IN THE WEEDPATCH CAMP, on an evening when the long, barred clouds hung
over the set sun and inflamed their edges, the Joad family lingered after their supper.
Ma hesitated before she started to do the dishes.
"We got to do somepin," she said. And she pointed at Winfield. "Look at 'im," she
said. And when they stared at the little boy, "He's a-jerkin' an' a-twistin' in his sleep.
Lookut his color." The members of the family looked at the earth again in shame.
"Fried dough," Ma said. "One month we been here. An' Tom had five days' work. An'
the rest of you scrabblin' out ever' day, an' no work. An' scairt to talk. An' the money
gone. You're scairt to talk it out. Ever' night you jes' eat, then you get wanderin' away.
Can't bear to talk it out. Well, you got to. Rosasharn ain't far from due, an' lookut her
color. You got to talk it out. Now don't none of you get up till we figger somepin out.
One day' more grease an' two days' flour, an' ten potatoes. You set here an' get busy!"
They looked at the ground. Pa cleaned his thick nails with his pocket knife. Uncle
John picked at a splinter on the box he sat on. Tom pinched his lower lip and pulled it
away from his teeth.
He released his lip and said softly, "We been a-lookin', Ma. Been walkin' out sence
we can't use the gas no more. Been goin' in ever' gate, walkin' up to ever' house, even
when we knowed they wasn't gonna be nothin'. Puts a weight on ya. Goin' out lookin'
for somepin you know you ain't gonna find."
Ma said fiercely, "You ain't got the right to get discouraged. This here fambly's
goin' under. You jus' ain't got the right."
Pa inspected his scraped nail. "We gotta go," he said. "We didn' wanta go. It's nice
here, an' folks is nice here. We're feared we'll have to go live in one a them
Hoovervilles."
"Well, if we got to, we got to. First thing is, we got to eat."
Al broke in. "I got a tankful a gas in the truck. I didn' let nobody get into that."
Tom smiled. "This here Al got a lot of sense along with he's randy-pandy."
"Now you figger," Ma said. "I ain't watchin' this here fambly starve no more. One
day' more grease. That's what we got. Come time for Rosasharn to lay in, she got to be
fed up. You figger!"
"This here hot water an' toilets—" Pa began.
"Well, we can't eat no toilets."
Tom said, "They was a fella come by today lookin' for men to go to Marysville.
Pickin' fruit."
"Well, why don' we go to Marysville?" Ma demanded.
"I dunno," said Tom. "Didn' seem right, somehow. He was so anxious. Wouldn' say
how much the pay was. Said he didn' know exactly."
Ma said, "We're a-goin' to Marysville. I don' care what the pay is. We're a-goin'."
"It's too far," said Tom. "We ain't got the money for gasoline. We couldn' get there.
Ma, you say we got to figger. I ain't doin' nothin' but figger the whole time."
Uncle John said, "Feller says they's cotton a-comin' in up north, near a place called
Tulare. That ain't very far, the feller says."
"Well, we got to git goin', an' goin' quick. I ain't a-settin' here no longer, no matter
how nice." Ma took up her bucket and walked toward the sanitary unit for hot water.
"Ma gets tough," Tom said. "I seen her a-gettin' mad quite a piece now. She jus'
boils up."
Pa said with relief, "Well, she brang it into the open, anyways. I been layin' at night
a-burnin' my brains up. Now we can talk her out, anyways."
Ma came back with her bucket of steaming water. "Well," she demanded, "figger
anything out?"
"Jus' workin' her over," said Tom. "Now s'pose we jus' move up north where that
cotton's at. We been over this here country. We know they ain't nothin' here. S'pose we
pack up an' shove north. Then when the cotton's ready, we'll be there. I kinda like to
get my han's aroun' some cotton. You got a full tank, Al?"
"Almos'—'bout two inches down."
"Should get us up to that place."
Ma poised a dish over the bucket. "Well?" she demanded.
Tom said. "You win. We'll move on, I guess. Huh, Pa?"
"Guess we got to," Pa said.
Ma glanced at him. "When?"
"Well—no need waitin'. Might's well go in the mornin'."
"We got to go in the mornin'. I tol' you what's lef'."
"Now, Ma, don't think I don' wanta go. I ain't had a good gutful to eat in two weeks.
'Course I filled up, but I didn' take no good from it."
Ma plunged the dish into the bucket. "We'll go in the mornin'," she said.
Pa sniffed. "Seems like times is changed," he said sarcastically. "Time was when a
man said what we'd do. Seems like women is tellin' now. Seems like it's purty near
time to get out a stick."
Ma put the clean dripping tin dish out on a box. She smiled down at her work. "You
get your stick, Pa," she said. "Times when they's food an' a place to set, then maybe
you can use your stick an' keep your skin whole. But you ain't a-doin' your job, either
a-thinkin' or a-workin'. If you was, why, you could use your stick, an' women folks'd
sniffle their nose an' creep-mouse aroun'. But you jus' get you a stick now an' you ain't
lickin' no woman; you're a-fightin', 'cause I got a stick all laid out too."
Pa grinned with embarrassment. "Now it ain't good to have the little fellas hear you
talkin' like that," he said.
"You get some bacon inside the little fellas 'fore you come tellin' what else is good
for 'em," said Ma.
Pa got up in disgust and moved away, and Uncle John followed him.
Ma's hands were busy in the water, but she watched them go, and she said proudly
to Tom, "He's all right. He ain't beat. He's like as not to take a smack at me."
Tom laughed. "You jus' a-treadin' him on?"
"Sure," said Ma. "Take a man, he can get worried an' worried, an' it eats out his
liver, an' purty soon he'll jus' lay down and die with his heart et out. But if you can take
an' make 'im mad, why, he'll be awright. Pa, he didn' say nothin', but he's mad now.
He'll show me now. He's awright."
Al got up. "I'm gonna walk down the row," he said.
"Better see the truck's ready to go," Tom warned him.
"She's ready."
"If she ain't, I'll turn Ma on ya."
"She's ready." Al strolled jauntily along the row of tents.
Tom sighed. "I'm a-gettin' tired, Ma. How 'bout makin' me mad?"
"You got more sense, Tom. I don' need to make you mad. I got to lean on you.
Them others—they're kinda strangers, all but you. You won't give up, Tom."
The job fell on him. "I don' like it," he said. "I wanta go out like Al. An' I wanta get
mad like Pa, an' I wanta get drunk like Uncle John."
Ma shook her head. "You can't, Tom. I know. I knowed from the time you was a
little fella. You can't. They's some folks that's just theirself an' nothin' more. There's
Al—he's jus' a young fella after a girl. You wasn't never like that, Tom."
"Sure I was," said Tom. "Still am."
"No you ain't. Ever'thing you do is more'n you. When they sent you up to prison I
knowed it. You're spoke for."
"Now, Ma—cut it out. It ain't true. It's all in your head."
She stacked the knives and forks on top of the plates. "Maybe. Maybe it's in my
head. Rosasharn, you wipe up these here an' put 'em away."
The girl got breathlessly to her feet and her swollen middle hung out in front of her.
She moved sluggishly to the box and picked up a washed dish.
Tom said, "Gettin' so tightful it's a-pullin' her eyes wide."
"Don't you go a-jollyin'," said Ma. "She's doin' good. You go 'long an' say goo'-by
to anybody you wan'."
"O.K.," he said. "I'm gonna see how far it is up there."
Ma said to the girl, "He ain't sayin' stuff like that to make you feel bad. Where's
Ruthie an' Winfiel'?"
"They snuck off after Pa. I seen 'em."
"Well, leave 'em go."
Rose of Sharon moved sluggishly about her work. Ma inspected her cautiously.
"You feelin' pretty good? Your cheeks is kinda saggy."
"I ain't had milk like they said I ought."
"I know. We jus' didn' have no milk."
Rose of Sharon said dully, "Ef Connie hadn' went away, we'd a had a little house by
now, with him studyin' an' all. Would a got milk like I need. Would a had a nice baby.
This here baby ain't gonna be no good. I ought a had milk." She reached in her apron
pocket and put something into her mouth.
Ma said, "I seen you nibblin' on somepin. What you eatin'?"
"Nothin'."
"Come on, what you nibblin' on?"
"Jus' a piece of slack lime. Foun' a big hunk."
"Why, that's jus' like eatin' dirt."
"I kinda feel like I wan' it."
Ma was silent. She spread her knees and tightened her skirt. "I know," she said at
last. "I et coal oncet when I was in a fambly way. Et a big piece a coal. Granma says I
shouldn'. Don' you say that about the baby. You got no right even to think it."
"Got no husban'! Got no milk!"
Ma said, "If you was a well girl, I'd take a whang at you. Right in the face." She got
up and went inside the tent. She came out and stood in front of Rose of Sharon, and she
held out her hand. "Look!" The small gold earrings were in her hand. "These is for
you."
The girl's eyes brightened for a moment, and then she looked aside. "I ain't pierced."
"Well, I'm a-gonna pierce ya." Ma hurried back into the tent. She came back with a
cardboard box. Hurriedly she threaded a needle, doubled the thread and tied a series of
knots in it. She threaded a second needle and knotted the thread. In the box she found a
piece of cork.
"It'll hurt. It'll hurt."
Ma stepped to her, put the cork in back of the ear lobe and pushed the needle
through the ear, into the cork.
The girl twitched. "It sticks. It'll hurt."
"No more'n that."
"Yes, it will."
"Well, then. Le's see the other ear first." She placed the cork and pierced the other
ear.
"It'll hurt."
"Hush!" said Ma. "It's all done."
Rose of Sharon looked at her in wonder. Ma clipped the needles off and pulled one
knot of each thread through the lobes.
"Now," she said. "Ever' day we'll pull one knot, and in a couple weeks it'll be all
well an' you can wear 'em. Here—they're your'n now. You can keep 'em."
Rose of Sharon touched her ears tenderly and looked at the tiny spots of blood on
her fingers. "It didn' hurt. Jus' stuck a little."
"You oughta been pierced long ago," said Ma. She looked at the girl's face, and she
smiled in triumph. "Now get them dishes all done up. Your baby gonna be a good
baby. Very near let you have a baby without your ears was pierced. But you're safe
now."
"Does it mean somepin?"
"Why, 'course it does," said Ma. "'Course it does."
AL STROLLED down the street toward the dancing platform. Outside a neat little
tent he whistled softly, and then moved along the street. He walked to the edge of the
grounds and sat down in the grass.
The clouds over the west had lost the red edging now, and the cores were black. Al
scratched his legs and looked toward the evening sky.
In a few moments a blond girl walked near; she was pretty and sharp-featured. She
sat down in the grass beside him and did not speak. Al put his hand on her waist and
walked his fingers around.
"Don't," she said. "You tickle."
"We're goin' away tomorra," said Al.
She looked at him, startled. "Tomorra? Where?"
"Up north," he said lightly.
"Well, we're gonna git married, ain't we?"
"Sure, sometime."
"You said purty soon!" she cried angrily.
"Well, soon is when soon comes."
"You promised." He walked his fingers around farther. "Git away," she cried. "You
said we was."
"Well, sure we are."
"An' now you're goin' away."
Al demanded, "What's the matter with you? You in a fambly way?"
"No, I ain't."
Al laughed. "I jus' been wastin' my time, huh?"
Her chin shot out. She jumped to her feet. "You git away from me, Al Joad. I don'
wanta see you no more."
"Aw, come on. What's the matter?"
"You think you're jus'—hell on wheels."
"Now wait a minute."
"You think I got to go out with you. Well, I don't! I got lots of chances."
"Now wait a minute."
"No, sir—you git away."
Al lunged suddenly, caught her by the ankle, and tripped her. He grabbed her when
she fell and held her and put his hand over her angry mouth. She tried to bite his palm,
but he cupped it out over her mouth, and he held her down with his other arm. And in a
moment she lay still, and in another moment they were giggling together in the dry
grass.
"Why, we'll be a-comin' back purty soon," said Al. "An' I'll have a pocketful a jack.
We'll go down to Hollywood an' see the pitchers."
She was lying on her back. Al bent over her. And he saw the bright evening star
reflected in her eyes, and he saw the black cloud reflected in her eyes. "We'll go on the
train," he said.
"How long ya think it'll be?" she asked.
"Oh, maybe a month," he said.
THE EVENING DARK came down and Pa and Uncle John squatted with the heads
of families out by the office. They studied the night and the future. The little manager,
in his white clothes, frayed and clean, rested his elbows on the porch rail. His face was
drawn and tired.
Huston looked up at him. "You better get some sleep, mister."
"I guess I ought. Baby born last night in Unit Three. I'm getting to be a good
midwife."
"Fella oughta know," said Huston. "Married fella got to know."
Pa said, "We're a-gittin' out in the mornin'."
"Yeah? Which way you goin'?"
"Thought we'd go up north a while. Try to get in the first cotton. We ain't had work.
We're outa food."
"Know if they's any work?" Huston asked.
"No, but we're sure they ain't none here."
"They will be, a little later," Huston said. "We'll hold on."
"We hate to go," said Pa. "Folks been so nice here—an' the toilets an' all. But we
got to eat. Got a tank of gas. That'll get us a little piece up the road. We had a bath
ever' day here. Never was so clean in my life. Funny thing—use ta be I on'y got a bath
ever' week an' I never seemed to stink. But now if I don' get one ever' day I stink.
Wonder if takin' a bath so often makes that?"
"Maybe you couldn't smell yourself before," the manager said.
"Maybe. I wisht we could stay."
The little manager held his temples between his palms. "I think there's going to be
another baby tonight," he said.
