THE BOXCARS, TWELVE of them, stood end to end on a little flat beside the
stream. There were two rows of six each, the wheels removed. Up to the big sliding
doors slatted planks ran for cat-walks. They made good houses, water-tight and
draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car. No
windows, but the wide doors stood open. In some of the cars a canvas hung down in
the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary.
The Joads had one end of an end car. Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil
can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe. Even with the wide
door open, it was dark in the ends of the car. Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle
of the car.
"It's nice," she said. "It's almost nicer than anything we had 'cept the gov'ment
camp."
Each night she unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them
up again. And every day they went into the fields and picked the cotton, and every
night they had meat. On a Saturday they drove into Tulare, and they bought a tin stove
and new overalls for Al and Pa and Winfield and Uncle John, and they bought a dress
for Ma and gave Ma's best dress to Rose of Sharon.
"She's so big," Ma said. "Jus' a waste of good money to get her a new dress now."
The Joads had been lucky. They got in early enough to have a place in the boxcars.
Now the tents of the late-comers filled the little flat, and those who had the boxcars
were old-timers, and in a way aristocrats.
The narrow stream slipped by, out of the willows, and back into the willows again.
From each car a hard-beaten path went down to the stream. Between the cars the
clothes lines hung, and every day the lines were covered with drying clothes.
In the evening they walked back from the fields, carrying their folded cotton bags
under their arms. They went into the store which stood at the crossroads, and there
were many pickers in the store, buying their supplies.
"How much today?"
"We're doin' fine. We made three and a half today. Wisht she'd keep up. Them kids
is gettin' to be good pickers. Ma's worked 'em up a little bag for each. They couldn' tow
a growed-up bag. Dump into ours. Made bags outa a couple old shirts. Work fine."
And Ma went to the meat counter, her forefinger pressed against her lips, blowing
on her finger, thinking deeply,. "Might get some pork chops," she said. "How much?"
"Thirty cents a pound, ma'am."
"Well, lemme have three poun's. An' a nice piece a boilin' beef. My girl can cook it
tomorra. An' a bottle a milk for my girl. She dotes on milk. Gonna have a baby. Nurselady tol' her to eat lots a milk. Now, le's see, we got potatoes."
Pa came close, carrying a can of sirup in his hands. "Might get this here," he said.
"Might have some hotcakes."
Ma frowned. "Well—well, yes. Here, we'll take this here. Now—we got plenty
lard."
Ruthie came near, in her hands two large boxes of Cracker Jack, in her eyes a
brooding question, which on a nod or a shake of Ma's head might become tragedy or
joyous excitement. "Ma?" She held up the boxes, jerked them up and down to make
them attractive.
"Now you put them back—"
The tragedy began to form in Ruthie's eyes. Pa said, "They're on'y a nickel apiece.
Them little fellas worked good today."
"Well—" The excitement began to steal into Ruthie's eyes. "Awright."
Ruthie turned and fled. Halfway to the door she caught Winfield and rushed him out
the door, into the evening.
Uncle John fingered a pair of canvas gloves with yellow leather palms, tried them
on and took them off and laid them down. He moved gradually to the liquor shelves,
and he stood studying the labels on the bottles. Ma saw him, "Pa," she said, and
motioned with her head toward Uncle John.
Pa lounged over to him. "Gettin' thirsty, John?"
"No, I ain't."
"Jus' wait till cotton's done," said Pa. "Then you can go on a hell of a drunk."
"'Tain't sweatin' me none," Uncle John said. "I'm workin' hard an' sleepin' good. No
dreams nor nothin'."
"Jus' seen you sort of droolin' out at them bottles."
"I didn' hardly see 'em. Funny thing. I wanta buy stuff. Stuff I don't need. Like to git
one a them safety razors. Thought I'd like to have some a them gloves over there.
Awful cheap."
"Can't pick no cotton with gloves," said Pa.
"I know that. An' I don't need no safety razor, neither. Stuff settin' out there, you jus'
feel like buyin' it whether you need it or not."
Ma called, "Come on. We got ever'thing." She carried a bag. Uncle John and Pa
each took a package. Outside Ruthie and Winfield were waiting, their eyes strained,
their cheeks puffed and full of Cracker Jack.
"Won't eat no supper, I bet," Ma said.
People streamed toward the boxcar camp. The tents were lighted. Smoke poured
from the stovepipes. The Joads climbed up their cat-walk and into their end of the
boxcar. Rose of Sharon sat on a box beside the stove. She had a fire started, and the tin
stove was wine-colored with heat. "Did ya get milk?" she demanded.
"Yeah. Right here."
"Give it to me. I ain't had any sence noon."
"She thinks it's like medicine."
"That nurse-lady says so."
"You got potatoes ready?"
"Right there—peeled."
"We'll fry 'em," said Ma. "Got pork chops. Cut up them potatoes in the new fry pan.
And th'ow in a onion. You fellas go out an' wash, an' bring in a bucket a water.
Where's Ruthie an' Winfiel'? They oughta wash. They each got Cracker Jack," Ma told
Rose of Sharon. "Each got a whole box."
The men went out to wash in the stream. Rose of Sharon sliced the potatoes into the
frying pan and stirred them about with the knife point.
Suddenly the tarpaulin was thrust aside. A stout perspiring face looked in from the
other end of the car. "How'd you all make out, Mis' Joad?"
Ma swung around. "Why, evenin', Mis' Wainwright. We done good. Three an' a
half. Three fifty-seven, exact."
"We done four dollars."
"Well," said Ma. "'Course they's more of you."
"Yeah. Jonas is growin' up. Havin' pork chops, I see."
