The Grapes of Wrath (66 page)

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, “Got 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 sech 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 drum-corpse 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. “Fellas 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.