THE JOAD FAMILY MOVED slowly westward, up into the mountains of New
Mexico, past the pinnacles and pyramids of the upland. They climbed into the high
country of Arizona, and through a gap they looked down on the Painted Desert. A
border guard stopped them.
"Where you going?"
"To California," said Tom.
"How long you plan to be in Arizona?"
"No longer'n we can get acrost her."
"Got any plants?"
"No plants."
"I ought to look your stuff over."
"I tell you we ain't got no plants."
The guard put a little sticker on the windshield.
"O.K. Go ahead, but you better keep movin'."
"Sure. We aim to."
They crawled up the slopes, and the low twisted trees covered the slopes. Holbrook,
Joseph City, Winslow. And then the tall trees began, and the cars spouted steam and
labored up the slopes. And there was Flagstaff, and that was the top of it all. Down
from Flagstaff over the great plateaus, and the road disappeared in the distance ahead.
The water grew scarce, water was to be bought, five cents, ten cents, fifteen cents a
gallon. The sun drained the dry rocky country, and ahead were jagged broken peaks,
the western wall of Arizona. And now they were in flight from the sun and the drought.
They drove all night, and came to the mountains in the night. And they crawled the
jagged ramparts in the night, and their dim lights flickered on the pale stone walls of
the road. They passed the summit in the dark and came slowly down in the late night,
through the shattered stone debris of Oatman; and when the daylight came they saw the
Colorado river below them. They drove to Topock, pulled up at the bridge while a
guard washed off the windshield sticker. Then across the bridge and into the broken
rock wilderness. And although they were dead weary and the morning heat was
growing, they stopped.
Pa called, "We're there—we're in California!" They looked dully at the broken rock
glaring under the sun, and across the river the terrible ramparts of Arizona.
"We got the desert," said Tom. "We got to get to the water and rest."
The road runs parallel to the river, and it was well into the morning when the
burning motors came to Needles, where the river runs swiftly among the reeds.
The Joads and Wilsons drove to the river, and they sat in the cars looking at the
lovely water flowing by, and the green reeds jerking slowly in the current. There was a
little encampment by the river, eleven tents near the water, and the swamp grass on the
ground. And Tom leaned out of the truck window. "Mind if we stop here a piece?"
A stout woman, scrubbing clothes in a bucket, looked up. "We don't own it, mister.
Stop if you want. They'll be a cop down to look you over." And she went back to her
scrubbing in the sun.
The two cars pulled to a clear place on the swamp grass. The tents were passed
down, the Wilson tent set up, the Joad tarpaulin stretched over its rope.
Winfield and Ruthie walked slowly down through the willows to the reedy place.
Ruthie said, with soft vehemence, "California. This here's California an' we're right in
it!"
Winfield broke a tule and twisted it free, and he put the white pulp in his mouth and
chewed it. They walked into the water and stood quietly, the water about the calves of
their legs.
"We got the desert yet," Ruthie said.
"What's the desert like?"
"I don't know. I seen pitchers once says a desert. They was bones ever'place."
"Man bones?"
"Some, I guess, but mos'ly cow bones."
"We gonna get to see them bones?"
"Maybe, I don' know. Gonna go 'crost her at night. That's what Tom said. Tom says
we get the livin' Jesus burned outa us if we go in daylight."
"Feels nicet an' cool," said Winfield, and he squidged his toes in the sand of the
bottom.
They heard Ma calling, "Ruthie! Winfiel'! You come back." They turned and
walked slowly back through the reeds and the willows.
The other tents were quiet. For a moment, when the cars came up, a few heads had
stuck out between the flaps, and then were withdrawn. Now the family tents were up
and the men gathered together.
Tom said, "I'm gonna go down an' take a bath. That's what I'm gonna do—before I
sleep. How's Granma sence we got her in the tent?"
"Don' know," said Pa. "Couldn' seem to wake her up." He cocked his head toward
the tent. A whining, babbling voice came from under the canvas. Ma went quickly
inside.
"She woke up, awright," said Noah. "Seems like all night she was a-croakin' up on
the truck. She's all outa sense."
Tom said, "Hell! She's wore out. If she don't get some res' pretty soon, she ain'
gonna las'. She's jes' wore out. Anybody comin' with me? I'm gonna wash, an' I'm
gonna sleep in the shade—all day long." He moved away, and the other men followed
him. They took off their clothes in the willows and then they walked into the water and
sat down. For a long time they sat, holding themselves with heels dug into the sand,
and only their heads stuck out of the water.
"Jesus, I needed this," Al said. He took a handful of sand from the bottom and
scrubbed himself with it. They lay in the water and looked across at the sharp peaks
called Needles, and at the white rock mountains of Arizona.
"We come through them," Pa said in wonder.
Uncle John ducked his head under the water. "Well, we're here. This here's
California, an' she don't look so prosperous."
"Got the desert yet," said Tom. "An' I hear she's a son-of-a-bitch."
Noah asked, "Gonna try her tonight?"
"What ya think, Pa?" Tom asked.
"Well, I don' know. Do us good to get a little res', 'specially Granma. But other
ways, I'd kinda like to get acrost her an' get settled into a job. On'y got 'bout forty
dollars left. I'll feel better when we're all workin', an' a little money comin' in."
Each man sat in the water and felt the tug of the current. The preacher let his arms
and hands float on the surface. The bodies were white to the neck and wrists, and
burned dark brown on hands and faces, with V's of brown at the collar bones. They
scratched themselves with sand.
And Noah said lazily, "Like to jus' stay here. Like to lay here forever. Never get
hungry an' never get sad. Lay in the water all life long, lazy as a brood sow in the
mud."
And Tom, looking at the ragged peaks across the river and the Needles downstream:
"Never seen such tough mountains. This here's a murder country. This here's the bones
of a country. Wonder if we'll ever get in a place where folks can live 'thout fightin'
hard scrabble an' rocks. I seen pitchers of a country flat an' green, an' with little houses
like Ma says, white. Ma got her heart set on a white house. Get to thinkin' they ain't no
such country. I seen pitchers like that."
Pa said, "Wait till we get to California. You'll see nice country then."
"Jesus Christ, Pa! This here is California."
Two men dressed in jeans and sweaty blue shirts came through the willows and
looked toward the naked men. They called, "How's the swimmin'?"
"Dunno," said Tom. "We ain't tried none. Sure feels good to set here, though."
"Mind if we come in an' set?"
"She ain't our river. We'll len' you a little piece of her."
The men shucked off their pants, peeled their shirts, and waded out. The dust coated
their legs to the knee, their feet were pale and soft with sweat. They settled lazily into
the water and washed listlessly at their flanks. Sun-bitten, they were, a father and a
boy. They grunted and groaned with the water.
Pa asked politely, "Goin' west?"
"Nope. We come from there. Goin' back home. We can't make no livin' out there."
"Where's home?" Tom asked.
"Panhandle, come from near Pampa."
Pa asked, "Can you make a livin' there?"
"Nope. But at leas' we can starve to death with folks we know. Won't have a bunch
a fellas that hates us to starve with."
Pa said, "Ya know, you're the second fella talked like that. What makes 'em hate
you?"
"Dunno," said the man. He cupped his hands full of water and rubbed his face,
snorting and bubbling. Dusty water ran out of his hair and streaked his neck.
"I like to hear some more 'bout this," said Pa.
"Me too," Tom added. "Why these folks out west hate ya?"
The man looked sharply at Tom. "You jus' goin' wes'?"
"Jus' on our way."
