead."
Tom climbed in and drove on.
The officer turned to his companion. "I couldn' hold 'em."
"Maybe it was a bluff," said the other.
"Oh, Jesus, no! You should of seen that ol' woman's face. That wasn't no bluff."
Tom increased his speed to Barstow, and in the little town he stopped, got out, and walked around the truck. Ma leaned out. "It's awright," she said. "I didn' wanta stop there, fear we wouldn' get acrost."
"Yeah! But how's Granma?"
"She's awright--awright. Drive on. We got to get acrost." Tom shook his head and walked back.
"Al," he said, "I'm gonna fill her up, an' then you drive some." He pulled to an all-night gas station and filled the tank and the radiator, and filled the crank case. Then Al slipped under the wheel and Tom took the outside, with Pa in the middle. They drove away into the darkness and the little hills near Barstow were behind them.
Tom said, "I don' know what's got into Ma. She's flighty as a dog with a flea in his ear. Wouldn' a took long to look over the stuff. An' she says Granma's sick; an' now she says Granma's awright. I can't figger her out. She ain't right. S'pose she wore her brains out on the trip."
Pa said, "Ma's almost like she was when she was a girl. She was a wild one then. She wasn' scairt of nothin'. I thought havin' all the kids an' workin' took it out a her, but I guess it ain't. Christ! When she got that jack handle back there, I tell you I wouldn' wanna be the fella took it away from her."
"I dunno what's got into her," Tom said. "Maybe she's jus' tar'd out."
Al said, "I won't be doin' no weepin' an' a-moanin' to get through. I got this goddamn car on my soul."
Tom said, "Well, you done a damn good job a pickin'. We ain't had hardly no trouble with her at all."
All night they bored through the hot darkness, and jack-rabbits scuttled into the lights and dashed away in long jolting leaps. And the dawn came up behind them when the lights of Mojave were ahead. And the dawn showed high mountains to the west. They filled with water and oil at Mojave and crawled into the mountains, and the dawn was about them.
Tom said, "Jesus, the desert's past! Pa, Al, for Christ sakes! The desert's past!"
"I'm too goddamn tired to care," said Al.
"Want me to drive?"
"No, wait awhile."
They drove through Tehachapi in the morning glow, and the sun came up behind them, and then--suddenly they saw the great valley below them. Al jammed on the brake and stopped in the middle of the road, and, "Jesus Christ! Look!" he said. The vineyards, the orchards, the great flat valley, green and beautiful, the trees set in rows, and the farm houses.
And Pa said, "God Almighty!" The distant cities, the little towns in the orchard land, and the morning sun, golden on the valley. A car honked behind them. Al pulled to the side of the road and parked.
"I want ta look at her." The grain fields golden in the morning, and the willow lines, the eucalyptus trees in rows.
Pa sighed, "I never knowed they was anything like her." The peach trees and the walnut groves, and the dark green patches of oranges. And red roofs among the trees, and barns--rich barns. Al got out and stretched his legs.
He called, "Ma--come look. We're there!"
Ruthie and Winfield scrambled down from the car, and then they stood, silent and awestruck, embarrassed before the great valley. The distance was thinned with haze, and the land grew softer and softer in the distance. A windmill flashed in the sun, and its turning blades were like a little heliograph, far away. Ruthie and Winfield looked at it, and Ruthie whispered, "It's California."
Winfield moved his lips silently over the syllables. "There's fruit," he said aloud.
Casy and Uncle John, Connie and Rose of Sharon climbed down. And they stood silently. Rose of Sharon had started to brush her hair back, when she caught sight of the valley and her hand dropped slowly to her side.
Tom said, "Where's Ma? I want Ma to see it. Look, Ma! Come here, Ma." Ma was climbing slowly, stiffly, down the back board. Tom looked at her. "My God, Ma, you sick?" Her face was stiff and putty-like, and her eyes seemed to have sunk deep into her head, and the rims were red with weariness. Her feet touched the ground and she braced herself by holding the truck-side.
Her voice was a croak. "Ya say we're acrost?"
Tom pointed to the great valley. "Look!"
She turned her head, and her mouth opened a little. Her fingers went to her throat and gathered a little pinch of skin and twisted gently. "Thank God!" she said. "The fambly's here." Her knees buckled and she sat down on the running board.
"You sick, Ma?"
"No, jus' tar'd."
"Didn' you get no sleep?"
"No."
"Was Granma bad?"
Ma looked down at her hands, lying together like tired lovers in her lap. "I wisht I could wait an' not tell you. I wisht it could be all--nice."
Pa said, "Then Granma's bad."