Winfield crept in through the door. "Ma!"
"Hush a minute. Yes, my men jus' loves pork chops."
"I'm cookin' bacon," said Mrs. Wainwright. "Can you smell it cookin'?"
"No—can't smell it over these here onions in the potatoes."
"She's burnin'!" Mrs. Wainwright cried, and her head jerked back.
"Ma," Winfield said.
"What? You sick from Cracker Jack?"
"Ma—Ruthie tol'."
"Tol' what?"
"'Bout Tom."
Ma stared. "Tol'?" Then she knelt in front of him. "Winfiel', who'd she tell?"
Embarrassment seized Winfield. He backed away. "Well, she on'y tol' a little bit."
"Winfiel'! Now you tell what she said."
"She—she didn' eat all her Cracker Jack. She kep' some, an' she et jus' one piece at
a time, slow, like she always done, an' she says, 'Bet you wisht you had some lef'."
"Winfiel'!" Ma demanded. "You tell now." She looked back nervously at the
curtain. "Rosasharn, you go over talk to Mis' Wainwright so she don' listen."
"How 'bout these here potatoes?"
"I'll watch 'em. Now you go. I don' want her listenin' at that curtain." The girl
shuffled heavily down the car and went around the side of the hung tarpaulin.
Ma said, "Now, Winfiel', you tell."
"Like I said, she et jus' one little piece at a time, an' she bust some in two so it'd las'
longer."
"Go on, hurry up."
"Well, some kids come aroun', an' 'course they tried to get some, but Ruthie, she jus'
nibbled an' nibbled, an' wouldn' give 'em none. So they got mad. An' one kid grabbed
her Cracker Jack box."
"Winfiel', you tell quick about the other."
"I am," he said. "So Ruthie got mad an' chased 'em, an' she fit one, an' then she fit
another, an' then one big girl up an' licked her. Hit 'er a good one. So then Ruthie cried,
an' she said she'd git her big brother, an' he'd kill that big girl. An' that big girl said, Oh,
yeah? Well, she got a big brother too." Winfield was breathless in his telling. "So then
they fit, an' that big girl hit Ruthie a good one, an' Ruthie said her brother'd kill that big
girl's brother. An' that big girl said how about if her brother kil't our brother. An'
then—an' then, Ruthie said our brother already kil't two fellas. An'—an'—that big girl
said, 'Oh, yeah! You're jus' a little smarty liar.' An' Ruthie said, 'Oh, yeah? Well, our
brother's a-hiding right now from killin' a fella, an' he can kill that big girl's brother
too. An' then they called names an' Ruthie throwed a rock, an' that big girl chased her,
an' I come home."
"Oh, my!" Ma said wearily. "Oh! My dear sweet Lord Jesus asleep in a manger!
What we goin' to do now?" She put her forehead in her hand and rubbed her eyes.
"What we gonna do now?" A smell of burning potatoes came from the roaring stove.
Ma moved automatically and turned them.
"Rosasharn!" Ma called. The girl appeared around the curtain. "Come watch this
here supper. Winfiel', you go out an' you fin' Ruthie an' bring her back here."
"Gonna whup her, Ma?" he asked hopefully.
"No. This here you couldn' do nothin' about. Why, I wonder, did she haf' to do it?
No. It won't do no good to whup her. Run now, an' find her an' bring her back."
Winfield ran for the car door, and he met the three men tramping up the cat-walk,
and he stood aside while they came in.
Ma said softly, "Pa, I got to talk to you. Ruthie tol' some kids how Tom's a-hidin'."
"What?"
"She tol'. Got in a fight an' tol'."
"Why, the little bitch!"
"No, she didn' know what she was a-doin'. Now look, Pa. I want you to stay here.
I'm goin' out an' try to fin' Tom an' tell him. I got to tell 'im to be careful. You stick
here, Pa, an' kinda watch out for things. I'll take 'im some dinner."
"Awright," Pa agreed.
"Don' you even mention to Ruthie what she done. I'll tell her."
At that moment Ruthie came in, with Winfield behind her. The little girl was
dirtied. Her mouth was sticky, and her nose still dripped a little blood from her fight.
She looked shamed and frightened. Winfield triumphantly followed her. Ruthie looked
fiercely about, but she went to a corner of the car and put her back in the corner. Her
shame and fierceness were blended.
"I tol' her what you done," Winfield said.
Ma was putting two chops and some fried potatoes on a tin plate. "Hush, Winfiel',"
she said. "They ain't no need to hurt her feelings no more'n what they're hurt."
Ruthie's body hurtled across the car. She grabbed Ma around the middle and buried
her head in Ma's stomach, and her strangled sobs shook her whole body. Ma tried to
loosen her, but the grubby fingers clung tight. Ma brushed the hair on the back of her
head gently, and she patted her shoulders. "Hush," she said. "You didn' know."
Ruthie raised her dirty, tear-stained, bloody face. "They stoled my Cracker Jack!"
she cried. "That big son-of-a-bitch of a girl, she belted me—" She went off into hard
crying again.
"Hush!" Ma said. "Don't talk like that. Here. Let go. I'm a-goin' now."
"Whyn't ya whup her, Ma? If she didn't git snotty with her Cracker Jack 'twouldn' a
happened. Go on, give her a whup."
"You jus' min' your business, mister," Ma said fiercely. "You'll git a whup yourself.
Now leggo, Ruthie."
Winfield retired to a rolled mattress, and he regarded the family cynically and dully.
And he put himself in a good position of defense, for Ruthie would attack him at the
first opportunity, and he knew it. Ruthie went quietly, heart-brokenly to the other side
of the car.