"We gonna have one in our fambly 'fore long," said Pa. "I wisht we could have it
here. I sure wisht we could."
TOM AND WILLIE AND JULE the half-breed sat on the edge of the dance floor
and swung their feet.
"I got a sack of Durham," Jule said. "Like a smoke?"
"I sure would," said Tom. "Ain't had a smoke for a hell of a time." He rolled the
brown cigarette carefully, to keep down the loss of tobacco.
"Well, sir, we'll be sorry to see you go," said Willie. "You folks is good folks."
Tom lighted his cigarette. "I been thinkin' about it a lot. Jesus Christ, I wisht we
could settle down."
Jule took back his Durham. "It ain't nice," he said. "I got a little girl. Thought when
I come out here she'd get some schoolin'. But hell, we ain't in one place hardly long
enough. Jes' gits goin' an' we got to drag on."
"I hope we don't get in no more Hoovervilles," said Tom. "I was really scairt,
there."
"Deputies push you aroun'?"
"I was scairt I'd kill somebody," said Tom. "Was on'y there a little while, but I was
a-stewin' aroun' the whole time. Depity come in an' picked up a frien', jus' because he
talked outa turn. I was jus' stewin' all the time."
"Ever been in a strike?" Willie asked.
"No."
"Well, I been a-thinkin' a lot. Why don' them depities get in here an' raise hell like
ever' place else? Think that little guy in the office is a-stoppin' 'em? No, sir."
"Well, what is?" Jule asked.
"I'll tell ya. It's 'cause we're a-workin' together. Depity can't pick on one fella in this
camp. He's pickin' on the whole darn camp. An' he don't dare. All we got to do is give
a yell an' they's two hunderd men out. Fella organizin' for the union was a-talkin' out
on the road. He says we could do that any place. Jus' stick together. They ain't raisin'
hell with no two hunderd men. They're pickin' on one man."
"Yeah," said Jule, "an' suppose you got a union? You got to have leaders. They'll
jus' pick up your leaders, an' where's your union?"
"Well," said Willie, "we got to figure her out some time. I been out here a year, an'
wages is goin' right on down. Fella can't feed his fam'ly on his work now, an' it's gettin'
worse all the time. It ain't gonna do no good to set aroun' an' starve. I don' know what
to do. If a fella owns a team a horses, he don't raise no hell if he got to feed 'em when
they ain't workin'. But if a fella got men workin' for him, he jus' don't give a damn.
Horses is a hell of a lot more worth than men. I don' understan' it."
"Gets so I don' wanta think about it," said Jule. "An' I got to think about it. I got this
here little girl. You know how purty she is. One week they give her a prize in this
camp 'cause she's so purty. Well, what's gonna happen to her? She's gettin' spindly. I
ain't gonna stan' it. She's so purty. I'm gonna bust out."
"How?" Willie asked. "What you gonna do—steal some stuff an' git in jail? Kill
somebody an' git hung?"
"I don' know," said Jule. "Gits me nuts thinkin' about it. Gits me clear nuts."
"I'm a-gonna miss them dances," Tom said. "Them was some of the nicest dances I
ever seen. Well, I'm gonna turn in. So long. I'll be seein' you someplace." He shook
hands.
"Sure will," said Jule.
"Well, so long." Tom moved away into the darkness.
IN THE DARKNESS of the Joad tent Ruthie and Winfield lay on their mattress, and
Ma lay beside them. Ruthie whispered, "Ma!"
"Yeah? Ain't you asleep yet?"
"Ma—they gonna have croquet where we're goin'?"
"I don' know. Get some sleep. We want to get an early start."
"Well, I wisht we'd stay here where we're sure we got croquet."
"Sh!" said Ma.
"Ma, Winfiel' hit a kid tonight."
"He shouldn' of."
"I know. I tol' 'im, but he hit the kid right in the nose an' Jesus, how the blood run
down!"
"Don' talk like that. It ain't a nice way to talk."
Winfield turned over. "That kid says we was Okies," he said in an outraged voice.
"He says he wasn't no Okie 'cause he come from Oregon. Says we was goddamn
Okies. I socked him."
"Sh! You shouldn'. He can't hurt you callin' names."
"Well, I won't let 'im," Winfield said fiercely.
"Sh! Get some sleep."
Ruthie said, "You oughta seen the blood run down—all over his clothes."
Ma reached a hand from under the blanket and snapped Ruthie on the cheek with
her finger. The little girl went rigid for a moment, and then dissolved into sniffling,
quiet crying.
IN THE SANITARY UNIT Pa and Uncle John sat in adjoining compartments.
"Might's well get in a good las' one," said Pa. "It's sure nice. 'Member how the little
fellas was so scairt when they flushed 'em the first time?"
"I wasn't so easy myself," said Uncle John. He pulled his overalls neatly up around
his knees. "I'm gettin' bad," he said. "I feel sin."
"You can't sin none," said Pa. "You ain't got no money. Jus' sit tight. Cos' you at
leas' two bucks to sin, an' we ain't got two bucks amongst us."
"Yeah! But I'm a-thinkin' sin."
"Awright. You can think sin for nothin'."
"It's jus' as bad," said Uncle John.
"It's a whole hell of a lot cheaper," said Pa.
"Don't you go makin' light of sin."
"I ain't. You jus' go ahead. You always gets sinful jus' when hell's a-poppin'."
"I know it," said Uncle John. "Always was that way. I never tol' half the stuff I
done."
"Well, keep it to yaself."
"These here nice toilets gets me sinful."
"Go out in the bushes then. Come on, pull up ya pants an' le's get some sleep." Pa
pulled his overall straps in place and snapped the buckle. He flushed the toilet and
watched thoughtfully while the water whirled in the bowl.
IT WAS STILL DARK when Ma roused her camp. The low night lights shone through
the open doors of the sanitary units. From the tents along the road came the assorted
snores of the campers.
Ma said, "Come on, roll out. We got to be on our way. Day's not far off." She raised
the screechy shade of the lantern and lighted the wick. "Come on, all of you."
The floor of the tent squirmed into slow action. Blankets and comforts were thrown
back and sleepy eyes squinted blindly at the light. Ma slipped on her dress over the
underclothes she wore to bed. "We got no coffee," she said. "I got a few biscuits. We
can eat 'em on the road. Jus' get up now, an' we'll load the truck. Come on now. Don't
make no noise. Don' wanta wake the neighbors."
It was a few moments before they were fully aroused. "Now don' you get away,"
Ma warned the children. The family dressed. The men pulled down the tarpaulin and
loaded up the truck. "Make it nice an' flat," Ma warned them. They piled the mattress
on top of the load and bound the tarpaulin in place over its ridge pole.
"Awright, Ma," said Tom. "She's ready."
Ma held a plate of cold biscuits in her hand. "Awright. Here. Each take one. It's all
we got."
Ruthie and Winfield grabbed their biscuits and climbed up on the load. They
coveted themselves with a blanket and went back to sleep, still holding the cold hard
biscuits in their hands. Tom got into the driver's seat and stepped on the starter. It
buzzed a little, and then stopped.
"Goddamn you, Al!" Tom cried. "You let the battery run down."
Al blustered, "How the hell was I gonna keep her up if I ain't got gas to run her?"
Tom chuckled suddenly. "Well, I don' know how, but it's your fault. You got to
crank her."
"I tell you it ain't my fault."
Tom got out and found the crank under the seat. "It's my fault," he said.
"Gimme that crank." Al seized it. "Pull down the spark so she don't take my arm
off."
"O.K. Twist her tail."
Al labored at the crank, around and around. The engine caught, spluttered, and
roared as Tom choked the car delicately. He raised the spark and reduced the throttle.
Ma climbed in beside him. "We woke up ever'body in the camp," she said.
"They'll go to sleep again."
Al climbed in on the other side. "Pa 'n' Uncle John got up top," he said. "Goin' to
sleep again."
Tom drove toward the main gate. The watchman came out of the office and played
his flashlight on the truck. "Wait a minute."
"What ya want?"
"You checkin' out?"
"Sure."
"Well, I got to cross you off."
"O.K."
"Know which way you're goin'?"
"Well, we're gonna try up north."
"Well, good luck," said the watchman.
"Same to you. So long."
The truck edged slowly over the big hump and into the road. Tom retraced the road
he had driven before, past Weedpatch and west until he came to 99, then north on the
great paved road, toward Bakersfield. It was growing light when he came into the
outskirts of the city.
Tom said, "Ever' place you look is restaurants. An' them places all got coffee.
Lookit that all-nighter there. Bet they got ten gallons a coffee in there, all hot!"
"Aw, shut up," said Al.
Tom grinned over at him. "Well, I see you got yaself a girl right off."
"Well, what of it?"
"He's mean this mornin', Ma. He ain't good company."
Al said irritably, "I'm goin' out on my own purty soon. Fella can make his way a lot
easier if he ain't got a fambly."
Tom said, "You'd have yaself a fambly in nine months. I seen you playin' aroun'."
"Ya crazy," said Al. "I'd get myself a job in a garage an' I'd eat in restaurants—"
"An' you'd have a wife an' kid in nine months."
"I tell ya I wouldn'."
Tom said, "You're a wise guy, Al. You gonna take some beatin' over the head."
"Who's gonna do it?"
"They'll always be guys to do it," said Tom.
"You think jus' because you—"
"Now you jus' stop that," Ma broke in.
"I done it," said Tom. "I was a-badgerin' him. I didn' mean no harm, Al. I didn'
know you liked that girl so much."
"I don't like no girls much."
"Awright, then, you don't. You ain't gonna get no argument out of me."
The truck came to the edge of the city. "Look at them hotdog stan's—hunderds of
'em," said Tom.
Ma said, "Tom! I got a dollar put away. You wan' coffee bad enough to spen' it?"
"No, Ma. I'm jus' foolin'."
"You can have it if you wan' it bad enough."
"I wouldn' take it."
Al said, "Then shut up about coffee."
Tom was silent for a time. "Seems like I got my foot in it all the time," he said.
"There's the road we run up that night."
"I hope we don't never have nothin' like that again," said Ma. "That was a bad
night."
"I didn' like it none either."
The sun rose on their right, and the great shadow of the truck ran beside them,
flicking over the fence posts beside the road. They ran on past the rebuilt Hooverville.
"Look," said Tom. "They got new people there. Looks like the same place."
Al came slowly out of his sullenness. "Fella tol' me some a them people been
burned out fifteen-twenty times. Says they jus' go hide down the willows an' then they
come out an' build 'em another weed shack. Jus' like gophers. Got so use' to it they
don't even get mad no more, this fella says. They jus' figger it's like bad weather."
"Sure was bad weather for me that night," said Tom. They moved up the wide
highway. And the sun's warmth made them shiver. "Gettin' snappy in the mornin',"
said Tom. "Winter's on the way. I jus' hope we can get some money 'fore it comes.
Tent ain't gonna be nice in the winter."
Ma sighed, and then she straightened her head. "Tom," she said, "we gotta have a
house in the winter. I tell ya we got to. Ruthie's awright, but Winfiel' ain't so strong.
We got to have a house when the rains come. I heard it jus' rains cats aroun' here."
"We'll get a house, Ma. You res' easy. You gonna have a house."
"Jus' so's it's got a roof an' a floor. Jus' to keep the little fellas off'n the groun'."
"We'll try, Ma."
"I don' wanna worry ya now."
"We'll try, Ma."
"I jus' get panicky sometimes," she said. "I jus' lose my spunk."
"I never seen you when you lost it."
"Nights I do, sometimes."
There came a harsh hissing from the front of the truck. Tom grabbed the wheel tight
and he thrust the brake down to the floor. The truck bumped to a stop. Tom sighed.
"Well, there she is." He leaned back in the seat. Al leaped out and ran to the right front
tire.
"Great big nail," he called.
"We got any tire patch?"
"No," said Al. "Used it all up. Got patch, but no glue stuff."
Tom turned and smiled sadly at Ma. "You shouldn' a tol' about that dollar," he said.
"We'd a fixed her some way." He got out of the car and went to the flat tire.
Al pointed to a big nail protruding from the flat casing. "There she is!"
"If they's one nail in the county, we run over it."
"Is it bad?" Ma called.
"No, not bad, but we got to fix her."
The family piled down from the top of the truck. "Puncture?" Pa asked, and then he
saw the tire and was silent.
Tom moved Ma from the seat and got the can of tire patch from underneath the
cushion. He unrolled the rubber patch and took out the tube of cement, squeezed it
gently. "She's almos' dry," he said. "Maybe they's enough. Awright, Al. Block the back
wheels. Le's get her jacked up."
Tom and Al worked well together. They put stones behind the wheels, put the jack
under the front axle, and lifted the weight off the limp casing. They ripped off the
casing. They found the hole, dipped a rag in the gas tank and washed the tube around
the hole. And then, while Al held the tube tight over his knee, Tom tore the cement
tube in two and spread the little fluid thinly on the rubber with his pocket knife. He
scraped the gum delicately. "Now let her dry while I cut a patch." He trimmed and
beveled the edge of the blue patch. Al held the tube tight while Tom put the patch
tenderly in place. "There! Now bring her to the running board while I tap her with a
hammer." He pounded the patch carefully, then stretched the tube and watched the
edges of the patch. "There she is! She's gonna hold. Stick her on the rim an' we'll pump
her up. Looks like you keep your buck, Ma."
Al said, "I wisht we had a spare. We got to get us a spare, Tom, on a rim an' all
pumped up. Then we can fix a puncture at night."
"When we get money for a spare we'll get us some coffee an' side-meat instead,"
Tom said.
