THE ANCIENT OVERLOADED Hudson creaked and grunted to the highway at
Sallisaw and turned west, and the sun was blinding. But on the concrete road Al built
up his speed because the flattened springs were not in danger any more. From Sallisaw
to Gore is twenty-one miles and the Hudson was doing thirty-five miles an hour. From
Gore to Warner thirteen miles; Warner to Checotah fourteen miles; Checotah a long
jump to Henrietta—thirty-four miles, but a real town at the end of it. Henrietta to
Castle, nineteen miles, and the sun was overhead, and the red fields, heated by the high
sun, vibrated the air.
Al, at the wheel, his face purposeful, his whole body listening to the car, his restless
eyes jumping from the road to the instrument panel. Al was one with his engine, every
nerve listening for weaknesses, for the thumps or squeals, hums and chattering that
indicate a change that may cause a breakdown. He had become the soul of the car.
Granma, beside him on the seat, half slept, and whimpered in her sleep, opened her
eyes to peer ahead, and then dozed again. And Ma sat beside Granma, one elbow out
the window, and the skin reddening under the fierce sun. Ma looked ahead too, but her
eyes were flat and did not see the road or the fields, the gas stations, the little eating
sheds. She did not glance at them as the Hudson went by.
Al shifted himself on the broken seat and changed his grip on the steering wheel.
And he sighed, "Makes a racket, but I think she's awright. God knows what she'll do if
we got to climb a hill with the load we got. Got any hills 'tween here an' California,
Ma?"
Ma turned her head slowly and her eyes came to life.
"Seems to me they's hills," she said. "'Course I dunno. But seems to me I heard
they's hills an' even mountains. Big ones."
Granma drew a long whining sigh in her sleep.
Al said, "We'll burn right up if we got climbin' to do. Have to throw out some a' this
stuff. Maybe, we shouldn' a brang that preacher."
"You'll be glad a that preacher 'fore we're through," said Ma. "That preacher'll help
us." She looked ahead at the gleaming road again.
Al steered with one hand and put the other on the vibrating gear-shift lever. He had
difficulty in speaking. His mouth formed the words silently before he said them aloud.
"Ma—" She looked slowly around at him, her head swaying a little with the car's
motion. "Ma, you scared a goin'? You scared a goin' to a new place?"
Her eyes grew thoughtful and soft. "A little," she said. "Only it ain't like scared so
much. I'm jus' a settin' here waitin'. When somepin happens that I got to do somepin—
I'll do it."
"Ain't you thinkin' what's it gonna be like when we get there? Ain't you scared it
won't be nice like we thought?"
"No," she said quickly. "No, I ain't. You can't do that. I can't do that. It's too
much—livin' too many lives. Up ahead they's a thousan' lives we might live, but when
it comes, it'll on'y be one. If I go ahead on all of 'em, it's too much. You got to live
ahead 'cause you're so young, but—it's jus' the road goin' by for me. An' it's jus' how
soon they gonna wanta eat some more pork bones." Her face tightened. "That's all I
can do. I can't do no more. All the rest'd get upset if I done any more'n that. They all
depen' on me jus' thinkin' about that."
Granma yawned shrilly and opened her eyes. She looked wildly about. "I got to get
out, praise Gawd," she said.
"First clump a brush," said Al. "They's one up ahead."
"Brush or no brush, I got to git out, I tell ya." And she began to whine, "I got to git
out. I got to git out."
Al speeded up, and when he came to the low brush he pulled up short. Ma threw the
door open and half pulled the struggling old lady out beside the road and into the
bushes. And Ma held her so Granma would not fall when she squatted.
On top of the truck the others stirred to life. Their faces were shining with sunburn
they could not escape. Tom and Casy and Noah and Uncle John let themselves wearily
down. Ruthie and Winfield swarmed down the side-boards and went off into the
bushes. Connie helped Rose of Sharon gently down. Under the canvas, Grampa was
awake, his head sticking out, but his eyes were drugged and watery and still senseless.
He watched the others, but there was little recognition in his watching.
Tom called to him, "Want to come down, Grampa?"
The old eyes turned listlessly to him. "No," said Grampa. For a moment the
fierceness came into his eyes. "I ain't a-goin', I tell you. Gonna stay like Muley." And
then he lost interest again. Ma came back, helping Granma up the bank to the highway.
"Tom," she said. "Get that pan a bones, under the canvas in back. We got to eat
somepin." Tom got the pan and passed it around, and the family stood by the roadside,
gnawing the crisp particles from the pork bones.
"Sure lucky we brang these along," said Pa. "Git so stiff up there can't hardly move.
Where's the water?"
"Ain't it up with you?" Ma asked. "I set out that gallon jug."
Pa climbed the sides and looked under the canvas. "It ain't here. We must a forgot
it."
Thirst set in instantly. Winfield moaned, "I wanta drink. I wanta drink." The men
licked their lips, suddenly conscious of their thirst. And a little panic started.
Al felt the fear growing. "We'll get water first service station we come to. We need
some gas too." The family swarmed up the truck sides; Ma helped Granma in and got
in beside her. Al started the motor and they moved on.
Castle to Paden twenty-five miles and the sun passed the zenith and started down.
And the radiator cap began to jiggle up and down and steam started to whish out. Near
Paden there was a shack beside the road and two gas pumps in front of it; and beside a
fence, a water faucet and a hose. Al drove in and nosed the Hudson up to the hose. As
they pulled in, a stout man, red of face and arms, got up from a chair behind the gas
pumps and moved toward them. He wore brown corduroys, and suspenders and a polo
shirt; and he had a cardboard sun helmet, painted silver, on his head. The sweat beaded
on his nose and under his eyes and formed streams in the wrinkles of his neck. He
strolled toward the truck, looking truculent and stern.
"You folks aim to buy anything? Gasoline or stuff?" he asked.
Al was out already, unscrewing the steaming radiator cap with the tips of his
fingers, jerking his hand away to escape the spurt when the cap should come loose.
"Need some gas, mister."
"Got any money?"
"Sure. Think we're beggin'?"
The truculence left the fat man's face. "Well, that's all right, folks. He'p yourself to
water." And he hastened to explain. "Road is full a people, come in, use water, dirty up
the toilet, an' then, by God, they'll steal stuff an' don't buy nothin'. Got no money to
buy with. Come beggin' a gallon gas to move on."
Tom dropped angrily to the ground and moved toward the fat man. "We're payin'
our way," he said fiercely. "You got no call to give us a goin'-over. We ain't asked you
for nothin'."
"I ain't," the fat man said quickly. The sweat began to soak through his shortsleeved polo shirt. "Jus' he'p yourself to water, and go use the toilet if you want."
Winfield had got the hose. He drank from the end and then turned the stream over
his head and face and emerged dripping. "It ain't cool," he said.
"I don't know what the country's comin' to," the fat man continued. His complaint
had shifted now and he was no longer talking to or about the Joads. "Fifty-sixty cars a
folks go by ever' day, folks all movin' west with kids an' househol' stuff. Where they
goin'? What they gonna do?"