Ma put a sheet of newspaper over the tin plate. "I'm a-goin' now," she said.
"Ain't you gonna eat nothin' yourself?" Uncle John demanded.
"Later. When I come back. I wouldn' want nothin' now." Ma walked to the open
door; she steadied herself down the steep, cleated cat-walk.
On the stream side of the boxcars, the tents were pitched close together, their guy
ropes crossing one another, and the pegs of one at the canvas line of the next. The
lights shone through the cloth, and all the chimneys belched smoke. Men and women
stood in the doorways talking. Children ran feverishly about. Ma moved majestically
down the line of tents. Here and there she was recognized as she went by. "Evenin',
Mis' Joad."
"Evenin'."
"Takin' somepin out, Mis' Joad?"
"They's a frien'. I'm takin' back some bread."
She came at last to the end of the line of tents. She stopped and looked back. A
glow of light was on the camp, and the soft overtone of a multitude of speakers. Now
and then a harsher voice cut through. The smell of smoke filled the air. Someone
played a harmonica softly, trying for an effect, one phrase over and over.
Ma stepped in among the willows beside the stream. She moved off the trail and
waited, silently, listening to hear any possible follower. A man walked down the trail
toward the camp, boosting his suspenders and buttoning his jeans as he went. Ma sat
very still, and he passed on without seeing her. She waited five minutes and then she
stood up and crept on up the trail beside the stream. She moved quietly, so quietly that
she could hear the murmur of the water above her soft steps on the willow leaves. Trail
and stream swung to the left and then to the right again until they neared the highway.
In the gray starlight she could see the embankment and the black round hole of the
culvert where she always left Tom's food. She moved forward cautiously, thrust her
package into the hole, and took back the empty tin plate which was left there. She crept
back among the willows, forced her way into a thicket, and sat down to wait. Through
the tangle she could see the black hole of the culvert. She clasped her knees and sat
silently. In a few moments the thicket crept to life again. The field mice moved
cautiously over the leaves. A skunk padded heavily and unself-consciously down the
trail, carrying a faint effluvium with him. And then a wind stirred the willows
delicately, as though it tested them, and a shower of golden leaves coasted down to the
ground. Suddenly a gust boiled in and racked the trees, and a cricking downpour of
leaves fell. Ma could feel them on her hair and on her shoulders. Over the sky a plump
black cloud moved, erasing the stars. The fat drops of rain scattered down, splashing
loudly on the fallen leaves, and the cloud moved on and unveiled the stars again. Ma
shivered. The wind blew past and left the thicket quiet, but the rushing of the trees
went on down the stream. From back at the camp came the thin penetrating tone of a
violin feeling about for a tune.
Ma heard a stealthy step among the leaves far to her left, and she grew tense. She
released her knees and straightened her head the better to hear. The movement stopped,
and after a long moment began again. A vine rasped harshly on the dry leaves. Ma saw
a dark figure creep into the open and draw near to the culvert. The black round hole
was obscured for a moment, and then the figure moved back. She called softly, "Tom!"
The figure stood still, so still, so low to the ground that it might have been a stump.
She called again, "Tom, oh, Tom!" Then the figure moved.
"That you, Ma?"
"Right over here." She stood up and went to meet him.
"You shouldn' of came," he said.
"I got to see you, Tom. I got to talk to you."
"It's near the trail," he said. "Somebody might come by."
"Ain't you got a place, Tom?"
"Yeah—but if—well, s'pose somebody seen you with me—whole fambly'd be in a
jam."
"I got to, Tom."
"Then come along. Come quiet." He crossed the little stream, wading carelessly
through the water, and Ma followed him. He moved through the brush, out into a field
on the other side of the thicket, and along the plowed ground. The blackening stems of
the cotton were harsh against the ground, and a few fluffs of cotton clung to the stems.
A quarter of a mile they went along the edge of the field, and then he turned into the
brush again. He approached a great mound of wild blackberry bushes, leaned over and
pulled a mat of vines aside. "You got to crawl in," he said.
Ma went down on her hands and knees. She felt sand under her, and then the black
inside of the mound no longer touched her, and she felt Tom's blanket on the ground.
He arranged the vines in place again. It was lightless in the cave.
"Where are you, Ma?"
"Here. Right here. Talk soft, Tom."
"Don't worry. I been livin' like a rabbit some time."
She heard him unwrap his tin plate.
"Pork chops," she said. "And fry potatoes."
"God Awmighty, an' still warm."
Ma could not see him at all in the blackness, but she could hear him chewing,
tearing at the meat and swallowing.
"It's a pretty good hide-out," he said.
Ma said uneasily, "Tom—Ruthie tol' about you." She heard him gulp.
"Ruthie? What for?"
"Well, it wasn' her fault. Got in a fight, an' says her brother'll lick that other girl's
brother. You know how they do. An' she tol' that her brother killed a man an' was
hidin'."
Tom was chuckling. "With me I was always gonna get Uncle John after 'em, but he
never would do it. That's jus' kid talk, Ma. That's awright."
"No, it ain't," Ma said. "Them kids'll tell it aroun' an' then the folks'll hear, an' they'll
tell aroun', an' pretty soon, well, they liable to get men out to look, jus' in case. Tom,
you got to go away."
"That's what I said right along. I was always scared somebody'd see you put stuff in
that culvert, an' then they'd watch."
"I know. But I wanted you near. I was scared for you. I ain't seen you. Can't see you
now. How's your face?"
"Gettin' well quick."