The light morning traffic buzzed by on the highway, and the sun grew warm and
bright. A wind, gentle and sighing, blew in puffs from the southwest, and the
mountains on both sides of the great valley were indistinct in a pearly mist.
Tom was pumping at the tire when a roadster, coming from the north, stopped on
the other side of the road. A brown-faced man dressed in a light gray business suit got
out and walked across to the truck. He was bareheaded. He smiled, and his teeth were
very white against his brown skin. He wore a massive gold wedding ring on the third
finger of his left hand. A little gold football hung on a slender chain across his vest.
"Morning," he said pleasantly.
Tom stopped pumping and looked up. "Mornin'."
The man ran his fingers through his coarse, short, graying hair. "You people looking
for work?"
"We sure are, mister. Lookin' even under boards."
"Can you pick peaches?"
"We never done it," Pa said.
"We can do anything," Tom said hurriedly. "We can pick anything there is."
The man fingered his gold football. "Well, there's plenty of work for you about
forty miles north."
"We'd sure admire to get it," said Tom. "You tell us how to get there, an' we'll go alopin'."
"Well, you go north to Pixley, that's thirty-five or six miles, and you turn east. Go
about six miles. Ask anybody where the Hooper ranch is. You'll find plenty of work
there."
"We sure will."
"Know where there's other people looking for work?"
"Sure," said Tom. "Down at the Weedpatch camp they's plenty lookin' for work."
"I'll take a run down there. We can use quite a few. Remember now, turn east at
Pixley and keep straight east to the Hooper ranch."
"Sure," said Tom. "An' we thank ya, mister. We need work awful bad."
"All right. Get along as soon as you can." He walked back across the road, climbed
into his open roadster, and drove away south.
Tom threw his weight on the pump. "Twenty apiece," he called. "One—two—
three—four—" At twenty Al took the pump, and then Pa and then Uncle John. The tire
filled out and grew plump and smooth. Three times around, the pump went. "Let 'er
down an' le's see," said Tom.
Al released the jack and lowered the car. "Got plenty," he said. "Maybe a little too
much."
They threw the tools into the car. "Come on, le's go," Tom called. "We're gonna get
some work at last."
Ma got in the middle again. Al drove this time.
"Now take her easy. Don't burn her up, Al."
They drove on through the sunny morning fields. The mist lifted from the hilltops
and they were clear and brown, with black-purple creases. The wild doves flew up
from the fences as the truck passed. Al unconsciously increased his speed.
"Easy," Tom warned him. "She'll blow up if you crowd her. We got to get there.
Might even get in some work today."
Ma said excitedly, "With four men a-workin' maybe I can get some credit right off.
Fust thing I'll get is coffee, 'cause you been wanting that, an' then some flour an' bakin'
powder an' some meat. Better not get no side-meat right off. Save that for later. Maybe
Sat'dy. An' soap. Got to get soap. Wonder where we'll stay." She babbled on. "An'
milk. I'll get some milk 'cause Rosasharn, she ought to have milk. The lady nurse says
that."
A snake wriggled across the warm highway. Al zipped over and ran it down and
came back to his own lane.
"Gopher snake," said Tom. "You oughtn't to done that."
"I hate 'em," said Al gaily. "Hate all kinds. Give me the stomach-quake."
The forenoon traffic on the highway increased, salesmen in shiny coupes with the
insignia of their companies painted on the doors, red and white gasoline trucks
dragging clinking chains behind them, great square-doored vans from wholesale
grocery houses, delivering produce. The country was rich along the roadside. There
were orchards, heavy leafed in their prime, and vineyards with the long green crawlers
carpeting the ground between the rows. There were melon patches and grain fields.
White houses stood in the greenery, roses growing over them. And the sun was gold
and warm.
In the front seat of the truck Ma and Tom and Al were overcome with happiness. "I
ain't really felt so good for a long time," Ma said. " 'F we pick plenty peaches we might
get a house, pay rent even, for a couple months. We got to have a house."
Al said, "I'm a-gonna save up. I'll save up an' then I'm a-goin' in a town an' get me a
job in a garage. Live in a room an' eat in restaurants. Go to the movin' pitchers ever'
damn night. Don' cost much. Cowboy pitchers." His hands tightened on the wheel.
The radiator bubbled and hissed steam. "Did you fill her up?" Tom asked.
"Yeah. Wind's kinda behind us. That's what makes her boil."
"It's a awful nice day," Tom said. "Use' ta work there in McAlester an' think all the
things I'd do. I'd go in a straight line way to hell an' gone an' never stop nowheres.
Seems like a long time ago. Seems like it's years ago I was in. They was a guard made
it tough. I was gonna lay for 'im. Guess that's what makes me mad at cops. Seems like
ever' cop got his face. He use' ta get red in the face. Looked like a pig. Had a brother
out west, they said. Use' ta get fellas paroled to his brother, an' then they had to work
for nothin'. If they raised a stink, they'd get sent back for breakin' parole. That's what
the fellers said."
"Don' think about it," Ma begged him. "I'm a-gonna lay in a lot a stuff to eat. Lot a
flour an' lard."
"Might's well think about it," said Tom. "Try to shut it out, an' it'll whang back at
me. They was a screwball. Never tol' you 'bout him. Looked like Happy Hooligan.
Harmless kinda fella. Always was gonna make a break. Fellas all called him
Hooligan." Tom laughed to himself.
"Don' think about it," Ma begged.
"Go on," said Al. "Tell about the fella."
"It don't hurt nothin', Ma," Tom said. "This fella was always gonna break out. Make
a plan, he would; but he couldn' keep it to hisself an' purty soon ever'body knowed it,
even the warden. He'd make his break an' they'd take 'im by the han' an' lead 'im back.
Well, one time he drawed a plan where he's goin' over. 'Course he showed it aroun', an'
ever'body kep' still. An' he hid out, an' ever'body kep' still. So he's got himself a rope
somewheres, an' he goes over the wall. They's six guards outside with a great big sack,
an' Hooligan comes quiet down the rope an' they jus' hol' the sack out an' he goes right
inside. They tie up the mouth an' take 'im back inside. Fellas laughed so hard they like
to died. But it busted Hooligan's spirit. He jus' cried an' cried, an' moped aroun' an' got
sick. Hurt his feelin's so bad. Cut his wrists with a pin an' bled to death 'cause his
feelin's was hurt. No harm in 'im at all. They's all kinds a screwballs in stir."
"Don' talk about it," Ma said. "I knowed Purty Boy Floyd's ma. He wan't a bad boy.
Jus' got drove in a corner."
The sun moved up toward noon and the shadow of the truck grew lean and moved
in under the wheels.
"Mus' be Pixley up the road," Al said. "Seen a sign a little back." They drove into
the little town and turned eastward on a narrower road. And the orchards lined the way
and made an aisle.
"Hope we can find her easy," Tom said.
Ma said, "That fella said the Hooper ranch. Said anybody'd tell us. Hope they's a
store near by. Might get some credit, with four men workin'. I could get a real nice
supper if they'd gimme some credit. Make up a big stew maybe."
"An' coffee," said Tom. "Might even get me a sack a Durham. I ain't had no tobacca
of my own for a long time."
Far ahead the road was blocked with cars, and a line of white motorcycles was
drawn up along the roadside. "Mus' be a wreck," Tom said.
As they drew near, a State policeman, in boots and Sam Browne belt, stepped
around the last parked car. He held up his hand and Al pulled to a stop. The policeman
leaned confidentially on the side of the car. "Where you going?"
Al said, "Fella said they was work pickin' peaches up this way."
"Want to work, do you?"
"Damn right," said Tom.
"O.K. Wait here a minute." He moved to the side of the road and called ahead. "One
more. That's six cars ready. Better take this batch through."
Tom called, "Hey! What's the matter?"
The patrol man lounged back. "Got a little trouble up ahead. Don't you worry.
You'll get through. Just follow the line."
There came the splattering blast of motorcycles starting. The line of cars moved on,
with the Joad truck last. Two motorcycles led the way, and two followed.
Tom said uneasily, "I wonder what's a matter."
"Maybe the road's out," Al suggested.
"Don' need four cops to lead us. I don' like it."
The motorcycles ahead speeded up. The line of old cars speeded up. Al hurried to
keep in back of the last car.
"These here is our own people, all of 'em," Tom said. "I don' like this."
Suddenly the leading policemen turned off the road into a wide graveled entrance.
The old cars whipped after them. The motorcycles roared their motors. Tom saw a line
of men standing in the ditch beside the road, saw their mouths open as though they
were yelling, saw their shaking fists and their furious faces. A stout woman ran toward
the cars, but a roaring motorcycle stood in her way. A high wire gate swung open. The
six old cars moved through and the gate closed behind them. The four motorcycles
turned and sped back in the direction from which they had come. And now that the
motors were gone, the distant yelling of the men in the ditch could be heard. Two men
stood beside the graveled road. Each one carried a shotgun.
One called, "Go on, go on. What the hell are you waiting for?" The six cars moved
ahead, turned a bend and came suddenly on the peach camp.
There were fifty little square, flat-roofed boxes, each with a door and a window, and
the whole group in a square. A water tank stood high on one edge of the camp. And a
little grocery store stood on the other side. At the end of each row of square houses
stood two men armed with shotguns and wearing big silver stars pinned to their shirts.
The six cars stopped. Two bookkeepers moved from car to car. "Want to work?"
Tom answered, "Sure, but what is this?"
"That's not your affair. Want to work?"
"Sure we do."
"Name?"
"Joad."
"How many men?"
"Four."
"Women?"
"Two."
"Kids?"
"Two."
"Can all of you work?"
"Why—I guess so."
"O.K. Find house sixty-three. Wages five cents a box. No bruised fruit. All right,
move along now. Go to work right away."
The cars moved on. On the door of each square red house a number was painted.
"Sixty," Tom said. "There's sixty. Must be down that way. There, sixty-one, sixtytwo—There she is."
Al parked the truck close to the door of the little house. The family came down from
the top of the truck and looked about in bewilderment. Two deputies approached. They
looked closely into each face.
"Name?"
"Joad," Tom said impatiently. "Say, what is this here?"
One of the deputies took out a long list. "Not here. Ever see these here? Look at the
license. Nope. Ain't got it. Guess they're O.K."
"Now you look here. We don't want no trouble with you. Jes' do your work and
mind your own business and you'll be all right." The two turned abruptly and walked
away. At the end of the dusty street they sat down on two boxes and their position
commanded the length of the street.
Tom stared after them. "They sure do wanta make us feel at home."
Ma opened the door of the house and stepped inside. The floor was splashed with
grease. In the one room stood a rusty tin stove and nothing more. The tin stove rested
on four bricks and its rusty stovepipe went up through the roof. The room smelled of
sweat and grease. Rose of Sharon stood beside Ma. "We gonna live here?"
Ma was silent for a moment. "Why sure," she said at last. "It ain't so bad once we
wash it out. Get her mopped."
"I like the tent better," the girl said.
"This got a floor," Ma suggested. "This here wouldn' leak when it rains." She turned
to the door. "Might as well unload," she said.
The men unloaded the truck silently. A fear had fallen on them. The great square of
boxes was silent. A woman went by in the street, but she did not look at them. Her
head was sunk and her dirty gingham dress was frayed at the bottom in little flags.
The pall had fallen on Ruthie and Winfield. They did not dash away to inspect the
place. They stayed close to the truck, close to the family. They looked forlornly up and
down the dusty street. Winfield found a piece of baling wire and he bent it back and
forth until it broke. He made a little crank of the shortest piece and turned it around and
around in his hands.
Tom and Pa were carrying the mattresses into the house when a clerk appeared. He
wore khaki trousers and a blue shirt and a black necktie. He wore silver-bound
eyeglasses, and his eyes, through the thick lenses, were weak and red, and the pupils
were staring little bull's eyes. He leaned forward to look at Tom.
"I want to get you checked down," he said. "How many of you going to work?"
Tom said, "They's four men. Is this here hard work?"
"Picking peaches," the clerk said. "Piece work. Give five cents a box."
"Ain't no reason why the little fellas can't help?"
"Sure not, if they're careful."
Ma stood in the doorway. "Soon's I get settled down I'll come out an' help. We got
nothin' to eat, mister. Do we get paid right off?"
"Well, no, not money right off. But you can get credit at the store for what you got
coming."
"Come on, let's hurry," Tom said. "I want ta get some meat an' bread in me tonight.
Where do we go, mister?"
"I'm going out there now. Come with me."
Tom and Pa and Al and Uncle John walked with him down the dusty street and into
the orchard, in among the peach trees. The narrow leaves were beginning to turn a pale
yellow. The peaches were little globes of gold and red on the branches. Among the
trees were piles of empty boxes. The pickers scurried about, filling their buckets from
the branches, putting the peaches in the boxes, carrying the boxes to the checking
station; and at the stations, where the piles of filled boxes waited for the trucks, clerks
waited to check against the names of the pickers.
"Here's four more," the guide said to a clerk.
"O.K. Ever picked before?"
"Never did," said Tom.
"Well, pick careful. No bruised fruit, no windfalls. Bruise your fruit an' we won't
check 'em. There's some buckets."
Tom picked up a three-gallon bucket and looked at it. "Full a holes on the bottom."
"Sure," said the near-sighted clerk. "That keeps people from stealing them. All
right—down in that section. Get going."
The four Joads took their buckets and went into the orchard. "They don't waste no
time," Tom said.
"Christ Awmighty," Al said. "I ruther work in a garage."
Pa had followed docilely into the field. He turned suddenly on Al. "Now you jus'
quit it," he said. "You been a-hankerin' an' a-complainin' an' a-bullblowin'. You get to
work. You ain't so big I can't lick you yet."