"You ain't never been in California?"
"No, we ain't."
"Well, don' take my word. Go see for yourself."
"Yeah," Tom said, "but a fella kind a likes to know what he's gettin' into."
"Well, if you truly wanta know, I'm a fella that's asked questions an' give her some
thought. She's a nice country. But she was stole a long time ago. You git acrost the
desert an' come into the country aroun' Bakersfield. An' you never seen such purty
country—all orchards, an' grapes, purtiest country you ever seen. An' you'll pass lan'
flat an' fine with water thirty feet down, and that lan's layin' fallow. But you can't have
none of that lan'. That's a Lan' and Cattle Company. An' if they don't want ta work her,
she ain't gonna git worked. You go in there an' plant you a little corn, an' you'll go to
jail!"
"Good lan', you say? An' they ain't workin' her?"
"Yes, sir. Good lan' an' they ain't! Well, sir, that'll get you a little mad, but you ain't
seen nothin'. People gonna have a look in their eye. They gonna look at you an' their
face says, 'I don't like you, you son-of-a-bitch.' Gonna be deputy sheriffs, an' they'll
push you aroun'. You camp on the roadside, an' they'll move you on. You gonna see in
people's face how they hate you. An'—I'll tell you somepin. They hate you 'cause
they're scairt. They know a hungry fella gonna get food even if he got to take it. They
know that fallow lan's a sin an' somebody' gonna take it. What the hell! You never
been called 'Okie' yet."
Tom said, "Okie? What's that?"
"Well, Okie use' ta mean you was from Oklahoma. Now it means you're a dirty sonof-a-bitch. Okie means you're scum. Don't mean nothing itself, it's the way they say it.
But I can't tell you nothin'. You got to go there. I hear there's three hunderd thousan' of
our people there—an' livin' like hogs, 'cause ever'thing in California is owned. They
ain't nothin' left. An' them people that owns it is gonna hang on to it if they got ta kill
ever'body in the worl' to do it. An' they're scairt, an' that makes 'em mad. You got to
see it. You got to hear it. Purtiest goddamn country you ever seen, but they ain't nice to
you, them folks. They're so scairt an' worried they ain't even nice to each other."
Tom looked down into the water, and he dug his heels into the sand. "S'pose a fella
got work an' saved, couldn' he get a little lan'?"
The older man laughed and he looked at his boy, and his silent boy grinned almost
in triumph. And the man said, "You ain't gonna get no steady work. Gonna scrabble for
your dinner ever' day. An' you gonna do her with people lookin' mean at you. Pick
cotton, an' you gonna be sure the scales ain't honest. Some of 'em is, an' some of 'em
ain't. But you gonna think all the scales is crooked, an' you don't know which ones.
Ain't nothin' you can do about her anyways."
Pa asked slowly, "Ain't—ain't it nice out there at all?"
"Sure, nice to look at, but you can't have none of it. They's a grove of yella
oranges—an' a guy with a gun that got the right to kill you if you touch one. They's a
fella, newspaper fella near the coast, got a million acres—"
Casy looked up quickly, "Million acres? What in the worl' can he do with a million
acres?"
"I dunno. He jus' got it. Runs a few cattle. Got guards ever'place to keep folks out.
Rides aroun' in a bullet-proof car. I seen pitchers of him. Fat, sof' fella with little mean
eyes an' a mouth like a ass-hole. Scairt he's gonna die. Got a million acres an' scairt of
dyin'."
Casy demanded, "What in hell can he do with a million acres? What's he want a
million acres for?"
The man took his whitening, puckering hands out of the water and spread them, and
he tightened his lower lip and bent his head down to one shoulder. "I dunno," he said.
"Guess he's crazy. Mus' be crazy. Seen a pitcher of him. He looks crazy. Crazy an'
mean."
"Say he's scairt to die?" Casy asked.
"That's what I heard."
"Scairt God'll get him?"
"I dunno. Jus' scairt."
"What's he care?" Pa said. "Don't seem like he's havin' no fun."
"Grampa wasn't scairt," Tom said. "When Grampa was havin' the most fun, he
comes clostest to gettin' kil't. Time Grampa an' another fella whanged into a bunch a
Navajo in the night. They was havin' the time a their life, an' same time you wouldn'
give a gopher for their chance."
Casy said, "Seems like that's the way. Fella havin' fun, he don't give a damn; but a
fella mean an' lonely an' old an' disappointed—he's scared of dyin'!"
Pa asked, "What's he disappointed about if he got a million acres?"
The preacher smiled, and he looked puzzled. He splashed a floating water bug away
with his hand. "If he needs a million acres to make him feel rich, seems to me he needs
it 'cause he feels awful poor inside hisself, and if he's poor in hisself, there ain't no
million acres gonna make him feel rich, an' maybe he's disappointed that nothin' he can
do'll make him feel rich—not rich like Mis' Wilson was when she give her tent when
Grampa died. I ain't tryin' to preach no sermon, but I never seen nobody that's busy as
a prairie dog collectin' stuff that wasn't disappointed." He grinned. "Does kinda soun'
like a sermon, don't it?"
The sun was flaming fiercely now. Pa said, "Better scrunch down under water.
She'll burn the living Jesus outa you." And he reclined and let the gently moving water
flow around his neck. "If a fella's willin' to work hard, can't he cut her?" Pa asked.
The man sat up and faced him. "Look, mister. I don' know ever'thing. You might go
out there an' fall into a steady job, an' I'd be a liar. An' then, you might never get no
work, an' I didn' warn ya. I can tell ya mos' of the folks is purty mis'able." He lay back
in the water. "A fella don' know ever'thing," he said.
Pa turned his head and looked at Uncle John. "You never was a fella to say much,"
Pa said. "But I'll be goddamned if you opened your mouth twicet sence we lef' home.
What you think 'bout this here?"
Uncle John scowled. "I don't think nothin' about it. We're a-goin' there, ain't we?
None of this here talk gonna keep us from goin' there. When we get there, we'll get
there. When we get a job we'll work, an' when we don't get a job we'll set on our tail.
This here talk ain't gonna do no good no way."
Tom lay back and filled his mouth with water, and he spurted it into the air and he
laughed. "Uncle John don't talk much, but he talks sense. Yes, by God! He talks sense.
We goin' on tonight, Pa?"
"Might's well. Might's well get her over."
"Well, I'm goin' up in the brush an' get some sleep then." Tom stood up and waded
to the sandy shore. He slipped his clothes on his wet body and winced under the heat of
the cloth. The others followed him.
In the water, the man and his boy watched the Joads disappear. And the boy said,
"Like to see 'em in six months. Jesus!"
The man wiped his eye corners with his forefinger. "I shouldn' of did that," he said.
"Fella always wants to be a wise guy, wants to tell folks stuff."
"Well, Jesus, Pa! They asked for it."
"Yeah, I know. But like that fella says, they're a-goin' anyways. Nothin' won't be
changed from what I tol' 'em, 'cept they'll be mis'able 'fore they hafta."
TOM WALKED in among the willows, and he crawled into a cave of shade to lie
down. And Noah followed him.
"Gonna sleep here," Tom said.
"Tom!"
"Yeah?"
"Tom, I ain't a-goin' on."
Tom sat up. "What you mean?"
"Tom, I ain't a-gonna leave this here water. I'm a-gonna walk on down this here
river."
"You're crazy," Tom said.
"Get myself a piece a line. I'll catch fish. Fella can't starve beside a nice river."
Tom said, "How 'bout the fam'ly? How 'bout Ma?"
