THE FAMILY, ON TOP of the load, the children and Connie and Rose of Sharon
and the preacher were stiff and cramped. They had sat in the heat in front of the
coroner's office in Bakersfield while Pa and Ma and Uncle John went in. Then a basket
was brought out and the long bundle lifted down from the truck. And they sat in the
sun while the examination went on, while the cause of death was found and the
certificate signed.
Al and Tom strolled along the street and looked in store windows and watched the
strange people on the sidewalks.
And at last Pa and Ma and Uncle John came out, and they were subdued and quiet.
Uncle John climbed up on the load. Pa and Ma got in the seat. Tom and Al strolled
back and Tom got under the steering wheel. He sat there silently, waiting for some
instruction. Pa looked straight ahead, his dark hat pulled low. Ma rubbed the sides of
her mouth with her fingers, and her eyes were far away and lost, dead with weariness.
Pa sighed deeply. "They wasn't nothin' else to do," he said.
"I know," said Ma. "She would a liked a nice funeral, though. She always wanted
one."
Tom looked sideways at them. "County?" he asked.
"Yeah," Pa shook his head quickly, as though to get back to some reality. "We didn'
have enough. We couldn' of done it." He turned to Ma. "You ain't to feel bad. We
couldn' no matter how hard we tried, no matter what we done. We jus' didn' have it;
embalming, an' a coffin an' a preacher, an' a plot in a graveyard. It would of took ten
times what we got. We done the bes' we could."
"I know," Ma said. "I jus' can't get it outa my head what store she set by a nice
funeral. Got to forget it." She sighed deeply and rubbed the side of her mouth. "That
was a purty nice fella in there. Awful bossy, but he was purty nice."
"Yeah," Pa said. "He give us the straight talk, awright."
Ma brushed her hair back with her hand. Her jaw tightened. "We got to git," she
said. "We got to find a place to stay. We got to get work an' settle down. No use alettin'
the little fellas go hungry. That wasn't never Granma's way. She always et a
good meal at a funeral."
"Where we goin'?" Tom asked.
Pa raised his hat and scratched among his hair. "Camp," he said. "We ain't gonna
spen' what little's lef' till we get work. Drive out in the country."
Tom started the car and they rolled through the streets and out toward the country.
And by a bridge they saw a collection of tents and shacks. Tom said, "Might's well
stop here. Find out what's doin', an' where at the work is." He drove down a steep dirt
incline and parked on the edge of the encampment.
There was no order in the camp; little gray tents, shacks, cars were scattered about
at random. The first house was nondescript. The south wall was made of three sheets
of rusty corrugated iron, the east wall a square of moldy carpet tacked between two
boards, the north wall a strip of roofing paper and a strip of tattered canvas, and the
west wall six pieces of gunny sacking. Over the square frame, on untrimmed willow
limbs, grass had been piled, not thatched, but heaped up in a low mound. The entrance,
on the gunnysack side, was cluttered with equipment. A five-gallon kerosene can
served for a stove. It was laid on its side, with a section of rusty stovepipe thrust in one
end. A wash boiler rested on its side against the wall; and a collection of boxes lay
about, boxes to sit on, to eat on. A Model T Ford sedan and a two-wheel trailer were
parked beside the shack, and about the camp there hung a slovenly despair.
Next to the shack there was a little tent, gray with weathering, but neatly, properly
set up; and the boxes in front of it were placed against the tent wall. A stovepipe stuck
out of the door flap, and the dirt in front of the tent had been swept and sprinkled. A
bucketful of soaking clothes stood on a box. The camp was neat and sturdy. A Model
A roadster and a little home-made bed trailer stood beside the tent.
And next there was a huge tent, ragged, torn in strips and the tears mended with
pieces of wire. The flaps were up, and inside four wide mattresses lay on the ground. A
clothes line strung along the side bore pink cotton dresses and several pairs of overalls.
There were forty tents and shacks, and beside each habitation some kind of
automobile. Far down the line a few children stood and stared at the newly arrived
truck, and they moved toward it, little boys in overalls and bare feet, their hair gray
with dust.
Tom stopped the truck and looked at Pa. "She ain't very purty," he said. "Want to go
somewheres else?"
"Can't go nowhere else till we know where we're at," Pa said. "We got to ast about
work."
Tom opened the door and stepped out. The family climbed down from the load and
looked curiously at the camp. Ruthie and Winfield, from the habit of the road, took
down the bucket and walked toward the willows, where there would be water; and the
line of children parted for them and closed after them.
The flaps of the first shack parted and a woman looked out. Her gray hair was
braided, and she wore a dirty, flowered Mother Hubbard. Her face was wizened and
dull, deep gray pouches under blank eyes, and a mouth slack and loose.
Pa said, "Can we jus' pull up anywheres an' camp?"
The head was withdrawn inside the shack. For a moment there was quiet and then
the flaps were pushed aside and a bearded man in shirt sleeves stepped out. The
woman looked out after him, but she did not come into the open.
The bearded man said, "Howdy, folks," and his restless dark eyes jumped to each
member of the family, and from them to the truck to the equipment.
Pa said, "I jus' ast your woman if it's all right to set our stuff anywheres."
The bearded man looked at Pa intently, as though he had said something very wise
that needed thought. "Set down anywheres, here in this place?" he asked.
"Sure. Anybody own this place, that we got to see 'fore we can camp?"
The bearded man squinted one eye nearly closed and studied Pa. "You wanta camp
here?"
Pa's irritation arose. The gray woman peered out of the burlap shack. "What you
think I'm a-sayin'?" Pa said.
"Well, if you wanta camp here, why don't ya? I ain't a-stoppin' you."
Tom laughed. "He got it."
Pa gathered his temper. "I jus' wanted to know does anybody own it? Do we got to
pay?"
The bearded man thrust out his jaw. "Who owns it?" he demanded.
Pa turned away. "The hell with it," he said. The woman's head popped back in the
tent.
The bearded man stepped forward menacingly. "Who owns it?" he demanded.
"Who's gonna kick us outa here? You tell me."
Tom stepped in front of Pa. "You better go take a good long sleep," he said. The
bearded man dropped his mouth open and put a dirty finger against his lower gums.
For a moment he continued to look wisely, speculatively at Tom, and then he turned on
his heels and popped into the shack after the gray woman.
Tom turned on Pa. "What the hell was that?" he asked.
Pa shrugged his shoulders. He was looking across the camp. In front of a tent stood
an old Buick, and the head was off. A young man was grinding the valves, and as he
twisted back and forth, back and forth, on the tool, he looked up at the Joad truck.
They could see that he was laughing to himself. When the bearded man was gone, the
young man left his work and sauntered over.
"H'are ya?" he said, and his blue eyes were shiny with amusement. "I seen you just
met the Mayor."
"What the hell's the matter with 'im?" Tom demanded.
The young man chuckled. "He's jus' nuts like you an' me. Maybe he's a little
nutser'n me, I don' know."
Pa said, "I jus' ast him if we could camp here."
The young man wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. "Sure. Why not? You folks
jus' come acrost?"
"Yeah," said Tom. "Jus' got in this mornin'."
"Never been in Hooverville before?"
"Where's Hooverville?"
"This here's her."
"Oh!" said Tom. "We jus' got in."
Winfield and Ruthie came back, carrying a bucket of water between them.
Ma said, "Le's get the camp up. I'm tuckered out. Maybe we can all rest." Pa and
Uncle John climbed up on the truck to unload the canvas and the beds.
Tom sauntered to the young man, and walked beside him back to the car he had
been working on. The valve-grinding brace lay on the exposed block, and a little
yellow can of valve-grinding compound was wedged on top of the vacuum tank. Tom
asked, "What the hell was the matter'th that ol' fella with the beard?"
The young man picked up his brace and went to work, twisting back and forth,
grinding valve against valve seat. "The Mayor? Chris' knows. I guess maybe he's bullsimple."
"What's 'bull-simple'?"
"I guess cops push 'im aroun' so much he's still spinning."
Tom asked, "Why would they push a fella like that aroun'?".
The young man stopped his work and looked in Tom's eyes. "Chris' knows," he
said. "You jus' come. Maybe you can figger her out. Some fellas says one thing, an'
some says another thing. But you jus' camp in one place a little while, an' you see how
quick a deputy sheriff shoves you along." He lifted a valve and smeared compound on
the seat.
"But what the hell for?"