Al's face turned red with anger. He started to bluster.
Tom moved near to him. "Come on, Al," he said quietly. "Bread an' meat. We got to
get 'em."
They reached for the fruit and dropped them in the buckets. Tom ran at his work.
One bucket full, two buckets. He dumped them in a box. Three buckets. The box was
full. "I jus' made a nickel," he called. He picked up the box and walked hurriedly to the
station. "Here's a nickel's worth," he said to the checker.
The man looked into the box, turned over a peach or two. "Put it over there. That's
out," he said. "I told you not to bruise them. Dumped 'em outa the bucket, didn't you?
Well, every damn peach is bruised. Can't check that one. Put 'em in easy or you're
working for nothing."
"Why—goddamn it—"
"Now go easy. I warned you before you started."
Tom's eyes drooped sullenly. "O.K." he said. "O.K." He went quickly back to the
others. "Might's well dump what you got," he said. "Yours is the same as mine. Won't
take 'em."
"Now, what the hell!" Al began.
"Got to pick easier. Can't drop 'em in the bucket. Got to lay 'em in."
They started again, and this time they handled the fruit gently. The boxes filled
more slowly. "We could figger somepin out, I bet," Tom said. "If Ruthie an' Winfiel' or
Rosasharn jus' put 'em in the boxes, we could work out a system." He carried his
newest box to the station. "Is this here worth a nickel?"
The checker looked them over, dug down several layers. "That's better," he said. He
checked the box in. "Just take it easy."
Tom hurried back. "I got a nickel," he called. "I got a nickel. On'y got to do that
there twenty times for a dollar."
They worked on steadily through the afternoon. Ruthie and Winfield found them
after a while. "You got to work," Pa told them. "You got to put the peaches careful in
the box. Here, now, one at a time."
The children squatted down and picked the peaches out of the extra bucket, and a
line of buckets stood ready for them. Tom carried the full boxes to the station. "That's
seven," he said. "That's eight. Forty cents we got. Get a nice piece of meat for forty
cents."
The afternoon passed. Ruthie tried to go away. "I'm tar'd," she whined. "I got to
rest."
"You got to stay right where you're at," said Pa.
Uncle John picked slowly. He filled one bucket to two of Tom's. His pace didn't
change.
In mid-afternoon Ma came trudging out. "I would a come before, but Rosasharn
fainted," she said. "Jes' fainted away."
"You been eatin' peaches," she said to the children. "Well, they'll blast you out."
Ma's stubby body moved quickly. She abandoned her bucket quickly and picked into
her apron. When the sun went down they had picked twenty boxes.
Tom set the twentieth box down. "A buck," he said. "How long do we work?"
"Work till dark, long as you can see."
"Well, can we get credit now? Ma oughta go in an' buy some stuff to eat."
"Sure. I'll give you a slip for a dollar now." He wrote on a strip of paper and handed
it to Tom.
He took it to Ma. "Here you are. You can get a dollar's worth of stuff at the store."
Ma put down her bucket and straightened her shoulders. "Gets you, the first time,
don't it?"
"Sure. We'll all get used to it right off. Roll on in an' get some food."
Ma said, "What'll you like to eat?"
"Meat," said Tom. "Meat an' bread an' a big pot a coffee with sugar in. Great big
pieces a meat."
Ruthie wailed, "Ma, we're tar'd."
"Better come along in, then."
"They was tar'd when they started," Pa said. "Wild as rabbits they're a-gettin'. Ain't
gonna be no good at all 'less we can pin 'em down."
"Soon's we get set down, they'll go to school," said Ma. She trudged away, and
Ruthie and Winfield timidly followed her.
"We got to work ever' day?" Winfield asked.
Ma stopped and waited. She took his hand and walked along holding it. "It ain't
hard work," she said. "Be good for you. An' you're helpin' us. If we all work, purty
soon we'll live in a nice house. We all got to help."
"But I got so tar'd."
"I know. I got tar'd too. Ever'body gets wore out. Got to think about other stuff.
Think about when you'll go to school."
"I don't wanta go to no school. Ruthie don't, neither. Them kids that goes to school,
we seen 'em, Ma. Snots! Calls us Okies. We seen 'em. I ain't a-goin'."
Ma looked pityingly down on his straw hair. "Don' give us no trouble right now,"
she begged. "Soon's we get on our feet, you can be bad. But not now. We got too
much, now."
"I et six of them peaches," Ruthie said.
"Well, you'll have the skitters. An' it ain't close to no toilet where we are."
The company's store was a large shed of corrugated iron. It had no display window.
Ma opened the screen door and went in. A tiny man stood behind the counter. He was
completely bald, and his head was blue-white. Large, brown eye-brows covered his
eyes in such a high arch that his face seemed surprised and a little frightened. His nose
was long and thin, and curved like a bird's beak, and his nostrils were blocked with
light brown hair. Over the sleeves of his blue shirt he wore black sateen sleeve
protectors. He was leaning on his elbows on the counter when Ma entered.
"Afternoon," she said.
He inspected her with interest. The arch over his eyes became higher. "Howdy."
"I got a slip here for a dollar."
"You can get a dollar's worth," he said, and he giggled shrilly. "Yes, sir. A dollar's
worth. One dollar's worth." He moved his hand at the stock. "Any of it." He pulled his
sleeve protectors up neatly.
"Thought I'd get a piece of meat."
"Got all kinds," he said. "Hamburg, like to have some hamburg? Twenty cents a
pound, hamburg."
"Ain't that awful high? Seems to me hamburg was fifteen las' time I got some."
"Well," he giggled softly, "yes, it's high, an' same time it ain't high. Time you go on
in town for a couple poun's of hamburg, it'll cos' you 'bout a gallon of gas. So you see
it ain't really high here, 'cause you got no gallon a gas."
Ma said sternly, "It didn' cos' you no gallon a gas to get it out here."
He laughed delightedly. "You're lookin' at it bass-ackwards," he said. "We ain't abuyin' it, we're a-sellin' it. If we was buyin' it, why, that'd be different."
Ma put two fingers to her mouth and frowned with thought. "It looks all full a fat
an' gristle."
"I ain't guaranteein' she won't cook down," the storekeeper said. "I ain't guaranteein'
I'd eat her myself; but they's lots of stuff I wouldn' do."
Ma looked up at him fiercely for a moment. She controlled her voice. "Ain't you got
some cheaper kind a meat?"
"Soup bones," he said. "Ten cents a pound."
"But them's jus' bones."
"Them's jes' bones," he said. "Make nice soup. Jes' bones."
"Got any boilin' beef?"
"Oh, yeah! Sure. That's two bits a poun'."
"Maybe I can't get no meat," Ma said. "But they want meat. They said they wanted
meat."
"Ever'body wants meat—needs meat. That hamburg is purty nice stuff. Use the
grease that comes out a her for gravy. Purty nice. No waste. Don't throw no bone
away."
"How—how much is side-meat?"
"Well, now you're gettin' into fancy stuff. Christmas stuff. Thanksgivin' stuff.
Thirty-five cents a poun'. I could sell you turkey cheaper, if I had some turkey."
Ma sighed. "Give me two pounds hamburg."
"Yes, ma'am." He scooped the pale meat on a piece of waxed paper. "An' what
else?"
"Well, some bread."
"Right here. Fine big loaf, fifteen cents."
"That there's a twelve-cent loaf."
"Sure, it is. Go right in town an' get her for twelve cents. Gallon a gas. What else
can I sell you, potatoes?"
"Yes, potatoes."
"Five pounds for a quarter."
Ma moved menacingly toward him. "I heard enough from you. I know what they
cost in town."
The little man clamped his mouth tight. "Then go git 'em in town."
Ma looked at her knuckles. "What is this?" she asked softly. "You own this here
store?"
"No. I jus' work here."
"Any reason you got to make fun? That help you any?" She regarded her shiny
wrinkled hands. The little man was silent. "Who owns this here store?"
"Hooper Ranches, Incorporated, ma'am."
"An' they set the prices?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She looked up, smiling a little. "Ever'body comes in talks like me, is mad?"
He hesitated for a moment. "Yes, ma'am."
"An' that's why you make fun?"
"What cha mean?"
"Doin' a dirty thing like this. Shames ya, don't it? Got to act flip, huh?" Her voice
was gentle. The clerk watched her, fascinated. He didn't answer. "That's how it is," Ma
said finally. "Forty cents for meat, fifteen for bread, quarter for potatoes. That's eighty
cents. Coffee?"
"Twenty cents the cheapest, ma'am."
"An' that's the dollar. Seven of us workin', an' that's supper." She studied her hand.
"Wrap 'em up," she said quickly.
"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Thanks." He put the potatoes in a bag and folded the top
carefully down. His eyes slipped to Ma, and then hid in his work again. She watched
him, and she smiled a little.
"How'd you get a job like this?" she asked.
"A fella got to eat," he began; and then, belligerently, "A fella got a right to eat."
"What fella?" Ma asked.
He placed the four packages on the counter. "Meat," he said. "Potatoes, bread,
coffee. One dollar, even." She handed him her slip of paper and watched while he
entered the name and the amount in a ledger. "There," he said. "Now we're all even."
Ma picked up her bags. "Say," she said. "We got no sugar for the coffee. My boy
Tom, he wants sugar. Look!" she said. "They're a-workin' out there. You let me have
some sugar an' I'll bring the slip in later."
The little man looked away—took his eyes as far from Ma as he could. "I can't do
it," he said softly. "That's the rule. I can't. I'd get in trouble. I'd get canned."
"But they're a-workin' out in the field now. They got more'n a dime comin'. Gimme
ten cents of sugar. Tom, he wanted sugar in his coffee. Spoke about it."
"I can't do it, ma'am. That's the rule. No slip, no groceries. The manager, he talks
about that all the time. No, I can't do it. No, I can't. They'd catch me. They always
catch fellas. Always. I can't."
"For a dime?"
"For anything, ma'am." He looked pleadingly at her. And then his face lost its fear.
He took ten cents from his pocket and rang it up in the cash register. "There," he said
with relief. He pulled a little bag from under the counter, whipped it open and scooped
some sugar into it, weighed the bag, and added a little more sugar. "There you are," he
said. "Now it's all right. You bring in your slip an' I'll get my dime back."
Ma studied him. Her hand went blindly out and put the little bag of sugar on the pile
in her arm. "Thanks to you," she said quietly. She started for the door, and when she
reached it, she turned about. "I'm learnin' one thing good," she said. "Learnin' it all a
time, ever' day. If you're in trouble or hurt or need—go to poor people. They're the
only ones that'll help—the only ones." The screen door slammed behind her.
The little man leaned his elbows on the counter and looked after her with his
surprised eyes. A plump tortoise shell cat leaped up on the counter and stalked lazily
near to him. It rubbed sideways against his arms, and he reached out with his hand and
pulled it against his cheek. The cat purred loudly, and the tip of its tail jerked back and
forth.
TOM AND AL AND PA and Uncle John walked in from the orchard when the dusk
was deep. Their feet were a little heavy against the road.
"You wouldn' think jus' reachin' up an' pickin'd get you in the back," Pa said.
"Be awright in a couple days," said Tom. "Say, Pa, after we eat I'm a-gonna walk
out an' see what all that fuss is outside the gate. It's been a-workin' on me. Wanta
come?"
"No," said Pa. "I like to have a little while to jus' work an' not think about nothin'.
Seems like I jus' been beatin' my brains to death for a hell of a long time. No, I'm
gonna set awhile, an' then go to bed."
"How 'bout you, Al?"
Al looked away. "Guess I'll look aroun' in here, first." he said.
"Well, I know Uncle John won't come. Guess I'll go her alone. Got me all curious."
Pa said, "I'll get a hell of a lot curiouser 'fore I'll do anything about it—with all them
cops out there."
"Maybe they ain't there at night," Tom suggested.
"Well, I ain't gonna find out. An' you better not tell Ma where you're a-goin'. She'll
jus' squirt her head off worryin'."
Tom turned to Al. "Ain't you curious?"
"Guess I'll jes' look aroun' this here camp," Al said.
"Lookin' for girls, huh?"
"Mindin' my own business," Al said acidly.
"I'm still a-goin'," said Tom.
They emerged from the orchard into the dusty street between the red shacks. The
low yellow light of kerosene lanterns shone from some of the doorways, and inside, in
the half-gloom, the black shapes of people moved about. At the end of the street a
guard still sat, his shotgun resting against his knee.
Tom paused as he passed the guard. "Got a place where a fella can get a bath,
mister?"
The guard studied him in the half-light. At last he said, "See that water tank?"
"Yeah."
"Well, there's a hose over there."
"Any warm water?"
"Say, who in hell you think you are, J. P. Morgan?"
"No," said Tom. "No, I sure don't. Good night, mister."
The guard grunted contemptuously. "Hot water, for Christ's sake. Be wantin' tubs
next." He stared glumly after the four Joads.
A second guard came around the end house. "'S'matter, Mack?"
"Why, them goddamn Okies. 'Is they warm water?' he says."
The second guard rested his gun butt on the ground. "It's them gov'ment camps," he
said. "I bet that fella been in a gov'ment camp. We ain't gonna have no peace till we
wipe them camps out. They'll be wantin' clean sheets, first thing we know."
Mack asked, "How is it out at the main gate—hear anything?"
"Well, they was out there yellin' all day. State police got it in hand. They're runnin'
the hell outa them smart guys. I heard they's a long lean son-of-a-bitch spark-pluggin'
the thing. Fella says they'll get him tonight, an' then she'll go to pieces."
"We won't have no job if it comes too easy," Mack said.
