The Grapes of Wrath

  Tom peered in. "Looks awright to me."

  "Awright? Jesus, she's wonderful. She ain't shot no oil nor nothin'." He unscrewed a spark plug and stuck his forefinger in the hole. "Crusted up some, but she's dry."

  Tom said, "You done a nice job a pickin'. That what ya want me to say?"

  "Well, I sure was scairt the whole way, figgerin' she'd bust down an' it'd be my fault."

  "No, you done good. Better get her in shape, 'cause tomorra we're goin' out lookin' for work."

  "She'll roll," said Al. "Don't you worry none about that." He took out a pocket knife and scraped the points of the spark plug.

  Tom walked around the side of the tent, and he found Casy sitting on the earth, wisely regarding one bare foot. Tom sat down heavily beside him. "Think she's gonna work?"

  "What?" asked Casy.

  "Them toes of yourn."

  "Oh! Jus' settin' here a-thinkin'."

  "You always get good an' comf'table for it," said Tom.

  Casy waggled his big toe up and his second toe down, and he smiled quietly. "Hard enough for a fella to think 'thout kinkin' himself up to do it."

  "Ain't heard a peep outa you for days," said Tom. "Thinkin' all the time?"

  "Yeah, thinkin' all the time."

  Tom took off his cloth cap, dirty now, and ruinous, the visor pointed as a bird's beak. He turned the sweat band out and removed a long strip of folded newspaper. "Sweat so much she's shrank," he said. He looked at Casy's waving toes. "Could ya come down from your thinkin' an' listen a minute?"

  Casy turned his head on the stalk-like neck. "Listen all the time. That's why I been thinkin'. Listen to people a-talkin', an' purty soon I hear the way folks are feelin'. Goin' on all the time. I hear 'em an' feel 'em; an' they're beating their wings like a bird in a attic. Gonna bust their wings on a dusty winda tryin' ta get out."

  Tom regarded him with widened eyes, and then he turned and looked at a gray tent twenty feet away. Washed jeans and shirts and a dress hung to dry on the tent guys. He said softly, "That was about what I was gonna tell ya. An' you seen awready."

  "I seen," Casy agreed. "They's a army of us without no harness." He bowed his head and ran his extended hand slowly up his forehead and into his hair. "All along I seen it," he said. "Ever' place we stopped I seen it. Folks hungry for side-meat, an' when they get it, they ain't fed. An' when they'd get so hungry they couldn' stan' it no more, why, they'd ast me to pray for 'em, an' sometimes I done it." He clasped his hands around drawn-up knees and pulled his legs in. "I use ta think that'd cut 'er," he said. "Use ta rip off a prayer an' all the troubles'd stick to that prayer like flies on flypaper, an' the prayer'd go a-sailin' off, a-takin' them troubles along. But it don' work no more."

  Tom said, "Prayer never brought in no side-meat. Takes a shoat to bring in pork."

  "Yeah," Casy said. "An' Almighty God never raised no wages. These here folks want to live decent and bring up their kids decent. An' when they're old they wanta set in the door an' watch the downing sun. An' when they're young they wanta dance an' sing an' lay together. They wanta eat an' get drunk and work. An' that'sit--they wanta jus'fling their goddamn muscles aroun' an' get tired. Christ! What'm I talkin' about?"

  "I dunno," said Tom. "Sounds kinda nice. When ya think you can get ta work an' quit thinkin' a spell? We got to get work. Money's 'bout gone. Pa give five dollars to get a painted piece of board stuck up over Granma. We ain't got much lef'."

  A lean brown mongrel dog came sniffing around the side of the tent. He was nervous and flexed to run. He sniffed close before he was aware of the two men, and then looking up he saw them, leaped sideways, and fled, ears back, bony tail clamped protectively. Casy watched him go, dodging around a tent to get out of sight. Casy sighed. "I ain't doin' nobody no good," he said. "Me or nobody else. I was thinkin' I'd go off alone by myself. I'm a-eatin' your food an' a-takin' up room. An' I ain't give you nothin'. Maybe I could get a steady job an' maybe pay back some a the stuff you've give me."

  Tom opened his mouth and thrust his lower jaw forward, and he tapped his lower teeth with a dried piece of mustard stalk. His eyes stared over the camp, over the gray tents and the shacks of weed and tin and paper. "Wisht I had a sack a Durham," he said. "I ain't had a smoke in a hell of a time. Use ta get tobacco in McAlester. Almost wisht I was back." He tapped his teeth again and suddenly he turned on the preacher. "Ever been in a jail house?"

  "No," said Casy. "Never been."