"I tell ya I don' know. Some says they don' want us to vote; keep us movin' so we
can't vote. An' some says so we can't get on relief. An' some says if we set in one place
we'd get organized. I don' know why. I on'y know we get rode all the time. You wait,
you'll see."
"We ain't no bums," Tom insisted. "We're lookin' for work. We'll take any kind a
work."
The young man paused in fitting the brace to the valve slot. He looked in
amazement at Tom. "Lookin' for work?" he said. "So you're lookin' for work. What ya
think ever'body else is lookin' for? Di'monds? What you think I wore my ass down to a
nub lookin' for?" He twisted the brace back and forth.
Tom looked about at the grimy tents, the junk equipment, at the old cars, the lumpy
mattresses out in the sun, at the blackened cans on fire-blackened holes where the
people cooked. He asked quietly, "Ain't they no work?"
"I don' know. Mus' be. Ain't no crop right here now. Grapes to pick later, an' cotton
to pick later. We're a-movin' on, soon's I get these here valves groun'. Me an' my wife
an' my kids. We heard they was work up north. We're shovin' north, up aroun' Salinas."
Tom saw Uncle John and Pa and the preacher hoisting the tarpaulin on the tent
poles and Ma on her knees inside, brushing off the mattresses on the ground. A circle
of quiet children stood to watch the new family get settled, quiet children with bare
feet and dirty faces. Tom said, "Back home some fellas come through with han'bills—
orange ones. Says they need lots a people out here to work the crops."
The young man laughed. "They say they's three hunderd thousan' us folks here, an' I
bet ever' dam' fam'ly seen them han'bills."
"Yeah, but if they don' need folks, what'd they go to the trouble puttin' them things
out for?"
"Use your head, why don'cha?"
"Yeah, but I wanta know."
"Look," the young man said. "S'pose you got a job a work, an' there's jus' one fella
wants the job. You got to pay 'im what he asts. But s'pose they's a hunderd men." He
put down his tool. His eyes hardened and his voice sharpened. "S'pose they's a hunderd
men wants that job. S'pose them men got kids, an' them kids is hungry. S'pose a lousy
dime'll buy a box a mush for them kids. S'pose a nickel'll buy at leas' somepin for them
kids. An' you got a hunderd men. Jus' offer 'em a nickel—why, they'll kill each other
fightin' for that nickel. Know what they was payin' las' job I had? Fifteen cents an hour.
Ten hours for a dollar an' a half, an' ya can't stay on the place. Got to burn gasoline
gettin' there." He was panting with anger, and his eyes blazed with hate. "That's why
them han'bills was out. You can print a hell of a lot of han'bills with what ya save
payin' fifteen cents an hour for fiel' work."
Tom said, "That's stinkin'."
The young man laughed harshly. "You stay out here a little while, an' if you smell
any roses, you come let me smell, too."
"But they is work," Tom insisted. "Christ Almighty, with all this stuff a-growin':
orchards, grapes, vegetables—I seen it. They got to have men. I seen all that stuff."
A child cried in the tent beside the car. The young man went into the tent and his
voice came softly through the canvas. Tom picked up the brace, fitted it in the slot of
the valve, and ground away, his hand whipping back and forth. The child's crying
stopped. The young man came out and watched Tom. "You can do her," he said.
"Damn good thing. You'll need to."
"How 'bout what I said?" Tom resumed. "I seen all the stuff growin'."
The young man squatted on his heels. "I'll tell ya," he said quietly. "They's a big
son-of-a-bitch of a peach orchard I worked in. Takes nine men all the year roun'." He
paused impressively. "Takes three thousan' men for two weeks when them peaches is
ripe. Got to have 'em or them peaches'll rot. So what do they do? They send out
han'bills all over hell. They need three thousan', an' they get six thousan'. They get
them men for what they wanta pay. If ya don't wanta take what they pay, goddamn it,
they's a thousan' men waitin' for your job. So ya pick, an' ya pick, an' then she's done.
Whole part a the country's peaches. All ripe together. When ya get 'em picked, ever'
goddamn one is picked. There ain't another damn thing in that part a the country to do.
An' them owners don' want you there no more. Three thousan' of you. The work's
done. You might steal, you might get drunk, you might jus' raise hell. An' besides, you
don' look nice, livin' in ol' tents; an' it's a pretty country, but you stink it up. They don'
want you aroun'. So they kick you out, they move you along. That's how it is."
Tom, looking down toward the Joad tent, saw his mother, heavy and slow with
weariness, build a little trash fire and put the cooking pots over the flame. The circle of
children drew closer, and the calm wide eyes of the children watched every move of
Ma's hands. An old, old man with a bent back came like a badger out of a tent and
snooped near, sniffing the air as he came. He laced his arms behind him and joined the
children to watch Ma. Ruthie and Winfield stood near to Ma and eyed the strangers
belligerently.
Tom said angrily, "Them peaches got to be picked right now, don't they? Jus' when
they're ripe?"
"'Course they do."
"Well, s'pose them people got together an' says, 'Let em rot.' Wouldn' be long 'fore
the price went up, by God!"
The young man looked up from the valves, looked sardonically at Tom. "Well, you
figgered out somepin, didn' you. Come right outa your own head."
"I'm tar'd," said Tom. "Drove all night. I don't wanta start no argument. An' I'm so
goddamn tar'd I'd argue easy. Don't be smart with me. I'm askin' you."
The young man grinned. "I didn' mean it. You ain't been here. Folks figgered that
out. An' the folks with the peach orchard figgered her out too. Look, if the folks gets
together, they's a leader—got to be—fella that does the talkin'. Well, first time this
fella opens his mouth they grab 'im an' stick 'im in jail. An' if they's another leader
pops up, why, they stick 'im in jail."
Tom said, "Well, a fella eats in jail anyways."
"His kids don't. How'd you like to be in an' your kids starvin' to death?"
"Yeah," said Tom slowly. "Yeah."
"An' here's another thing. Ever hear a' the blacklist?"
"What's that?"
"Well, you jus' open your trap about us folks gettin' together, an' you'll see. They
take your pitcher an' send it all over. Then you can't get work nowhere. An' if you got
kids-"
Tom took off his cap, and twisted it in his hands. "So we take what we can get, huh,
or we starve; an' if we yelp we starve."
The young man made a sweeping circle with his hand, and his hand took in the
ragged tents and the rusty cars.
Tom looked down at his mother again, where she sat scraping potatoes. And the
children had drawn closer. He said, "I ain't gonna take it. Goddamn it, I an' my folks
ain't no sheep. I'll kick the hell outa somebody."
"Like a cop?"
"Like anybody."
"You're nuts," said the young man. "They'll pick you right off. You got no name, no
property. They'll find you in a ditch, with the blood dried on your mouth an' your nose.
Be one little line in the paper—know what it'll say? 'Vagrant foun' dead.' An' that's all.
You'll see a lot of them little lines, 'Vagrant foun' dead.'"
Tom said, "They'll be somebody else foun' dead right 'longside of this here
vagrant."
"You're nuts," said the young man. "Won't be no good in that."
"Well, what you doin' about it?" He looked into the grease-streaked face. And a veil
drew down over the eyes of the young man.
"Nothin'. Where you from?"
"Us? Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma."
"Jus' get in?"
"Jus' today."
"Gonna be aroun' here long?"
"Don't know. We'll stay wherever we can get work. Why?"
"Nothin'." And the veil came down again.
"Got to sleep up," said Tom. "Tomorra we'll go out lookin' for work."
"You kin try."
Tom turned away and moved toward the Joad tent.
The young man took up the can of valve compound and dug his finger into it. "Hi!"
he called.
Tom turned. "What you want?"
"I want ta tell ya." He motioned with his finger, on which a blob of compound
stuck. "I jus' want ta tell ya. Don' go lookin' for no trouble. 'Member how that bullsimple
guy looked?"
"Fella in the tent up there?"
"Yeah—looked dumb—no sense?"
"What about him?"
"Well, when the cops come in, an' they come in all a time, that's how you want ta
be. Dumb—don't know nothin'. Don' understan' nothin'. That's how the cops like us.
Don't hit no cops. That's jus' suicide. Be bull-simple."
"Let them goddamn cops run over me, an' me do nothin'?"
"No, looka here. I'll come for ya tonight. Maybe I'm wrong. There's stools aroun' all
a time. I'm takin' a chancet, an' I got a kid, too. But I'll come for ya. An' if ya see a cop,
why, you're a goddamn dumb Okie, see?"