"We'll have a job, all right. These goddamn Okies! You got to watch 'em all the
time. Things get a little quiet, we can always stir 'em up a little."
"Have trouble when they cut the rate here, I guess."
"We sure will. No, you needn' worry about us havin' work—not while Hooper's
snubbin' close."
The fire roared in the Joad house. Hamburger patties splashed and hissed in the
grease, and the potatoes bubbled. The house was full of smoke, and the yellow lantern
light threw heavy black shadows on the walls. Ma worked quickly about the fire while
Rose of Sharon sat on a box resting her heavy abdomen on her knees.
"Feelin' better now?" Ma asked.
"Smell a cookin' gets me. I'm hungry, too."
"Go set in the door," Ma said. "I got to have that box to break up anyways."
The men trooped in. "Meat, by God!" said Tom. "And coffee. I smell her. Jesus, I'm
hungry! I et a lot of peaches, but they didn' do no good. Where can we wash, Ma?"
"Go down to the water tank. Wash down there. I jus' sent Ruthie an' Winfiel' to
wash." The men went out again.
"Go on now, Rosasharn," Ma ordered. "Either you set in the door or else on the bed.
I got to break that box up."
The girl helped herself up with her hands. She moved heavily to one of the
mattresses and sat down on it. Ruthie and Winfield came in quietly, trying by silence
and by keeping close to the wall to remain obscure.
Ma looked over at them. "I got a feelin' you little fellas is lucky they ain't much
light," she said. She pounced at Winfield and felt his hair. "Well, you got wet, anyway,
but I bet you ain't clean."
"They wasn't no soap," Winfield complained.
"No, that's right. I couldn' buy no soap. Not today. Maybe we can get soap
tomorra." She went back to the stove, laid out the plates, and began to serve the supper.
Two patties apiece and a big potato. She placed three slices of bread on each plate.
When the meat was all out of the frying pan she poured a little of the grease on each
plate. The men came in again, their faces dripping and their hair shining with water.
"Leave me at her," Tom cried.
They took the plates. They ate silently, wolfishly, and wiped up the grease with the
bread. The children retired into the corner of the room, put their plates on the floor, and
knelt in front of the food like little animals.
Tom swallowed the last of his bread. "Got any more, Ma?"
"No," she said. "That's all. You made a dollar, an' that's a dollar's worth."
"That?"
"They charge extry out here. We got to go in town when we can."
"I ain't full," said Tom.
"Well, tomorra you'll get in a full day. Tomorra night—we'll have plenty."
Al wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Guess I'll take a look around," he said.
"Wait, I'll go with you." Tom followed him outside. In the darkness Tom went close
to his brother. "Sure you don' wanta come with me?"
"No. I'm gonna look aroun' like I said."
"O.K.," said Tom. He turned away and strolled down the street. The smoke from the
houses hung low to the ground, and the lanterns threw their pictures of doorways and
windows into the street. On the doorsteps people sat and looked out into the darkness.
Tom could see their heads turn as their eyes followed him down the street. At the street
end the dirt road continued across a stubble field, and the black lumps of haycocks
were visible in the starlight. A thin blade of moon was low in the sky toward the west,
and the long cloud of the milky way trailed clearly overhead. Tom's feet sounded softly
on the dusty road, a dark patch against the yellow stubble. He put his hands in his
pockets and trudged along toward the main gate. An embankment came close to the
road. Tom could hear the whisper of water against the grasses in the irrigation ditch.
He climbed up the bank and looked down on the dark water, and saw the stretched
reflections of the stars. The State Road was ahead. Car lights swooping past showed
where it was. Tom set out again toward it. He could see the high wire gate in the
starlight.
A figure stirred beside the road. A voice said, "Hello—who is it?"
Tom stopped and stood still. "Who are you?"
A man stood up and walked near. Tom could see the gun in his hand. Then a
flashlight played on his face. "Where you think you're going?"
"Well, I thought I'd take a walk. Any law against it?"
"You better walk some other way."
Tom asked, "Can't I even get out of here?"
"Not tonight you can't. Want to walk back, or shall I whistle some help an' take
you?"
"Hell," said Tom, "it ain't nothin' to me. If it's gonna cause a mess, I don't give a
darn. Sure, I'll go back."
The dark figure relaxed. The flash went off. "Ya see, it's for your own good. Them
crazy pickets might get you."
"What pickets?"
"Them goddamn reds."
"Oh," said Tom. "I didn' know 'bout them."
"You seen 'em when you come, didn' you?"
"Well, I seen a bunch a guys, but they was so many cops I didn' know. Thought it
was a accident."
"Well, you better git along back."
"That's O.K. with me, mister." He swung about and started back. He walked quietly
along the road a hundred yards, and then he stopped and listened. The twittering call of
a raccoon sounded near the irrigation ditch and, very far away, the angry howl of a tied
dog. Tom sat down beside the road and listened. He heard the high soft laughter of a
night hawk and the stealthy movement of a creeping animal in the stubble. He
inspected the skyline in both directions, dark frames both ways, nothing to show
against. Now he stood up and walked slowly to the right of the road, off into the
stubble field, and he walked bent down, nearly as low as the haycocks. He moved
slowly and stopped occasionally to listen. At last he came to the wire fence, five
strands of taut barbed wire. Beside the fence he lay on his back, moved his head under
the lowest strand, held the wire up with his hands and slid himself under, pushing
against the ground with his feet.
He was about to get up when a group of men walked by on the edge of the highway.
Tom waited until they were far ahead before he stood up and followed them. He
watched the side of the road for tents. A few automobiles went by. A stream cut across
the fields, and the highway crossed it on a small concrete bridge. Tom looked over the
side of the bridge. In the bottom of the deep ravine he saw a tent and a lantern was
burning inside. He watched it for a moment, saw the shadows of people against the
canvas walls. Tom climbed a fence and moved down into the ravine through brush and
dwarf willows; and in the bottom, beside a tiny stream, he found a trail. A man sat on a
box in front of the tent.
"Evenin'," Tom said.
"Who are you?"
"Well—I guess, well—I'm jus' goin' past."
"Know anybody here?"
"No. I tell you I was jus' goin' past."
A head stuck out of the tent. A voice said, "What's the matter?"
"Casy!" Tom cried. "Casy! For Chris' sake, what you doin' here?"
"Why, my God, it's Tom Joad! Come on in, Tommy. Come on in."
"Know him, do ya?" the man in front asked.
"Know him? Christ, yes. Knowed him for years. I come west with him. Come on in,
Tom." He clutched Tom's elbow and pulled him into the tent.
Three other men sat on the ground, and in the center of the tent a lantern burned.
The men looked up suspiciously. A dark-faced, scowling man held out his hand. "Glad
to meet ya," he said. "I heard what Casy said. This the fella you was tellin' about?"
"Sure. This is him. Well, for God's sake! Where's your folks? What you doin' here?"
"Well," said Tom, "we heard they was work this-a-way. An' we come, an' a bunch a
State cops run us into this here ranch an' we been a-pickin' peaches all afternoon. I seen
a bunch a fellas yellin'. They wouldn' tell me nothin', so I come out here to see what's
goin' on. How'n hell'd you get here, Casy?"
The preacher leaned forward and the yellow lantern light fell on his high pale
forehead. "Jail house is a kinda funny place," he said. "Here's me, been a-goin' into the
wilderness like Jesus to try find out somepin. Almost got her sometimes, too. But it's in
the jail house I really got her." His eyes were sharp and merry. "Great big ol' cell, an'
she's full all a time. New guys come in, and guys go out. An' 'course I talked to all of
'em."
"'Course you did," said Tom. "Always talk. If you was up on the gallows you'd be
passin' the time a day with the hangman. Never seen sech a talker."
The men in the tent chuckled. A wizened little man with a wrinkled face slapped his
knee. "Talks all the time," he said. "Folks kinda likes to hear 'im, though."
"Use' ta be a preacher," said Tom. "Did he tell that?"
"Sure, he told."
Casy grinned. "Well, sir," he went on, "I begin gettin' at things. Some of them fellas
in the tank was drunks, but mostly they was there 'cause they stole stuff; an' mostly it
was stuff they needed an' couldn' get no other way. Ya see?" he asked.
"No," said Tom.
"Well, they was nice fellas, ya see. What made 'em bad was they needed stuff. An' I
begin to see, then. It's need that makes all the trouble. I ain't got it worked out. Well,
one day they give us some beans that was sour. One fella started yellin', an' nothin'
happened. He yelled his head off. Trusty come along an' looked in an' went on. Then
another fella yelled. Well, sir, then we all got yellin'. And we all got on the same tone,
an' I tell ya, it jus' seemed like that tank bulged an' give and swelled up. By God! Then
somepin happened! They come a-runnin', and they give us some other stuff to eat—
give it to us. Ya see?"
"No," said Tom.
Casy put his chin down on his hands. "Maybe I can't tell you," he said. "Maybe you
got to find out. Where's your cap?"
"I come without it."
"How's your sister?"
"Hell, she's big as a cow. I bet she got twins. Gonna need wheels under her
stomach. Got to holdin' it with her han's, now. You ain' tol' me what's goin' on."
The wizened man said, "We struck. This here's a strike."
"Well, fi' cents a box ain't much, but a fella can eat."
"Fi' cents?" the wizened man cried. "Fi' cents! They payin' you fi' cents?"
"Sure. We made a buck an' a half."
A heavy silence fell in the tent. Casy stared out the entrance, into the dark night.
"Lookie, Tom," he said at last. "We come to work there. They says it's gonna be fi'
cents. They was a hell of a lot of us. We got there an' they says they're payin' two an' a
half cents. A fella can't even eat on that, an' if he got kids—So we says we won't take
it. So they druv us off. An' all the cops in the worl' come down on us. Now they're
payin' you five. When they bust this here strike—ya think they'll pay five?"
"I dunno," Tom said. "Payin' five now."
"Lookie," said Casy. "We tried to camp together, an' they druv us like pigs.
Scattered us. Beat the hell outa fellas. Druv us like pigs. They run you in like pigs, too.
We can't las' much longer. Some people ain't et for two days. You goin' back tonight?"
"Aim to," said Tom.
"Well—tell the folks in there how it is, Tom. Tell 'em they're starvin' us an' stabbin'
theirself in the back. 'Cause sure as cowflops she'll drop to two an' a half jus' as soon as
they clear us out."
"I'll tell 'em," said Tom. "I don' know how. Never seen so many guys with guns.
Don' know if they'll even let a fella talk. An' folks don' pass no time of day. They jus'
hang down their heads an' won't even give a fella a howdy."
"Try an' tell 'em, Tom. They'll get two an' a half, jus' the minute we're gone. You
know what two an' a half is—that's one ton of peaches picked an' carried for a dollar."
He dropped his head. "No—you can't do it. You can't get your food for that. Can't eat
for that."
"I'll try to get to tell the folks."
"How's your ma?"
"Purty good. She liked that gov'ment camp. Baths an' hot water."
"Yeah—I heard."
"It was pretty nice there. Couldn' find no work, though. Had a leave."
"I'd like to go to one," said Casy. "Like to see it. Fella says they ain't no cops."
"Folks is their own cops."
Casy looked up excitedly. "An' was they any trouble? Fightin', stealin', drinkin'?"
"No," said Tom.
"Well, if a fella went bad—what then? What'd they do?"
"Put 'im outa the camp."
"But they wasn' many?"
"Hell, no," said Tom. "We was there a month, an' on'y one."
Casy's eyes shone with excitement. He turned to the other men. "Ya see?" he cried.
"I tol' you. Cops cause more trouble than they stop. Look, Tom. Try an' get the folks in
there to come on out. They can do it in a couple days. Them peaches is ripe. Tell 'em."
"They won't," said Tom. "They're a-gettin' five, an' they don' give a damn about
nothin' else."
"But jus' the minute they ain't strikebreakin' they won't get no five."
"I don' think they'll swalla that. Five they're a-gettin'. Tha's all they care about."
"Well, tell 'em anyways."
"Pa wouldn' do it," Tom said. "I know 'im. He'd say it wasn't none of his business."
"Yes," Casy said disconsolately. "I guess that's right. Have to take a beatin' fore he'll
know."
"We was outa food," Tom said. "Tonight we had meat. Not much, but we had it.
Think Pa's gonna give up his meat on account a other fellas? An' Rosasharn oughta get
milk. Think Ma's gonna wanta starve that baby jus' 'cause a bunch a fellas is yellin'
outside a gate?"
Casy said sadly, "I wisht they could see it. I wisht they could see the on'y way they
can depen' on their meat—Oh, the hell! Get tar'd sometimes. God-awful tar'd. I
knowed a fella. Brang 'im in while I was in the jail house. Been tryin' to start a union.
Got one started. An' then them vigilantes bust it up. An' know what? Them very folks
he been tryin' to help tossed him out. Wouldn' have nothin' to do with 'im. Scared
they'd get saw in his comp'ny. Say, 'Git out. You're a danger on us.' Well, sir, it hurt his
feelin's purty bad. But then he says, 'It ain't so bad if you know.' He says, 'French
Revolution—all them fellas that figgered her out got their heads chopped off. Always
that way,' he says. 'Jus' as natural as rain. You didn' do it for fun no way. Doin' it 'cause
you have to. 'Cause it's you. Look a Washington,' he says. 'Fit the Revolution, an' after,
them sons-a-bitches turned on him. An' Lincoln the same. Same folks yellin' to kill
'em. Natural as rain.'"
"Don't soun' like no fun," said Tom.