  "Don't go away right yet," said Tom. "Not right yet."

  "Quicker I get lookin' for work--quicker I'm gonna find some."

  Tom studied him with half-shut eyes and he put on his cap again. "Look," he said, "this ain't no lan' of milk an' honey like the preachers say. They's a mean thing here. The folks here is scared of us people comin' west; an' so they got cops out tryin' to scare us back."

  "Yeah," said Casy. "I know. What you ask about me bein' in jail for?"

  Tom said slowly, "When you're in jail--you get to kinda--sensin' stuff. Guys ain't let to talk a hell of a lot together--two maybe, but not a crowd. An' so you get kinda sensy. If somepin's gonna bust--if say a fella's goin' stir-bugs an' take a crack at a guard with a mop handle--why, you know it 'fore it happens. An' if they's gonna be a break or a riot, nobody don't have to tell ya. You're sensy about it. You know."

  "Yeah?"

  "Stick aroun'," said Tom. "Stick aroun' till tomorra anyways. Somepin's gonna come up. I was talkin' to a kid up the road. An' he's bein' jus' as sneaky an' wise as a dog coyote, but he's too wise. Dog coyote a-mindin' his own business an' innocent an' sweet, jus' havin' fun an' no harm--well, they's a hen roost clost by."

  Casy watched him intently, started to ask a question, and then shut his mouth tightly. He waggled his toes slowly and, releasing his knees, pushed out his foot so he could see it. "Yeah," he said, "I won't go right yet."

  Tom said, "When a bunch a folks, nice quiet folks, don't know nothin' about nothin'--somepin's goin' on."

  "I'll stay," said Casy.

  "An' tomorra we'll go out in the truck an' look for work."

  "Yeah!" said Casy, and he waved his toes up and down and studied them gravely. Tom settled back on his elbow and closed his eyes. Inside the tent he could hear the murmur of Rose of Sharon's voice and Connie's answering.

  The tarpaulin made a dark shadow and the wedge-shaped light at each end was hard and sharp. Rose of Sharon lay on a mattress and Connie squatted beside her. "I oughta help Ma," Rose of Sharon said. "I tried, but ever' time I stirred about I throwed up."

  Connie's eyes were sullen. "If I'd of knowed it would be like this I wouldn' of came. I'd a studied nights 'bout tractors back home an' got me a three-dollar job. Fella can live awful nice on three dollars a day, an' go to the pitcher show ever' night, too."

  Rose of Sharon looked apprehensive. "You're gonna study nights 'bout radios," she said. He was long in answering. "Ain't you?" she demanded.

  "Yeah, sure. Soon's I get on my feet. Get a little money."

  She rolled up on her elbow. "You ain't givin' it up!"

  "No--no--'course not. But--I didn' know they was places like this we got to live in."

  The girl's eyes hardened. "You got to," she said quietly.

  "Sure. Sure, I know. Got to get on my feet. Get a little money. Would a been better maybe to stay home an' study 'bout tractors. Three dollars a day they get, an' pick up extra money, too." Rose of Sharon's eyes were calculating. When he looked down at her he saw in her eyes a measuring of him, a calculation of him. "But I'm gonna study," he said. "Soon's I get on my feet."

  She said fiercely, "We got to have a house 'fore the baby comes. We ain't gonna have this baby in no tent."

  "Sure," he said. "Soon's I get on my feet." He went out of the tent and looked down at Ma, crouched over the brush fire. Rose of Sharon rolled on her back and stared at the top of the tent. And then she put her thumb in her mouth for a gag and she cried silently.

  Ma knelt beside the fire, breaking twigs to keep
the flame up under the stew kettle. The fire flared and dropped and flared and dropped. The children, fifteen of them, stood silently and watched. And when the smell of the cooking stew came to their noses, their noses crinkled slightly. The sunlight glistened on hair tawny with dust. The children were embarrassed to be there, but they did not go. Ma talked quietly to a little girl who stood inside the lusting circle. She was older than the rest. She stood on one foot, caressing the back of her leg with a bare instep. Her arms were clasped behind her. She watched Ma with steady small gray eyes. She suggested, "I could break up some bresh if you want me, ma'am."

  Ma looked up from her work. "You want ta get ast to eat, huh?"

  "Yes, ma'am," the girl said steadily.

  Ma slipped the twigs under the pot and the flame made a puttering sound. "Didn' you have no breakfast?"

  "No, ma'am. They ain't no work hereabouts. Pa's in tryin' to sell some stuff to git gas so's we can git 'long."

  Ma looked up. "Didn' none of these here have no breakfast?"