"Come clost, Tom. Let me feel it. Come clost." He crawled near. Her reaching hand
found his head in the blackness and her fingers moved down to his nose, and then over
his left cheek. "You got a bad scar, Tom. An' your nose is all crooked."
"Maybe that's a good thing. Nobody wouldn't know me, maybe. If my prints wasn't
on record, I'd be glad." He went back to his eating.
"Hush," she said. "Listen!"
"It's the wind, Ma. Jus' the wind." The gust poured down the stream, and the trees
rustled under its passing.
She crawled close to his voice. "I wanta touch ya again, Tom. It's like I'm blin', it's
so dark. I wanta remember, even if it's on'y my fingers that remember. You got to go
away, Tom."
"Yeah! I knowed it from the start."
"We made purty good," she said. "I been squirrelin' money away. Hol' out your
han', Tom. I got seven dollars here."
"I ain't gonna take ya money," he said. "I'll get 'long all right."
"Hol' out ya han', Tom. I ain't gonna sleep none if you got no money. Maybe you
got to take a bus, or somepin. I want you should go a long ways off, three-four hunderd
miles."
"I ain't gonna take it."
"Tom," she said sternly. "You take this money. You hear me? You got no right to
cause me pain."
"You ain't playin' fair," he said.
"I thought maybe you could go to a big city. Los Angeles, maybe. They wouldn'
never look for you there."
"Hm-m," he said. "Lookie, Ma. I been all day an' all night hidin' alone. Guess who I
been thinkin' about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin'
what he said, an' I can remember—all of it. Says one time he went out in the
wilderness to find his own soul, an' he foun' he didn' have no soul that was his'n. Says
he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good,
'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole.
Funny how I remember. Didn' think I was even listenin'. But I know now a fella ain't
no good alone."
"He was a good man," Ma said.
Tom went on, "He spouted out some Scripture once, an' it didn' soun' like no
hellfire Scripture. He tol' it twicet, an' I remember it. Says it's from the Preacher."
"How's it go, Tom?"
"Goes, 'Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor.
For if they fall, the one will lif' up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he
falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.' That's part of her."
"Go on," Ma said. "Go on, Tom."
"Jus' a little bit more. 'Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can
one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a
three-fold cord is not quickly broken.'"
"An' that's Scripture?"
"Casy said it was. Called it the Preacher."
"Hush—listen."
"On'y the wind, Ma. I know the wind. An' I got to thinkin', Ma—most of the
preachin' is about the poor we shall have always with us, an' if you got nothin', why,
jus' fol' your hands an' to hell with it, you gonna git ice cream on gol' plates when
you're dead. An' then this here Preacher says two get a better reward for their work."
"Tom," she said. "What you aimin' to do?"
He was quiet for a long time. "I been thinkin' how it was in that gov'ment camp,
how our folks took care a theirselves, an' if they was a fight they fixed it theirself; an'
they wasn't no cops wagglin' their guns, but they was better order than them cops ever
give. I been a-wonderin' why we can't do that all over. Throw out the cops that ain't our
people. All work together for our own thing—all farm our own lan'."
"Tom," Ma repeated, "what you gonna do?"
"What Casy done," he said.
"But they killed him."
"Yeah," said Tom. "He didn' duck quick enough. He wasn' doing nothin' against the
law, Ma. I been thinkin' a hell of a lot, thinkin' about our people livin' like pigs, an' the
good rich lan' layin' fallow, or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hunderd
thousan' good farmers is starvin'. An' I been wonderin' if all our folks got together an'
yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of 'em at the Hooper ranch—"
Ma said, "Tom, they'll drive you, an' cut you down like they done to young Floyd."
"They gonna drive me anyways. They drivin' all our people."
"You don't aim to kill nobody, Tom?"
"No. I been thinkin', long as I'm a outlaw anyways, maybe I could—Hell, I ain't
thought it out clear, Ma. Don' worry me now. Don' worry me."
They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, "How'm I gonna know 'bout
you? They might kill ya an' I wouldn' know. They might hurt ya. How'm I gonna
know?"
Tom laughed uneasily, "Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain't got a soul of his
own, but on'y a piece of a big one—an' then—"
"Then what, Tom?"
"Then it don' matter. Then I'll be all aroun' in the dark. I'll be ever'where—wherever
you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever
they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I'll be in the way guys
yell when they're mad an'—I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they
know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses
they build—why, I'll be there. See? God, I'm talkin' like Casy. Comes of thinkin' about
him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes."
"I don' un'erstan'," Ma said. "I don' really know."
"Me neither," said Tom. "It's jus' stuff I been thinkin' about. Get thinkin' a lot when
you ain't movin' aroun'. You got to get back, Ma."
"You take the money then."
He was silent for a moment. "Awright," he said.
"An', Tom, later—when it's blowed over, you'll come back. You'll find us?"
"Sure," he said. "Now you better go. Here, gimme your han'." He guided her toward
the entrance. Her fingers clutched his wrist. He swept the vines aside and followed her
out. "Go up to the field till you come to a sycamore on the edge, an' then cut acrost the
stream. Good-by."
"Good-by," she said, and she walked quickly away. Her eyes were wet and burning,
but she did not cry. Her footsteps were loud and careless on the leaves as she went
through the brush. And as she went, out of the dim sky the rain began to fall, big drops
and few, splashing on the dry leaves heavily. Ma stopped and stood still in the dripping
thicket. She turned about—took three steps back toward the mound of vines; and then
she turned quickly and went back toward the boxcar camp. She went straight out to the
culvert and climbed up on the road. The rain had passed now, but the sky was overcast.