"I can't he'p it. I can't leave this here water." Noah's wide-set eyes were half closed.
"You know how it is, Tom. You know how the folks are nice to me. But they don't
really care for me."
"You're crazy."
"No, I ain't. I know how I am. I know they're sorry. But—Well, I ain't a-goin'. You
tell Ma—Tom."
"Now you look-a-here," Tom began.
"No. It ain't no use. I was in that there water. An' I ain't a-gonna leave her. I'm agonna go now, Tom—down the river. I'll catch fish an' stuff, but I can't leave her. I
can't." He crawled back out of the willow cave. "You tell Ma, Tom." He walked away.
Tom followed him to the river bank. "Listen, you goddamn fool—"
"It ain't no use," Noah said. "I'm sad, but I can't he'p it. I got to go." He turned
abruptly and walked downstream along the shore. Tom started to follow, and then he
stopped. He saw Noah disappear into the brush, and then appear again, following the
edge of the river. And he watched Noah growing smaller on the edge of the river, until
he disappeared into the willows at last. And Tom took off his cap and scratched his
head. He went back to his willow cave and lay down to sleep.
UNDER THE SPREAD tarpaulin Granma lay on a mattress, and Ma sat beside her.
The air was stiflingly hot, and the flies buzzed in the shade of the canvas. Granma was
naked under a long piece of pink curtain. She turned her old head restlessly from side
to side, and she muttered and choked. Ma sat on the ground beside her, and with a
piece of cardboard drove the flies away and fanned a stream of moving hot air over the
tight old face. Rose of Sharon sat on the other side and watched her mother.
Granma called imperiously, "Will! Will! You come here, Will." And her eyes
opened and she looked fiercely about. "Tol' him to come right here," she said. "I'll
catch him. I'll take the hair off'n him." She closed her eyes and rolled her head back
and forth and muttered thickly. Ma fanned with the cardboard.
Rose of Sharon looked helplessly at the old woman. She said softly, "She's awful
sick."
Ma raised her eyes to the girl's face. Ma's eyes were patient, but the lines of strain
were on her forehead. Ma fanned and fanned the air, and her piece of cardboard
warned off the flies. "When you're young, Rosasharn, ever'thing that happens is a thing
all by itself. It's a lonely thing. I know, I 'member, Rosasharn." Her mouth loved the
name of her daughter. "You're gonna have a baby, Rosasharn, and that's somepin to
you lonely and away. That's gonna hurt you, an' the hurt'll be lonely hurt, an' this here
tent is alone in the worl', Rosasharn." She whipped the air for a moment to drive a
buzzing blow fly on, and the big shining fly circled the tent twice and zoomed out into
the blinding sunlight. And Ma went on, "They's a time of change, an' when that comes,
dyin' is a piece of all dyin', and bearin' is a piece of all bearin', an bearin' an' dyin' is
two pieces of the same thing. An' then things ain't lonely any more. An' then a hurt
don't hurt so bad, cause it ain't a lonely hurt no more, Rosasharn. I wisht I could tell
you so you'd know, but I can't." And her voice was so soft, so full of love, that tears
crowded into Rose of Sharon's eyes, and flowed over her eyes and blinded her.
"Take an' fan Granma," Ma said, and she handed the cardboard to her daughter.
"That's a good thing to do. I wisht I could tell you so you'd know."
Granma, scowling her brows down over her closed eyes, bleated, "Will! You're
dirty! You ain't never gonna get clean." Her little wrinkled claws moved up and
scratched her cheek. A red ant ran up the curtain cloth and scrambled over the folds of
loose skin on the old lady's neck. Ma reached quickly and picked it off, crushed it
between thumb and forefinger, and brushed her fingers on her dress.
Rose of Sharon waved the cardboard fan. She looked up at Ma. "She—?" And the
words parched in her throat.
"Wipe your feet, Will—you dirty pig!" Granma cried.
Ma said, "I dunno. Maybe if we can get her where it ain't so hot, but I dunno. Don't
worry yourself, Rosasharn. Take your breath in when you need it, an' let go when you
need to."
A large woman in a torn black dress looked into the tent. Her eyes were bleared and
indefinite, and the skin sagged to her jowls and hung down in little flaps. Her lips were
loose, so that the upper lip hung like a curtain over her teeth, and her lower lip, by its
weight, folded outward, showing her lower gums. "Mornin', ma'am," she said.
"Mornin', an' praise God for victory."
Ma looked around. "Mornin'," she said.
The woman stooped into the tent and bent her head over Granma. "We heerd you
got a soul here ready to join her Jesus. Praise God!"
Ma's face tightened and her eyes grew sharp. "She's tar'd, that's all," Ma said. "She's
wore out with the road an' the heat. She's jus' wore out. Get a little res', an' she'll be
well."
The woman leaned down over Granma's face, and she seemed almost to sniff. Then
she turned to Ma and nodded quickly, and her lips jiggled and her jowls quivered. "A
dear soul gonna join her Jesus," she said.
Ma cried, "That ain't so!"
The woman nodded, slowly, this time, and put a puffy hand on Granma's forehead.
Ma reached to snatch the hand away, and quickly restrained herself. "Yes, it's so,
sister," the woman said. "We got six in Holiness in our tent. I'll go git 'em, an' we'll hol'
a meetin'—a prayer an' grace. Jehovites, all. Six, countin' me. I'll go git 'em out."
Ma stiffened. "No—no," she said. "No, Granma's tar'd. She couldn't stan' a meetin'."
The woman said, "Couldn't stan' grace? Couldn' stan' the sweet breath of Jesus?
What you talkin' about, sister?"
Ma said, "No, not here. She's too tar'd."
The woman looked reproachfully at Ma. "Ain't you believers, ma'am?"
"We always been Holiness." Ma said, "but Granma's tar'd, an' we been a-goin' all
night. We won't trouble you."
"It ain't no trouble, an' if it was, we'd want ta do it for a soul a-soarin' to the Lamb."
Ma arose to her knees. "We thank ya," she said coldly. "We ain't gonna have no
meetin' in this here tent."
The woman looked at her for a long time. "Well, we ain't a-gonna let a sister go
away 'thout a little praisin'. We'll git the meetin' goin' in our own tent, ma'am. An' we'll
forgive ya for your hard heart."
Ma settled back again and turned her face to Granma, and her face was still set and
hard. "She's tar'd," Ma said. "She's on'y tar'd." Granma swung her head back and forth
and muttered under her breath.
The woman walked stiffly out of the tent. Ma continued to look down at the old
face.
Rose of Sharon fanned her cardboard and moved the hot air in a stream. She said,
"Ma!"
"Yeah?"
"Whyn't ya let 'em hol' a meetin'?"
"I dunno," said Ma. "Jehovites is good people. They're howlers an' jumpers. I
dunno. Somepin jus' come over me. I didn' think I could stan' it. I'd jus' fly all apart."
From some little distance there came the sound of the beginning meeting, a singsong chant of exhortation. The words were not clear, only the tone. The voice rose and
fell, and went higher at each rise. Now a response filled in the pause, and the
exhortation went up with a tone of triumph, and a growl of power came into the voice.
It swelled and paused, and a growl came into the response. And now gradually the
sentences of exhortation shortened, grew sharper, like commands; and into the
responses came a complaining note. The rhythm quickened. Male and female voices
had been one tone, but now in the middle of a response one woman's voice went up
and up in a wailing cry, wild and fierce, like the cry of a beast; and a deeper woman's
voice rose up beside it, a baying voice, and a man's voice traveled up the scale in the
howl of a wolf. The exhortation stopped, and only the feral howling came from the
tent, and with it a thudding sound on the earth. Ma shivered. Rose of Sharon's breath
was panting and short, and the chorus of howls went on so long it seemed that lungs
must burst.