  The circle of children shifted nervously and looked away from the boiling kettle. One small boy said boastfully, "I did--me an' my brother did--an' them two did, 'cause I seen 'em. We et good. We're a-goin' south tonight."

  Ma smiled. "Then you ain't hungry. They ain't enough here to go around."

  The small boy's lip stuck out. "We et good," he said, and he turned and ran and dived into a tent. Ma looked after him so long that the oldest girl reminded her.

  "The fire's down, ma'am. I can keep it up if you want."

  Ruthie and Winfield stood inside the circle, comporting themselves with proper frigidity and dignity. They were aloof, and at the same time possessive. Ruthie turned cold and angry eyes on the little girl. Ruthie squatted down to break up the twigs for Ma.

  Ma lifted the kettle lid and stirred the stew with a stick. "I'm sure glad some of you ain't hungry. That little fella ain't, anyways."

  The girl sneered. "Oh, him! He was a-braggin'. High an' mighty. If he don't have no supper--know what he done? Las' night, come out an' say they got chicken to eat. Well, sir, I looked in whilst they was a-eatin' an' it was fried dough jus' like ever'body else."

  "Oh!" And Ma looked down toward the tent where the small boy had gone. She looked back at the little girl. "How long you been in California?" she asked.

  "Oh, 'bout six months. We lived in a gov'ment camp a while, an' then we went north, an' when we come back it was full up. That's a nice place to live, you bet."

  "Where's that?" Ma asked. And she took the sticks from Ruthie's hand and fed the fire. Ruthie glared with hatred at the older girl.

  "Over by Weedpatch. Got nice toilets an' baths, an' you kin wash clothes in a tub, an' they's water right handy, good drinkin' water; an' nights the folks plays music an' Sat'dy night they give a dance. Oh, you never seen anything so nice. Got a place for kids to play, an' them toilets with paper. Pull down a little jigger an' the water comes right in the toilet, an' they ain't no cops let to come look in your tent any time they want, an' the fella runs the camp is so polite, comes a-visitin' an' talks an' ain't high an' mighty. I wisht we could go live there again."

  Ma said, "I never heard about it. I sure could use a wash tub, I tell you."

  The girl went on excitedly, "Why, God Awmighty, they got hot water right in pipes, an' you get in under a shower bath an' it's warm. You never seen such a place."

  Ma said, "All full now, ya say?"

  "Yeah. Las' time we ast it was."

  "Mus' cost a lot," said Ma.

  "Well, it costs, but if you ain't got the money, they let you work it out--couple hours a week, cleanin' up, an' garbage cans. Stuff like that. An' nights they's music an' folks talks together an' hot water right in the pipes. You never seen nothin' so nice."

  Ma said, "I sure wisht we could go there."

  Ruthie had stood all she could. She blurted fiercely, "Granma died right on top a the truck." The girl looked questioningly at her. "Well, she did," Ruthie said. "An' the cor'ner got her." She closed her lips tightly and broke up a little pile of sticks.

  Winfield blinked at the boldness of the attack. "Right on the truck," he echoed. "Cor'ner stuck her in a big basket."

  Ma said, "You shush now, both of you, or you got to go away." And she fed twigs into the fire.

  Down the line Al had strolled to watch the valve-grinding job. "Looks like you're 'bout through," he said.

  "Two more."

  "Is they any girls in this here camp?"

  "I got a wife," said the young man. "I got no time for girls."

  "I always got time for girls," said Al. "I got no time for nothin' else."

  "You get a little hungry an' you'll change."

  Al laughed. "Maybe. But I ain't never changed that notion yet."

  "Fella I talked to while ago, he's with you, ain't he?"

  "Yeah! My brother Tom. Better not fool with him. He killed a fella."

  "Did? What for?"

  "Fight. Fella got a knife in Tom. Tom busted 'im with a shovel."

  "Did, huh? What'd the law do?"

  "Let 'im off 'cause it was a fight," said Al.

  "He don't look like a quarreler."

  "Oh, he ain't. But Tom don't take nothin' from nobody." Al's voice was very proud. "Tom, he's quiet. But--look out!"

  "Well--I talked to 'im. He didn' soun' mean."

  "He ain't. Jus' as nice as pie till he's roused, an' then--look out." The young man ground at the last valve. "Like me to he'p you get them valves set an' the head on?"

  "Sure, if you got nothin' else to do."

  "Oughta get some sleep," said Al. "But, hell, I can't keep my han's out of a tore-down car. Jus' got to git in."

  "Well, I'd admire to git a hand," said the young man. "My name's Floyd Knowles."