Ma raised her eyes and looked over the valley. "Granma's dead."
They looked at her, all of them, and Pa asked, "When?"
"Before they stopped us las' night."
"So that's why you didn' want 'em to look."
"I was afraid we wouldn' get acrost," she said. "I tol' Granma we couldn' he'p her. The fambly had ta get acrost. I tol' her, tol' her when she was a-dyin'. We couldn' stop in the desert. There was the young ones--an' Rosasharn's baby. I tol' her." She put up her hands and covered her face for a moment. "She can get buried in a nice green place," Ma said softly. "Trees aroun' an' a nice place. She got to lay her head down in California."
The family looked at Ma with a little terror at her strength.
Tom said, "Jesus Christ! You layin' there with her all night long!"
"The fambly hadda get acrost," Ma said miserably.
Tom moved close to put his hand on her shoulder.
"Don' touch me," she said. "I'll hol' up if you don' touch me. That'd get me."
Pa said, "We got to go on now. We got to go on down."
Ma looked up at him. "Can--can I set up front? I don' wanna go back there no more--I'm tar'd. I'm awful tar'd."
They climbed back on the load, and they avoided the long stiff figure covered and tucked in a comforter, even the head covered and tucked. They moved to their places and tried to keep their eyes from it--from the hump on the comfort that would be the nose, and the steep cliff that would be the jut of the chin. They tried to keep their eyes away, and they could not. Ruthie and Winfield, crowded in a forward corner as far away from the body as they could get, stared at the tucked figure.
And Ruthie whispered, "Tha's Granma, an' she's dead."
Winfield nodded solemnly. "She ain't breathin' at all. She's awful dead."
And Rose of Sharon said softly to Connie, "She was a-dyin' right when we----"
"How'd we know?" he reassured her.
Al climbed on the load to make room for Ma in the seat. And Al swaggered a little because he was sorry. He plumped down beside Casy and Uncle John. "Well, she was ol'. Guess her time was up," Al said. "Ever'body got to die." Casy and Uncle John turned eyes expressionlessly on him and looked at him as though he were a curious talking bush. "Well, ain't they?" he demanded. And the eyes looked away, leaving Al sullen and shaken.
Casy said in wonder, "All night long, an' she was alone." And he said, "John, there's a woman so great with love--she scares me. Makes me afraid an' me
an."
John asked, "Was it a sin? Is they any part of it you might call a sin?"
Casy turned on him in astonishment, "A sin? No, there ain't no part of it that's a sin."
"I ain't never done nothin' that wasn't part sin," said John, and he looked at the long wrapped body.
Tom and Ma and Pa got into the front seat. Tom let the truck roll and started on compression. And the heavy truck moved, snorting and jerking and popping down the hill. The sun was behind them, and the valley golden and green before them. Ma shook her head slowly from side to side. "It's purty," she said. "I wisht they could of saw it."
"I wisht so too," said Pa.
Tom patted the steering wheel under his hand. "They was too old," he said. "They wouldn't of saw nothin' that's here. Grampa would a been a-seein' the Injuns an' the prairie country when he was a young fella. An' Granma would a remembered an' seen the first home she lived in. They was too ol'. Who's really seein' it is Ruthie an' Winfiel'."
Pa said, "Here's Tommy talkin' like a growed-up man, talkin' like a preacher almos'."
And Ma smiled sadly. "He is. Tommy's growed way up--way up so I can't get aholt of 'im sometimes."
They popped down the mountain, twisting and looping, losing the valley sometimes, and then finding it again. And the hot breath of the valley came up to them, with hot green smells on it, and with resinous sage and tarweed smells. The crickets crackled along the road. A rattlesnake crawled across the road and Tom hit it and broke it and left it squirming.
Tom said, "I guess we got to go to the coroner, wherever he is. We got to get her buried decent. How much money might be lef', Pa?"
"'Bout forty dollars," said Pa.
Tom laughed. "Jesus, are we gonna start clean! We sure ain't bringin' nothin' with us." He chuckled a moment, and then his face straightened quickly. He pulled the visor of his cap down low over his eyes. And the truck rolled down the mountain into the great valley.
Chapter 19
Once California belonged to Mexico and its land to Mexicans; and a horde of tattered feverish Americans poured in. And such was their hunger for land that they took the land--stole Sutter's land, Guerrero's land, took the grants and broke them up and growled and quarreled over them, those frantic hungry men; and they guarded with guns the land they had stolen. They put up houses and barns, they turned the earth and planted crops. And these things were possession, and possession was ownership.
The Mexicans were weak and fed. They could not resist, because they wanted nothing in the world as frantically as the Americans wanted land.