Ma said, "Makes me nervous. Somepin happened to me."
Now the high voice broke into hysteria, the gabbling screams of a hyena, the
thudding became louder. Voices cracked and broke, and then the whole chorus fell to a
sobbing, grunting undertone, and the slap of flesh and the thuddings on the earth; and
the sobbing changed to a little whining, like that of a litter of puppies at a food dish.
Rose of Sharon cried softly with nervousness. Granma kicked the curtain off her
legs, which lay like gray, knotted sticks. And Granma whined with the whining in the
distance. Ma pulled the curtain back in place. And then Granma sighed deeply and her
breathing grew steady and easy, and her closed eyelids ceased their flicking. She slept
deeply, and snored through her half-open mouth. The whining from the distance was
softer and softer until it could not be heard at all any more.
Rose of Sharon looked at Ma, and her eyes were blank with tears. "It done good,"
said Rose of Sharon. "It done Granma good. She's a-sleepin'."
Ma's head was down, and she was ashamed. "Maybe I done them good people
wrong. Granma is asleep."
"Whyn't you ast our preacher if you done a sin?" the girl asked.
"I will—but he's a queer man. Maybe it's him made me tell them people they
couldn' come here. That preacher, he's gettin' roun' to thinkin' that what people does is
right to do." Ma looked at her hands and then she said, "Rosasharn, we got to sleep. 'F
we're gonna go tonight, we got to sleep." She stretched out on the ground beside the
mattress.
Rose of Sharon asked, "How about fannin' Granma?"
"She's asleep now. You lay down an' rest."
"I wonder where at Connie is?" the girl complained. "I ain't seen him around for a
long time."
Ma said, "Sh! Get some rest."
"Ma, Connie gonna study nights an' get to be somepin."
"Yeah. You tol' me about that. Get some rest."
The girl lay down on the edge of Granma's mattress. "Connie's got a new plan. He's
thinkin' all a time. When he gets all up on 'lectricity he gonna have his own store, an'
then guess what we gonna have?"
"What?"
"Ice—all the ice you want. Gonna have a ice box. Keep it full. Stuff don't spoil if
you got ice."
"Connie's thinkin' all a time," Ma chuckled. "Better get some rest now."
Rose of Sharon closed her eyes. Ma turned over on her back and crossed her hands
under her head. She listened to Granma's breathing and to the girl's breathing. She
moved a hand to start a fly from her forehead. The camp was quiet in the blinding heat,
but the noises of hot grass—of crickets, the hum of flies—were a tone that was close to
silence. Ma sighed deeply and then yawned and closed her eyes. In her half-sleep she
heard footsteps approaching, but it was a man's voice that started her awake.
"Who's in here?"
Ma sat up quickly. A brown-faced man bent over and looked in. He wore boots and
khaki pants and a khaki shirt with epaulets. On a Sam Browne belt a pistol holster
hung, and a big silver star was pinned to his shirt at the left breast. A loose-crowned
military cap was on the back of his head. He beat on the tarpaulin with his hand, and
the tight canvas vibrated like a drum.
"Who's in here?" he demanded again.
Ma asked, "What is it you want, mister?"
"What you think I want? I want to know who's in here."
"Why, they's jus' us three in here. Me an' Granma an' my girl."
"Where's your men?"
"Why, they went down to clean up. We was drivin' all night."
"Where'd you come from?"
"Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma."
"Well, you can't stay here."
"We aim to get out tonight an' cross the desert, mister."
"Well, you better. If you're here tomorra this time I'll run you in. We don't want
none of you settlin' down here."
Ma's face blackened with anger. She got slowly to her feet. She stooped to the
utensil box and picked out the iron skillet. "Mister," she said, "you got a tin button an'
a gun. Where I come from, you keep your voice down." She advanced on him with the
skillet. He loosened the gun in the holster. "Go ahead," said Ma. "Scarin' women. I'm
thankful the men folks ain't here. They'd tear ya to pieces. In my country you watch
your tongue."
The man took two steps backward. "Well, you ain't in your country now. You're in
California, an' we don't want you goddamn Okies settlin' down."
Ma's advance stopped. She looked puzzled. "Okies?" she said softly. "Okies."
"Yeah, Okies! An' if you're here when I come tomorra, I'll run ya in." He turned and
walked to the next tent and banged on the canvas with his hand. "Who's in here?" he
said.
Ma went slowly back under the tarpaulin. She put the skillet in the utensil box. She
sat down slowly. Rose of Sharon watched her secretly. And when she saw Ma fighting
with her face, Rose of Sharon closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
The sun sank low in the afternoon, but the heat did not seem to decrease. Tom
awakened under his willow, and his mouth was parched and his body was wet with
sweat, and his head was dissatisfied with his rest. He staggered to his feet and walked
toward the water. He peeled off his clothes and waded into the stream. And the
moment the water was about him, his thirst was gone. He lay back in the shallows and
his body floated. He held himself in place with his elbows in the sand and looked at his
toes, which bobbed above the surface.
A pale skinny little boy crept like an animal through the reeds and slipped off his
clothes. And he squirmed into the water like a muskrat, and pulled himself along like a
muskrat, only his eyes and nose above the surface. Then suddenly he saw Tom's head
and saw that Tom was watching him. He stopped his game and sat up.
Tom said, "Hello."
"'Lo!"
"Looks like you was playin' muskrat."
"Well, I was." He edged gradually away toward the bank; he moved casually, and
then he leaped out, gathered his clothes with a sweep of his arms, and was gone among
the willows.
Tom laughed quietly. And then he heard his name called shrilly. "Tom, oh, Tom!"
He sat up in the water and whistled through his teeth, a piercing whistle with a loop on
the end. The willows shook, and Ruthie stood looking at him.
"Ma wants you," she said. "Ma wants you right away."
"Awright." He stood up and strode through the water to the shore; and Ruthie
looked with interest and amazement at his naked body.
Tom, seeing the direction of her eyes, said, "Run on now. Git!" And Ruthie ran.
Tom heard her calling excitedly for Winfield as she went. He put the hot clothes on his
cool, wet body and he walked slowly up through the willows toward the tent.
Ma had started a fire of dry willow twigs, and she had a pan of water heating. She
looked relieved when she saw him.
"What's a matter, Ma?" he asked.
"I was scairt," she said. "They was a policeman here. He says we can't stay here. I
was scairt he talked to you. I was scairt you'd hit him if he talked to you."
Tom said, "What'd I go an' hit a policeman for?"
Ma smiled. "Well—he talked so bad—I nearly hit him myself."
Tom grabbed her arm and shook her roughly and loosely, and he laughed. He sat
down on the ground, still laughing. "My God, Ma. I knowed you when you was gentle.
What's come over you?"
She looked serious. "I don' know, Tom."
"Fust you stan' us off with a jack handle, and now you try to hit a cop." He laughed
softly, and he reached out and patted her bare foot tenderly. "A ol' hell-cat," he said.
"Tom."
"Yeah?"
She hesitated a long time. "Tom, this here policeman—he called us—Okies. He
says, 'We don' want you goddamn Okies settlin' down.'"