"No, it don't. This fella in jail, he says, 'Anyways, you do what you can. An',' he
says, 'the on'y thing you got to look at is that ever' time they's a little step fo'ward, she
may slip back a little, but she never slips clear back. You can prove that,' he says, 'an'
that makes the whole thing right. An' that means they wasn't no waste even if it seemed
like they was.'"
"Talkin'," said Tom. "Always talkin'. Take my brother Al. He's out lookin' for a girl.
He don't care 'bout nothin' else. Couple days he'll get him a girl. Think about it all day
an' do it all night. He don't give a damn 'bout steps up or down or sideways."
"Sure," said Casy. "Sure. He's jus' doin' what he's got to do. All of us like that."
The man seated outside pulled the tent flap wide. "Goddamn it, I don' like it," he
said.
Casy looked out at him. "What's the matter?"
"I don' know. I jus' itch all over. Nervous as a cat."
"Well, what's the matter?"
"I don' know. Seems like I hear somepin, an' then I listen an' they ain't nothin' to
hear."
"You're jus' jumpy," the wizened man said. He got up and went outside. And in a
second he looked into the tent. "They's a great big ol' black cloud a-sailin' over. Bet
she's got thunder. That's what's itchin' him—'lectricity." He ducked out again. The
other two men stood up from the ground and went outside.
Casy said softly, "All of 'em's itchy. Them cops been sayin' how they're gonna beat
the hell outa us an' run us outa the county. They figger I'm a leader 'cause I talk so
much."
The wizened face looked in again. "Casy, turn out that lantern an' come outside.
They's somepin."
Casy turned the screw. The flame drew down into the slots and popped and went
out. Casy groped outside and Tom followed him. "What is it?" Casy asked softly.
"I dunno. Listen!"
There was a wall of frog sounds that merged with silence. A high, shrill whistle of
crickets. But through this background came other sounds—faint footsteps from the
road, a crunch of clods up on the bank, a little swish of brush down the stream.
"Can't really tell if you hear it. Fools you. Get nervous," Casy reassured them.
"We're all nervous. Can't really tell. You hear it, Tom?"
"I hear it," said Tom. "Yeah, I hear it. I think they's guys comin' from ever' which
way. We better get outa here."
The wizened man whispered, "Under the bridge span—out that way. Hate to leave
my tent."
"Le's go," said Casy.
They moved quietly along the edge of the stream. The black span was a cave before
them. Casy bent over and moved through. Tom behind. Their feet slipped into the
water. Thirty feet they moved, and their breathing echoed from the curved ceiling.
Then they came out on the other side and straightened up.
A sharp call, "There they are!" Two flashlight beams fell on the men, caught them,
blinded them. "Stand where you are." The voices came out of the darkness. "That's
him. That shiny bastard. That's him."
Casy stared blindly at the light. He breathed heavily. "Listen," he said. "You fellas
don' know what you're doin'. You're helpin' to starve kids."
"Shut up, you red son-of-a-bitch."
A short heavy man stepped into the light. He carried a new white pick handle.
Casy went on, "You don' know what you're a-doin'."
The heavy man swung with the pick handle. Casy dodged down into the swing. The
heavy club crashed into the side of his head with a dull crunch of bone, and Casy fell
sideways out of the light.
"Jesus, George. I think you killed him."
"Put the light on him," said George. "Serve the son-of-a-bitch right." The flashlight
beam dropped, searched and found Casy's crushed head.
Tom looked down at the preacher. The light crossed the heavy man's legs and the
white new pick handle. Tom leaped silently. He wrenched the club free. The first time
he knew he had missed and struck a shoulder, but the second time his crushing blow
found the head, and as the heavy man sank down, three more blows found his head.
The lights danced about. There were shouts, the sound of running feet, crashing
through brush. Tom stood over the prostrate man. And then a club reached his head, a
glancing blow. He felt the stroke like an electric shock. And then he was running along
the stream, bending low. He heard the splash of footsteps following him. Suddenly he
turned and squirmed up into the brush, deep into a poison-oak thicket. And he lay still.
The footsteps came near, the light beams glanced along the stream bottom. Tom
wriggled up through the thicket to the top. He emerged in an orchard. And still he
could hear the calls, the pursuit in the stream bottom. He bent low and ran over the
cultivated earth; the clods slipped and rolled under his feet. Ahead he saw the bushes
that bounded the field, bushes along the edges of an irrigation ditch. He slipped
through the fence, edged in among vines and blackberry bushes. And then he lay still,
panting hoarsely. He felt his numb face and nose. The nose was crushed, and a trickle
of blood dripped from his chin. He lay still on his stomach until his mind came back.
And then he crawled slowly over the edge of the ditch. He bathed his face in the cool
water, tore off the tail of his blue shirt and dipped it and held it against his torn cheek
and nose. The water stung and burned.
The black cloud had crossed the sky, a blob of dark against the stars. The night was
quiet again.
Tom stepped into the water and felt the bottom drop from under his feet. He
threshed the two strokes across the ditch and pulled himself heavily up the other bank.
His clothes clung to him. He moved and made a slopping noise; his shoes squished.
Then he sat down, took off his shoes and emptied them. He wrung the bottoms of his
trousers, took off his coat and squeezed the water from it.
Along the highway he saw the dancing beams of the flashlights, searching the
ditches. Tom put on his shoes and moved cautiously across the stubble field. The
squishing noise no longer came from his shoes. He went by instinct toward the other
side of the stubble field, and at last he came to the road. Very cautiously he approached
the square of houses.
Once a guard, thinking he heard a noise, called, "Who's there?"
Tom dropped and froze to the ground, and the flashlight beam passed over him. He
crept silently to the door of the Joad house. The door squalled on its hinges. And Ma's
voice, calm and steady and wide awake:
"What's that?"
"Me, Tom."
"Well, you better get some sleep. Al ain't in yet."
"He must a foun' a girl."
"Go on to sleep," she said softly. "Over under the window."
He found his place and took off his clothes to the skin. He lay shivering under his
blanket. And his torn face awakened from its numbness, and his whole head throbbed.
It was an hour more before Al came in. He moved cautiously near and stepped on
Tom's wet clothes.
"Sh!" said Tom.
Al whispered, "You awake? How'd you get wet?"
"Sh," said Tom. "Tell you in the mornin'."
Pa turned on his back, and his snoring filled the room with gasps and snorts.
"You're col'," Al said.
"Sh. Go to sleep." The little square of the window showed gray against the black of
the room.
Tom did not sleep. The nerves of his wounded face came back to life and throbbed,
and his cheek bone ached, and his broken nose bulged and pulsed with pain that
seemed to toss him about, to shake him. He watched the little square window, saw the
stars slide down over it and drop from sight. At intervals he heard the footsteps of the
watchmen.
At last the roosters crowed, far away, and gradually the window lightened. Tom
touched his swollen face with his fingertips, and at his movement Al groaned and
murmured in his sleep.
The dawn came finally. In the houses, packed together, there was a sound of
movement, a crash of breaking sticks, a little clatter of pans. In the graying gloom Ma
sat up suddenly. Tom could see her face, swollen with sleep. She looked at the
window, for a long moment. And then she threw the blanket off and found her dress.
Still sitting down, she put it over her head and held her arms up and let the dress slide
down to her waist. She stood up and pulled the dress down around her ankles. Then in
bare feet, she stepped carefully to the window and looked out, and while she stared at
the growing light, her quick fingers unbraided her hair and smoothed the strands and
braided them up again. Then she clasped her hands in front of her and stood motionless
for a moment. Her face was lighted sharply by the window. She turned, stepped
carefully among the mattresses, and found the lantern. The shade screeched up, and she
lighted the wick.
Pa rolled over and blinked at her. She said, "Pa, you got more money?"
"Huh? Yeah. Paper wrote for sixty cents."
"Well, git up an' go buy some flour an' lard. Quick, now."
Pa yawned. "Maybe the store ain't open."
"Make 'em open it. Got to get somepin in you fellas. You got to get out to work."
Pa struggled into his overalls and put on his rusty coat. He went sluggishly out the
door, yawning and stretching.
The children awakened and watched from under their blanket, like mice. Pale light
filled the room now, but colorless light, before the sun. Ma glanced at the mattresses.
Uncle John was awake. Al slept heavily. Her eyes moved to Tom. For a moment she
peered at him, and then she moved quickly to him. His face was puffed and blue, and
the blood was dried black on his lips and chin. The edges of the torn cheek were
gathered and tight.
"Tom," she whispered, "what's the matter?"
"Sh!" he said. "Don't talk loud. I got in a fight."
"Tom!"
"I couldn' help it, Ma."
She knelt down beside him. "You in trouble?"
He was a long time answering. "Yeah," he said. "In trouble. I can't go out to work. I
got to hide."
The children crawled near on their hands and knees, staring greedily. "What's the
matter'th him, Ma?"
"Hush!" Ma said. "Go wash up."
"We got no soap."
"Well, use water."
"What's the matter'th Tom?"
"Now you hush. An' don't you tell nobody."
They backed away and squatted down against the far wall, knowing they would not
be inspected.
Ma asked, "Is it bad?"
"Nose busted."
"I mean the trouble?"
"Yeah. Bad."
Al opened his eyes and looked at Tom. "Well, for Chris' sake! What was you in?"
"What's a matter?" Uncle John asked.
Pa clumped in. "They was open all right." He put a tiny bag of flour and his package
of lard on the floor beside the stove. "'S'a matter?" he asked.
Tom braced himself on one elbow for a moment, and then he lay back. "Jesus, I'm
weak. I'm gonna tell ya once. So I'll tell all of ya. How 'bout the kids?"
Ma looked at them, huddled against the wall. "Go wash ya face."
"No," Tom said, "They got to hear. They got to know. They might blab if they don't
know."
"What the hell is this?" Pa demanded.
"I'm a-gonna tell. Las' night I went out to see what all the yellin' was about. An' I
come on Casy."
"The preacher?"
"Yeah, Pa. The preacher, on'y he was a-leadin' the strike. They come for him."
Pa demanded, "Who come for him?"
"I dunno. Same kinda guys that turned us back on the road that night. Had pick
handles." He paused. "They killed 'im. Busted his head. I was standin' there. I went
nuts. Grabbed the pick handle." He looked bleakly back at the night, the darkness, the
flashlights, as he spoke. "I—I clubbed a guy."
Ma's breath caught in her throat. Pa stiffened. "Kill 'im?" he asked softly.
"I—don't know. I was nuts. Tried to."
Ma asked. "Was you saw?"
"I dunno. I dunno. I guess so. They had the lights on us."
For a moment Ma stared into his eyes. "Pa," she said, "break up some boxes. We
got to get breakfas'. You got to go to work. Ruthie, Winfiel'. If anybody asts you—
Tom is sick—you hear? If you tell—he'll—get sent to jail. You hear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Keep your eye on 'em, John. Don' let 'em talk to nobody." She built the fire as Pa
broke the boxes that had held the goods. She made her dough, put a pot of coffee to
boil. The light wood caught and roared its flame in the chimney.
Pa finished breaking the boxes. He came near to Tom. "Casy—he was a good man.
What'd he wanta mess with that stuff for?"
Tom said dully, "They come to work for fi' cents a box."
"That's what we're a-gettin'."
"Yeah. What we was a-doin' was breakin' strike. They give them fellas two an' a
half cents."
"You can't eat on that."
"I know," Tom said wearily. "That's why they struck. Well, I think they bust the
strike las' night. We'll maybe be gettin' two an' a half cents today."
"Why, the sons-a-bitches—"
"Yeah! Pa. You see? Casy was still a—good man. Goddamn it, I can't get that
pitcher outa my head. Him layin' there—head jus' crushed flat an' oozin'. Jesus!" He
covered his eyes with his hand.
"Well, what we gonna do?" Uncle John asked.
Al was standing up now. "Well, by God, I know what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna get
out of it."
"No, you ain't, Al," Tom said. "We need you now. I'm the one. I'm a danger now.
Soon's I get on my feet I got to go."
Ma worked at the stove. Her head was half turned to hear. She put grease in the
frying pan, and when it whispered with heat, she spooned the dough into it.
Tom went on, "You got to stay, Al. You got to take care a the truck."
"Well, I don' like it."
"Can't help it, Al. It's your folks. You can help 'em. I'm a danger to 'em."
Al grumbled angrily. "I don' know why I ain't let to get me a job in a garage."
"Later, maybe." Tom looked past him, and he saw Rose of Sharon lying on the
mattress. Her eyes were huge—opened wide. "Don't worry," he called to her. "Don't
you worry. Gonna get you some milk today." She blinked slowly, and didn't answer
him.
Pa said, "We got to know, Tom. Think ya killed this fella?"
"I don' know. It was dark. An' somebody smacked me. I don' know. I hope so. I
hope I killed the bastard."
"Tom!" Ma called. "Don' talk like that."
From the street came the sound of many cars moving slowly. Pa stepped to the
window and looked out. "They's a whole slew a new people comin' in," he said.
"I guess they bust the strike awright," said Tom. "I guess you'll start at two an' a half
cents."
"But a fella could work at a run, an' still he couldn' eat."
"I know," said Tom. "Eat win'fall peaches. That'll keep ya up."
Ma turned the dough and stirred the coffee. "Listen to me," she said. "I'm gettin'
cornmeal today. We're a-gonna eat cornmeal mush. An' soon's we get enough for gas,
we're movin' away. This ain't a good place. An' I ain't gonna have Tom out alone. No,
sir."
"Ya can't do that, Ma. I tell you I'm jus' a danger to ya."
Her chin was set. "That's what we'll do. Here, come eat this here, an' then get out to
work. I'll come out soon's I get washed up. We got to make some money."