  "I'm Al Joad."

  "Proud to meet ya."

  "Me too," said Al. "Gonna use the same gasket?"

  "Got to," said Floyd.

  Al took out his pocket knife and scraped at the block. "Jesus!" he said. "They ain't nothin' I love like the guts of a engine."

  "How 'bout girls?"

  "Yeah, girls too! Wisht I could tear down a Rolls an' put her back. I looked under the hood of a Cad' 16 one time an', God Awmighty, you never seen nothin' so sweet in your life! In Sallisaw--an' here's this 16 a-standin' in front of a restaurant, so I lifts the hood. An' a guy comes out an' says, 'What the hell you doin'?' I says, 'Jus' lookin'. Ain't she swell?' An' he jus' stands there. I don't think he ever looked in her before. Jus' stands there. Rich fella in a straw hat. Got a stripe' shirt on, an' eye glasses. We don' say nothin'. Jus' look. An' purty soon he says, 'How'd you like to drive her?"'

  Floyd said, "The hell!"

  "Sure--'How'd you like to drive her?' Well, hell, I got on jeans--all dirty. I says, 'I'd get her dirty.' 'Come on!' he says. 'Jus' take her roun' the block.' Well, sir, I set in that seat an' I took her roun' the block eight times, an', oh, my God Almighty!"

  "Nice?" Floyd asked.

  "Oh, Jesus!" said Al. "If I could of tore her down why--I'd a give--anythin'."

  Floyd slowed his jerking arm. He lifted the last valve from its seat and looked at it. "You better git use' ta a jalopy," he said, "'cause you ain't goin' a drive no 16." He put his brace down on the running board and took up a chisel to scrape the crust from the block. Two stocky women, bare-headed and bare-footed, went by carrying a bucket of milky water between them. They limped against the weight of the bucket, and neither one looked up from the ground. The sun was half down in afternoon.

  Al said, "You don't like nothin' much."

  Floyd scraped harder with the chisel. "I been here six months," he said. "I been scrabblin' over this here State tryin' to work hard enough and move fast enough to get meat an' potatoes for me an' my wife an' my kids. I've run myself like a jackrabbit an'--I can't quite make her. There just ain't quite enough to eat no matter what I do. I'm gettin' tired, that's all. I'm gettin' tired way past where sleep rests me. An' I jus' don' know what
to do."

  "Ain't there no steady work for a fella?" Al asked.

  "No, they ain't no steady work." With his chisel he pushed the crust off the block, and he wiped the dull metal with a greasy rag.

  A rusty touring car drove down into the camp and there were four men in it, men with brown hard faces. The car drove slowly through the camp. Floyd called to them, "Any luck?"

  The car stopped. The driver said, "We covered a hell of a lot a ground. They ain't a hand's work in this here country. We gotta move."

  "Where to?" Al called.

  "God knows. We worked this here place over." He let in his clutch and moved slowly down the camp.

  Al looked after them. "Wouldn' it be better if one fella went alone? Then if they was one piece a work, a fella'd get it."

  Floyd put down the chisel and smiled sourly. "You ain't learned," he said. "Takes gas to get roun' the country. Gas costs fifteen cents a gallon. Them four fellas can't take four cars. So each of 'em puts in a dime an' they get gas. You got to learn."

  "Al!"

  Al looked down at Winfield standing importantly beside him. "Al, Ma's dishin' up stew. She says come git it."

  Al wiped his hands on his trousers. "We ain't et today," he said to Floyd. "I'll come give you a han' when I eat."

  "No need 'less you want ta."

  "Sure, I'll do it." He followed Winfield toward the Joad camp.

  It was crowded now. The strange children stood close to the stew pot, so close that Ma brushed them with her elbows as she worked. Tom and Uncle John stood beside her.

  Ma said helplessly, "I dunno what to do. I got to feed the fambly. What'm I gonna do with these here?" The children stood stiffly and looked at her. Their faces were blank, rigid, and their eyes went mechanically from the pot to the tin plate she held. Their eyes followed the spoon from pot to plate, and when she passed the steaming plate up to Uncle John, their eyes followed it up. Uncle John dug his spoon into the stew, and the banked eyes rose up with the spoon. A piece of potato went into John's mouth and the banked eyes were on his face, watching to see how he would react. Would it be good? Would he like it?

  And then Uncle John seemed to see them for the first time. He chewed slowly. "You take this here," he said to Tom. "I ain't hungry."

  "You ain't et today," Tom said.

  "I know, but I got a stomickache. I ain't hungry."

  Tom said quietly, "You take that plate inside the tent an' you eat it."