"Doin' the same as us," said Tom. "Goin' someplace to live. Tryin' to get along.
That's all."
"Well, I don' know what the country's comin' to. I jus' don' know. Here's me tryin' to
get along, too. Think any them big new cars stop here? No, sir! They go on to them
yella-painted company stations in town. They don't stop no place like this. Most folks
stops here ain't got nothin."
Al flipped the radiator cap and it jumped into the air with a head of steam behind it,
and a hollow bubbling sound came out of the radiator. On top of the truck, the
suffering hound dog crawled timidly to the edge of the load and looked over,
whimpering, toward the water. Uncle John climbed up and lifted him down by the
scruff of the neck. For a moment the dog staggered on stiff legs, and then he went to
lap the mud under the faucet. In the highway the cars whizzed by, glistening in the
heat, and the hot wind of their going fanned into the service-station yard. Al filled the
radiator with the hose.
"It ain't that I'm tryin' to git trade outa rich folks," the fat man went on. "I'm jus'
tryin' to git trade. Why, the folks that stops here begs gasoline an' they trades for
gasoline. I could show you in my back room the stuff they'll trade for gas an' oil: beds
an' baby buggies an' pots an' pans. One family traded a doll their kid had for a gallon.
An' what'm I gonna do with the stuff, open a junk shop? Why, one fella wanted to
gimme his shoes for a gallon. An' if I was that kinda fella I bet I could git—" He
glanced at Ma and stopped.
Jim Casy had wet his head, and the drops still coursed down his high forehead, and
his muscled neck was wet, and his shirt was wet. He moved over beside Tom. "It ain't
the people's fault," he said. "How'd you like to sell the bed you sleep on for a tankful a
gas?"
"I know it ain't their fault. Ever' person I talked to is on the move for a damn good
reason. But what's the country comin' to? That's what I wanta know. What's it comin'
to? Fella can't make a livin' no more. Folks can't make a livin' farmin'. I ask you, what's
it comin' to? I can't figure her out. Ever'body I ask, they can't figure her out. Fella
wants to trade his shoes so he can git a hunderd miles on. I can't figure her out." He
took off his silver hat and wiped his forehead with his palm. And Tom took off his cap
and wiped his forehead with it. He went to the hose and wet the cap through and
squeezed it and put it on again. Ma worked a tin cup out through the side bars of the
truck, and she took water to Granma and to Grampa on top of the load. She stood on
the bars and handed the cup to Grampa, and he wet his lips, and then shook his head
and refused more. The old eyes looked up at Ma in pain and bewilderment for a
moment before the awareness receded again.
Al started the motor and backed the truck to the gas pump. "Fill her up. She'll take
about seven," said Al. "We'll give her six so she don't spill none."
The fat man put the hose in the tank. "No, sir," he said. "I jus' don't know what the
country's comin' to. Relief an' all."
Casy said, "I been walkin' aroun' in the country. Ever'body's askin' that. What we
comin' to? Seems to me we don't never come to nothin'. Always on the way. Always
goin' and goin'. Why don't folks think about that? They's movement now. People
moving. We know why, an' we know how. Movin' 'cause they got to. That's why folks
always move. Movin' 'cause they want somepin better'n what they got. An' that's the
on'y way they'll ever git it. Wantin' it an' needin' it, they'll go out an' git it. It's bein'
hurt that makes folks mad to fightin'. I been walkin' aroun' the country, an' hearin' folks
talk like you."
The fat man pumped the gasoline and the needle turned on the pump dial, recording
the amount. "Yeah, but what's it comin' to? That's what I want ta know."
Tom broke in irritably, "Well, you ain't never gonna know. Casy tries to tell ya an'
you jest ast the same thing over. I seen fellas like you before. You ain't askin' nothin';
you're jus' singin' a kinda song. 'What we comin' to?' You don' wanta know. Country's
movin' aroun', goin' places. They's folks dyin' all aroun'. Maybe you'll die pretty soon,
but you won't know nothin'. I seen too many fellas like you. You don't want to know
nothin'. Just sing yourself to sleep with a song—'What we comin' to?'" He looked at
the gas pump, rusted and old, and at the shack behind it, built of old lumber, the nail
holes of its first use still showing through the paint that had been brave, the brave
yellow paint that had tried to imitate the big company stations in town. But the paint
couldn't cover the old nail holes and the old cracks in the lumber, and the paint could
not be renewed. The imitation was a failure and the owner had known it was a failure.
And inside the open door of the shack Tom saw the oil barrels, only two of them, and
the candy counter with stale candies and licorice whips turning brown with age, and
cigarettes. He saw the broken chair and the fly screen with a rusted hole in it. And the
littered yard that should have been graveled, and behind, the corn field drying and
dying in the sun. Beside the house the little stock of used tires and retreaded tires. And
he saw for the first time the fat man's cheap washed pants and his cheap polo shirt and
his paper hat. He said, "I didn' mean to sound off at ya, mister. It's the heat. You ain't
got nothin'. Pretty soon you'll be on the road yourse'f. And it ain't tractors'll put you
there. It's them pretty yella stations in town. Folks is movin'," he said ashamedly. "An'
you'll be movin', mister."
The fat man's hand slowed on the pump and stopped while Tom spoke. He looked
worriedly at Tom. "How'd you know?" he asked helplessly. "How'd you know we was
already talkin' about packin' up an' movin' west?"
Casy answered him. "It's ever'body," he said. "Here's me that used to give all my
fight against the devil 'cause I figgered the devil was the enemy. But they's somepin
worse'n the devil got hold a the country, an' it ain't gonna let go till it's chopped loose.
Ever see one a them Gila monsters take hold, mister? Grabs hold, an' you chop him in
two an' his head hangs on. Chop him at the neck an' his head hangs on. Got to take a
screw-driver an' pry his head apart to git him loose. An' while he's layin' there, poison
is drippin' an' drippin' into the hole he's made with his teeth." He stopped and looked
sideways at Tom.
The fat man stared hopelessly straight ahead. His hand started turning the crank
slowly. "I dunno what we're comin' to," he said softly.
Over by the water hose, Connie and Rose of Sharon stood together, talking secretly.
Connie washed the tin cup and felt the water with his finger before he filled the cup
again. Rose of Sharon watched the cars go by on the highway. Connie held out the cup
to her. "This water ain't cool, but it's wet," he said.
She looked at him and smiled secretly. She was all secrets now she was pregnant,
secrets and little silences that seemed to have meanings. She was pleased with herself,
and she complained about things that didn't really matter. And she demanded services
of Connie that were silly, and both of them knew they were silly. Connie was pleased
with her too, and filled with wonder that she was pregnant. He liked to think he was in
on the secrets she had. When she smiled slyly, he smiled slyly too, and they exchanged
confidences in whispers. The world had drawn close around them, and they were in the
center of it, or rather Rose of Sharon was in the center of it with Connie making a
small orbit about her. Everything they said was a kind of secret.
