The Grapes of Wrath (46 page)

“You’ll find out. Jus’ wait.” He led Tom to the torn-down car. “This here’s Floyd Knowles,” he said.

“Yeah, I talked to him. How ya?”

“Jus’ gettin’ her in shape,” Floyd said.

Tom ran his finger over the top of the block. “What kinda bugs is crawlin’ on you, Al?”

“Floyd jus’ tol’ me. Tell ’em, Floyd.”

Floyd said, “Maybe I shouldn’, but—yeah, I’ll tell ya. Fella come through an’ he says they’s gonna be work up north.”

“Up north?”

“Yeah—place called Santa Clara Valley, way to hell an’ gone up north.”

“Yeah? Kinda work?”

“Prune pickin’, an’ pears an’ cannery work. Says it’s purty near ready.”

“How far?” Tom demanded.

“Oh, Christ knows. Maybe two hundred miles.”

“That’s a hell of a long ways,” said Tom. “How we know they’s gonna be work when we get there?”

“Well, we don’ know,” said Floyd. “But they ain’t nothin’ here, an’ this fella says he got a letter from his brother, an’ he’s on his way. He
says not to tell nobody, they’ll be too many. We oughta get out in the night. Oughta get there an’ get some work lined up.”

Tom studied him. “Why we gotta sneak away?”

“Well, if ever’body gets there, ain’t gonna be work for nobody.”

“It’s a hell of a long ways,” Tom said.

Floyd sounded hurt. “I’m jus’ givin’ you the tip. You don’ have to take it. Your brother here he’ped me, an’ I’m givin’ you the tip.”

“You sure there ain’t no work here?”

“Look, I been scourin’ aroun’ for three weeks all over hell, an’ I ain’t had a bit a work, not a single han’-holt. ’F you wanta look aroun’ an’ burn up gas lookin’, why, go ahead. I ain’t beggin’ you. More that goes, the less chance I got.”

Tom said, “I ain’t findin’ fault. It’s jus’ such a hell of a long ways. An’ we kinda hoped we could get work here an’ rent a house to live in.”

Floyd said patiently, “I know ya jus’ got here. They’s stuff ya got to learn. If you’d let me tell ya, it’d save ya somepin. If ya don’ let me tell ya, then ya got to learn the hard way. You ain’t gonna settle down ’cause they ain’t no work to settle ya. An’ your belly ain’t gonna let ya settle down. Now—that’s straight.”

“Wisht I could look aroun’ first,” Tom said uneasily.

A sedan drove through the camp and pulled up at the next tent. A man in overalls and a blue shirt climbed out. Floyd called to him, “Any luck?”

“There ain’t a han’-turn of work in the whole darn country, not till cotton pickin’.” And he went into the ragged tent.

“See?” said Floyd.

“Yeah, I see. But two hunderd miles, Jesus!”

“Well, you ain’t settlin’ down no place for a while. Might’s well make up your mind to that.”

“We better go,” Al said.

Tom asked, “When is they gonna be work aroun’ here?”

“Well, in a month the cotton’ll start. If you got plenty money you can wait for the cotton.”

Tom said, “Ma ain’t a-gonna wanta move. She’s all tar’d out.”

Floyd shrugged his shoulders. “I ain’t a-tryin’ to push ya north. Suit yaself. I jus’ tol’ ya what I heard.” He picked the oily gasket from the
running board and fitted it carefully on the block and pressed it down. “Now,” he said to Al, “’f you want to give me a han’ with that engine head.”

Tom watched while they set the heavy head gently down over the head bolts and dropped it evenly. “Have to talk about it,” he said.

Floyd said, “I don’t want nobody but your folks to know about it. Jus’ you. An’ I wouldn’t of tol’ you if ya brother didn’ he’p me out here.”

Tom said, “Well, I sure thank ya for tellin’ us. We got to figger it out. Maybe we’ll go.”

Al said, “By God, I think I’ll go if the res’ goes or not. I’ll hitch there.”

“An’ leave the fambly?” Tom asked.

“Sure. I’d come back with my jeans plumb fulla jack. Why not?”

“Ma ain’t gonna like no such thing,” Tom said. “An’ Pa, he ain’t gonna like it neither.”

Floyd set the nuts and screwed them down as far as he could with his fingers. “Me an’ my wife come out with our folks,” he said. “Back home we wouldn’ of thought of goin’ away. Wouldn’ of thought of it. But, hell, we was all up north a piece and I come down here, an’ they moved on, an’ now God knows where they are. Been lookin’ an’ askin’ about ’em ever since.” He fitted his wrench to the enginehead bolts and turned them down evenly, one turn to each nut, around and around the series.