"That's awright if we're doin' anythin'," said Tom.
"Don' you worry. We're doin' somepin', on'y we ain't stickin' our necks out. A kid
starves quick. Two-three days for a kid." He went back to his job, spread the
compound on a valve seat, and his hand jerked rapidly back and forth on the brace, and
his face was dull and dumb.
Tom strolled slowly back to his camp. "Bull-simple," he said under his breath.
Pa and Uncle John came toward the camp, their arms loaded with dry willow sticks,
and they threw them down by the fire and squatted on their hams. "Got her picked over
pretty good," said Pa. "Had ta go a long ways for wood." He looked up at the circle of
staring children. "Lord God Almighty!" he said. "Where'd you come from?" All of the
children looked self-consciously at their feet.
"Guess they smelled the cookin'," said Ma. "Winfiel', get out from under foot." She
pushed him out of her way. "Got ta make us up a little stew," she said. "We ain't et
nothin' cooked right sence we come from home. Pa, you go up to the store there an' get
some neck meat. Make a nice stew here." Pa stood up and sauntered away.
Al had the hood of the car up, and he looked down at the greasy engine. He looked
up when Tom approached. "You sure look happy as a buzzard," Al said.
"I'm jus' gay as a toad in spring rain," said Tom.
"Looka the engine," Al pointed. "Purty good, huh?"
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' hisself 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 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's it—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 gives 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 get 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 of 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 get '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 play 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 see 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 toredown
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 of 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 of 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."
"I ain't hungry," John insisted. "I'd still see 'em inside the tent."
Tom turned on the children. "You git," he said. "Go on now, git." The bank of eyes
left the stew and rested wondering on his face. "Go on now, git. You ain't doin' no
good. There ain't enough for you."
Ma ladled stew into the tin plates, very little stew, and she laid the plates on the
ground. "I can't send 'em away," she said. "I don't know what to do. Take your plates
an' go inside. I'll let 'em have what's lef'. Here, take a plate in to Rosasharn." She
smiled up at the children. "Look," she said, "you little fellas go an' get you each a flat
stick an' I'll put what's lef' for you. But they ain't to be no fightin'." The group broke up
with a deadly, silent swiftness. Children ran to find sticks, they ran to their own tents
and brought spoons. Before Ma had finished with the plates they were back, silent and
wolfish. Ma shook her head. "I dunno what to do. I can't rob the fambly. I got to feed
the fambly. Ruthie, Winfiel', Al," she cried fiercely. "Take your plates. Hurry up. Git
in the tent quick." She looked apologetically at the waiting children. "There ain't
enough," she said humbly. "I'm a-gonna set this here kettle out, an' you'll all get a little
tas', but it ain't gonna do you no good." She faltered, "I can't he'p it. Can't keep it from
you." She lifted the pot and set it down on the ground. "Now wait. It's too hot," she
said, and she went into the tent quickly so she would not see. Her family sat on the
ground, each with his plate; and outside they could hear the children digging into the
pot with their sticks and their spoons and their pieces of rusty tin. A mound of children
smothered the pot from sight. They did not talk, did not fight or argue; but there was a
quiet intentness in all of them, a wooden fierceness. Ma turned her back so she couldn't
see. "We can't do that no more," she said. "We got to eat alone." There was the sound
of scraping at the kettle, and then the mound of children broke and the children walked
away and left the scraped kettle on the ground. Ma looked at the empty plates. "Didn'
none of you get nowhere near enough."
Pa got up and left the tent without answering. The preacher smiled to himself and
lay back on the ground, hands clasped behind his head. Al got to his feet. "Got to help
a fella with a car."
Ma gathered the plates and took them outside to wash. "Ruthie," she called,
"Winfiel'. Go get me a bucket a water right off." She handed them the bucket and they
trudged off toward the river.
A strong broad woman walked near. Her dress was streaked with dust and splotched
with car oil. Her chin was held high with pride. She stood a short distance away and
regarded Ma belligerently. At last she approached. "Afternoon," she said coldly.
"Afternoon," said Ma, and she got up from her knees and pushed a box forward.
"Won't you set down?"
The woman walked near. "No, I won't set down."
Ma looked questioningly at her. "Can I he'p you in any way?"
The woman set her hands on her hips. "You kin he'p me by mindin' your own
children an' lettin' mine alone."
Ma's eyes opened wide. "I ain't done nothin'—" she began.
The woman scowled at her. "My little fella come back smellin' of stew. You give it
to 'im. He tol' me. Don' you go a-boastin' an' a-braggin' 'bout havin' stew. Don' you do
it. I got 'nuf troubles 'thout that. Come in ta me, he did, an' says, 'Whyn't we have
stew?'" Her voice shook with fury.
Ma moved close. "Set down," she said. "Set down an' talk a piece."
"No, I ain't gonna set down. I'm tryin' to feed my folks, an' you come along with
your stew."
"Set down," Ma said. "That was 'bout the las' stew we're gonna have till we get
work. S'pose you was cookin' a stew an' a bunch of little fellas stood aroun' moonin',
what'd you do? We didn't have enough, but you can't keep it when they look at ya like
that."
The woman's hands dropped from her hips. For a moment her eyes questioned Ma,
and then she turned and walked quickly away, and she went into a tent and pulled the
flaps down behind her. Ma stared after her, and then she dropped to her knees again
beside the stack of tin dishes.
Al hurried near. "Tom," he called. "Ma, is Tom inside?"
Tom stuck his head out. "What you want?"
"Come on with me," Al said excitedly.
They walked away together. "What's a matter with you?" Tom asked.
"You'll find out. Jus' wait." He led Tom to the torn-down car, "This here's Floyd
Knowles," he said.
"Yeah, I talked to him. How ya?"
"Jus' gettin' her in shape," Floyd said.
Tom ran his finger over the top of the block. "What kinda bugs is crawlin' on you,
Al?"
"Floyd jus' tol' me. Tell 'em, Floyd."
Floyd said, "Maybe I shouldn', but—yeah, I'll tell ya. Fella come through an' he
says they's gonna be work up north."
"Up north?"
"Yeah—place called Santa Clara Valley, way to hell an' gone up north."
"Yeah? Kinda work?"
"Prune pickin', an' pears an' cannery work. Says it's purty near ready."
"How far?" Tom demanded.
"Oh, Christ knows. Maybe two hundred miles."
"That's a hell of a long ways," said Tom. "How we know they's gonna be work
when we get there?"
"Well, we don' know," said Floyd. "But they ain't nothin' here, an' this fella says he
got a letter from his brother, an' he's on his way. He says not to tell nobody, they'll be
too many. We oughta get out in the night. Oughta get there and get some work lined
up."
Tom studied him. "Why we gotta sneak away?"
"Well, if ever'body gets there, ain't gonna be work for nobody."
"It's a hell of a long way," Tom said.
Floyd sounded hurt. "I'm jus' givin' you the tip. You don' have to take it. Your
brother here he'ped me, an' I'm givin' you the tip."
"You sure there ain't no work here?"
"Look, I been scourin' aroun' for three weeks all over hell, an' I ain't had a bit a
work, not a single han'-holt. 'F you wanta look aroun' an' burn up gas lookin', why, go
ahead. I ain't beggin' you. More that goes, the less chance I got."
Tom said, "I ain't findin' fault. It's jus' such a hell of a long ways. An' we kinda
hoped we could get work here an' rent a house to live in."
Floyd said patiently, "I know ya jus' got here. They's stuff ya got to learn. If you'd
let me tell ya, it'd save ya somepin. If ya don' let me tell ya, then ya got to learn the
hard way. You ain't gonna settle down cause they ain't no work to settle ya. An' your
belly ain't gonna let ya settle down. Now—that's straight."
"Wisht I could look aroun' first," Tom said uneasily.
A sedan drove through the camp and pulled up at the next tent. A man in overalls
and a blue shirt climbed out. Floyd called to him, "Any luck?"
"There ain't a han'-turn of work in the whole darn country, not till cotton pickin'."
And he went into the ragged tent.
"See?" said Floyd.
"Yeah, I see. But two hunderd miles, Jesus!"
"Well, you ain't settlin' down no place for a while. Might's well make up your mind
to that."
"We better go," Al said.
Tom asked, "When is they gonna be work aroun' here?"