She drew her eyes from the highway. "I ain't very thirsty," she said daintily. "But
maybe I ought to drink."
And he nodded, for he knew well what she meant. She took the cup and rinsed her
mouth and spat and then drank the cupful of tepid water. "Want another?" he asked.
"Jus' a half." And so he filled the cup just half, and gave it to her. A Lincoln Zephyr,
silvery and low, whisked by. She turned to see where the others were and saw them
clustered about the truck. Reassured, she said, "How'd you like to be goin' along in
that?"
Connie sighed, "Maybe—after." They both knew what he meant. "An' if they's
plenty work in California, we'll git our own car. But them"—he indicated the
disappearing Zephyr—"them kind costs as much as a good size house. I ruther have the
house."
"I like to have the house an' one a them," she said. "But 'course the house would be
first because—" And they both knew what she meant. They were terribly excited about
the pregnancy.
"You feel awright?" he asked.
"Tar'd. Jus' tar'd ridin' in the sun."
"We got to do that or we won't never get to California."
"I know," she said.
The dog wandered, sniffing, past the truck, trotted to the puddle under the hose
again and lapped at the muddy water. And then he moved away, nose down and ears
hanging. He sniffed his way among the dusty weeds beside the road, to the edge of the
pavement. He raised his head and looked across, and then started over. Rose of Sharon
screamed shrilly. A big swift car whisked near, tires squealed. The dog dodged
helplessly, and with a shriek, cut off in the middle, went under the wheels. The big car
slowed for a moment and faces looked back, and then it gathered greater speed and
disappeared. And the dog, a blot of blood and tangled, burst intestines, kicked slowly
in the road.
Rose of Sharon's eyes were wide. "D'you think it'll hurt?" she begged. "Think it'll
hurt?"
Connie put his arm around her. "Come set down," he said. "It wasn't nothin'."
"But I felt it hurt. I felt it kinda jar when I yelled."
"Come set down. It wasn't nothin'. It won't hurt." He led her to the side of the truck
away from the dying dog and sat her down on the running board.
Tom and Uncle John walked out to the mess. The last quiver was going out of the
crushed body. Tom took it by the legs and dragged it to the side of the road. Uncle
John looked embarrassed, as though it were his fault. "I ought ta tied him up," he said.
Pa looked down at the dog for a moment and then he turned away. "Le's get outa
here," he said. "I don' know how we was gonna feed 'im anyways. Just as well,
maybe."
The fat man came from behind the truck. "I'm sorry, folks," he said. "A dog jus' don'
last no time near a highway. I had three dogs run over in a year. Don't keep none, no
more." And he said, "Don't you folks worry none about it. I'll take care of 'im. Bury 'im
out in the corn field."
Ma walked over to Rose of Sharon, where she sat, still shuddering, on the running
board. "You all right, Rosasharn?" she asked. "You feelin' poorly?"
"I seen that. Give me a start."
"I heard ya yip," said Ma. "Git yourself laced up, now."
"You suppose it might of hurt?"
"No," said Ma. " 'F you go to greasin' yourself an' feelin' sorry, an' tuckin' yourself
in a swalla's nest, it might. Rise up now, an' he'p me get Granma comf'table. Forget
that baby for a minute. He'll take care a hisself."
"Where is Granma?" Rose of Sharon asked.
"I dunno. She's aroun' here somewheres. Maybe in the outhouse."
The girl went toward the toilet, and in a moment she came out, helping Granma
along. "She went to sleep in there," said Rose of Sharon.
Granma grinned. "It's nice in there," she said. "They got a patent toilet in there an'
the water comes down. I like it in there," she said contentedly. "Would of took a good
nap if I wasn't woke up."
"It ain't a nice place to sleep," said Rose of Sharon, and she helped Granma into the
car. Granma settled herself happily. "Maybe it ain't nice for purty, but it's nice for
nice," she said.
Tom said, "Le's go. We got to make miles."
Pa whistled shrilly. "Now where'd them kids go?" He whistled again, putting his
fingers in his mouth.
In a moment they broke from the corn field, Ruthie ahead and Winfield trailing her.
"Eggs!" Ruthie cried. "Look!" A dozen soft, grayish-white eggs were in her grubby
hand. And as she held up her hand, her eyes fell upon the dead dog beside the road.
"Oh!" she said. Ruthie and Winfield walked slowly toward the dog. They inspected
him.
Pa called to them, "Come on, you, 'less you want to git left."
They turned solemnly and walked to the truck. Ruthie looked once more at the gray
reptile eggs in her hand, and then she threw them away. They climbed up the side of
the truck. "His eyes was still open," said Ruthie in a hushed tone.
But Winfield gloried in the scene. He said boldly, "His guts was just strowed all
over—all over"—he was silent for a moment—"strowed—all—over," he said, and then
he rolled over quickly and vomited down the side of the truck. When he sat up again
his eyes were watery and his nose running. "It ain't like killin' pigs," he said in
explanation.
Al had the hood of the Hudson up, and he checked the oil level. He brought a gallon
can from the floor of the front seat and poured a quantity of cheap black oil into the
pipe and checked the level again.
Tom came beside him. "Want I should take her a piece?" he asked.
"I ain't tired," said Al.
"Well, you didn't get no sleep las' night. I took a snooze this morning. Get up there
on top. I'll take her."
"Awright," Al said reluctantly. "But watch the oil gauge pretty close. Take her slow.
An' I been watchin' for a short. Take a look a the needle now an' then. 'F she jumps to
discharge it's a short. An' take her slow, Tom. She's overloaded."
Tom laughed. "I'll watch her," he said. "You can res' easy."
The family piled on top of the truck again. Ma settled herself beside Granma in the
seat, and Tom took his place and started the motor. "Sure is loose," he said, and he put
it in gear and pulled away down the highway.
The motor droned along steadily and the sun receded down the sky in front of them.
Granma slept steadily, and even Ma dropped her head forward and dozed. Tom pulled
his cap over his eyes to shut out the blinding sun.
Paden to Meeker is thirteen miles; Meeker to Harrah is fourteen miles; and then
Oklahoma City—the big city. Tom drove straight on. Ma waked up and looked at the
streets as they went through the city. And the family, on top of the truck, stared about
at the stores, at the big houses, at the office buildings. And then the buildings grew
smaller and the stores smaller. The wrecking yards and hot-dog stands, the out-city
dance halls.
Ruthie and Winfield saw it all, and it embarrassed them with its bigness and its
strangeness, and it frightened them with the fine-clothed people they saw. They did not
speak of it to each other. Later—they would, but not now. They saw the oil derricks in
the town, on the edge of the town; oil derricks black, and the smell of oil and gas in the
air. But they didn't exclaim. It was so big and so strange it frightened them.