Behind her on the road she heard footsteps, and she turned nervously. The blinking of
a dim flashlight played on the road. Ma turned back and started for home. In a moment
a man caught up with her. Politely, he kept his light on the ground and did not play it
in her face.
"Evenin'," he said.
Ma said, "Howdy."
"Looks like we might have a little rain."
"I hope not. Stop the pickin'. We need the pickin'."
"I need the pickin', too. You live at the camp there?"
"Yes, sir." Their footsteps beat on the road together.
"I got twenty acres of cotton. Little late, but it's ready now. Thought I'd go down
and try to get some pickers."
"You'll get 'em awright. Season's near over."
"Hope so. My place is only a mile up that way."
"Six of us," said Ma. "Three men an' me an' two little fellas."
"I'll put out a sign. Two miles—this road."
"We'll be there in the mornin'."
"I hope it don't rain."
"Me too," said Ma. "Twenty acres won' las' long."
"The less it lasts the gladder I'll be. My cotton's late. Didn' get it in till late."
"What you payin', mister?"
"Ninety cents."
"We'll pick. I hear fellas say nex' year it'll be seventy-five or even sixty."
"That's what I hear."
"They'll be trouble," said Ma.
"Sure. I know. Little fella like me can't do anything. The Association sets the rate,
and we got to mind. If we don't—we ain't got a farm. Little fella gets crowded all the
time."
They came to the camp. "We'll be there," Ma said. "Not much pickin' lef'." She
went to the end boxcar and climbed the cleated walk. The low light of the lantern made
gloomy shadows in the car. Pa and Uncle John and an elderly man squatted against the
car wall.
"Hello," Ma said. "Evenin', Mr. Wainwright."
He raised a delicately chiseled face. His eyes were deep under the ridges of his
brows. His hair was blue-white and fine. A patina of silver beard covered his jaws and
chin. "Evenin', ma'am," he said.
"We got pickin' tomorra," Ma observed. "Mile north. Twenty acres."
"Better take the truck, I guess," Pa said. "Get in more pickin'."
Wainwright raised his head eagerly. "S'pose we can pick?"
"Why, sure. I walked a piece with the fella. He was comin' to get pickers."
"Cotton's nearly gone. Purty thin, these here seconds. Gonna be hard to make a
wage on the seconds. Got her pretty clean the fust time."
"Your folks could maybe ride with us," Ma said. "Split the gas."
"Well—that's frien'ly of you, ma'am."
"Saves us both," said Ma.
Pa said, "Mr. Wainwright—he's got a worry he come to us about. We was a-talkin'
her over."
"What's the matter?"
Wainwright looked down at the floor. "Our Aggie," he said. "She's a big girl—near
sixteen, an' growed up."
"Aggie's a pretty girl," said Ma.
"Listen 'im out," Pa said.
"Well, her an' your boy Al, they're a-walkin' out ever' night. An' Aggie's a good
healthy girl that oughta have a husban', else she might git in trouble. We never had no
trouble in our family. But what with us bein' so poor off, now, Mis' Wainwright an' me,
we got to worryin'. S'pose she got in trouble?"
Ma rolled down a mattress and sat on it. "They out now?" she asked.
"Always out," said Wainwright. "Ever' night."
"Hm. Well, Al's a good boy. Kinda figgers he's a dunghill rooster these days, but
he's a good steady boy. I couldn' want for a better boy."
"Oh, we ain't complainin' about Al as a fella! We like him. But what scares Mis'
Wainwright an' me—well, she's a growed-up woman-girl. An' what if we go away, or
you go away, an' we find out Aggie's in trouble? We ain't had no shame in our family."
Ma said softly, "We'll try an' see that we don't put no shame on you."
He stood up quickly. "Thank you, ma'am. Aggie's a growed-up woman-girl. She's a
good girl—jes' as nice an' good. We'll sure thank you, ma'am, if you'll keep shame
from us. It ain't Aggie's fault. She's growed up."
"Pa'll talk to Al," said Ma. "Or if Pa won't, I will."
Wainwright said, "Good night, then, an' we sure thank ya." He went around the end
of the curtain. They could hear him talking softly in the other end of the car, explaining
the result of his embassy.
Ma listened a moment, and then, "You fellas," she said. "Come over an' set here."
Pa and Uncle John got heavily up from their squats. They sat on the mattress beside
Ma.
"Where's the little fellas?"
Pa pointed to a mattress in the corner. "Ruthie, she jumped Winfiel' an' bit 'im.
Made 'em both lay down. Guess they're asleep. Rosasharn, she went to set with a lady
she knows."
Ma sighed. "I foun' Tom," she said softly. "I—sent 'im away. Far off."
Pa nodded slowly. Uncle John dropped his chin on his chest. "Couldn' do nothin'
else," Pa said. "Think he could, John?"
Uncle John looked up. "I can't think nothin' out," he said. "Don' seem like I'm
hardly awake no more."
"Tom's a good boy," Ma said; and then she apologized, "I didn' mean no harm asayin' I'd talk to Al."
"I know," Pa said quietly. "I ain't no good any more. Spen' all my time a-thinkin'
how it use' ta be. Spen' all my time thinkin' of home, an' I ain't never gonna see it no
more."
"This here's purtier—better lan'," said Ma.
"I know. I never even see it, thinkin' how the willow's los' its leaves now.
Sometimes figgerin' to mend that hole in the south fence. Funny! Woman takin' over
the fambly. Woman sayin' we'll do this here, an' we'll go there. An' I don' even care."
"Woman can change better'n a man," Ma said soothingly. "Woman got all her life in
her arms. Man got it all in his head. Don' you mind. Maybe—well, maybe nex' year we
can get a place."