Tom studied her, and his hand still rested gently on her bare foot. "Fella tol' about
that," he said. "Fella tol' how they say it." He considered, "Ma, would you say I was a
bad fella? Oughta be locked up—like that?"
"No," she said. "You been tried—No. What you ast me for?"
"Well, I dunno. I'd a took a sock at that cop."
Ma smiled with amusement. "Maybe I oughta ast you that, 'cause I nearly hit 'im
with a skillet."
"Ma, why'd he say we couldn' stop here?"
"Jus' says they don' want no damn Okies settlin' down. Says he gonna run us in if
we're here tomorra."
"But we ain't use' ta gettin' shoved aroun' by no cops."
"I tol' him that," said Ma. "He says we ain't home now. We're in California, and
they do what they want."
Tom said uneasily, "Ma, I got somepin to tell ya. Noah—he went on down the river.
He ain't a-goin' on."
It took a moment for Ma to understand. "Why?" she asked softly.
"I don' know. Says he got to. Says he got to stay. Says for me to tell you."
"How'll he eat?" she demanded.
"I don' know. Says he'll catch fish."
Ma was silent a long time. "Family's fallin' apart," she said. "I don' know. Seems
like I can't think no more. I jus' can't think. They's too much."
Tom said lamely, "He'll be awright, Ma. He's a funny kind a fella."
Ma turned stunned eyes toward the river. "I jus' can't seem to think no more."
Tom looked down the line of tents and he saw Ruthie and Winfield standing in front
of a tent in decorous conversation with someone inside. Ruthie was twisting her skirt
in her hands, while Winfield dug a hole in the ground with his toe. Tom called, "You,
Ruthie!" She looked up and saw him and trotted toward him, with Winfield behind her.
When she came up, Tom said, "You go get our folks. They're sleepin' down the
willows. Get 'em. An' you Winfiel'. You tell the Wilsons we're gonna get rollin' soon
as we can." The children spun around and charged off.
Tom said, "Ma, how's Granma now?"
"Well, she got a sleep today. Maybe she's better. She's still a-sleepin'."
"Tha's good. How much pork we got?"
"Not very much. Quarter hog."
"Well, we got to fill that other kag with water. Got to take water along." They could
hear Ruthie's shrill cries for the men down in the willows.
Ma shoved willow sticks in the fire and made it crackle up about the black pot. She
said, "I pray God we gonna get some res'. I pray Jesus we gonna lay down in a nice
place."
The sun sank toward the baked and broken hills to the west. The pot over the fire
bubbled furiously. Ma went under the tarpaulin and came out with an apronful of
potatoes, and she dropped them into the boiling water. "I pray God we gonna be let to
wash some clothes. We ain't never been dirty like this. Don't even wash potatoes 'fore
we boil 'em. I wonder why? Seems like the heart's took out of us."
The men came trooping up from the willows, and their eyes were full of sleep, and
their faces were red and puffed with daytime sleep.
Pa said, "What's a matter?"
"We're goin'," said Tom. "Cop says we got to go. Might's well get her over. Get a
good start an' maybe we'll be through her. Near three hunderd miles where we're
goin'."
Pa said, "I thought we was gonna get a rest."
"Well, we ain't. We got to go. Pa," Tom said, "Noah, ain't a-goin'. He walked on
down the river."
"Ain't goin'? What the hell's the matter with him?" And then Pa caught himself.
"My fault," he said miserably. "That boy's all my fault."
"No."
"I don't wanta talk about it no more," said Pa. "I can't—my fault."
"Well, we got to go," said Tom.
Wilson walked near for the last words. "We can't go, folks," he said. "Sairy's done
up. She got to res'. She ain't gonna git acrost that desert alive."
They were silent at his words; then Tom said, "Cop says he'll run us in if we're here
tomorra."
Wilson shook his head. His eyes were glazed with worry, and a paleness showed
through his dark skin. "Jus' hafta do 'er, then. Sairy can't go. If they jail us, why, they'll
hafta jail us. She got to res' an' get strong."
Pa said, "Maybe we better wait an' all go together."
"No," Wilson said. "You been nice to us; you been kin', but you can't stay here. You
got to get on an' get jobs and work. We ain't gonna let you stay."
Pa said excitedly, "But you ain't got nothing."
Wilson smiled. "Never had nothin' when you took us up. This ain't none of your
business. Don't you make me git mean. You got to go, or I'll get mean an' mad."
Ma beckoned Pa into the cover of the tarpaulin and spoke softly to him.
Wilson turned to Casy. "Sairy want you should go see her."
"Sure," said the preacher. He walked to the Wilson tent, tiny and gray, and he
slipped the flaps aside and entered. It was dusky and hot inside. The mattress lay on the
ground, and the equipment was scattered about, as it had been unloaded in the
morning. Sairy lay on the mattress, her eyes wide and bright. He stood and looked
down at her, his large head bent and the stringy muscles of his neck tight along the
sides. And he took off his hat and held it in his hand.
She said, "Did my man tell ya we couldn' go on?"
"That's what he said."
Her low, beautiful voice went on, "I wanted us to go. I knowed I wouldn' live to the
other side, but he'd be acrost anyways. But he won't go. He don' know. He thinks it's
gonna be all right. He don' know."
"He says he won't go."
"I know," she said, "An' he's stubborn. I ast you to come to say a prayer."
"I ain't a preacher," he said softly. "My prayers ain't no good."
She moistened her lips. "I was there when the ol' man died. You said one then."
"It wasn't no prayer."
"It was a prayer," she said.
"It wasn't no preacher's prayer."
"It was a good prayer. I want you should say one for me."
"I don' know what to say."
She closed her eyes for a minute and then opened them again. "Then say one to
yourself. Don't use no words to it. That'd be awright."
"I got no God," he said.
"You got a God. Don't make no difference if you don' know what he looks like."
The preacher bowed his head. She watched him apprehensively. And when he raised
his head again she looked relieved. "That's good," she said. "That's what I needed.
Somebody close enough—to pray."
He shook his head as though to awaken himself. "I don' understan' this here," he
said.
And she replied, "Yes—you know, don't you?"
"I know," he said, "I know, but I don't understan'. Maybe you'll res' a few days an'
then come on."
She shook her head slowly from side to side. "I'm jus' pain covered with skin. I
know what it is, but I won't tell him. He'd be too sad. He wouldn' know what to do
anyways. Maybe in the night, when he's a-sleepin'—when he waked up, it won't be so
bad."
"You want I should stay with you an' not go on?"
"No," she said. "No. When I was a little girl I use' ta sing. Folks roun' about use' ta
say I sung as nice as Jenny Lind. Folks use' ta come an' listen when I sung. An'—when
they stood—an' me a-singin', why, me an' them was together more'n you could ever
know. I was thankful. There ain't so many folks can feel so full up, so close, an' them
folks standin' there an' me a-singin'. Thought maybe I'd sing in theaters, but I never
done it. An' I'm glad. They wasn't nothin' got in between me an' them. An'—that's why
I wanted you to pray. I wanted to feel that clostness, oncet more. It's the same thing,
singin' an' prayin', jus' the same thing. I wisht you could a-heerd me sing."
He looked down at her, into her eyes. "Good-by," he said.
She shook her head slowly back and forth and closed her lips tight. And the
preacher went out of the dusky tent into the blinding light.
The men were loading up the truck. Uncle John on top, while the others passed
equipment up to him. He stowed it carefully, keeping the surface level. Ma emptied the
quarter of a keg of salt pork into a pan, and Tom and Al took both little barrels to the
river and washed them. They tied them to the running boards and carried water in
buckets to fill them. Then over the tops they tied canvas to keep them from slopping
the water out. Only the tarpaulin and Granma's mattress were left to put on.