Tom squatted down beside the car and squinted his eyes up the line of tents. A little stubble was beaten into the earth between the tents. “No, sir,” he said, “Ma ain’t gonna like you goin’ off.”

“Well, seems to me a lone fella got more chance of work.”

“Maybe, but Ma ain’t gonna like it at all.”

Two cars loaded with disconsolate men drove down into the camp. Floyd lifted his eyes, but he didn’t ask them about their luck. Their dusty faces were sad and resistant. The sun was sinking now, and the yellow sunlight fell on the Hooverville and on the willows behind it. The children began to come out of the tents, to wander about the camp. And from the tents the women came and built their little fires. The men gathered in squatting groups and talked together.

A new Chevrolet coupé turned off the highway and headed down
into the camp. It pulled to the center of the camp. Tom said, “Who’s this? They don’t belong here.”

Floyd said, “I dunno—cops, maybe.”

The car door opened and a man got out and stood beside the car. His companion remained seated. Now all the squatting men looked at the newcomers and the conversation was still. And the women building their fires looked secretly at the shiny car. The children moved closer with elaborate circuitousness, edging inward in long curves.

Floyd put down his wrench. Tom stood up. Al wiped his hands on his trousers. The three strolled toward the Chevrolet. The man who had got out of the car was dressed in khaki trousers and a flannel shirt. He wore a flat-brimmed Stetson hat. A sheaf of papers was held in his shirt pocket by a little fence of fountain pens and yellow pencils; and from his hip pocket protruded a notebook with metal covers. He moved to one of the groups of squatting men, and they looked up at him, suspicious and quiet. They watched him and did not move; the whites of their eyes showed beneath the irises, for they did not raise their heads to look. Tom and Al and Floyd strolled casually near.

The man said, “You men want to work?” Still they looked quietly, suspiciously. And men from all over the camp moved near.

One of the squatting men spoke at last. “Sure we wanta work. Where’s at’s work?”

“Tulare County. Fruit’s opening up. Need a lot of pickers.”

Floyd spoke up. “You doin’ the hiring?”

“Well, I’m contracting the land.”

The men were in a compact group now. An overalled man took off his black hat and combed back his long black hair with his fingers. “What you payin’?” he asked.

“Well, can’t tell exactly, yet. ’Bout thirty cents, I guess.”

“Why can’t you tell? You took the contract, didn’ you?”

“That’s true,” the khaki man said. “But it’s keyed to the price. Might be a little more, might be a little less.”

Floyd stepped out ahead. He said quietly, “I’ll go, mister. You’re a contractor, an’ you got a license. You jus’ show your license, an’ then you give us an order to go to work, an’ where, an’ when, an’ how much we’ll get, an’ you sign that, an’ we’ll all go.”

The contractor turned, scowling. “You telling me how to run my own business?”

Floyd said, “’F we’re workin’ for you, it’s our business too.”

“Well, you ain’t telling me what to do. I told you I need men.”

Floyd said angrily, “You didn’ say how many men, an’ you didn’ say what you’d pay.”

“Goddamn it, I don’t know yet.”

“If you don’ know, you got no right to hire men.”

“I got a right to run my business my own way. If you men want to sit here on your ass, O.K. I’m out getting men for Tulare County. Going to need a lot of men.”

Floyd turned to the crowd of men. They were standing up now, looking quietly from one speaker to the other. Floyd said, “Twicet now I’ve fell for that. Maybe he needs a thousan’ men. He’ll get five thousan’ there, an’ he’ll pay fifteen cents an hour. An’ you poor bastards’ll have to take it ’cause you’ll be hungry. ’F he wants to hire men, let him hire ’em an’ write it out an’ say what he’s gonna pay. Ast ta see his license. He ain’t allowed to contract men without a license.”

The contractor turned to the Chevrolet and called, “Joe!” His companion looked out and then swung the car door open and stepped out. He wore riding breeches and laced boots. A heavy pistol holster hung on a cartridge belt around his waist. On his brown shirt a deputy sheriff’s star was pinned. He walked heavily over. His face was set to a thin smile. “What you want?” The holster slid back and forth on his hip.

“Ever see this guy before, Joe?”

The deputy asked “Which one?”

“This fella.” The contractor pointed to Floyd.

“What’d he do?” The deputy smiled at Floyd.

“He’s talkin’ red, agitating trouble.”

“Hm-m-m.” The deputy moved slowly around to see Floyd’s profile, and the color slowly flowed up Floyd’s face.

“You see?” Floyd cried. “If this guy’s on the level, would he bring a cop along?”