"We got nothin', now," Pa said. "Comin' a long time—no work, no crops. What we
gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat? An' I tell you Rosasharn ain't so far
from due. Git so I hate to think. Go diggin' back to a ol' time to keep from thinkin'.
Seems like our life's over an' done."
"No, it ain't," Ma smiled. "It ain't, Pa. An' that's one more thing a woman knows. I
noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks—baby born an' a man dies, an' that's a jerk—gets a
farm an' loses his farm, an' that's a jerk. Woman, it's all one flow, like a stream, little
eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on. Woman looks at it like that. We
ain't gonna die out. People is goin' on—changin' a little, maybe, but goin' right on."
"How can you tell?" Uncle John demanded. "What's to keep ever'thing from
stoppin'; all the folks from jus' gettin' tired an' layin' down?"
Ma considered. She rubbed the shiny back of one hand with the other, pushed the
fingers of her right hand between the fingers of her left. "Hard to say," she said.
"Ever'thing we do—seems to me is aimed right at goin' on. Seems that way to me.
Even gettin' hungry—even bein' sick; some die, but the rest is tougher. Jus' try to live
the day, jus' the day."
Uncle John said, "If on'y she didn' die that time—"
"Jus' live the day," Ma said. "Don' worry yaself."
"They might be a good year nex' year, back home," said Pa.
Ma said, "Listen!"
There were creeping steps on the cat-walk, and then Al came in past the curtain.
"Hullo," he said. "I thought you'd be sleepin' by now."
"Al," Ma said. "We're a-talkin'. Come set here."
"Sure—O.K. I wanta talk too. I'll hafta be goin' away pretty soon now."
"You can't. We need you here. Why you got to go away?"
"Well, me an' Aggie Wainwright, we figgers to get married, an' I'm gonna git a job
in a garage, an' we'll have a rent' house for a while, an!—" He looked up fiercely.
"Well, we are, an' they ain't nobody can stop us!"
They were staring at him. "Al," Ma said at last, "we're glad. We're awful glad,"
"You are?"
"Why, 'course we are. You're a growed man. You need a wife. But don' go right
now, Al."
"I promised Aggie," he said. "We got to go. We can't stan' this no more."
"Jus' stay till spring," Ma begged. "Jus' till spring. Won't you stay till spring? Who'd
drive the truck?"
"Well—"
Mrs. Wainwright put her head around the curtain. "You heard yet?" she demanded.
"Yeah! Jus' heard."
"Oh, my! I wisht—I wisht we had a cake. I wisht we had—a cake or somepin."
"I'll set on some coffee an' make up some pancakes," Ma said. "We got sirup."
"Oh, my!" Mrs. Wainwright said. "Why—well. Look, I'll bring some sugar. We'll
put sugar in them pancakes."
Ma broke twigs into the stove, and the coals from the dinner cooking started them
blazing. Ruthie and Winfield came out of their bed like hermit crabs from shells. For a
moment they were careful; they watched to see whether they were still criminals.
When no one noticed them, they grew bold. Ruthie hopped all the way to the door and
back on one foot, without touching the wall.
Ma was pouring flour into a bowl when Rose of Sharon climbed the cat-walk. She
steadied herself and advanced cautiously. "What's the matter?" she asked.
"Why, it's news!" Ma cried. "We're gonna have a little party 'count a Al an' Aggie
Wainwright is gonna get married."
Rose of Sharon stood perfectly still. She looked slowly at Al, who stood there
flustered and embarrassed.
Mrs. Wainwright shouted from the other end of the car, "I'm puttin' a fresh dress on
Aggie. I'll be right over."
Rose of Sharon turned slowly. She went back to the wide door, and she crept down
the cat-walk. Once on the ground, she moved slowly toward the stream and the trail
that went beside it. She took the way Ma had gone earlier—into the willows. The wind
blew more steadily now, and the bushes whished steadily. Rose of Sharon went down
on her knees and crawled deep into the brush. The berry vines cut her face and pulled
at her hair, but she didn't mind. Only when she felt the bushes touching her all over did
she stop. She stretched out on her back. And she felt the weight of the baby inside of
her.
IN THE LIGHTLESS CAR, Ma stirred, and then she pushed the blanket back and
got up. At the open door of the car the gray starlight penetrated a little. Ma walked to
the door and stood looking out. The stars were paling in the east. The wind blew softly
over the willow thickets, and from the little stream came the quiet talking of the water.
Most of the camp was still asleep, but in front of one tent a little fire burned, and
people were standing about it, warming themselves. Ma could see them in the light of
the new dancing fire as they stood facing the flames, rubbing their hands; and then they
turned their backs and held their hands behind them. For a long moment Ma looked
out, and she held her hands clasped in front of her. The uneven wind whisked up and
passed, and a bite of frost was in the air. Ma shivered and rubbed her hands together.
She crept back and fumbled for the matches, beside the lantern. The shade screeched
up. She lighted the wick, watched it burn blue for a moment and then put up its yellow,
delicately curved ring of light. She carried the lantern to the stove and set it down
while she broke the brittle dry willowy twigs into the fire box. In a moment the fire
was roaring up the chimney.
Rose of Sharon rolled heavily over and sat up. "I'll git right up," she said.
"Whyn't you lay a minute till it warms?" Ma asked.
"No, I'll git."
Ma filled the coffee pot from the bucket and set it on the stove, and she put on the
frying pan, deep with fat, to get hot for the pones. "What's over you?" she said softly.
"I'm a-goin' out," Rose of Sharon said.