Tom said, "With the load we'll take, this ol' wagon'll boil her head off. We got to
have plenty water."
Ma passed the boiled potatoes out and brought the half sack from the tent and put it
with the pan of pork. The family ate standing, shuffling their feet and tossing the hot
potatoes from hand to hand until they cooled.
Ma went to the Wilson tent and stayed for ten minutes, and then she came out
quietly. "It's time to go," she said.
The men went under the tarpaulin. Granma still slept, her mouth wide open. They
lifted the whole mattress gently and passed it up on top of the truck. Granma drew up
her skinny legs and frowned in her sleep, but she did not awaken.
Uncle John and Pa tied the tarpaulin over the cross-piece, making a little tight tent
on top of the load. They lashed it down to the side-bars. And then they were ready. Pa
took out his purse and dug two crushed bills from it. He went to Wilson and held them
out. "We want you should take this, an'"—he pointed to the pork and potatoes—"an'
that."
Wilson hung his head and shook it sharply. "I ain't a-gonna do it," he said. "You
ain't got much."
"Got enough to get there," said Pa. "We ain't left it all. We'll have work right off."
"I ain't a-gonna do it," Wilson said. "I'll git mean if you try."
Ma took the two bills from Pa's hand. She folded them neatly and put them on the
ground and placed the pork pan over them. "That's where they'll be," she said. "If you
don' get 'em, somebody else will." Wilson, his head still down, turned and went to his
tent; he stepped inside and the flaps fell behind him.
For a few moments the family waited, and then, "We got to go," said Tom. "It's near
four, I bet."
The family climbed on the truck, Ma on top, beside Granma. Tom and Al and Pa in
the seat, and Winfield on Pa's lap. Connie and Rose of Sharon made a nest against the
cab. The preacher and Uncle John and Ruthie were in a tangle on the load.
Pa called, "Good-by, Mister and Mis' Wilson." There was no answer from the tent.
Tom started the engine and the truck lumbered away. And as they crawled up the
rough road toward Needles and the highway, Ma looked back. Wilson stood in front of
his tent, staring after them, and his hat was in his hand. The sun fell full on his face.
Ma waved her hand at him, but he did not respond.
Tom kept the truck in second gear over the rough road, to protect the springs. At
Needles he drove into a service station, checked the worn tires for air, checked the
spares tied to the back. He had the gas tank filled, and he bought two five-gallon cans
of gasoline and a two-gallon can of oil. He filled the radiator, begged a map, and
studied it.
The service-station boy, in his white uniform, seemed uneasy until the bill was paid.
He said, "You people sure have got nerve."
Tom looked up from the map. "What you mean?"
"Well, crossin' in a jalopy like this."
"You been acrost?"
"Sure, plenty, but not in no wreck like this."
Tom said, "If we broke down maybe somebody'd give us a han'."
"Well, maybe. But folks are kind of scared to stop at night. I'd hate to be doing it.
Takes more nerve than I've got."
Tom grinned. "It don't take no nerve to do somepin when there ain't nothin' else you
can do. Well, thanks. We'll drag on." And he got in the truck and moved away.
The boy in white went into the iron building where his helper labored over a book
of bills. "Jesus, what a hard-looking outfit!"
"Them Okies? They're all hard-lookin'."
"Jesus, I'd hate to start out in a jalopy like that."
"Well, you and me got sense. Them goddamn Okies got no sense and no feeling.
They ain't human. A human being wouldn't live like they do. A human being couldn't
stand it to be so dirty and miserable. They ain't a hell of a lot better than gorillas."
"Just the same I'm glad I ain't crossing the desert in no Hudson Super-Six. She
sounds like a threshing machine."
The other boy looked down at his book of bills. And a big drop of sweat rolled
down his finger and fell on the pink bills. "You know, they don't have much trouble.
They're so goddamn dumb they don't know it's dangerous. And, Christ Almighty, they
don't know any better than what they got. Why worry?"
"I'm not worrying. Just thought if it was me, I wouldn't like it."
"That's 'cause you know better. They don't know any better." And he wiped the
sweat from the pink bill with his sleeve.
THE TRUCK took the road and moved up the long hill, through the broken, rotten
rock. The engine boiled very soon and Tom slowed down and took it easy. Up the long
slope, winding and twisting through dead country, burned white and gray, and no hint
of life in it. Once Tom stopped for a few moments to let the engine cool, and then he
traveled on. They topped the pass while the sun was still up, and looked down on the
desert—black cinder mountains in the distance, and the yellow sun reflected on the
gray desert. The little starved bushes, sage and greasewood, threw bold shadows on the
sand and bits of rock. The glaring sun was straight ahead. Tom held his hand before his
eyes to see at all. They passed the crest and coasted down to cool the engine. They
coasted down the long sweep to the floor of the desert, and the fan turned over to cool
the water in the radiator. In the driver's seat, Tom and Al and Pa, and Winfield on Pa's
knee, looked into the bright descending sun, and their eyes were stony, and their brown
faces were damp with perspiration. The burnt land and the black, cindery hills broke
the even distance and made it terrible in the reddening light of the setting sun.
Al said, "Jesus, what a place. How'd you like to walk acrost her?"
"People done it," said Tom. "Lots a people done it; an' if they could, we could."
"Lots must a died," said Al.
"Well, we ain't come out exac'ly clean."
Al was silent for a while, and the reddening desert swept past. "Think we'll ever see
them Wilsons again?" Al asked.
Tom flicked his eyes down to the oil gauge. "I got a hunch nobody ain't gonna see
Mis' Wilson for long. Jus' a hunch I got."
Winfield said, "Pa, I wanta get out."
Tom looked over at him. "Might's well let ever'body out 'fore we settle down to
drivin' tonight." He slowed the car and brought it to a stop. Winfield scrambled out and
urinated at the side of the road. Tom leaned out. "Anybody else?"
"We're holdin' our water up here," Uncle John called.
Pa said, "Winfiel', you crawl up on top. You put my legs to sleep a-settin' on 'em."
The little boy buttoned his overalls and obediently crawled up the back board and on
his hands and knees crawled over Granma's mattress and forward to Ruthie.
The truck moved on into the evening, and the edge of the sun struck the rough
horizon and turned the desert red.
Ruthie said, "Wouldn' leave you set up there, huh?"
"I didn' want to. It wasn't so nice as here. Couldn' lie down."
"Well, don' you bother me, a-squawkin' an' a-talkin'," Ruthie said, "'cause I'm goin'
to sleep, an' when I wake up, we gonna be there! 'Cause Tom said so! Gonna seem
funny to see pretty country."
The sun went down and left a great halo in the sky. And it grew very dark under the
tarpaulin, a long cave with light at each end—a flat triangle of light.
Connie and Rose of Sharon leaned back against the cab, and the hot wind tumbling
through the tent struck the backs of their heads, and the tarpaulin whipped and
drummed above them. They spoke together in low tones, pitched to the drumming
canvas, so that no one could hear them. When Connie spoke he turned his head and
spoke into her ear, and she did the same to him. She said, "Seems like we wasn't never
gonna do nothin' but move. I'm so tar'd."
He turned his head to her ear. "Maybe in the mornin'. How'd you like to be alone
now?" In the dusk his hand moved out and stroked her hip.
She said, "Don't. You'll make me crazy as a loon. Don't do that." And she turned her
head to hear his response.