“Ever see ’im before?” the contractor insisted.

“Hmm, seems like I have. Las’ week when that used-car lot was busted into. Seems like I seen this fella hangin’ aroun’. Yep! I’d swear
it’s the same fella.” Suddenly the smile left his face. “Get in that car,” he said, and he unhooked the strap that covered the butt of his automatic.

Tom said, “You got nothin’ on him.”

The deputy swung around. “’F you’d like to go in too, you jus’ open your trap once more. They was two fellas hangin’ around that lot.”

“I wasn’t even in the State las’ week,” Tom said.

“Well, maybe you’re wanted someplace else. You keep your trap shut.”

The contractor turned back to the men. “You fellas don’t want ta listen to these goddamn reds. Troublemakers—they’ll get you in trouble. Now I can use all of you in Tulare County.”

The men didn’t answer.

The deputy turned back to them. “Might be a good idear to go,” he said. The thin smile was back on his face. “Board of Health says we got to clean out this camp. An’ if it gets around that you got reds out here—why, somebody might git hurt. Be a good idear if all you fellas moved on to Tulare. They isn’t a thing to do aroun’ here. That’s jus’ a friendly way a telling you. Be a bunch a guys down here, maybe with pick handles, if you ain’t gone.”

The contractor said, “I told you I need men. If you don’t want to work—well, that’s your business.”

The deputy smiled. “If they don’t want to work, they ain’t a place for ’em in this county. We’ll float ’em quick.”

Floyd stood stiffly beside the deputy, and Floyd’s thumbs were hooked over his belt. Tom stole a look at him, and then stared at the ground.

“That’s all,” the contractor said. “There’s men needed in Tulare County; plenty of work.”

Tom looked slowly up at Floyd’s hands, and he saw the strings at the wrists standing out under the skin. Tom’s own hands came up, and his thumbs hooked over his belt.

“Yeah, that’s all. I don’t want one of you here by tomorra morning.”

The contractor stepped into the Chevrolet.

“Now, you,” the deputy said to Floyd, “you get in that car.” He reached a large hand up and took hold of Floyd’s left arm. Floyd spun
and swung with one movement. His fist splashed into the large face, and in the same motion he was away, dodging down the line of tents. The deputy staggered and Tom put out his foot for him to trip over. The deputy fell heavily and rolled, reaching for his gun. Floyd dodged in and out of sight down the line. The deputy fired from the ground. A woman in front of a tent screamed and then looked at a hand which had no knuckles. The fingers hung on strings against her palm, and the torn flesh was white and bloodless. Far down the line Floyd came in sight, sprinting for the willows. The deputy, sitting on the ground, raised his gun again and then, suddenly, from the group of men, the Reverend Casy stepped. He kicked the deputy in the neck and then stood back as the heavy man crumpled into unconsciousness.

The motor of the Chevrolet roared and it streaked away, churning the dust. It mounted to the highway and shot away. In front of her tent, the woman still looked at her shattered hand. Little droplets of blood began to ooze from the wound. And a chuckling hysteria began in her throat, a whining laugh that grew louder and higher with each breath.

The deputy lay on his side, his mouth open against the dust.

Tom picked up his automatic, pulled out the magazine and threw it into the brush, and he ejected the live shell from the chamber. “Fella like that ain’t got no right to a gun,” he said; and he dropped the automatic to the ground.

A crowd had collected around the woman with the broken hand, and her hysteria increased, a screaming quality came into her laughter.

Casy moved close to Tom. “You got to git out,” he said. “You go down in the willas an’ wait. He didn’ see me kick ’im, but he seen you stick out your foot.”

“I don’ want ta go,” Tom said.

Casy put his head close. He whispered, “They’ll fingerprint you. You broke parole. They’ll send you back.”

Tom drew in his breath quietly. “Jesus! I forgot.”

“Go quick,” Casy said. “’Fore he comes to.”

“Like to have his gun,” Tom said.

“No. Leave it. If it’s awright to come back, I’ll give ya four high whistles.”

Tom strolled away casually, but as soon as he was away from the
group he hurried his steps, and he disappeared among the willows that lined the river.

Al stepped over to the fallen deputy. “Jesus,” he said admiringly, “you sure flagged ’im down!”

The crowd of men had continued to stare at the unconscious man. And now in the great distance a siren screamed up the scale and dropped, and it screamed again, nearer this time. Instantly the men were nervous. They shifted their feet for a moment and then they moved away, each one to his own tent. Only Al and the preacher remained.

Casy turned to Al. “Get out,” he said. “Go on, get out—to the tent. You don’t know nothin’.”