They ate the fried dough so hot that it sizzled in their mouths. And they tossed the
coffee down and filled their cups and drank more coffee.
Uncle John shook his head over his plate. "Don't look like we're a-gonna get shet of
this here. I bet it's my sin."
"Oh, shut up!" Pa cried. "We ain't got time for your sin now. Come on now. Le's get
out to her. Kids, you come he'p. Ma's right. We got to go outa here."
When they were gone, Ma took a plate and a cup to Tom. "Better eat a little
somepin."
"I can't, Ma. I'm so darn sore I couldn' chew."
"You better try."
"No, I can't, Ma."
She sat down on the edge of his mattress. "You got to tell me," she said. "I got to
figger how it was. I got to keep straight. What was Casy a-doin'? Why'd they kill 'im?"
"He was jus' standin' there with the lights on 'im."
"What'd he say? Can ya 'member what he says?"
Tom said, "Sure. Casy said, 'You got no right to starve people.' An' then this heavy
fella called him a red son-of-a-bitch. An' Casy says, 'You don' know what you're adoin'.' An' then this guy smashed 'im."
Ma looked down. She twisted her hands together. "Tha's what he said—'You don'
know what you're doin'?"
"Yeah!"
Ma said, "I wisht Granma could a heard."
"Ma—I didn' know what I was a-doin', no more'n when you take a breath. I didn'
even know I was gonna do it."
"It's awright. I wisht you didn' do it. I wisht you wasn' there. But you done what you
had to do. I can't read no fault on you." She went to the stove and dipped a cloth in the
heating dishwater. "Here," she said. "Put that there on your face."
He laid the warm cloth over his nose and cheek, and winced at the heat. "Ma, I'm agonna go away tonight. I can't go puttin' this on you folks."
Ma said angrily, "Tom! They's a whole lot I don' un'erstan'. But goin' away ain't
gonna ease us. It's gonna bear us down." And she went on, "They was the time when
we was on the lan'. They was a boundary to us then. Ol' folks died off, an' little fellas
come, an' we was always one thing—we was the fambly—kinda whole and clear. An'
now we ain't clear no more. I can't get straight. They ain't nothin' keeps us clear. Al—
he's a hankerin' an' a-jibbitin' to go off on his own. An' Uncle John is jus' a-draggin'
along. Pa's lost his place. He ain't the head no more. We're crackin' up, Tom. There
ain't no fambly now. An' Rosasharn—" She looked around and found the girl's wide
eyes. "She gonna have her baby an' they won't be no fambly. I don' know. I been atryin' to keep her goin'. Winfiel'—what's he gonna be, this-a-way? Gettin' wild, an'
Ruthie too—like animals. Got nothin' to trus'. Don' go, Tom. Stay an' help."
"O.K.," he said tiredly. "O.K., I shouldn', though. I know it."
Ma went to her dishpan and washed the tin plates and dried them. "You didn' sleep."
"No."
"Well, you sleep. I seen your clothes was wet. I'll hang 'em by the stove to dry." She
finished her work. "I'm goin' now. I'll pick. Rosasharn, if anybody comes, Tom's sick,
you hear? Don' let nobody in. You hear?" Rose of Sharon nodded. "We'll come back at
noon. Get some sleep, Tom. Maybe we can get outa here tonight." She moved swiftly
to him. "Tom, you ain't gonna slip out?"
"No, Ma."
"You sure? You won't go?"
"No, Ma. I'll be here."
"Awright. 'Member, Rosasharn." She went out and closed the door firmly behind
her.
Tom lay still—and then a wave of sleep lifted him to the edge of unconsciousness
and dropped him slowly back and lifted him again.
"You—Tom!"
"Huh? Yeah!" He started awake. He looked over at Rose of Sharon. Her eyes were
blazing with resentment. "What you want?"
"You killed a fella!"
"Yeah. Not so loud! You wanta rouse somebody?"
"What da I care?" she cried. "That lady tol' me. She says what sin's gonna do. She
tol' me. What chance I got to have a nice baby? Connie's gone, an' I ain't gettin' good
food. I ain't gettin' milk." Her voice rose hysterically. "An' now you kill a fella. What
chance that baby got to get bore right? I know—gonna be a freak—a freak! I never
done no dancin'."
Tom got up. "Sh!" he said. "You're gonna get folks in here."
"I don' care. I'll have a freak! I didn' dance no hug-dance."
He went near to her. "Be quiet."
"You get away from me. It ain't the first fella you killed, neither." Her face was
growing red with hysteria. Her words blurred. "I don' wanta look at you." She covered
her head with her blanket.
Tom heard the choked, smothered cries. He bit his lower lip and studied the floor.
And then he went to Pa's bed. Under the edge of the mattress the rifle lay, a leveraction Winchester .38, long and heavy. Tom picked it up and dropped the lever to see
that a cartridge was in the chamber. He tested the hammer on half-cock. And then he
went back to his mattress. He laid the rifle on the floor beside him, stock up and barrel
pointing down. Rose of Sharon's voice thinned to a whimper. Tom lay down again and
covered himself, covered his bruised cheek with the blanket and made a little tunnel to
breathe through. He sighed, "Jesus, oh, Jesus!"
Outside a group of cars went by, and voices sounded.
"How many men?"
"Jes' us—three. Whatcha payin'?"
"You go to house twenty-five. Number's right on the door."
"O.K., mister. Whatcha payin'?"
"Two and a half cents."
"Why, goddamn it, a man can't make his dinner!"
"That's what we're payin'. There's two hundred men coming from the South that'll
be glad to get it."
"But, Jesus, mister!"
"Go on now. Either take it or go on along. I got no time to argue."
"But—"
"Look. I didn' set the price. I'm just checking you in. If you want it, take it. If you
don't, turn right around and go along."
"Twenty-five, you say?"
"Yes, twenty-five."
TOM DOZED ON HIS MATTRESS. A stealthy sound in the room awakened him.
His hand crept to the rifle and tightened on the grip. He drew back the covers from his
face. Rose of Sharon was standing beside his mattress.
"What you want?" Tom demanded.
"You sleep," she said. "You jus' sleep off. I'll watch the door. They won't nobody
get in."
He studied her face for a moment. "O.K.," he said, and he covered his face with the
blanket again.
IN THE BEGINNING dusk Ma came back to the house. She paused on the doorstep
and knocked and said, "It's me," so that Tom would not be worried. She opened the
door and entered, carrying a bag. Tom awakened and sat up on his mattress. His wound
had dried and tightened so that the unbroken skin was shiny. His left eye was drawn
nearly shut. "Anybody come while we was gone?" Ma asked.
"No," he said. "Nobody. I see they dropped the price."
"How'd you know?"
"I heard folks talkin' outside."
Rose of Sharon looked dully up at Ma.
Tom pointed at her with his thumb. "She raised hell, Ma. Thinks all the trouble is
aimed right smack at her. If I'm gonna get her upset like that I oughta go 'long."
Ma turned on Rose of Sharon. "What you doin'?"
The girl said resentfully, "How'm I gonna have a nice baby with stuff like this?"
Ma said, "Hush! You hush now. I know how you're a-feelin', an' I know you can't
he'p it, but jus' keep your mouth shut."
She turned back to Tom. "Don't pay her no mind, Tom. It's awful hard, an' I
'member how it is. Ever'thing is a-shootin' right at you when you're gonna have a baby,
an' ever'thing anybody says is a insult, an' ever'thing against you. Don't pay no mind.
She can't he'p it. It's jus' the way she feels."
"I don' wanta hurt her."
"Hush! Jus' don' talk." She set her bag down on the cold stove. "Didn' hardly make
nothin'," she said. "I tol' you, we're gonna get outa here. Tom, try an' wrassle me some
wood. No—you can't. Here, we got on'y this one box lef'. Break it up. I tol' the other
fellas to pick up some sticks on the way back. Gonna have mush an' a little sugar on."
Tom got up and stamped the last box to small pieces. Ma carefully built her fire in
one end of the stove, conserving the flame under one stove hole. She filled a kettle
with water and put it over the flame. The kettle rattled over the direct fire, rattled and
wheezed.
"How was it pickin' today?" Tom asked.
Ma dipped a cup into her bag of cornmeal. "I don' wanta talk about it. I was thinkin'
today how they use' to be jokes. I don' like it, Tom. We don' joke no more. When they's
a joke, it's a mean bitter joke, an' they ain't no fun in it. Fella says today, 'Depression is
over. I seen a jackrabbit, an' they wasn't nobody after him.' An' another fella says, 'That
ain't the reason. Can't afford to kill jackrabbits no more. Catch 'em and milk 'em an'
turn 'em loose. One you seen prob'ly gone dry.' That's how I mean. Ain't really funny,
not funny like that time Uncle John converted an Injun an' brang him home, an' that
Injun et his way clean to the bottom of the bean bin, an' then backslid with Uncle
John's whisky. Tom, put a rag with col' water on your face."
The dusk deepened. Ma lighted the lantern and hung it on a nail. She fed the fire
and poured cornmeal gradually into the hot water. "Rosasharn," she said, "can you stir
the mush?"
Outside there was a patter of running feet. The door burst open and banged against
the wall. Ruthie rushed in. "Ma!" she cried. "Ma. Winfiel' got a fit!"
"Where? Tell me!"
Ruthie panted, "Go white an' fell down. Et so many peaches he skittered hisself all
day. Jus' fell down. White!"
"Take me!" Ma demanded. "Rosasharn, you watch that mush."
She went out with Ruthie. She ran heavily up the street behind the little girl. Three
men walked toward her in the dusk, and the center man carried Winfield in his arms.
Ma ran up to them. "He's mine," she cried. "Give 'im to me."
"I'll carry 'im for you, ma'am."
"No, here, give 'im to me." She hoisted the little boy and turned back; and then she
remembered herself. "I sure thank ya," she said to the men.
"Welcome, ma'am. The little fella's purty weak. Looks like he got worms."
Ma hurried back, and Winfield was limp and relaxed in her arms. Ma carried him
into the house and knelt down and laid him on a mattress. "Tell me. What's the
matter?" she demanded. He opened his eyes dizzily and shook his head and closed his
eyes again.
Ruthie said, "I tol' ya, Ma. He skittered all day. Ever' little while. Et too many
peaches."
Ma felt his head. "He ain't fevered. But he's white and drawed out."
Tom came near and held the lantern down. "I know," he said. "He's hungered. Got
no strength. Get him a can a milk an' make him drink it. Make 'im take milk on his
mush."
"Winfiel'," Ma said. "Tell how ya feel."
"Dizzy," said Winfield, "jus' a whirlin' dizzy."
"You never seen such skitters," Ruthie said importantly.
Pa and Uncle John and Al came into the house. Their arms were full of sticks and
bits of brush. They dropped their loads by the stove. "Now what?" Pa demanded.
"It's Winfiel'. He needs some milk."
"Christ Awmighty! We all need stuff!"
Ma said, "How much'd we make today?"
"Dollar forty-two."
"Well, you go right over'n get a can a milk for Winfiel'."
"Now why'd he have to get sick?"
"I don't know why, but he is. Now you git!" Pa went grumbling out the door. "You
stirrin' that mush?"
"Yeah." Rose of Sharon speeded up the stirring to prove it.
Al complained, "God Awmighty, Ma! Is mush all we get after workin' till dark?"
"Al, you know we got to git. Take all we got for gas. You know."
"But, God Awmighty, Ma! A fella needs meat if he's gonna work."
"Jus' you sit quiet," she said. "We got to take the bigges' thing an' whup it fust. An'
you know what that thing is."
Tom asked, "Is it about me?"
"We'll talk when we've et," said Ma. "Al, we got enough gas to go a ways, ain't
we?"
"'Bout a quarter tank," said Al.
"I wisht you'd tell me," Tom said.
"After. Jus' wait."
"Keep-a-stirrin' that mush, you. Here, lemme put on some coffee. You can have
sugar on your mush or in your coffee. They ain't enough for both."
Pa came back with one tall can of milk. "'Leven cents," he said disgustedly.
"Here!" Ma took the can and stabbed it open. She let the thick stream out into a cup,
and handed it to Tom. "Give that to Winfiel'."
Tom knelt beside the mattress. "Here, drink this."
"I can't. I'd sick it all up. Leave me be."
Tom stood up. "He can't take it now, Ma. Wait a little."
Ma took the cup and set it on the window ledge. "Don't none of you touch that," she
warned. "That's for Winfiel'."
"I ain't had no milk," Rose of Sharon said sullenly. "I oughta have some."
"I know, but you're still on your feet. This here little fella's down. Is that mush good
an' thick?"
"Yeah. Can't hardly stir it no more."
"Awright, le's eat. Now here's the sugar. They's about one spoon each. Have it on ya
mush or in ya coffee."
Tom said, "I kinda like salt an' pepper on mush."
"Salt her if you like," Ma said. "The pepper's out."
The boxes were all gone. The family sat on the mattresses to eat their mush. They
served themselves again and again, until the pot was nearly empty. "Save some for
Winfiel'," Ma said.
Winfield sat up and drank his milk, and instantly he was ravenous. He put the mush
pot between his legs and ate what was left and scraped at the crust on the sides. Ma
poured the rest of the canned milk in a cup and sneaked it to Rose of Sharon to drink
secretly in a corner. She poured the hot black coffee into the cups and passed them
around.
"Now will you tell what's goin' on?" Tom asked. "I wanta hear."
Pa said uneasily, "I wisht Ruthie an' Winfiel' didn' hafta hear. Can't they go
outside?"
Ma said, "No. They got to act growed up, even if they ain't. They's no help for it.