"Maybe—when ever'body's asleep."
"Maybe," she said. "But wait till they get to sleep. You'll make me crazy, an' maybe
they won't get to sleep."
"I can't hardly stop," he said.
"I know. Me neither. Le's talk about when we get there; an' you move away 'fore I
get crazy."
He shifted away a little. "Well, I'll get to studyin' nights right off," he said. She
sighed deeply. "Gonna get one a them books that tells about it an' cut the coupon, right
off."
"How long, you think?" she asked.
"How long what?"
"How long 'fore you'll be makin' big money an' we got ice?"
"Can't tell," he said importantly. "Can't really rightly tell. Fella oughta be studied up
pretty good 'fore Christmus."
"Soon's you get studied up we could get ice an' stuff, I guess."
He chuckled. "It's this here heat," he said. "What you gonna need ice roun'
Christmus for?"
She giggled. "Tha's right. But I'd like ice any time. Now don't. You'll get me crazy!"
The dusk passed into dark and the desert stars came out in the soft sky, stars
stabbing and sharp, with few points and rays to them, and the sky was velvet. And the
heat changed. While the sun was up, it was a beating, flailing heat, but now the heat
came from below, from the earth itself, and the heat was thick and muffling. The lights
of the truck came on, and they illuminated a little blur of highway ahead, and a strip of
desert on either side of the road. And sometimes eyes gleamed in the lights far ahead,
but no animal showed in the lights. It was pitch dark under the canvas now. Uncle John
and the preacher were curled in the middle of the truck, resting on their elbows, and
staring out the back triangle. They could see the two bumps that were Ma and Granma
against the outside. They could see Ma move occasionally, and her dark arm moving
against the outside.
Uncle John talked to the preacher. "Casy," he said, "you're a fella oughta know what
to do."
"What to do about what?"
"I dunno," said Uncle John.
Casy said, "Well, that's gonna make it easy for me!"
"Well, you been a preacher."
"Look, John, ever'body takes a crack at me 'cause I been a preacher. A preacher ain't
nothin' but a man."
"Yeah, but—he's—a kind of a man, else he wouldn't be a preacher. I wanna ast
you—well, you think a fella could bring bad luck to folks?"
"I dunno," said Casy. "I dunno."
"Well—see—I was married—fine, good girl. An' one night she got a pain in her
stomach. An' she says, 'You better get a doctor.' An' I says, 'Hell, you jus' et too
much.'" Uncle John put his hand on Casy's knee and he peered through the darkness at
him. "She gave me a look. An' she groaned all night, an' she died the next afternoon."
The preacher mumbled something. "You see," John went on, "I kil't her. An' sence then
I tried to make it up—mos'ly to kids. An' I tried to be good, an' I can't. I get drunk, an' I
go wild."
"Ever'body goes wild," said Casy. "I do too."
"Yeah, but you ain't got a sin on your soul like me."
Casy said gently, "Sure I got sins. Ever'body got sins. A sin is somepin you ain't
sure about. Them people that's sure about ever'thing an' ain't got no sin—well, with
that kind of a son-of-a-bitch, if I was God I'd kick their ass right outa heaven! I couldn'
stand 'em!"
Uncle John said, "I got a feelin' I'm bringin' bad luck to my own folks. I got a feelin'
I oughta go away an' let 'em be. I ain't comf'table bein' like this."
Casy said quickly, "I know this—a man got to do what he got to do. I can't tell you.
I can't tell you. I don't think they's luck or bad luck. On'y one thing in this worl' I'm
sure of, an' that's I'm sure nobody got a right to mess with a fella's life. He got to do it
all hisself. Help him, maybe, but not tell him what to do."
Uncle John said disappointedly, "Then you don' know'?"
"I don' know."
"You think it was a sin to let my wife die like that?"
"Well," said Casy, "for anybody else it was a mistake, but if you think it was a sin—
then it's a sin. A fella builds his own sins right up from the groun'."
"I got to give that goin'-over," said Uncle John, and he rolled on his back and lay
with his knees pulled up.
The truck moved on over the hot earth, and the hours passed. Ruthie and Winfield
went to sleep. Connie loosened a blanket from the load and covered himself and Rose
of Sharon with it, and in the heat they struggled together, and held their breaths. And
after a time Connie threw off the blanket and the hot tunneling wind felt cool on their
wet bodies.
On the back of the truck Ma lay on the mattress beside Granma, and she could not
see with her eyes, but she could feel the struggling body and the struggling heart; and
the sobbing breath was in her ear. And Ma said over and over, "All right. It's gonna be
all right." And she said hoarsely, "You know the family got to get acrost. You know
that."
Uncle John called, "You all right?"
It was a moment before she answered. "All right. Guess I dropped off to sleep."
And after a time Granma was still, and Ma lay rigid beside her.
The night hours passed, and the dark was in against the truck. Sometimes cars
passed them, going west and away; and sometimes great trucks came up out of the
west and rumbled eastward. And the stars flowed down in a slow cascade over the
western horizon. It was near midnight when they neared Daggett, where the inspection
station is. The road was flood-lighted there, and a sign illuminated, "KEEP RIGHT
AND STOP." The officers loafed in the office, but they came out and stood under the
long covered shed when Tom pulled in. One officer put down the license number and
raised the hood.
Tom asked, "What's this here?"
"Agricultural inspection. We got to look over your stuff. Got any vegetables or
seeds?"
"No," said Tom.
"Well, we got to look over your stuff. You got to unload."
Now Ma climbed heavily down from the truck. Her face was swollen and her eyes
were hard. "Look, mister. We got a sick ol' lady. We got to get her to a doctor. We
can't wait." She seemed to fight with hysteria. "You can't make us wait."
"Yeah? Well, we got to look you over."
"I swear we ain't got anything!" Ma cried. "I swear it. An' Granma's awful sick."
"You don't look so good yourself," the officer said.
Ma pulled herself up the back of the truck, hoisted herself with huge strength.
"Look," she said.
The officer shot a flashlight beam up on the old shrunken face. "By God, she is," he
said. "You swear you got no seeds or fruits or vegetables, no corn, no oranges?"
"No, no. I swear it!"
"Then go ahead. You can get a doctor in Barstow. That's only eight miles. Go on
ahead."
Tom climbed in and drove on.
The officer turned to his companion. "I couldn' hold em."
"Maybe it was a bluff," said the other.
"Oh, Jesus, no! You should of seen that ol' woman's face. That wasn't no bluff."
Tom increased his speed to Barstow, and in the little town he stopped, got out, and
walked around the truck. Ma leaned out. "It's awright," she said. "I didn' wanta stop
there, fear we wouldn' get acrost."
"Yeah! But how's Granma?"
"She's awright—awright. Drive on. We got to get acrost." Tom shook his head and
walked back.
"Al," he said, "I'm gonna fill her up, an' then you drive some." He pulled to an allnight gas station and filled the tank and the radiator, and filled the crank case. Then Al
slipped under the wheel and Tom took the outside, with Pa in the middle. They drove
away into the darkness and the little hills near Barstow were behind them.
Tom said, "I don' know what's got into Ma. She's flighty as a dog with a flea in his
ear. Wouldn' a took long to look over the stuff. An' she says Granma's sick; an' now
she says Granma's awright. I can't figger her out. She ain't right. S'pose she wore her
brains out on the trip."
Pa said, "Ma's almost like she was when she was a girl. She was a wild one then.