In the street Rose of Sharon saw a man in a light suit. He wore white shoes and a
flat straw hat. She touched Connie and indicated the man with her eyes, and then
Connie and Rose of Sharon giggled softly to themselves, and the giggles got the best of
them. They covered their mouths. And it felt so good that they looked for other people
to giggle at. Ruthie and Winfield saw them giggling and it looked such fun that they
tried to do it too—but they couldn't. The giggles wouldn't come. But Connie and Rose
of Sharon were breathless and red with stifling laughter before they could stop. It got
so bad that they had only to look at each other to start over again.
The outskirts were wide spread. Tom drove slowly and carefully in the traffic, and
then they were on 66—the great western road, and the sun was sinking on the line of
the road. The windshield was bright with dust. Tom pulled his cap lower over his eyes,
so low that he had to tilt his head back to see out at all. Granma slept on, the sun on her
closed eyelids, and the veins on her temples were blue, and the little bright veins on her
cheeks were wine-colored, and the old brown marks on her face turned darker.
Tom said, "We stay on this road right straight through."
Ma had been silent for a long time. "Maybe we better fin' a place to stop 'fore
sunset," she said. "I got to get some pork a-boilin' an' some bread made. That takes
time."
"Sure," Tom agreed. "We ain't gonna make this trip in one jump. Might's well
stretch ourselves."
Oklahoma City to Bethany is fourteen miles.
Tom said, "I think we better stop 'fore the sun goes down. Al got to build that thing
on the top. Sun'll kill the folks up there."
Ma had been dozing again. Her head jerked upright. "Got to get some supper acookin'," she said. And she said, "Tom, your pa tol' me about you crossin' the State
line-"
He was a long time answering. "Yeah? What about it, Ma?"
"Well, I'm scairt about it. It'll make you kinda runnin' away. Maybe they'll catch
ya."
Tom held his hand over his eyes to protect himself from the lowering sun. "Don't
you worry," he said. "I figgered her out. They's lots a fellas out on parole an' they's
more goin' in all the time. If I get caught for anything else out west, well, then they got
my pitcher an' my prints in Washington. They'll sen' me back. But if I don't do no
crimes, they won't give a damn."
"Well, I'm a-scairt about it. Sometimes you do a crime, an' you don't even know it's
bad. Maybe they got crimes in California we don't even know about. Maybe you gonna
do somepin an' it's all right, an' in California it ain't all right."
"Be jus' the same if I wasn't on parole," he said. "On'y if I get caught I get a bigger
jolt'n other folks. Now you quit a-worryin'," he said. "We got plenty to worry about
'thout you figgerin' out things to worry about."
"I can't he'p it," she said. "Minute you cross the line you done a crime."
"Well, that's better'n stickin' aroun' Sallisaw an' starvin' to death," he said. "We
better look out for a place to stop."
They went through Bethany and out on the other side. In a ditch, where a culvert
went under the road, an old touring car was pulled off the highway and a little tent was
pitched beside it, and smoke came out of a stove pipe through the tent. Tom pointed
ahead. "There's some folks campin'. Looks like as good a place as we seen." He slowed
his motor and pulled to a stop beside the road. The hood of the old touring car was up,
and a middle-aged man stood looking down at the motor. He wore a cheap straw
sombrero, a blue shirt, and a black, spotted vest, and his jeans were stiff and shiny with
dirt. His face was lean, the deep cheek-lines great furrows down his face so that his
cheek bones and chin stood out sharply. He looked up at the Joad truck and his eyes
were puzzled and angry.
Tom leaned out of the window. "Any law 'gainst folks stoppin' here for the night?"
The man had seen only the truck. His eyes focused down on Tom. "I dunno," he
said. "We on'y stopped here 'cause we couldn't git no further."
"Any water here?"
The man pointed to a service-station shack about a quarter of a mile ahead. "They's
water there they'll let ya take a bucket of."
Tom hesitated. "Well, ya s'pose we could camp down 'longside?"
The lean man looked puzzled. "We don't own it," he said. "We on'y stopped here
'cause this goddamn ol' trap wouldn' go no further."
Tom insisted. "Anyways you're here an' we ain't. You got a right to say if you wan'
neighbors or not."
The appeal to hospitality had an instant effect. The lean face broke into a smile.
"Why, sure, come on off the road. Proud to have ya." And he called, "Sairy, there's
some folks goin' ta stay with us. Come on out an' say how d'ya do. Sairy ain't well," he
added. The tent flaps opened and a wizened woman came out—a face wrinkled as a
dried leaf and eyes that seemed to flame in her face, black eyes that seemed to look out
of a well of horror. She was small and shuddering. She held herself upright by a tent
flap, and the hand holding onto the canvas was a skeleton covered with wrinkled skin.
When she spoke her voice had a beautiful low timbre, soft and modulated, and yet
with ringing overtones. "Tell 'em welcome," she said. "Tell 'em good an' welcome."
Tom drove off the road and brought his truck into the field and lined it up with the
touring car. And people boiled down from the truck; Ruthie and Winfield too quickly,
so that their legs gave way and they shrieked at the pins and needles that ran through
their limbs. Ma went quickly to work. She untied the three-gallon bucket from the back
of the truck and approached the squealing children. "Now you go git water—right
down there. Ask nice. Say, 'Please, kin we git a bucket a water?' and say, 'Thank you.'
An' carry it back together helpin', an' don't spill none. An' if you see stick wood to
burn, bring it on." The children stamped away toward the shack.
By the tent a little embarrassment had set in, and social intercourse had paused
before it started. Pa said, "You ain't Oklahomy folks?"
And Al, who stood near the car, looked at the license plates. "Kansas," he said.
The lean man said, "Galena, or right about there. Wilson, Ivy Wilson."
"We're Joads," said Pa. "We come from right near Sallisaw."
"Well, we're proud to meet you folks," said Ivy Wilson. "Sairy, these is Joads."
"I knowed you wasn't Oklahomy folks. You talk queer kinda—that ain't no blame,
you understan'."
"Ever'body says words different," said Ivy. "Arkansas folks says 'em different, and
Oklahomy folks says 'em different. And we seen a lady from Massachusetts, an' she
said 'em differentest of all. Couldn' hardly make out what she was sayin'."
Noah and Uncle John and the preacher began to unload the truck. They helped
Grampa down and sat him on the ground and he sat limply, staring ahead of him. "You
sick, Grampa?" Noah asked.
"You goddamn right," said Grampa weakly. "Sicker'n hell."
Sairy Wilson walked slowly and carefully toward him. "How'd you like ta come in
our tent?" she asked. "You kin lay down on our mattress an' rest."
He looked up at her, drawn by her soft voice. "Come on now," she said. "You'll git
some rest. We'll he'p you over."
Without warning Grampa began to cry. His chin wavered and his old lips tightened
over his mouth and he sobbed hoarsely. Ma rushed over to him and put her arms
around him. She lifted him to his feet, her broad back straining, and she half lifted, half
helped him into the tent.
Uncle John said, "He must be good an' sick. He ain't never done that before. Never
seen him blubberin' in my life." He jumped up on the truck and tossed a mattress
down.
Ma came out of the tent and went to Casy. "You been aroun' sick people," she said.
"Grampa's sick. Won't you go take a look at him?"