"Well, in a month the cotton'll start. If you got plenty money you can wait for the
cotton."
Tom said, "Ma ain't a-gonna wanta move. She's all tar'd out."
Floyd shrugged his shoulders. "I ain't a-tryin' to push ya north. Suit yaself. I jus' tol'
ya what I heard." He picked the oily gasket from the running board and fitted it
carefully on the block and pressed it down. "Now," he said to Al, " 'f you want to give
me a han' with that engine head."
Tom watched while they set the heavy head gently down over the head bolts and
dropped it evenly. "Have to talk about it." he said.
Floyd said, "I don't want nobody but your folks to know about it. Jus' you. An' I
wouldn't of tol' you if ya brother didn' he'p me out here."
Tom said, "Well, I sure thank ya for tellin' us. We got to figger it out. Maybe we'll
go."
Al said, "By God, I think I'll go if the res' goes or not. I'll hitch there."
"An' leave the fambly?" Tom asked.
"Sure. I'd come back with my jeans plumb fulla jack. Why not?"
"Ma ain't gonna like no such thing," Tom said. "An' Pa, he ain't gonna like it
neither."
Floyd set the nuts and screwed them down as far as he could with his fingers. "Me
an' my wife come out with our folks," he said. "Back home we wouldn' of thought of
goin' away. Wouldn' of thought of it. But, hell, we was all up north a piece and I come
down here, an' they moved on, an' now God knows where they are. Been lookin' an'
askin' about 'em ever since." He fitted his wrench to the enginehead bolts and turned
them down evenly, one turn to each nut, around and around the series.
Tom squatted down beside the car and squinted his eyes up the line of tents. A little
stubble was beaten into the earth between the tents. "No, sir," he said, "Ma ain't gonna
like you goin' off."
"Well, seems to me a lone fella got more chance of work."
"Maybe, but Ma ain't gonna like it at all."
Two cars loaded with disconsolate men drove down into the camp. Floyd lifted his
eyes, but he didn't ask them about their luck. Their dusty faces were sad and resistant.
The sun was sinking now, and the yellow sunlight fell on the Hooverville and on the
willows behind it. The children began to come out of the tents, to wander about the
camp. And from the tents the women came and built their little fires. The men gathered
in squatting groups and talked together.
A new Chevrolet coupe turned off the highway and headed down into the camp. It
pulled to the center of the camp, Tom said, "Who's this? They don't belong here."
Floyd said, "I dunno—cops, maybe."
The car door opened and a man got out and stood beside the car. His companion
remained seated. Now all the squatting men looked at the newcomers and the
conversation was still. And the women building their fires looked secretly at the shiny
car. The children moved closer with elaborate circuitousness, edging inward in long
curves.
Floyd put down his wrench. Tom stood up. Al wiped his hand on his trousers. The
three strolled toward the Chevrolet. The man who had got out of the car was dressed in
khaki trousers and a flannel shirt. He wore a flat-brimmed Stetson hat. A sheaf of
papers was held in his shirt pocket by a little fence of fountain pens and yellow pencils;
and from his hip pocket protruded a notebook with metal covers. He moved to one of
the groups of squatting men, and they looked up at him, suspicious and quiet. They
watched him and did not move; the whites of their eyes showed beneath the irises, for
they did not raise their heads to look. Tom and Al and Floyd strolled casually near.
The man said, "You men want to work?" Still they looked quietly, suspiciously.
And men from all over the camp moved near.
One of the squatting men spoke at last. "Sure we wanta work. Where's at's work?"
"Tulare County. Fruit's opening up. Need a lot of pickers."
Floyd spoke up. "You doin' the hiring?"
"Well, I'm contracting the land."
The men were in a compact group now. An overalled man took off his black hat and
combed back his long black hair with his fingers. "What you payin'?" he asked.
"Well, can't tell exactly, yet. 'Bout thirty cents, I guess."
"Why can't you tell? You took the contract, didn' you?"
"That's true," the khaki man said. "But it's keyed to the price. Might be a little more,
might be a little less."
Floyd stepped out ahead. He said quietly, "I'll go, mister. You're a contractor, an'
you got a license. You jus' show your license, an' then you give us an order to go to
work, an' where, an' when, an' how much we'll get, an' you sign that, an' we'll all go."
The contractor turned, scowling. "You telling me how to run my own business?"
Floyd said, "'F we're workin' for you, it's our business too."
"Well, you ain't telling me what to do. I told you I need men."
Floyd said angrily, "You didn' say how many men, an' you didn' say what you'd
pay."
"Goddamn it, I don't know yet."
"If you don' know, you got no right to hire men."
"I got a right to run my own business my own way. If you men want to sit here on
your ass, O.K. I'm out getting men for Tulare County. Going to need a lot of men."
Floyd turned to the crowd of men. They were standing up now, looking quietly
from one speaker to the other. Floyd said, "Twicet now I've fell for that. Maybe he
needs a thousan' men. He'll get five thousan' there, an' he'll pay fifteen cents an hour.
An' you poor bastards'll have to take it 'cause you'll be hungry. 'F he wants to hire men,
let him hire 'em an' write out an' say what he's gonna pay. Ast ta see his license. He
ain't allowed to contract men without a license."
The contractor turned to the Chevrolet and called, "Joe!" His companion looked out
and then swung the car door open and stepped out. He wore riding breeches and laced
boots. A heavy pistol holster hung on a cartridge belt around his waist. On his brown
shirt a deputy sheriff's star was pinned. He walked heavily over. His face was set to a
thin smile. "What you want?" The holster slid back and forth on his hip.
"Ever see this guy before, Joe?"
The deputy asked, "Which one?"
"This fella." The contractor pointed to Floyd.
"What'd he do?" The deputy smiled at Floyd.
"He's talkin' red, agitating trouble."
"Hm-m-m." The deputy moved slowly around to see Floyd's profile, and the color
slowly flowed up Floyd's face.
"You see?" Floyd cried. "If this guy's on the level, would he bring a cop along?"
"Ever see 'im before?" the contractor insisted.
"Hmm, seems like I have. Las' week when that used-car lot was busted into. Seems
like I seen this fella hangin' aroun'. Yep! I'd swear it's the same fella." Suddenly the
smile left his face. "Get in that car," he said, and he unhooked the strap that covered
the butt of his automatic.
Tom said, "You got nothin' on him."
The deputy swung around. "'F you'd like to go in too, you jus' open your trap once
more. They was two fellas hangin' around that lot."
"I wasn't even in the State las' week," Tom said.
"Well, maybe you're wanted someplace else. You keep your trap shut."
The contractor turned back to the men. "You fellas don't want ta listen to these
goddamn reds. Troublemakers—they'll get you in trouble. Now I can use all of you in
Tulare County."
The men didn't answer.The deputy turned back to them. "Might be a good idear to go," he said. The thin smile was back on his face. "Board of Health says we got to clean out this camp. An' if it gets around that you got reds out here—why, somebody might git hurt. Be a good idear if all you fellas moved on to Tulare. They isn't a thing to do aroun' here. That's jus' a friendly way a telling you. Be a bunch a guys down here, maybe with pick
handles, if you ain't gone."
The contractor said, "I told you I need men. If you don't want to work—well, that's
your business."
The deputy smiled. "If they don't want to work, they ain't a place for 'em in this
county. We'll float 'em quick."
Floyd stood stiffly beside the deputy, and Floyd's thumbs were hooked over his belt.
Tom stole a look at him, and then stared at the ground.
"That's all," the contractor said. "There's men needed in Tulare County; plenty of
work."
Tom looked slowly up at Floyd's hands, and he saw the strings at the wrists standing
out under the skin. Tom's own hands came up, and his thumbs hooked over his belt.
"Yeah, that's all. I don't want one of you here by tomorra morning."
The contractor stepped into the Chevrolet.
"Now, you," the deputy said to Floyd, "you get in that car." He reached a large hand
up and took hold of Floyd's left arm. Floyd spun and swung with one movement. His
fist splashed into the large face, and in the same motion he was away, dodging down
the line of tents. The deputy staggered and Tom put out his foot for him to trip over.
The deputy fell heavily and rolled, reaching for his gun. Floyd dodged in and out of
sight down the line. The deputy fired from the ground. A woman in front of a tent
screamed and then looked at a hand which had no knuckles. The fingers hung on
strings against her palm, and the torn flesh was white and bloodless. Far down the line
Floyd came in sight, sprinting for the willows. The deputy, sitting on the ground, raised
his gun again and then, suddenly, from the group of men, the Reverend Casy stepped.