She wasn' scairt of nothin'. I thought havin' all the kids an' workin' took it out a her, but
I guess it ain't. Christ! When she got that jack handle back there, I tell you I wouldn'
wanna be the fella took it away from her."
"I dunno what's got into her," Tom said. "Maybe she's jus' tar'd out."
Al said, "I won't be doin' no weepin' an' a-moanin' to get through. I got this
goddamn car on my soul."
Tom said, "Well, you done a damn good job a pickin'. We ain't had hardly no
trouble with her at all."
All night they bored through the hot darkness, and jackrabbits scuttled into the
lights and dashed away in long jolting leaps. And the dawn came up behind them when
the lights of Mojave were ahead. And the dawn showed high mountains to the west.
They filled with water and oil at Mojave and crawled into the mountains, and the dawn
was about them.
Tom said, "Jesus, the desert's past! Pa, Al, for Christ sakes! The desert's past!"
"I'm too goddamned tired to care," said Al.
"Want me to drive?"
"No, wait awhile."
They drove through Tehachapi in the morning glow, and the sun came up behind
them, and then—suddenly they saw the great valley below them. Al jammed on the
brake and stopped in the middle of the road, and, "Jesus Christ! Look!" he said. The
vineyards, the orchards, the great flat valley, green and beautiful, the trees set in rows,
and the farm houses.
And Pa said, "God Almighty!" The distant cities, the little towns in the orchard
land, and the morning sun, golden on the valley. A car honked behind them. Al pulled
to the side of the road and parked.
"I want ta look at her." The grain fields golden in the morning, and the willow lines,
the eucalyptus trees in rows.
Pa sighed, "I never knowed they was anything like her." The peach trees and the
walnut groves, and the dark green patches of oranges. And red roofs among the trees,
and barns—rich barns. Al got out and stretched his legs.
He called, "Ma—come look. We're there!"
Ruthie and Winfield scrambled down from the car, and then they stood, silent and
awestruck, embarrassed before the great valley. The distance was thinned with haze,
and the land grew softer and softer in the distance. A windmill flashed in the sun, and
its turning blades were like a little heliograph, far away. Ruthie and Winfield looked at
it, and Ruthie whispered, "It's California."
Winfield moved his lips silently over the syllables. "There's fruit," he said aloud.
Casy and Uncle John, Connie and Rose of Sharon climbed down. And they stood
silently. Rose of Sharon had started to brush her hair back, when she caught sight of
the valley and her hand dropped slowly to her side.
Tom said, "Where's Ma? I want Ma to see it. Look, Ma! Come here, Ma." Ma was
climbing slowly, stiffly, down the back board. Tom looked at her. "My God, Ma, you
sick?" Her face was stiff and putty-like, and her eyes seemed to have sunk deep into
her head, and the rims were red with weariness. Her feet touched the ground and she
braced herself by holding the truck-side.
Her voice was a croak. "Ya say we're acrost?"
Tom pointed to the great valley. "Look!"
She turned her head, and her mouth opened a little. Her fingers went to her throat
and gathered a little pinch of skin and twisted gently. "Thank God!" she said. "The
fambly's here." Her knees buckled and she sat down on the running board.
"You sick, Ma?"
"No, jus' tar'd."
"Didn' you get no sleep?"
"No."
"Was Granma bad?"
Ma looked down at her hands, lying together like tired lovers in her lap. "I wisht I
could wait an' not tell you. I wisht it could be all—nice."
Pa said, "Then Granma's bad."
Ma raised her eyes and looked over the valley. "Granma's dead."
They looked at her, all of them, and Pa asked, "When?"
"Before they stopped us las' night."
"So that's why you didn' want 'em to look."
"I was afraid we wouldn' get acrost," she said. "I tol' Granma we couldn' he'p her.
The fambly had ta get acrost. I tol' her, tol' her when she was a-dyin'. We couldn' stop
in the desert. There was the young ones—an' Rosasharn's baby. I tol' her." She put up
her hands and covered her face for a moment. "She can get buried in a nice green
place," Ma said softly. "Trees aroun' an' a nice place. She got to lay her head down in
California."
The family looked at Ma with a little terror at her strength.
Tom said, "Jesus Christ! You layin' there with her all night long!"
"The fambly hadda get acrost," Ma said miserably.
Tom moved close to put his hand on her shoulder.
"Don' touch me," she said. "I'll hol' up if you don' touch me. That'd get me."
Pa said, "We got to go on now. We got to go on down."
Ma looked up at him. "Can—can I set up front? I don' wanna go back there no
more—I'm tar'd. I'm awful tar'd."
They climbed back on the load, and they avoided the long stiff figure covered and
tucked in a comforter, even the head covered and tucked. They moved to their places
and tried to keep their eyes from it—from the hump on the comforter that would be the
nose, and the steep cliff that would be the jut of the chin. They tried to keep their eyes
away, and they could not. Ruthie and Winfield, crowded in a forward corner as far
away from the body as they could get, stared at the tucked figure.
And Ruthie whispered, "Tha's Granma, an' she's dead."
Winfield nodded solemnly. "She ain't breathin' at all. She's awful dead."
And Rose of Sharon said softly to Connie, "She was a-dyin' right when we—"
"How'd we know?" he reassured her.
Al climbed on the load to make room for Ma in the seat. And Al swaggered a little
because he was sorry. He plumped down beside Casy and Uncle John. "Well, she was
ol'. Guess her time was up," Al said. "Ever'body got to die." Casy and Uncle John
turned eyes expressionlessly on him and looked at him as though he were a curious
talking bush. "Well, ain't they?" he demanded. And the eyes looked away, leaving Al
sullen and shaken.
Casy said in wonder, "All night long, an' she was alone." And he said, "John, there's
a woman so great with love—she scares me. Makes me afraid an' mean."
John asked, "Was it a sin? Is they any part of it you might call a sin?"
Casy turned on him in astonishment, "A sin? No, there ain't no part of it that's a
sin."
"I ain't never done nothin' that wasn't part sin," said John, and he looked at the long
wrapped body.
Tom and Ma and Pa got into the front seat. Tom let the truck roll and started on
compression. And the heavy truck moved, snorting and jerking and popping down the
hill. The sun was behind them, and the valley golden and green before them. Ma shook
her head slowly from side to side. "It's purty," she said. "I wisht they could of saw it."
"I wisht so too," said Pa.
Tom patted the steering wheel under his hand. "They was too old," he said. "They
wouldn't of saw nothin' that's here. Grampa would a been a-seein' the Injuns an' the
prairie country when he was a young fella. An' Granma would a remembered an' seen
the first home she lived in. They was too ol'. Who's really seein' it is Ruthie an'
Winfiel'."
Pa said, "Here's Tommy talkin' like a growed-up man, talkin' like a preacher
almos'."
And Ma smiled sadly. "He is. Tommy's growed way up—way up so I can't get aholt
of 'im sometimes."
They popped down the mountain, twisting and looping, losing the valley
sometimes, and then finding it again. And the hot breath of the valley came up to them,
with hot green smells on it, and with resinous sage and tarweed smells. The crickets
crackled along the road. A rattlesnake crawled across the road and Tom hit it and broke
it and left it squirming.
Tom said, "I guess we got to go to the coroner, wherever he is. We got to get her
buried decent. How much money might be lef', Pa?"
"'Bout forty dollars," said Pa.
Tom laughed. "Jesus, are we gonna start clean! We sure ain't bringin' nothin' with
us." He chuckled a moment, and then his face straightened quickly. He pulled the visor
of his cap down low over his eyes. And the truck rolled down the mountain into the
great valley.