Casy walked quickly to the tent and went inside. A double mattress was on the
ground, the blankets spread neatly; and a little tin stove stood on iron legs, and the fire
in it burned unevenly. A bucket of water, a wooden box of supplies, and a box for a
table, that was all. The light of the setting sun came pinkly through the tent walls. Sairy
Wilson knelt on the ground, beside the mattress, and Grampa lay on his back. His eyes
were open, staring upward, and his cheeks were flushed. He breathed heavily.
Casy took the skinny old wrist in his fingers. "Feeling kinda tired, Grampa?" he
asked. The staring eyes moved toward his voice but did not find him. The lips
practiced a speech but did not speak it. Casy felt the pulse and he dropped the wrist and
put his hand on Grampa's forehead. A struggle began in the old man's body, his legs
moved restlessly and his hands stirred. He said a whole string of blurred sounds that
were not words, and his face was red under the spiky white whiskers.
Sairy Wilson spoke softly to Casy. "Know what's wrong?"
He looked up at the wrinkled face and the burning eyes. "Do you?"
"I—think so."
"What?" Casy asked.
"Might be wrong. I wouldn' like to say."
Casy looked back at the twitching red face. "Would you say—maybe—he's workin'
up a stroke?"
"I'd say that," said Sairy. "I seen it three times before."
From outside came the sounds of camp-making, wood chopping, and the rattle of
pans. Ma looked through the flaps. "Granma wants to come in. Would she better?"
The preacher said, "She'll just fret if she don't."
"Think he's awright?" Ma asked.
Casy shook his head slowly. Ma looked quickly down at the struggling old face
with blood pounding through it. She drew outside and her voice came through. "He's
awright, Granma. He's jus' takin' a little res'."
And Granma answered sulkily, "Well, I want ta see him. He's a tricky devil. He
wouldn't never let ya know." And she came scurrying through the flaps. She stood over
the mattresses and looked down. "What's the matter'th you?" she demanded of Grampa.
And again his eyes reached toward her voice and his lips writhed. "He's sulkin'," said
Granma. "I tol' you he was tricky. He was gonna sneak away this mornin' so he
wouldn't have to come. An' then his hip got a-hurtin'," she said disgustedly. "He's jus'
sulkin'. I seen him when he wouldn't talk to nobody before."
Casy said gently, "He ain't sulkin', Granma. He's sick."
"Oh!" She looked down at the old man again. "Sick bad, you think?"
"Purty bad, Granma."
For a moment she hesitated uncertainly. "Well," she said quickly, "why ain't you
prayin'? You're a preacher, ain't you?"
Casy's strong fingers blundered over to Grampa's wrist and clasped around it. "I tol'
you, Granma. I ain't a preacher no more."
"Pray anyway," she ordered. "You know all the stuff by heart."
"I can't," said Casy. "I don't know what to pray for or who to pray to."
Granma's eyes wandered away and came to rest on Sairy. "He won't pray," she said.
"D'I ever tell ya how Ruthie prayed when she was a little skinner? Says, 'Now I lay me
down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. An' when she got there the cupboard
was bare, an' so the poor dog got none. Amen.' That's jus' what she done." The shadow
of someone walking between the tent and the sun crossed the canvas.
Grampa seemed to be struggling; all his muscles twitched. And suddenly he jarred
as though under a heavy blow. He lay still and his breath was stopped. Casy looked
down at the old man's face and saw that it was turning a blackish purple. Sairy touched
Casy's shoulder. She whispered, "His tongue, his tongue, his tongue."
Casy nodded. "Get in front a Granma." He pried the tight jaws apart and reached
into the old man's throat for the tongue. And as he lifted it clear, a rattling breath came
out, and a sobbing breath was indrawn. Casy found a stick on the ground and held
down the tongue with it, and the uneven breath rattled in and out.
Granma hopped about like a chicken. "Pray," she said. "Pray, you. Pray, I tell ya."
Sairy tried to hold her back. "Pray, goddamn you!" Granma cried.
Casy looked up at her for a moment. The rasping breath came louder and more
unevenly. "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—"
"Glory!" shouted Granma.
"Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done—on earth—as it is in Heaven."
"Amen."
A long gasping sigh came from the open mouth, and then a crying release of air.
"Give us this day—our daily bread—and forgive us—" The breathing had stopped.
Casy looked down into Grampa's eyes and they were clear and deep and penetrating,
and there was a knowing serene look in them.
"Hallelujah!" said Granma. "Go on."
"Amen," said Casy.
Granma was still then. And outside the tent all the noise had stopped. A car whished
by on the highway. Casy still knelt on the floor beside the mattress. The people outside
were listening, standing quietly intent on the sounds of dying. Sairy took Granma by
the arm and led her outside, and Granma moved with dignity and held her head high.
She walked for the family and held her head straight for the family. Sairy took her to a
mattress lying on the ground and sat her down on it. And Granma looked straight
ahead, proudly, for she was on show now. The tent was still, and at last Casy spread
the tent flaps with his hands and stepped out.
Pa asked softly, "What was it?"
"Stroke," said Casy. "A good quick stroke."
Life began to move again. The sun touched the horizon and flattened over it. And
along the highway there came a long line of huge freight trucks with red sides. They
rumbled along, putting a little earthquake in the ground, and the standing exhaust pipes
sputtered blue smoke from the Diesel oil. One man drove each truck, and his relief
man slept in a bunk high up against the ceiling. But the trucks never stopped; they
thundered day and night and the ground shook under their heavy march.
The family became a unit. Pa squatted down on the ground, and Uncle John beside
him. Pa was the head of the family now. Ma stood behind him. Noah and Tom and Al
squatted, and the preacher sat down, and then reclined on his elbow. Connie and Rose
of Sharon walked at a distance. Now Ruthie and Winfield, clattering up with a bucket
of water held between them, felt the change, and they slowed up and set down the
bucket and moved quietly to stand with Ma.
Granma sat proudly, coldly, until the group was formed, until no one looked at her,
and then she lay down and covered her face with her arm. The red sun set and left a
shining twilight on the land, so that faces were bright in the evening and eyes shone in
reflection of the sky. The evening picked up light where it could.
Pa said, "It was in Mr. Wilson's tent."
Uncle John nodded. "He loaned his tent."
"Fine friendly folks," Pa said softly.
Wilson stood by his broken car, and Sairy had gone to the mattress to sit beside
Granma, but Sairy was careful not to touch her.
Pa called, "Mr. Wilson!" The man scuffed near and squatted down, and Sairy came
and stood beside him. Pa said, "We're thankful to you folks."
"We're proud to help," said Wilson.
"We're beholden to you," said Pa.
"There's no beholden in a time of dying," said Wilson, and Sairy echoed him,
"Never no beholden."
Al said, "I'll fix your car—me an' Tom will." And Al looked proud that he could
return the family's obligation.
"We could use some help." Wilson admitted the retiring of the obligation.
Pa said, "We got to figger what to do. They's laws. You got to report a death, an'
when you do that, they either take forty dollars for the undertaker or they take him for
a pauper."