He kicked the deputy in the neck and then stood back as the heavy man crumpled into
unconsciousness.
The motor of the Chevrolet roared and it streaked away, churning the dust. It
mounted to the highway and shot away. In front of her tent, the woman still looked at
her shattered hand. Little droplets of blood began to ooze from the wound. And a
chuckling hysteria began in her throat, a whining laugh that grew louder and higher
with each breath.
The deputy lay on his side, his mouth open against the dust.
Tom picked up his automatic, pulled out the magazine and threw it into the brush,
and he ejected the live shell from the chamber. "Fella like that ain't got no right to a
gun," he said; and he dropped the automatic to the ground.
A crowd had collected around the woman with the broken hand, and her hysteria
increased, a screaming quality came into her laughter.
Casy moved close to Tom. "You got to git out," he said. "You go down in the willas
an' wait. He didn' see me kick 'im, but he seen you stick out your foot."
"I don' want ta go," Tom said.
Casy put his head close. He whispered, "They'll fingerprint you. You broke parole.
They'll send you back."
Tom drew in his breath quietly. "Jesus! I forgot."
"Go quick," Casy said. "'Fore he comes to."
"Like to have his gun," Tom said.
"No. Leave it. If it's awright to come back, I'll give ya four high whistles."
Tom strolled away casually, but as soon as he was away from the group he hurried
his steps, and he disappeared among the willows that lined the river.
Al stepped over to the fallen deputy. "Jesus," he said admiringly, "you sure flagged
'im down!"
The crowd of men had continued to stare at the unconscious man. And now in the
great distance a siren screamed up the scale and dropped, and it screamed again, nearer
this time. Instantly the men were nervous. They shifted their feet for a moment and
then they moved away, each one to his own tent. Only Al and the preacher remained.
Casy turned to Al. "Get out," he said. "Go on, get out—to the tent. You don't know
nothin'."
"Yeah? How 'bout you?"
Casy grinned at him. "Somebody got to take the blame. I got no kids. They'll jus'
put me in jail, an' I ain't doin' nothin' but set aroun'."
Al said, "Ain't no reason for—"
"Go on now," Casy said sharply. "You get outta this."
Al bristled. "I ain't takin' orders."
Casy said softly, "If you mess in this your whole fambly, all your folks, gonna get
in trouble. I don' care about you. But your ma and your pa, they'll get in trouble.
Maybe they'll send Tom back to McAlester."
Al considered it for a moment. "O.K.," he said. "I think you're a damn fool,
though."
"Sure," said Casy. "Why not?"
The siren screamed again and again, and always it came closer. Casy knelt beside
the deputy and turned him over. The man groaned and fluttered his eyes, and he tried
to see. Casy wiped the dust off his lips. The families were in the tents now, and the
flaps were down, and the setting sun made the air red and the gray tents bronze.
Tires squealed on the highway and an open car came swiftly into the camp. Four
men, armed with rifles, piled out. Casy stood up and walked to them.
"What the hell's goin' on here?"
Casy said, "I knocked out your man there."
One of the armed men went to the deputy. He was conscious now, trying weakly to
sit up.
"Now what happened here?"
"Well," Casy said, "he got tough an' I hit 'im, and he started shootin'—hit a woman
down the line. So I hit 'im again."
"Well, what'd you do in the first place?"
"I talked back," said Casy.
"Get in that car."
"Sure," said Casy, and he climbed into the back seat and sat down. Two men helped
the hurt deputy to his feet. He felt his neck gingerly. Casy said, "They's a woman down
the row like to bleed to death from his bad shootin'."
"We'll see about that later. Joe, is this the fella that hit you?"
The dazed man stared sickly at Casy. "Don't look like him."
"It was me, all right," Casy said. "You got smart with the wrong fella."
Joe shook his head slowly. "You don't look like the right fella to me. By God, I'm
gonna be sick!"
Casy said, "I'll go 'thout no trouble. You better see how bad that woman's hurt."
"Where's she?"
"That tent over there."
The leader of the deputies walked to the tent, rifle in hand. He spoke through the
tent walls, and then went inside. In a moment he came out and walked back. And he
said, a little proudly, "Jesus, what a mess a .45 does make! They got a tourniquet on.
We'll send a doctor out."
Two deputies sat on either side of Casy. The leader sounded his horn. There was no
movement in the camp. The flaps were down tight, and the people in their tents. The
engine started and the car swung around and pulled out of the camp. Between his
guards Casy sat proudly, his head up and the stringy muscles of his neck prominent.
On his lips there was a faint smile and on his face a curious look of conquest.
When the deputies had gone, the people came out of the tents. The sun was down
now, and the gentle blue evening light was in the camp. To the east the mountains were
still yellow with sunlight. The women went back to the fires that had died. The men
collected to squat together and to talk softly.
Al crawled from under the Joad tarpaulin and walked toward the willows to whistle
for Tom. Ma came out and built her little fire of twigs.
"Pa," she said, "we ain't goin' to have much. We et so late."
Pa and Uncle John stuck close to the camp, watching Ma peeling potatoes and
slicing them raw into a frying pan of deep grease. Pa said, "Now what the hell made
the preacher do that?"
Ruthie and Winfield crept close and crouched down to hear the talk.
Uncle John scratched the earth deeply with a long rusty nail. "He knowed about sin.
I ast him about sin, an' he tol' me; but I don' know if he's right. He says a fella's sinned
if he thinks he's sinned." Uncle John's eyes were tired and sad. "I been secret all my
days," he said. "I done things I never tol' about."
Ma turned from the fire. "Don' go tellin', John," she said. "Tell 'em to God. Don' go
burdenin' other people with your sins. That ain't decent."
"They're a-eatin' on me," said John.
"Well, don' tell 'em. Go down the river an' stick your head under an' whisper 'em in
the stream."
Pa nodded his head slowly at Ma's words. "She's right," he said. "It gives a fella
relief to tell, but it jus' spreads out his sin."
Uncle John looked up to the sun-gold mountains, and the mountains were reflected
in his eyes. "I wisht I could run it down," he said. "But I can't. She's a-bitin' in my
guts."
Behind him Rose of Sharon moved dizzily out of the tent. "Where's Connie?" she
asked irritably. "I ain't seen Connie for a long time. Where'd he go?"
"I ain't seen him," said Ma. "If I see 'im, I'll tell 'im you want 'im."
"I ain't feelin' good," said Rose of Sharon. "Connie shouldn' of left me."
Ma looked up to the girl's swollen face. "You been a-cryin'," she said.
The tears started freshly in Rose of Sharon's eyes.
Ma went on firmly, "You git aholt on yaself. They's a lot of us here. You git aholt
on yaself. Come here now an' peel some potatoes. You're feelin' sorry for yaself."
The girl started to go back in the tent. She tried to avoid Ma's stern eyes, but they
compelled her and she came slowly toward the fire. "He shouldn' of went away," she
said, but the tears were gone.
"You got to work," Ma said. "Set in the tent an' you'll get feelin' sorry about yaself.
I ain't had time to take you in han'. I will now. You take this here knife an' get to them
potatoes."
The girl knelt down and obeyed. She said fiercely, "Wait'll I see 'im. I'll tell 'im."
Ma smiled slowly. "He might smack you. You got it comin' with whinin' aroun' an'
candyin' yaself. If he smacks some sense in you I'll bless 'im." The girl's eyes blazed
with resentment, but she was silent.
Uncle John pushed his rusty nail deep into the ground with his broad thumb. "I got
to tell," he said.
Pa said, "Well, tell then, goddamn it! Who'd ya kill?"
Uncle John dug with his thumbs into the watch pocket of his blue jeans and scooped
out a folded dirty bill. He spread it out and showed it. "Fi' dollars," he said.
"Steal her?" Pa asked.
"No, I had her. Kept her out."
"She was yourn, wasn't she?"
"Yeah, but I didn't have no right to keep her out."
"I don't see much sin in that," Ma said. "It's yourn."
Uncle John said slowly, "It ain't only the keepin' her out. I kep' her out to get drunk.
I knowed they was gonna come a time when I got to get drunk, when I'd get to hurtin'
inside so I got to get drunk. Figgered time wasn' yet, an' then—the preacher went an'
give 'imself up to save Tom."