Ruthie—you an' Winfiel' ain't ever to say what you hear, else you'll jus' break us to
pieces."
"We won't," Ruthie said. "We're growed up."
"Well, jus' be quiet, then." The cups of coffee were on the floor. The short thick
flame of the lantern, like a stubby butterfly's wing, cast a yellow gloom on the walls.
"Now tell," said Tom.
Ma said, "Pa, you tell."
Uncle John slupped his coffee. Pa said, "Well, they dropped the price like you said.
An' they was a whole slew a new pickers so goddamn hungry they'd pick for a loaf a
bread. Go for a peach, an' somebody'd get it first. Gonna get the whole crop picked
right off. Fellas runnin' to a new tree. I seen fights—one fella claims it's his tree,
'nother fella wants to pick off'n it. Brang these here folks from as far's El Centro.
Hungrier'n hell. Work all day for a piece a bread. I says to the checker, 'We can't work
for two an' a half cents a box,' an' he says, 'Go on, then, quit. These fellas can.' I says,
'Soon's they get fed up they won't.' An' he says, 'Hell, we'll have these here peaches in
'fore they get fed up.'" Pa stopped.
"She was a devil," said Uncle John. "They say they's two hunderd more men comin'
in tonight."
Tom said, "Yeah! But how about the other?"
Pa was silent for a while. "Tom," he said, "looks like you done it."
"I kinda thought so. Couldn' see. Felt like it."
"Seems like the people ain't talkin' 'bout much else," said Uncle John. "They got
posses out, an' they's fellas talkin' up a lynchin'—'course when they catch the fella."
Tom looked over at the wide-eyed children. They seldom blinked their eyes. It was
as though they were afraid something might happen in the split second of darkness.
Tom said, "Well—this fella that done it, he on'y done it after they killed Casy."
Pa interrupted, "That ain't the way they're tellin' it now. They're sayin' he done it
fust."
Tom's breath sighed out, "Ah-h!"
"They're workin' up a feelin' against us folks. That's what I heard. All them drumcorpse fellas an' lodges an' all that. Say they're gonna get this here fella."
"They know what he looks like?" Tom asked.
"Well—not exactly—but the way I heard it, they think he got hit. They think—he'll
have—"
Tom put his hand up slowly and touched his bruised cheek.
Ma cried, "It ain't so, what they say!"
"Easy, Ma," Tom said. "They got it cold. Anything them drum-corpse fellas say is
right if it's against us."
Ma peered through the ill light, and she watched Tom's face, and particularly his
lips. "You promised," she said.
"Ma, I—maybe this fella oughta go away. If—this fella done somepin wrong,
maybe he'd think, 'O.K. Le's get the hangin' over. I done wrong an' I got to take it.' But
this fella didn' do nothin' wrong. He don' feel no worse'n if he killed a skunk."
Ruthie broke in, "Ma, me an' Winfiel' knows. He don' have to go this-fella'in' for
us."
Tom chuckled. "Well, this fella don' want no hangin', 'cause he'd do it again. An'
same time, he don't aim to bring trouble down on his folks. Ma—I got to go."
Ma covered her mouth with her fingers and coughed to clear her throat. "You can't,"
she said. "They wouldn' be no way to hide out. You couldn' trus' nobody. But you can
trus' us. We can hide you, an' we can see you get to eat while your face gets well."
"But, Ma—"
She got to her feet. "You ain't goin'. We're a-takin' you. Al, you back the truck
against the door. Now, I got it figgered out. We'll put one mattress on the bottom, an'
then Tom gets quick there, an' we take another mattress an' sort of fold it so it makes a
cave, an' he's in the cave; and then we sort of wall it in. He can breathe out the end, ya
see. Don't argue. That's what we'll do."
Pa complained, "Seems like the man ain't got no say no more. She's jus' a heller.
Come time we get settled down, I'm a-gonna smack her."
"Come that time, you can," said Ma. "Roust up, Al. It's dark enough."
Al went outside to the truck. He studied the matter and backed up near the steps.
Ma said, "Quick now. Git that mattress in!"
Pa and Uncle John flung it over the end gate. "Now that one." They tossed the
second mattress up. "Now—Tom, you jump up there an' git under. Hurry up."
Tom climbed quickly, and dropped. He straightened one mattress and pulled the
second on top of him. Pa bent it upwards, stood it sides up, so that the arch covered
Tom. He could see out between the side-boards of the truck. Pa and Al and Uncle John
loaded quickly, piled the blankets on top of Tom's cave, stood the buckets against the
sides, spread the last mattress behind. Pots and pans, extra clothes, went in loose, for
their boxes had been burned. They were nearly finished loading when a guard moved
near, carrying his shotgun across his crooked arm.
"What's goin' on here?" he asked.
"We're goin' out," said Pa.
"What for?"
"Well—we got a job offered—good job."
"Yeah? Where's it at?"
"Why—down by Weedpatch."
"Let's have a look at you." He turned a flashlight in Pa's face, in Uncle John's, and
in Al's. "Wasn't there another fella with you?"
Al said, "You mean that hitch-hiker? Little short fella with a pale face?"
"Yeah. I guess that's what he looked like."
"We jus' picked him up on the way in. He went away this mornin' when the rate
dropped."
"What did he look like again?"
"Short fella. Pale face."
"Was he bruised up this mornin'?"
"I didn' see nothin'," said Al. "Is the gas pump open?"
"Yeah, till eight."
"Git in," Al cried. "If we're gonna get to Weedpatch 'fore mornin' we gotta ram on.
Gettin' in front, Ma?"
"No, I'll set in back," she said. "Pa, you set back here too. Let Rosasharn set in front
with Al' an' Uncle John."
"Give me the work slip, Pa," said Al. "I'll get gas an' change if I can."
The guard watched them pull along the street and turn left to the gasoline pumps.
"Put in two," said Al.
"You ain't goin' far."
"No, not far. Can I get change on this here work slip?"
"Well—I ain't supposed to."
"Look, mister," Al said. "We got a good job offered if we get there tonight. If we
don't, we miss out. Be a good fella."
"Well, O.K. You sign her over to me."
Al got out and walked around the nose of the Hudson. "Sure I will," he said. He
unscrewed the water cap and filled the radiator.
"Two, you say?"
"Yeah, two."
"Which way you goin'?"
"South. We got a job."
"Yeah? Jobs is scarce—reg'lar jobs."
"We got a frien'," Al said. "Job's all waitin' for us. Well, so long." The truck swung
around and bumped over the dirt street into the road. The feeble headlight jiggled over
the way, and the right headlight blinked on and off from a bad connection. At every
jolt the loose pots and pans in the truck-bed jangled and crashed.
Rose of Sharon moaned softly.
"Feel bad?" Uncle John asked.
"Yeah! Feel bad all a time. Wisht I could set still in a nice place. Wisht we was
home an' never come. Connie wouldn' a went away if we was home. He would a
studied up an' got someplace." Neither Al nor Uncle John answered her. They were
embarrassed about Connie.
At the white painted gate to the ranch a guard came to the side of the truck. "Goin'
out for good?"
"Yeah," said Al. "Goin' north. Got a job."
The guard turned his flashlight on the truck, turned it up into the tent. Ma and Pa
looked stonily down into the glare. "O.K." The guard swung the gate open. The truck
turned left and moved toward 101, the great north-south highway.
"Know where we're a-goin'?" Uncle John asked.
"No," said Al. "Jus' goin', an' gettin' goddamn sick of it."
"I ain't so tur'ble far from my time," Rose of Sharon said threateningly. "They better
be a nice place for me."
The night air was cold with the first sting of frost. Beside the road the leaves were
beginning to drop from the fruit trees. On the load, Ma sat with her back against the
truck side, and Pa sat opposite, facing her.
Ma called, "You all right, Tom?"
His muffled voice came back, "Kinda tight in here. We all through the ranch?"
"You be careful," said Ma. "Might git stopped."
Tom lifted up one side of his cave. In the dimness of the truck the pots jangled. "I
can pull her down quick." he said. "'Sides, I don' like gettin' trapped in here." He rested
up on his elbow. "By God, she's gettin' cold, ain't she?"
"They's clouds up," said Pa. "Fella says it's gonna be an early winter."
"Squirrels a-buildin' high, or grass seeds?" Tom asked. "By God, you can tell
weather from anythin'. I bet you could find a fella could tell weather from a old pair of
underdrawers."
"I dunno," Pa said. "Seems like it's gittin' on winter to me. Fella'd have to live here a
long time to know."
"Which way we a-goin'?" Tom asked.
"I dunno. Al, he turned off lef'. Seems like he's goin' back the way we come."
Tom said, "I can't figger what's best. Seems like if we get on the main highway
they'll be more cops. With my face this-a-way, they'd pick me right up. Maybe we
oughta keep to back roads."
Ma said, "Hammer on the back. Get Al to stop."
Tom pounded the front board with his fist; the truck pulled to a stop on the side of
the road. Al got out and walked to the back. Ruthie and Winfield peeked out from
under their blanket.
"What ya want?" Al demanded.
Ma said, "We got to figger what to do. Maybe we better keep on the back roads.
Tom says so."
"It's my face," Tom added. "Anybody'd know. Any cop'd know me."
"Well, which way you wanta go? I figgered north. We been south."
"Yeah," said Tom, "but keep on back roads."
Al asked, "How 'bout pullin' off an' catchin' some sleep, goin' on tomorra?"
Ma said quickly. "Not yet. Le's get some distance fust."
"O.K." Al got back in his seat and drove on.
Ruthie and Winfield covered up their heads again. Ma called, "Is Winfiel' all right?"
"Sure, he's awright," Ruthie said. "He been sleepin'."
Ma leaned back against the truck side. "Gives ya a funny feelin' to be hunted like.
I'm gittin' mean."
"Ever'body's gittin' mean," said Pa. "Ever'body. You seen that fight today. Fella
changes. Down that gov'ment camp we wasn' mean."
Al turned right on a graveled road, and the yellow lights shuddered over the ground.
The fruit trees were gone now, and cotton plants took their place. They drove on for
twenty miles through the cotton, turning, angling on the country roads. The road
paralleled a bushy creek and turned over a concrete bridge and followed the stream on
the other side. And then, on the edge of the creek the lights showed a long line of red
boxcars, wheelless; and a big sign on the edge of the road said, "Cotton Pickers
Wanted." Al slowed down. Tom peered between the side-bars of the truck. A quarter
of a mile past the boxcars Tom hammered on the car again. Al stopped beside the road
and got out again.
"Now what ya want?"
"Shut off the engine an' climb up here," Tom said.
Al got into the seat, drove off into the ditch, cut lights and engine. He climbed over
the tail gate. "Awright," he said.
Tom crawled over the pots and knelt in front of Ma. "Look," he said. "It says they
want cotton pickers. I seen that sign. Now I been tryin' to figger how I'm gonna stay
with you, an' not make no trouble. When my face gets well, maybe it'll be awright, but
not now. Ya see them cars back there. Well, the pickers live in them. Now maybe
they's work there. How about if you get work there an' live in one of them cars?"
"How 'bout you?" Ma demanded.
"Well, you seen that crick, all full a brush. Well, I could hide in that brush an' keep
outa sight. An' at night you could bring me out somepin to eat. I seen a culvert, little
ways back. I could maybe sleep in there."
Pa said, "By God, I'd like to get my hands on some cotton! There's work I
un'erstan'."
"Them cars might be a purty place to stay," said Ma. "Nice an' dry. You think they's
enough brush to hide in, Tom?"
"Sure. I been watchin'. I could fix up a little place, hide away. Soon's my face gets
well, I'd come out."
"You gonna scar purty bad," said Ma.
"Hell! Ever'body's got scars."
"I picked four hunderd poun's oncet," Pa said. "'Course it was a good heavy crop. If
we all pick, we could get some money."
"Could get some meat," said Al. "What'll we do right now?"
"Go back there, an' sleep in the truck till mornin'," Pa said. "Git work in the mornin'.
I can see them bolls even in the dark."
"How 'bout Tom?" Ma asked.
"Now you jus' forget me, Ma. I'll take me a blanket. You look out on the way back.
They's a nice culvert. You can bring me some bread or potatoes, or mush, an' just leave
it there. I'll come get it."
"Well!"
"Seems like good sense to me," said Pa.
"It is good sense," Tom insisted. "Soon's my face gets a little better, why I'll come
out an' go to pickin'."
"Well, awright," Ma agreed. "But don' you take no chancet. Don' let nobody see you
for a while."
Tom crawled to the back of the truck. "I'll jus' take this here blanket. You look for
that culvert on the way back, Ma."
"Take care," she begged. "You take care."
"Sure," said Tom. "Sure I will." He climbed the tail board, stepped down the bank.
"Good night," he said.
Ma watched his figure blur with the night and disappear into the bushes beside the
stream. "Dear Jesus, I hope it's awright," she said.
Al asked, "You want I should go back now?"
"Yeah," said Pa.
"Go slow," said Ma. "I wanta be sure an' see that culvert he said about. I got to see
that."
Al backed and filled on the narrow road, until he had reversed his direction. He
drove slowly back to the line of boxcars. The truck lights showed the cat-walks up to
the wide car doors. The doors were dark. No one moved in the night. Al shut off his
lights.
"You and Uncle John climb up back," he said to Rose of Sharon. "I'll sleep in the
seat here."
Uncle John helped the heavy girl to climb up over the tail board. Ma piled the pots
in a small space. The family lay wedged close together in the back of the truck.
A baby cried, in long jerking cackles, in one of the boxcars. A dog trotted out,
sniffing and snorting, and moved slowly around the Joad truck. The tinkle of moving
water came from the streambed.