Uncle John broke in, "We never did have no paupers."
Tom said, "Maybe we got to learn. We never got booted off no land before,
neither."
"We done it clean," said Pa. "There can't no blame be laid on us. We never took
nothin' we couldn' pay; we never suffered no man's charity. When Tom here got in
trouble we could hold up our heads. He only done what any man would a done."
"Then what'll we do?" Uncle John asked.
"We go in like the law says an' they'll come out for him. We on'y got a hundred an'
fifty dollars. They take forty to bury Grampa an' we won't get to California—or else
they'll bury him a pauper." The men stirred restively, and they studied the darkening
ground in front of their knees.
Pa said softly, "Grampa buried his pa with his own hand, done it in dignity, an'
shaped the grave nice with his own shovel. That was a time when a man had the right
to be buried by his own son an' a son had the right to bury his own father."
"The law says different now," said Uncle John.
"Sometimes the law can't be foller'd no way," said Pa. "Not in decency, anyways.
They's lots a times you can't. When Floyd was loose an' goin' wild, law said we got to
give him up—an' nobody give him up. Sometimes a fella got to sift the law. I'm sayin'
now I got the right to bury my own pa. Anybody got somepin to say?"
The preacher rose high on his elbow. "Law changes," he said, "but 'got to's' go on.
You got the right to do what you got to do."
Pa turned to Uncle John. "It's your right too, John. You got any word against?"
"No word against," said Uncle John. "On'y it's like hidin' him in the night. Grampa's
way was t'come out a-shootin'."
Pa said ashamedly, "We can't do like Grampa done. We got to get to California 'fore
our money gives out."
Tom broke in, "Sometimes fellas workin' dig up a man an' then they raise hell an'
figger he been killed. The gov'ment's got more interest in a dead man than a live one.
They'll go hell-scrapin' tryin' to fin' out who he was and how he died. I offer we put a
note of writin' in a bottle an' lay it with Grampa, tellin' who he is an' how he died, an'
why he's buried here."
Pa nodded agreement. "Tha's good. Wrote out in a nice han'. Be not so lonesome
too, knowin' his name is there with 'im, not jus' a old fella lonesome underground. Any
more stuff to say?" The circle was silent.
Pa turned his head to Ma. "You'll lay 'im out?"
"I'll lay 'im out," said Ma. "But who's to get supper?"
Sairy Wilson said, "I'll get supper. You go right ahead. Me an' that big girl of
yourn."
"We sure thank you," said Ma. "Noah, you get into them kegs an' bring out some
nice pork. Salt won't be deep in it yet, but it'll be right nice eatin'."
"We got a half sack a potatoes," said Sairy.
Ma said, "Gimme two half-dollars." Pa dug in his pocket and gave her the silver.
She found the basin, filled it full of water, and went into the tent. It was nearly dark in
there. Sairy came in and lighted a candle and stuck it upright on a box and then she
went out. For a moment Ma looked down at the dead old man. And then in pity she
tore a strip from her own apron and tied up his jaw. She straightened his limbs, folded
his hands over his chest. She held his eyelids down and laid a silver piece on each one.
She buttoned his shirt and washed his face.
Sairy looked in, saying, "Can I give you any help?"
Ma looked slowly up. "Come in," she said. "I like to talk to ya."
"That's a good big girl you got," said Sairy. "She's right in peelin' potatoes. What
can I do to help?"
"I was gonna wash Grampa all over," said Ma, "but he got no other clo'es to put on.
An' 'course your quilt's spoilt. Can't never get the smell a death from a quilt. I seen a
dog growl an' shake at a mattress my ma died on, an' that was two years later. We'll
drop 'im in your quilt. We'll make it up to you. We got a quilt for you."
Sairy said, "You shouldn' talk like that. We're proud to help. I ain't felt so—safe in a
long time. People needs—to help."
Ma nodded. "They do," she said. She looked long into the old whiskery face, with
its bound jaw and silver eyes shining in the candlelight. "He ain't gonna look natural.
We'll wrop him up."
"The ol' lady took it good."
"Why, she's so old," said Ma, "maybe she don't even rightly know what happened.
Maybe she won't really know for quite a while. Besides, us folks takes a pride holdin'
in. My pa used to say, 'Anybody can break down. It takes a man not to.' We always try
to hold in." She folded the quilt neatly about Grampa's legs and around his shoulders.
She brought the corner of the quilt over his head like a cowl and pulled it down over
his face. Sairy handed her half-a-dozen big safety pins, and she pinned the quilt neatly
and tightly about the long package. And at last she stood up. "It won't be bad burying,"
she said. "We got a preacher to see him in, an' his folks is all aroun'." Suddenly she
swayed a little, and Sairy went to her and steadied her. "It's sleep—" Ma said in a
shamed tone. "No, I'm awright. We been so busy gettin' ready, you see."
"Come out in the air," Sairy said.
"Yeah, I'm all done here." Sairy blew out the candle and the two went out.
A bright fire burned in the bottom of the little gulch. And Tom, with sticks and
wire, had made supports from which two kettles hung and bubbled furiously, and good
steam poured out under the lids. Rose of Sharon knelt on the ground out of range of the
burning heat, and she had a long spoon in her hand. She saw Ma come out of the tent,
and she stood up and went to her.
"Ma," she said. "I got to ask."
"Scared again?" Ma asked. "Why, you can't get through nine months without
sorrow."
"But will it—hurt the baby?"
Ma said, "They used to be a sayin', 'A chile born outa sorrow'll be a happy chile.'
Isn't that so, Mis' Wilson?"
"I heard it like that," said Sairy. "An' I heard the other: 'Born outa too much joy'll be
a doleful boy.'"
"I'm all jumpy inside," said Rose of Sharon.
"Well, we ain't none of us jumpin' for fun," said Ma. "You jes' keep watchin' the
pots."
On the edge of the ring of firelight the men had gathered. For tools they had a
shovel and a mattock. Pa marked out the ground—eight feet long and three feet wide.
The work went on in relays. Pa chopped the earth with the mattock and then Uncle
John shoveled it out. Al chopped and Tom shoveled. Noah chopped and Connie
shoveled. And the hole drove down, for the work never diminished in speed. The
shovels of dirt flew out of the hole in quick spurts. When Tom was shoulder deep in
the rectangular pit, he said, "How deep, Pa?"
"Good an' deep. A couple feet more. You get out now, Tom, and get that paper
wrote."
Tom boosted himself out of the hole and Noah took his place. Tom went to Ma,
where she tended the fire. "We got any paper an' pen, Ma?"
Ma shook her head slowly, "No-o. That's one thing we didn' bring." She looked
toward Sairy. And the little woman walked quickly to her tent. She brought back a
Bible and a half pencil. "Here," she said. "They's a clear page in front. Use that an' tear
it out." She handed book and pencil to Tom.