Pa nodded his head up and down and cocked his head to hear. Ruthie moved closer,
like a puppy, crawling up on her elbows, and Winfield followed her. Rose of Sharon
dug at a deep eye in a potato with the point of her knife. The evening light deepened
and became more blue.
Ma said, in a sharp matter-of-fact tone, "I don' see why him savin' Tom got to get
you drunk."
John said sadly, "Can't say her. I feel awful. He done her so easy. Jus' stepped up
there an' says, 'I done her.' An' they took 'im away. An' I'm a-gonna get drunk."
Pa still nodded his head. "I don't see why you got to tell," he said. "If it was me, I'd
jus' go off an' get drunk if I had to."
"Come a time when I could a did somepin an' took the big sin off my soul," Uncle
John said sadly. "An' I slipped up. I didn' jump on her, an'—an' she got away. Lookie!"
he said, "You got the money. Gimme two dollars."
Pa reached reluctantly into his pocket and brought out the leather pouch. "You ain't
gonna need no seven dollars to get drunk. You don't need to drink champagny water."
Uncle John held out his bill. "You take this here an' gimme two dollars. I can get
good an' drunk for two dollars. I don' want no sin of waste on me. I'll spend whatever I
got. Always do."
Pa took the dirty bill and gave Uncle John two silver dollars. "There ya are," he
said. "A fella got to do what he got to do. Nobody don' know enough to tell 'im."
Uncle John took the coins. "You ain't gonna be mad? You know I got to?"
"Christ, yes," said Pa. "You know what you got to do."
"I wouldn' be able to get through this night no other way," he said. He turned to Ma.
"You ain't gonna hold her over me?"
Ma didn't look up. "No," she said softly. "No—you go 'long."
He stood up and walked forlornly away in the evening. He walked up to the
concrete highway and across the pavement to the grocery store. In front of the screen
door he took off his hat, dropped it into the dust, and ground it with his heel in selfabasement.
And he left his black hat there, broken and dirty. He entered the store and
walked to the shelves where the whisky bottles stood behind wire netting.
Pa and Ma and the children watched Uncle John move away. Rose of Sharon kept
her eyes resentfully on the potatoes.
"Poor John," Ma said. "I wondered if it would a done any good if—no—I guess not.
I never seen a man so drove."
Ruthie turned on her side in the dust. She put her head close to Winfield's head and
pulled his ear against her mouth. She whispered, "I'm gonna get drunk." Winfield
snorted and pinched his mouth tight. The two children crawled away, holding their
breath, their faces purple with the pressure of their giggles. They crawled around the
tent and leaped up and ran squealing away from the tent. They ran to the willows, and
once concealed, they shrieked with laughter. Ruthie crossed her eyes and loosened her
joints; she staggered about, tripping loosely with her tongue hanging out. "I'm drunk,"
she said.
"Look," Winfield cried. "Looka me, here's me, an' I'm Uncle John." He flapped his
arms and puffed, he whirled until he was dizzy.
"No," said Ruthie. "Here's the way. Here's the way. I'm Uncle John. I'm awful
drunk."
Al and Tom walked quietly through the willows, and they came on the children
staggering crazily about. The dusk was thick now. Tom stopped and peered. "Ain't that
Ruthie an' Winfiel'? What the hell's the matter with 'em?" They walked nearer. "You
crazy?" Tom asked.
The children stopped, embarrassed. "We was—jus' playin'," Ruthie said.
"It's a crazy way to play," said Al.
Ruthie said pertly, "It ain't no crazier'n a lot of things."
Al walked on. He said to Tom, "Ruthie's workin' up a kick in the pants. She been
workin' it up a long time. 'Bout due for it."
Ruthie mushed her face at his back, pulled out her mouth with her forefinger,
slobbered her tongue at him, outraged him in every way she knew, but Al did not turn
back to look at her. She looked at Winfield again to start the game, but it had been
spoiled. They both knew it.
"Le's go down the water an' duck our heads," Winfield suggested. They walked
down through the willows, and they were angry at Al.
Al and Tom went quietly in the dusk. Tom said, "Casy shouldn' of did it. I might of
knew, though. He was talkin' how he ain't done nothin' for us. He's a funny fella, Al.
All the time thinkin'."
"Comes from bein' a preacher," Al said. "They get all messed up with stuff."
"Where ya s'pose Connie was a-goin'?"
"Goin' to take a crap, I guess."
"Well, he was goin' a hell of a long way."
They walked among the tents, keeping close to the walls. At Floyd's tent a soft hail
stopped them. They came near to the tent flap and squatted down. Floyd raised the
canvas a little. "You gettin' out?"
Tom said, "I don' know. Think we better?"
Floyd laughed sourly. "You heard what the bull said. They'll burn ya out if ya don't.
'F you think that guy's gonna take a beatin' 'thout gettin' back, you're nuts. The poolroom
boys'll be down here tonight to burn us out."
"Guess we better git, then," Tom said. "Where you a-goin'?"
"Why, up north, like I said."
Al said, "Look, a fella tol' me 'bout a gov'ment camp near here. Where's it at?"
"Oh, I think that's full up."
"Well, where's it at?"
"Go south on 99 'bout twelve-fourteen miles, an' turn east to Weedpatch. It's right
near there. But I think she's full up."
"Fella says it's nice," Al said.
"Sure, she's nice. Treat ya like a man 'stead of a dog. Ain't no cops there. But she's
full up."
Tom said, "What I can't understan's why that cop was so mean. Seemed like he was
aimin' for trouble; seemed like he's pokin' a fella to make trouble."
Floyd said, "I don' know about here, but up north I knowed one a them fellas, an' he
was a nice fella. He tol' me up there the deputies got to take guys in. Sheriff gets
seventy-five cents a day for each prisoner, an' he feeds 'em for a quarter. If he ain't got
prisoners, he don' make no profit. This fella says he didn' pick up nobody for a week,
an' the sheriff tol' 'im he better bring in guys or give up his button. This fella today sure
looks like he's out to make a pinch one way or another."
"We got to get on," said Tom. "So long, Floyd."
"So long. Prob'ly see you. Hope so."
"Good-by," said Al. They walked through the dark gray camp to the Joad tent.
The frying pan of potatoes was hissing and spitting over the fire. Ma moved the
thick slices about with a spoon. Pa sat near by, hugging his knees. Rose of Sharon was
sitting under the tarpaulin.
"It's Tom!" Ma cried. "Thank God."
"We got to get outa here," said Tom.
"What's the matter now?"
"Well, Floyd says they'll burn the camp tonight."
"What the hell for?" Pa asked. "We ain't done nothin'."
"Nothin' 'cept beat up a cop," said Tom.
"Well, we never done it."
"From what that cop said, they wanta push us along."
Rose of Sharon demanded, "You seen Connie?"
"Yeah," said Al. "Way to hell an' gone up the river. He's goin' south."
"Was—was he goin' away?"
"I don' know."
Ma turned on the girl. "Rosasharn, you been talkin' an' actin' funny. What'd Connie
say to you?"
Rose of Sharon said sullenly, "Said it would a been a good thing if he stayed home
an' studied up tractors."
They were very quiet. Rose of Sharon looked at the fire and her eyes glistened in
the firelight. The potatoes hissed sharply in the frying pan. The girl sniffled and wiped
her nose with the back of her hand.
Pa said, "Connie wasn' no good. I seen that a long time. Didn' have no guts, jus' too
big for his overalls."
Rose of Sharon got up and went into the tent. She lay down on the mattress and
rolled over on her stomach and buried her head in her crossed arms.
"Wouldn' do no good to catch 'im, I guess," Al said.
Pa replied, "No. If he ain't no good, we don' want him."
Ma looked into the tent, where Rose of Sharon lay on her mattress. Ma said, "Sh.
Don' say that."
"Well, he ain't no good," Pa insisted. "All the time a-sayin' what he's a-gonna do.
Never doin' nothin'. I didn' want ta say nothin' while he's here. But now he's run out—"
"Sh!" Ma said softly.
"Why, for Christ's sake? Why do I got to shh? He run out, didn' he?"
Ma turned over the potatoes with her spoon, and the grease boiled and spat. She fed
twigs to the fire, and the flames laced up and lighted the tent. Ma said, "Rosasharn
gonna have a little fella an' that baby is half Connie. It ain't good for a baby to grow up
with folks a-sayin' his pa ain't no good."