"Out where?"
"Goin' out to pick cotton."
"You can't," Ma said. "You're too far along."
"No, I ain't. An' I'm a-goin'."
Ma measured coffee into the water. "Rosasharn, you wasn't to the pancakes las'
night." The girl didn't answer. "What you wanta pick cotton for?" Still no answer. "Is it
'cause of Al an' Aggie?" This time Ma looked closely at her daughter. "Oh. Well, you
don' need to pick."
"I'm goin'."
"Awright, but don' you strain yourself."
"Git up, Pa! Wake up, git up!"
Pa blinked and yawned. "Ain't slep' out," he moaned. "Musta been on to eleven
o'clock when we went down."
"Come on, git up, all a you, an' wash."
The inhabitants of the car came slowly to life, squirmed up out of the blankets,
writhed into their clothes. Ma sliced salt pork into her second frying pan. "Git out an'
wash," she commanded.
A light sprang up in the other end of the car. And there came the sound of the
breaking of twigs from the Wainwright end. "Mis' Joad," came the call. "We're gettin'
ready. We'll be ready."
Al grumbled, "What we got to be up so early for?"
"It's on'y twenty acres," Ma said. "Got to get there. Ain't much cotton lef'. Got to be
there 'fore she's picked." Ma rushed them dressed, rushed the breakfast into them.
"Come on, drink your coffee," she said. "Got to start."
"We can't pick no cotton in the dark, Ma."
"We can be there when it gets light."
"Maybe it's wet."
"Didn' rain enough. Come on now, drink your coffee. Al, soon's you're through,
better get the engine runnin'."
She called, "You near ready, Mis' Wainwright?"
"Jus' eatin'. Be ready in a minute."
Outside, the camp had come to life. Fires burned in front of the tents. The
stovepipes from the boxcars spurted smoke.
Al tipped up his coffee and got a mouthful of grounds. He went down the cat-walk
spitting them out.
"We're awready, Mis' Wainwright," Ma called. She turned to Rose of Sharon. She
said, "You got to stay."
The girl set her jaw. "I'm a-goin," she said. "Ma, I got to go."
"Well, you got no cotton sack. You can't pull no sack."
"I'll pick into your sack."
"I wisht you wouldn'."
"I'm a-goin'."
Ma sighed. "I'll keep my eye on you. Wisht we could have a doctor." Rose of
Sharon moved nervously about the car. She put on a light coat and took it off. "Take a
blanket," Ma said. "Then if you wanta res', you can keep warm." They heard the truck
motor roar up behind the boxcar. "We gonna be first out," Ma said exultantly.
"Awright, get your sacks. Ruthie, don' you forget them shirts I fixed for you to pick
in."
Wainwrights and Joads climbed into the truck in the dark. The dawn was coming,
but it was slow and pale.
"Turn lef'," Ma told Al. "They'll be a sign out where we're goin'." They drove along
the dark road. And other cars followed them, and behind, in the camp, the cars were
being started, the families piling in; and the cars pulled out on the highway and turned
left.
A piece of cardboard was tied to a mailbox on the righthand side of the road, and on
it, printed with blue crayon, "Cotton Pickers Wanted." Al turned into the entrance and
drove out to the barnyard. And the barnyard was full of cars already. An electric globe
on the end of the white barn lighted a group of men and women standing near the
scales, their bags rolled under their arms. Some of the women wore the bags over their
shoulders and crossed in front.
"We ain't so early as we thought," said Al. He pulled the truck against a fence and
parked. The families climbed down and went to join the waiting group, and more cars
came in from the road and parked, and more families joined the group. Under the light
on the barn end, the owner signed them in.
"Hawley?" he said. "H-a-w-l-e-y? How many?"
"Four. Will—"
"Will."
"Benton—"
"Benton."
"Amelia—"
"Amelia."
"Claire—"
"Claire. Who's next? Carpenter? How many?"
"Six."
He wrote them in the book, with a space left for the weights. "Got your bags? I got a
few. Cost you a dollar." And the cars poured into the yard. The owner pulled his sheeplined leather jacket up around his throat. He looked at the driveway apprehensively.
"This twenty isn't gonna take long to pick with all these people," he said.
Children were climbing into the big cotton trailer, digging their toes into the
chicken-wire sides. "Git off there," the owner cried. "Come on down. You'll tear that
wire loose." And the children climbed slowly down, embarrassed and silent. The gray
dawn came. "I'll have to take a tare for dew," the owner said. "Change it when the sun
comes out. All right, go out when you want. Light enough to see."
The people moved quickly out into the cotton field and took their rows. They tied
the bags to their waists and they slapped their hands together to warm stiff fingers that
had to be nimble. The dawn colored over the eastern hills, and the wide line moved
over the rows. And from the highway the cars still moved in and parked in the
barnyard until it was full, and they parked along the road on both sides. The wind blew
briskly across the field. "I don't know how you all found out," the owner said. "There
must be a hell of a grapevine. The twenty won't last till noon. What name? Hume?
How many?"
The line of people moved out across the field, and the strong steady west wind blew
their clothes. Their fingers flew to the spilling bolls, and flew to the long sacks
growing heavy behind them.
Pa spoke to the man in the row to his right. "Back home we might get rain out of a
wind like this. Seems a little mite frosty for rain. How long you been out here?" He
kept his eyes down on his work as he spoke.
His neighbor didn't look up. "I been here nearly a year."
"Would you say it was gonna rain?"
"Can't tell, an' that ain't no insult, neither. Folks that lived here all their life can't tell.
If the rain can git in the way of a crop, it'll rain. Tha's what they say out here."