Tom sat down in the firelight. He squinted his eyes in concentration, and at last
wrote slowly and carefully on the end paper in big clear letters: "This here is William
James Joad, dyed of a stroke, old old man. His fokes bured him becaws they got no
money to pay for funerls. Nobody kilt him. Jus a stroke and he dyed." He stopped.
"Ma, listen to this here." He read it slowly to her.
"Why, that soun's nice," she said. "Can't you stick on somepin from Scripture so it'll
be religious? Open up an' git a sayin', somepin outa Scripture."
"Got to be short," said Tom. "I ain't got much room lef' on the page."
Sairy said, "How 'bout 'God have mercy on his soul'?"
"No," said Tom. "Sounds too much like he was hung. I'll copy somepin." He turned
the pages and read, mumbling his lips, saying the words under his breath. "Here's a
good short one," he said. "'An' Lot said unto them, Oh, not so, my Lord.'"
"Don't mean nothin'," said Ma. "Long's you're gonna put one down, it might's well
mean somepin."
Sairy said, "Turn to Psalms, over further. You kin always get somepin outa Psalms."
Tom flipped the pages and looked down the verses. "Now here is one," he said.
"This here's a nice one, just blowed full a religion: 'Blessed is he whose transgression
is forgiven, whose sin is covered.' How's that?"
"That's real nice," said Ma. "Put that one in."
Tom wrote it carefully. Ma rinsed and wiped a fruit jar and Tom screwed the lid
down tight on it. "Maybe the preacher ought to wrote it," he said.
Ma said, "No, the preacher wan't no kin." She took the jar from him and went into
the dark tent. She unpinned the covering and slipped the fruit jar in under the thin cold
hands and pinned the comforter tight again. And then she went back to the fire.
The men came from the grave, their faces shining with perspiration. "Awright," said
Pa. He and John and Noah and Al went into the tent, and they came out carrying the
long, pinned bundle between them. They carried it to the grave. Pa leaped into the hole
and received the bundle in his arms and laid it gently down. Uncle John put out a hand
and helped Pa out of the hole. Pa asked, "How about Granma?"
"I'll see," Ma said. She walked to the mattress and looked down at the old woman
for a moment. Then she went back to the grave. "Sleepin'," she said. "Maybe she'd hold
it against me, but I ain't a-gonna wake her up. She's tar'd."
Pa said, "Where at's the preacher? We oughta have a prayer."
Tom said, "I seen him walkin' down the road. He don't like to pray no more."
"Don't like to pray?"
"No," said Tom. "He ain't a preacher no more. He figgers it ain't right to fool people
actin' like a preacher when he ain't a preacher. I bet he went away so nobody wouldn'
ast him."
Casy had come quietly near, and he heard Tom speaking. "I didn' run away," he
said. "I'll he'p you folks, but I won't fool ya."
Pa said, "Won't you say a few words? Ain't none of our folks ever been buried
without a few words."
"I'll say 'em," said the preacher.
Connie led Rose of Sharon to the graveside, she reluctant. "You got to," Connie
said. "It ain't decent not to. It'll jus' be a little."
The firelight fell on the grouped people, showing their faces and their eyes,
dwindling on their dark clothes. All the hats were off now. The light danced, jerking
over the people.
Casy said, "It'll be a short one." He bowed his head, and the others followed his
lead. Casy said solemnly, "This here ol' man jus' lived a life an' jus' died out of it. I
don't know whether he was good or bad, but that don't matter much. He was alive, an'
that's what matters. An' now he's dead, an' that don't matter. Heard a fella tell a poem
one time, an' he says, 'All that lives is holy.' Got to thinkin', an' purty soon it means
more than the words says. An' I wouldn' pray for a ol' fella that's dead. He's awright.
He got a job to do, but it's all laid out for 'im an' there's on'y one way to do it. But us,
we got a job to do, an' they's a thousan' ways, an' we don' know which one to take. An'
if I was to pray, it'd be for the folks that don' know which way to turn. Grampa here, he
got the easy straight. An' now cover 'im up and let 'im get to his work." He raised his
head.
Pa said, "Amen," and the others muttered, "A–men." Then Pa took the shovel, half
filled it with dirt, and spread it gently into the black hole. He handed the shovel to
Uncle John, and John dropped in a shovelful. Then the shovel went from hand to hand
until every man had his turn. When all had taken their duty and their right, Pa attacked
the mound of loose dirt and hurriedly filled the hole. The women moved back to the
fire to see to supper. Ruthie and Winfield watched, absorbed.
Ruthie said solemnly, "Grampa's down under there." And Winfield looked at her
with horrified eyes. And then he ran away to the fire and sat on the ground and sobbed
to himself.
Pa half filled the hole, and then he stood panting with the effort while Uncle John
finished it. And John was shaping up the mound when Tom stopped him. "Listen,"
Tom said. "'F we leave a grave, they'll have it open in no time. We got to hide it. Level
her off an' we'll strew dry grass. We got to do that."
Pa said, "I didn' think a that. It ain't right to leave a grave unmounded."
"Can't he'p it," said Tom. "They'd dig 'im right up, an' we'd get it for breakin' the
law. You know what I get if I break the law."
"Yeah," Pa said. "I forgot that." He took the shovel from John and leveled the grave.
"She'll sink, come winter," he said.
"Can't he'p that," said Tom. "We'll be a long ways off by winter. Tromp her in good,
an' we'll strew stuff over her."
WHEN THE PORK and potatoes were done the families sat about on the ground and
ate, and they were quiet, staring into the fire. Wilson, tearing a slab of meat with his
teeth, sighed with contentment. "Nice eatin' pig," he said.
"Well," Pa explained, "we had a couple shoats, an' we thought we might's well eat
'em. Can't get nothin' for 'em. When we get kinda use' ta movin' an' Ma can set up
bread, why, it'll be pretty nice, seein' the country an' two kags a' pork right in the truck.
How long you folks been on the road?"
Wilson cleared his teeth with his tongue and swallowed. "We ain't been lucky," he
said. "We been three weeks from home."
"Why, God Awmighty, we aim to be in California in ten days or less."
Al broke in, "I dunno, Pa. With that load we're packin', we maybe ain't never gonna
get there. Not if they's mountains to go over."
They were silent about the fire. Their faces were turned downward and their hair
and foreheads showed in the firelight. Above the little dome of the firelight the
summer stars shone thinly, and the heat of the day was gradually withdrawing. On her
mattress, away from the fire, Granma whimpered softly like a puppy. The heads of all
turned in her direction.
Ma said, "Rosasharn, like a good girl go lay down with Granma. She needs
somebody now. She's knowin', now."
Rose of Sharon got to her feet and walked to the mattress and lay beside the old
woman, and the murmur of their soft voices drifted to the fire. Rose of Sharon and
Granma whispered together on the mattress.
Noah said, "Funny thing is—losin' Grampa ain't made me feel no different than I
done before. I ain't no sadder than I was."
"It's just the same thing," Casy said. "Grampa an' the old place, they was jus' the
same thing."