"Better'n lyin' about it," said Pa.
"No, it ain't," Ma interrupted. "Make out like he's dead. You wouldn' say no bad
things about Connie if he's dead."
Tom broke in, "Hey, what is this? We ain't sure Connie's gone for good. We got no
time for talkin'. We got to eat an' get on our way."
"On our way? We jus' come here." Ma peered at him through the firelighted
darkness.
He explained carefully, "They gonna burn the camp tonight, Ma. Now you know I
ain't got it in me to stan' by an' see our stuff burn up, nor Pa ain't got it in him, nor
Uncle John. We'd come up a-fightin', an' I jus' can't afford to be took in an' mugged. I
nearly got it today, if the preacher hadn' jumped in."
Ma had been turning the frying potatoes in the hot grease. Now she took her
decision. "Come on!" she cried. "Le's eat this stuff. We got to go quick." She set out
the tin plates.
Pa said, "How 'bout John?"
"Where is Uncle John?" Tom asked.
Pa and Ma were silent for a moment, and then Pa said, "He went to get drunk."
"Jesus!" Tom said. "What a time he picked out! Where'd he go?"
"I don' know," said Pa.
Tom stood up. "Look," he said, "you all eat an' get the stuff loaded. I'll go look for
Uncle John. He'd of went to the store 'crost the road."
Tom walked quickly away. The little cooking fires burned in front of the tents and
the shacks, and the light fell on the faces of ragged men and women, on crouched
children. In a few tents the light of kerosene lamps shone through the canvas and
placed shadows of people hugely on the cloth.
Tom walked up the dusty road and crossed the concrete highway to the little
grocery store. He stood in front of the screen door and looked in. The proprietor, a
little gray man with an unkempt mustache and watery eyes, leaned on the counter
reading a newspaper. His thin arms were bare and he wore a long white apron. Heaped
around and in back of him were mounds, pyramids, walls of canned goods. He looked
up when Tom came in, and his eyes narrowed as though he aimed a shotgun.
"Good evening," he said. "Run out of something?"
"Run out of my uncle," said Tom. "Or he run out, or something."
The gray man looked puzzled and worried at the same time. He touched the tip of
his nose tenderly and waggled it around to stop an itch. "Seems like you people always
lost somebody," he said. "Ten times a day or more somebody comes in here an' says,
'If you see a man named so an' so, an' looks like so an' so, will you tell 'im we went up
north?' Somepin like that all the time."
Tom laughed. "Well, if you see a young snot-nose name' Connie, looks a little bit
like a coyote, tell 'im to go to hell. We've went south. But he ain't the fella I'm lookin'
for. Did a fella 'bout sixty years ol', black pants, sort of grayish hair, come in here an'
get some whisky?"
The eyes of the gray man brightened. "Now he sure did. I never seen anything like
it. He stood out front an' he dropped his hat an' stepped on it. Here, I got his hat here."
He brought the dusty broken hat from under the counter.
Tom took it from him. "That's him, all right."
"Well, sir, he got couple pints of whisky an' he didn' say a thing. He pulled the cork
an' tipped up the bottle. I ain't got a license to drink here. I says, 'Look, you can't drink
here. You got to go outside.' Well, sir! He jes' stepped outside the door, an' I bet he
didn't tilt up that pint more'n four times till it was empty. He throwed it away an' he
leaned in the door. Eyes kinda dull. He says, 'Thank you, sir,' an' he went on. I never
seen no drinkin' like that in my life."
"Went on? Which way? I got to get him."
"Well, it so happens I can tell you. I never seen such drinkin', so I looked out after
him. He went north; an' then a car come along an' lighted him up, an' he went down the
bank. Legs was beginnin' to buckle a little. He got the other pint open awready. He
won't be far—not the way he was goin'."
Tom said, "Thank ya. I got to find him."
"You want ta take his hat?"
"Yeah! Yeah! He'll need it. Well, thank ya."
"What's the matter with him?" the gray man asked. "He wasn' takin' pleasure in his
drink."
"Oh, he's kinda—moody. Well, good night. An' if you see that squirt Connie, tell
'im we've went south."
"I got so many people to look out for an' tell stuff to, I can't ever remember 'em all."
"Don't put yourself out too much," Tom said. He went out the screen door carrying
Uncle John's dusty black hat. He crossed the concrete road and walked along the edge
of it. Below him in the sunken field, the Hooverville lay; and the little fires flickered
and the lanterns shone through the tents. Somewhere in the camp a guitar sounded,
slow chords, struck without any sequence, practice chords. Tom stopped and listened,
and then he moved slowly along the side of the road, and every few steps he stopped to
listen again. He had gone a quarter of a mile before he heard what he listened for.
Down below the embankment the sound of a thick, tuneless voice, singing drably. Tom
cocked his head, the better to hear.
And the dull voice sang,
"I've give my heart to Jesus,
so Jesus take me home.
I've give my soul to Jesus,
so Jesus is my home."
The song trailed off to a murmur, and then stopped. Tom hurried down from the
embankment, toward the song. After a while he stopped and listened again. And the
voice was close this time, the same slow, tuneless singing,
"Oh, the night that Maggie died,
she called me to her side,
an' give to me them ol'
red flannel drawers that Maggie wore.
They was baggy at the knees—"
Tom moved cautiously forward. He saw the black form sitting on the ground, and
he stole near and sat down. Uncle John tilted the pint and the liquor gurgled out of the
neck of the bottle.
Tom said quietly, "Hey, wait! Where do I come in?"
Uncle John turned his head. "Who you?"
"You forgot me awready? You had four drinks to my one."
"No, Tom. Don't try fool me. I'm all alone here. You ain't been here."
"Well, I'm sure here now. How 'bout givin' me a snort?"
Uncle John raised the pint again and the whisky gurgled. He shook the bottle. It was
empty. "No more," he said. "Wanta die so bad. Wanta die awful. Die a little bit. Got to.
Like sleepin'. Die a little bit. So tar'd. Tar'd. Maybe—don' wake up no more." His
voice crooned off. "Gonna wear a crown—a golden crown."
Tom said, "Listen here to me, Uncle John. We're gonna move on. You come along,
an' you can go right to sleep up on the load."
John shook his head. "No. Go on. Ain't goin'. Gonna res' here. No good goin' back.
No good to nobody—jus' a-draggin' my sins like dirty drawers 'mongst nice folks. No.
Ain't goin'."
"Come on. We can't go 'less you go."
"Go ri' 'long. I ain't no good. I ain't no good. Jus' a-draggin' my sins, a-dirtyin'
ever'body."
"You got no more sin'n anybody else."
John put his head close, and he winked one eye wisely. Tom could see his face
dimly in the starlight. "Nobody don' know my sins, nobody but Jesus. He knows."
Tom got down on his knees. He put his hand on Uncle John's forehead, and it was
hot and dry. John brushed his hand away clumsily.
"Come on," Tom pleaded. "Come on now, Uncle John."
"Ain't goin' go. Jus' tar'd. Gon' res' ri' here. Ri' here."
Tom was very close. He put his fist against the point of Uncle John's chin. He made
a small practice arc twice, for distance; and then, with his shoulder in the swing, he hit
the chin a delicate perfect blow. John's chin snapped up and he fell backwards and
tried to sit up again. But Tom was kneeling over him and as John got one elbow up
Tom hit him again. Uncle John lay still on the ground.
Tom stood up and, bending, he lifted the loose sagging body and boosted it over his
shoulder. He staggered under the loose weight. John's hanging hands tapped him on the
back as he went, slowly, puffing up the bank to the highway. Once a car came by and
lighted him with the limp man over his shoulder. The car slowed for a moment and
then roared away.
Tom was panting when he came back to the Hooverville, down from the road and to
the Joad truck. John was coming to; he struggled weakly. Tom set him gently down on
the ground.
Camp had been broken while he was gone. Al passed the bundles up on the truck.
The tarpaulin lay ready to bind over the load.
Al said, "He sure got a quick start."
Tom apologized. "I had to hit 'im a little to make 'im come. Poor fella."
"Didn' hurt 'im?" Ma asked.
"Don' think so. He's a-comin' out of it."
Uncle John was weakly sick on the ground. His spasms of vomiting came in little
gasps.
Ma said, "I lef' a plate a potatoes for you, Tom."
Tom chuckled. "I ain't just in the mood right now."
Pa called, "Awright, Al. Sling up the tarp."