Pa looked quickly at the western hills. Big gray clouds were coasting over the ridge,
riding the wind swiftly. "Them looks like rain-heads," he said.
His neighbor stole a squinting look. "Can't tell," he said. And all down the line of
rows the people looked back at the clouds. And then they bent lower to their work, and
their hands flew to the cotton. They raced at the picking, raced against time and cotton
weight, raced against the rain and against each other—only so much cotton to pick,
only so much money to be made. They came to the other side of the field and ran to get
a new row. And now they faced into the wind, and they could see the high gray clouds
moving over the sky toward the rising sun. And more cars parked along the roadside,
and new pickers came to be checked in. The line of people moved frantically across the
field, weighed at the end, marked their cotton, checked the weights into their own
books, and ran for new rows.
At eleven o'clock the field was picked and the work was done. The wire-sided
trailers were hooked on behind wire-sided trucks, and they moved out to the highway
and drove away to the gin. The cotton fluffed out through the chicken wire and little
clouds of cotton blew through the air, and rags of cotton caught and waved on the
weeds beside the road. The pickers clustered disconsolately back to the barnyard and
stood in line to be paid off.
"Hume, James. Twenty-two cents. Ralph, thirty cents. Joad, Thomas, ninety cents.
Winfield, fifteen cents." The money lay in rolls, silver and nickels and pennies. And
each man looked in his own book as he was being paid. "Wainwright, Agnes, thirtyfour cents. Tobin, sixty-three cents." The line moved past slowly. The families went
back to their cars, silently. And they drove slowly away.
Joads and Wainwrights waited in the truck for the driveway to clear. And as they
waited, the first drops of rain began to fall. Al put his hand out of the cab to feel them.
Rose of Sharon sat in the middle, and Ma on the outside. The girl's eyes were lusterless
again.
"You shouldn' of came," Ma said. "You didn' pick more'n ten-fifteen pounds." Rose
of Sharon looked down at her great bulging belly, and she didn't reply. She shivered
suddenly and held her head high. Ma, watching her closely, unrolled her cotton bag,
spread it over Rose of Sharon's shoulders, and drew her close.
At last the way was clear. Al started his motor and drove out into the highway. The
big infrequent drops of rain lanced down and splashed on the road, and as the truck
moved along, the drops became smaller and close. Rain pounded on the cab of the
truck so loudly that it could be heard over the pounding of the old worn motor. On the
truck bed the Wainwrights and Joads spread their cotton bags over their heads and
shoulders.
Rose of Sharon shivered violently against Ma's arm, and Ma cried, "Go faster, Al.
Rosasharn got a chill. Gotta get her feet in hot water."
Al speeded the pounding motor, and when he came to the boxcar camp, he drove
down close to the red cars. Ma was spouting orders before they were well stopped.
"Al," she commanded, "you an' John an' Pa go into the willows an' c'lect all the dead
stuff you can. We got to keep warm."
"Wonder if the roof leaks."
"No, I don' think so. Be nice an' dry, but we got to have wood. Got to keep warm.
Take Ruthie an' Winfiel' too. They can get twigs. This here girl ain't well." Ma got out,
and Rose of Sharon tried to follow, but her knees buckled and she sat down heavily on
the running board.
Fat Mrs. Wainwright saw her. "What's a matter? Her time come?"
"No, I don' think so," said Ma. "Got a chill. Maybe took col'. Gimme a han', will
you?" The two women supported Rose of Sharon. After a few steps her strength came
back—her legs took her weight.
"I'm awright, Ma," she said. "It was jus' a minute there."
The older women kept hands on her elbows. "Feet in hot water," Ma said wisely.
They helped her up the cat-walk and into the boxcar.
"You rub her," Mrs. Wainwright said. "I'll get a far' goin'." She used the last of the
twigs and built up a blaze in the stove. The rain poured now, scoured at the roof of the
car.
Ma looked up at it. "Thank God we got a tight roof," she said. "Them tents leaks, no
matter how good. Jus' put on a little water, Mis' Wainwright."
Rose of Sharon lay still on a mattress. She let them take off her shoes and rub her
feet. Mrs. Wainwright bent over her. "You got pain?" she demanded.
"No. Jus' don' feel good. Jus' feel bad."
"I got pain killer an' salts," Mrs. Wainwright said. "You're welcome to 'em if you
want 'em. Perfec'ly welcome."
The girl shivered violently. "Cover me up, Ma. I'm col'." Ma brought all the
blankets and piled them on top of her. The rain roared down on the roof.
Now the wood-gatherers returned, their arms piled high with sticks and their hats
and coats dripping. "Jesus, she's wet," Pa said. "Soaks you in a minute."
Ma said, "Better go back an' get more. Burns up awful quick. Be dark purty soon."
Ruthie and Winfield dripped in and threw their sticks on the pile. They turned to go
again. "You stay," Ma ordered. "Stan' up close to the fire an' get dry."
The afternoon was silver with rain, the roads glittered with water. Hour by hour the
cotton plants seemed to blacken and shrivel. Pa and Al and Uncle John made trip after
trip into the thickets and brought back loads of dead wood. They piled it near the door,
until the heap of it nearly reached the ceiling, and at last they stopped and walked
toward the stove. Streams of water ran from their hats to their shoulders. The edges of
their coats dripped and their shoes squished as they walked.
"Awright, now, get off them clothes," Ma said. "I got some nice coffee for you
fellas. An' you got dry overhalls to put on. Don' stan' there."
The evening came early. In the boxcars the families huddled together, listening to
the pouring water on the roofs.