Al said, "It's a goddamn shame. He been talkin' what he's gonna do, how he gonna
squeeze grapes over his head an' let the juice run in his whiskers, an' all stuff like that."
Casy said, "He was foolin', all the time. I think he knowed it. An' Grampa didn' die
tonight. He died the minute you took 'im off the place."
"You sure a that?" Pa cried.
"Why, no. Oh, he was breathin'," Casy went on, "but he was dead. He was that
place, an' he knowed it."
Uncle John said, "Did you know he was a-dyin'?"
"Yeah," said Casy. "I knowed it."
John gazed at him, and a horror grew in his face. "An' you didn' tell nobody?"
"What good?" Casy asked.
"We—we might of did somepin."
"What?"
"I don' know, but—"
"No," Casy said, "you couldn' a done nothin'. Your way was fixed an' Grampa didn'
have no part in it. He didn' suffer none. Not after fust thing this mornin'. He's jus'
stayin' with the lan'. He couldn' leave it."
Uncle John sighed deeply.
Wilson said, "We hadda leave my brother Will." The heads turned toward him.
"Him an' me had forties side by side. He's older'n me. Neither one ever drove a car.
Well, we went in an' we sol' ever'thing. Will, he bought a car, an' they give him a kid to
show 'im how to use it. So the afternoon 'fore we're gonna start, Will an' Aunt Minnie
go a-practicin'. Will he comes to a bend in the road an' he yells 'Whoa' an' yanks back,
an' he goes through a fence. An' he yells 'Whoa, you bastard' an' tromps down on the
gas an' goes over into a gulch. An' there he was. Didn't have nothin' more to sell an'
didn't have no car. But it were his own damn fault, praise God. He's so damn mad he
won't come along with us, jus' set there a-cussin' an' a-cussin'."
"What's he gonna do?"
"I dunno. He's too mad to figger. An' we couldn' wait. On'y had eighty-five dollars
to go on. We couldn' set an' cut it up, but we et it up anyways. Didn' go a hunderd mile
when a tooth in the rear end bust, an' cost thirty dollars to get her fix', an' then we got
to get a tire, an' then a spark plug cracked, an' Sairy got sick. Had ta stop ten days. An'
now the goddamn car is bust again, an' money's gettin' low. I dunno when we'll ever
get to California. 'F I could on'y fix a car, but I don' know nothin' about cars."
Al asked importantly, "What's the matter?"
"Well, she jus' won't run. Starts an' farts an' stops. In a minute she'll start again, an'
then 'fore you can git her goin', she peters out again."
"Runs a minute an' then dies?"
"Yes, sir. An' I can't keep her a-goin' no matter how much gas I give her. Got worse
an' worse, an' now I cain't get her a-movin' a-tall."
Al was very proud and very mature, then. "I think you got a plugged gas line. I'll
blow her out for ya."
And Pa was proud too. "He's a good hand with a car," Pa said.
"Well, I'll sure thank ya for a han'. I sure will. Makes a fella kinda feel—like a little
kid, when he can't fix nothin'. When we get to California I aim to get me a nice car.
Maybe she won't break down."
Pa said, "When we get there. Gettin' there's the trouble."
"Oh, but she's worth it," said Wilson. "Why, I seen han'bills how they need folks to
pick fruit, an' good wages. Why, jus' think how it's gonna be, under them shady trees apickin' fruit an' takin' a bite ever' once in a while. Why, hell, they don't care how much
you eat 'cause they got so much. An' with them good wages, maybe a fella can get
hisself a little piece a land an' work out for extra cash. Why, hell, in a couple years I
bet a fella could have a place of his own."
Pa said, "We seen them han'bills. I got one right here." He took out his purse and
from it took a folded orange handbill. In black type it said, "Pea Pickers Wanted in
California. Good Wages All Season. 800 Pickers Wanted."
Wilson looked at it curiously. "Why, that's the one I seen. The very same one. You
s'pose—maybe they got all eight hunderd awready?"
Pa said, "This is jus' one little part a California. Why, that's the secon' biggest State
we got. S'pose they did get all them eight hunderd. They's plenty places else. I rather
pick fruit anyways. Like you says, under them trees an' pickin' fruit—why, even the
kids'd like to do that."
Suddenly Al got up and walked to the Wilsons' touring car. He looked in for a
moment and then came back and sat down.
"You can't fix her tonight," Wilson said.
"I know. I'll get to her in the morning."
Tom had watched his young brother carefully. "I was thinkin' somepin like that
myself," he said.
Noah asked, "What you two fellas talkin' about?"
Tom and Al went silent, each waiting for the other. "You tell 'em," Al said finally.
"Well, maybe it's no good, an' maybe it ain't the same thing Al's thinking. Here she
is, anyways. We got a overload, but Mr. and Mis' Wilson ain't. If some of us folks
could ride with them an' take some a their light stuff in the truck, we wouldn't break no
springs an' we could git up hills. An' me an' Al both knows about a car, so we could
keep that car a-rollin'. We'd keep together on the road an' it'd be good for ever'body."
Wilson jumped up. "Why, sure. Why, we'd be proud. We certain'y would. You hear
that, Sairy?"
"It's a nice thing," said Sairy. "Wouldn' be a burden on you folks?"
"No, by God," said Pa. "Wouldn't be no burden at all. You'd be helpin' us."
Wilson settled back uneasily. "Well, I dunno."
"What's a matter, don' you wanta?"
"Well, ya see—I on'y got 'bout thirty dollars lef', an' I won't be no burden."
Ma said, "You won't be no burden. Each'll help each, an' we'll all git to California.
Sairy Wilson he'ped lay Grampa out," and she stopped. The relationship was plain.
Al cried, "That car'll take six easy. Say me to drive, an' Rosasharn an' Connie and
Granma. Then we take the big light stuff an' pile her on the truck. An' we'll trade off
ever' so often." He spoke loudly, for a load of worry was lifted from him.
They smiled shyly and looked down at the ground. Pa fingered the dusty earth with
his fingertips. He said, "Ma favors a white house with oranges growin' around. They's
a big pitcher on a calendar she seen."
Sairy said, "If I get sick again, you got to go on an' get there. We ain't a-goin' to
burden."
Ma looked carefully at Sairy, and she seemed to see for the first time the paintormented eyes and the face that was haunted and shrinking with pain. And Ma said,
"We gonna see you get through. You said yourself, you can't let help go unwanted."
She studied her wrinkled hands in the firelight. "We got to get some sleep tonight."
She stood up.
"Grampa—it's like he's dead a year," Ma said.
The families moved lazily to their sleep, yawning luxuriously. Ma sloshed the tin
plates off a little and rubbed the grease free with a flour sack. The fire died down and
the stars descended. Few passenger cars went by on the highway now, but the transport
trucks thundered by at intervals and put little earthquakes in the ground. In the ditch
the cars were hardly visible under the starlight. A tied dog howled at the service station
down the road. The families were quiet and sleeping, and the field mice grew bold and
scampered about among the mattresses. Only Sairy Wilson was awake. She stared into
the sky and braced her body firmly against pain.