The truck was loaded and ready. Uncle John had gone to sleep. Tom and Al boosted
and pulled him up on the load while Winfield made a vomiting noise behind the truck
and Ruthie plugged her mouth with her hand to keep from squealing.
"Awready," Pa said.
Tom asked, "Where's Rosasharn?"
"Over there," said Ma. "Come on, Rosasharn. We're a-goin'."
The girl sat still, her chin sunk on her breast. Tom walked over to her. "Come on,"
he said.
"I ain't a-goin'." She did not raise her head.
"You got to go."
"I want Connie. I ain't a-goin' till he comes back."
Three cars pulled out of the camp, up the road to the highway, old cars loaded with
the camps and the people. They clanked up the highway and rolled away, their dim
lights glancing along the road.
Tom said, "Connie'll find us. I lef' word up at the store where we'd be. He'll find
us."
Ma came up and stood beside him. "Come on, Rosasharn. Come on, honey," she
said gently.
"I wanta wait."
"We can't wait." Ma leaned down and took the girl by the arm and helped her to her
feet.
"He'll find us," Tom said. "Don' you worry. He'll find us." They walked on either
side of the girl.
"Maybe he went to get them books to study up," said Rose of Sharon. "Maybe he
was a-gonna surprise us."
Ma said, "Maybe that's jus' what he done." They led her to the truck and helped her
up on top of the load, and she crawled under the tarpaulin and disappeared into the
dark cave.
Now the bearded man from the weed shack came timidly to the truck. He waited
about, his hands clutched behind his back. "You gonna leave any stuff a fella could
use?" he asked at last.
Pa said, "Can't think of nothin'. We ain't got nothin' to leave."
Tom asked, "Ain't ya gettin' out?"
For a long time the bearded man stared at him. "No," he said at last.
"But they'll burn ya out."
The unsteady eyes dropped to the ground. "I know. They done it before."
"Well, why the hell don't ya get out?"
The bewildered eyes looked up for a moment, and then down again, and the dying
firelight was reflected redly. "I don' know. Takes so long to git stuff together."
"You won't have nothin' if they burn ya out."
"I know. You ain't leavin' nothin' a fella could use?"
"Cleaned out, slick," said Pa. The bearded man vaguely wandered away. "What's a
matter with him?" Pa demanded.
"Cop-happy," said Tom. "Fella was sayin'—he's bull-simple. Been beat over the
head too much."
A second little caravan drove past the camp and climbed to the road and moved
away.
"Come on, Pa. Let's go. Look here, Pa. You an' me an' Al ride in the seat. Ma can
get on the load. No, Ma, you ride in the middle, Al"—Tom reached under the seat and
brought out a monkey wrench—"Al, you get up behind. Take this here. Jus' in case. If
anybody tries to climb up—let 'im have it."
Al took the wrench and climbed up the back board, and he settled himself crosslegged,
the wrench in his hand. Tom pulled the iron jack handle from under the seat
and laid it on the floor, under the brake pedal. "Awright," he said. "Get in the middle,
Ma."
Pa said, "I ain't got nothin' in my han'."
"You can reach over an' get the jack handle," said Tom. "I hope to Jesus you don'
need it." He stepped on the starter and the clanking flywheel turned over, the engine
caught and died, and caught again. Tom turned on the lights and moved out of the
camp in low gear. The dim lights fingered the road nervously. They climbed up to the
highway and turned south. Tom said, "They comes a time when a man gets mad."
Ma broke in, "Tom—you tol' me—you promised me you wasn't like that. You
promised."
"I know, Ma. I'm a-tryin'. But them deputies—Did you ever see a deputy that didn'
have a fat ass? An' they waggle their ass an' flop their gun aroun'. Ma," he said, "if it
was the law they was workin' with, why, we could take it. But it ain't the law. They're
a-workin' away at our spirits. They're a-tryin' to make us cringe an' crawl like a
whipped bitch. They tryin' to break us. Why, Jesus Christ, Ma, they comes a time when
the on'y way a fella can keep his decency is by takin' a sock at a cop. They're workin'
on our decency."
Ma said, "You promised, Tom. That's how Pretty Boy Floyd done. I knowed his ma.
They hurt him."
"I'm a-tryin', Ma. Honest to God, I am. You don' want me to crawl like a beat bitch,
with my belly on the groun', do you?"
"I'm a-prayin'. You got to keep clear, Tom. The fambly's breakin' up. You got to
keep clear."
"I'll try, Ma. But when one a them fat asses gets to workin' me over, I got a big job
tryin'. If it was the law, it'd be different. But burnin' the camp ain't the law."
The car jolted along. Ahead, a little row of red lanterns stretched across the
highway.
"Detour, I guess," Tom said. He slowed the car and stopped it, and immediately a
crowd of men swarmed about the truck. They were armed with pick handles and
shotguns. They wore trench helmets and some American Legion caps. One man leaned
in the window, and the warm smell of whisky preceded him.
"Where you think you're goin'?" He thrust a red face near to Tom's face.
Tom stiffened. His hand crept down to the floor and felt for the jack handle. Ma
caught his arm and held it powerfully. Tom said, "Well—" and then his voice took on a
servile whine. "We're strangers here," he said. "We heard about they's work in a place
called Tulare."
"Well, goddamn it, you're goin' the wrong way. We ain't gonna have no goddamn
Okies in this town."
Tom's shoulders and arms were rigid, and a shiver went through him. Ma clung to
his arm. The front of the truck was surrounded by the armed men. Some of them, to
make a military appearance, wore tunics and Sam Browne belts.
Tom whined, "Which way is it at, mister?"
"You turn right around an' head north. An' don't come back till the cotton's ready."
Tom shivered all over. "Yes, sir," he said. He put the car in reverse, backed around
and turned. He headed back the way he had come. Ma released his arm and patted him
softly. And Tom tried to restrain his hard smothered sobbing.
"Don' you mind." Ma said. "Don' you mind."
Tom blew his nose out the window and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "The sons-ofbitches—"
"You done good," Ma said tenderly. "You done jus' good."
Tom swerved into a side dirt road, ran a hundred yards, and turned off his lights and
motor. He got out of the car, carrying the jack handle.
"Where you goin'?" Ma demanded.
"Jus' gonna look. We ain't goin' north." The red lanterns moved up the highway.
Tom watched them cross the entrance of the dirt road and continue on. In a few
moments there came the sounds of shouts and screams, and then a flaring light arose
from the direction of the Hooverville. The light grew and spread, and from the distance
came a crackling sound. Tom got in the truck again. He turned around and ran up the
dirt road without lights. At the highway he turned south again, and he turned on his
lights.
Ma asked timidly, "Where we goin', Tom?"
"Goin' south," he said. "We couldn' let them bastards push us aroun'. We couldn'.
Try to get aroun' the town 'thout goin' through it."
"Yeah, but where we goin'?" Pa spoke for the first time. "That's what I want ta
know."
"Gonna look for that gov'ment camp," Tom said. "A fella said they don' let no
deputies in there. Ma—I got to get away from 'em. I'm scairt I'll kill one."
"Easy, Tom." Ma soothed him. "Easy, Tommy. You done good once. You can do it
again."
"Yeah, an' after a while I won't have no decency lef'."
"Easy," she said. "You got to have patience. Why, Tom—us people will go on livin'
when all them people is gone. Why, Tom, we're the people that live. They ain't gonna
wipe us out. Why, we're the people—we go on."
"We take a beatin' all the time."
"I know." Ma chuckled. "Maybe that makes us tough. Rich fellas come up an' they
die, an' their kids ain't no good, an' they die out. But, Tom, we keep a-comin'. Don' you
fret none, Tom. A different time's comin'."
"How do you know?"
"I don' know how."
They entered the town and Tom turned down a side street to avoid the center. By
the street lights he looked at his mother. Her face was quiet and a curious look was in
her eyes, eyes like the timeless eyes of a statue. Tom put out his right hand and
touched her on the shoulder. He had to. And then he withdrew his hand. "Never heard
you talk so much in my life," he said.
"Wasn't never so much reason," she said.
He drove through the side streets and cleared the town, and then he crossed back. At
an intersection the sign said "99." He turned south on it.
"Well, anyways they never shoved us north," he said. "We still go where we want,
even if we got to crawl for the right."
The dim lights felt along the broad black highway ahead.
(copy and pasted from nisbah.com)