The Grapes of Wrath (73 page)

“Shucks!” Ruthie yawned. “I wisht it had a been a baby.”

Mrs. Wainwright sat down beside Ma and took the cardboard from her and fanned the air. Ma folded her hands in her lap, and her tired eyes never left the face of Rose of Sharon, sleeping in exhaustion. “Come on,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “Jus’ lay down. You’ll be right beside her. Why, you’d wake up if she took a deep breath, even.”

“Awright, I will.” Ma stretched out on the mattress beside the sleeping girl. And Mrs. Wainwright sat on the floor and kept watch.

Pa and Al and Uncle John sat in the car doorway and watched the steely dawn come. The rain had stopped, but the sky was deep and solid with cloud. As the light came, it was reflected on the water. The men could see the current of the stream, slipping swiftly down, bearing black branches of trees, boxes, boards. The water swirled into the flat where the boxcars stood. There was no sign of the embankment left. On the flat the current stopped. The edges of the flood were lined with yellow foam. Pa leaned out the door and placed a twig on the cat-walk, just
above the water line. The men watched the water slowly climb to it, lift it gently and float it away. Pa placed another twig an inch above the water and settled back to watch.

“Think it’ll come inside the car?” Al asked.

“Can’t tell. They’s a hell of a lot of water got to come down from the hills yet. Can’t tell. Might start up to rain again.”

Al said, “I been a-thinkin’. If she come in, ever’thing’ll get soaked.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she won’t come up more’n three-four feet in the car ’cause she’ll go over the highway an’ spread out first.”

“How you know?” Pa asked.

“I took a sight on her, off the end of the car.” He held his hand. “’Bout this far up she’ll come.”

“Awright,” Pa said. “What about it? We won’t be here.”

“We got to be here. Truck’s here. Take a week to get the water out of her when the flood goes down.”

“Well—what’s your idear?”

“We can tear out the side-boards of the truck an’ build a kinda platform in here to pile our stuff ’an to set up on.”

“Yeah? How’ll we cook—how’ll we eat?”

“Well, it’ll keep our stuff dry.”

The light grew stronger outside, a gray metallic light. The second little stick floated away from the cat-walk. Pa placed another one higher up. “Sure climbin’,” he said. “I guess we better do that.”

Ma turned restlessly in her sleep. Her eyes started wide open. She cried sharply in warning, “Tom! Oh, Tom! Tom!”

Mrs. Wainwright spoke soothingly. The eyes flicked closed again and Ma squirmed under her dream. Mrs. Wainwright got up and walked to the doorway. “Hey!” she said softly. “We ain’t gonna git out soon.” She pointed to the corner of the car where the apple box was. “That ain’t doin’ no good. Jus’ cause trouble an’ sorra. Couldn’ you fellas kinda—take it out an’ bury it?”

The men were silent. Pa said at last, “Guess you’re right. Jus’ cause sorra. ’Gainst the law to bury it.”

“They’s lots a things ’gainst the law that we can’the’p doin’.”

“Yeah.”

Al said, “We oughta git them truck sides tore off ’fore the water comes up much more.”

Pa turned to Uncle John. “Will you take an’ bury it while Al an me git that lumber in?”

Uncle John said sullenly, “Why do I got to do it? Why don’t you fellas? I don’ like it.” And then, “Sure. I’ll do it. Sure, I will. Come on, give it to me.” His voice began to rise. “Come on! Give it to me.”

“Don’ wake ’em up,” Mrs. Wainwright said. She brought the apple box to the doorway and straightened the sack decently over it.

“Shovel’s standin’ right behin’ you,” Pa said.

Uncle John took the shovel in one hand. He slipped out the doorway into the slowly moving water, and it rose nearly to his waist before he struck bottom. He turned and settled the apple box under his other arm.

Pa said, “Come on, Al. Le’s git that lumber in.”

In the gray dawn light Uncle John waded around the end of the car, past the Joad truck; and he climbed the slippery bank to the highway. He walked down the highway, past the boxcar flat, until he came to a place where the boiling stream ran close to the road, where the willows grew along the road side. He put his shovel down, and holding the box in front of him, he edged through the brush until he came to the edge of the swift stream. For a time he stood watching it swirl by, leaving its yellow foam among the willow stems. He held the apple box against his chest. And then he leaned over and set the box in the stream and steadied it with his hand. He said fiercely, “Go down an’ tell ’em. Go down in the street an’ rot an’ tell ’em that way. That’s the way you can talk. Don’ even know if you was a boy or a girl. Ain’t gonna find out. Go on down now, an’ lay in the street. Maybe they’ll know then.” He guided the box gently out into the current and let it go. It settled low in the water, edged sideways, whirled around, and turned slowly over. The sack floated away, and the box, caught in the swift water, floated quickly away, out of sight, behind the brush. Uncle John grabbed the shovel and went rapidly back to the boxcars. He sloshed down into the water and waded to the truck, where Pa and Al were working, taking down the one-by-six planks.

Pa looked over at him. “Get it done?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, look,” Pa said. “If you’ll he’p Al, I’ll go down the store an’ get some stuff to eat.”

“Get some bacon,” Al said. “I need some meat.”

“I will,” Pa said. He jumped down from the truck and Uncle John took his place.

When they pushed the planks into the car door, Ma awakened and sat up. “What you doin’?”

“Gonna build up a place to keep outa the wet.”

“Why?” Ma asked. “It’s dry in here.”

“Ain’t gonna be. Water’s comin’ up.”

Ma struggled up to her feet and went to the door. “We got to git outa here.”

“Can’t,” Al said. “All our stuff ’s here. Truck’s here. Ever’thing we got.”

“Where’s Pa?”

“Gone to get stuff for breakfas’.”

Ma looked down at the water. It was only six inches down from the floor by now. She went back to the mattress and looked at Rose of Sharon. The girl stared back at her.

“How you feel?” Ma asked.

“Tar’d. Jus’ tar’d out.”

“Gonna get some breakfas’ into you.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Mrs. Wainwright moved beside Ma. “She looks all right. Come through it fine.”

Rose of Sharon’s eyes questioned Ma, and Ma tried to avoid the question. Mrs. Wainwright walked to the stove.

“Ma.”

“Yeah? What you want?”

“Is—it—all right?”

Ma gave up the attempt. She kneeled down on the mattress. “You can have more,” she said. “We done ever’thing we knowed.”

Rose of Sharon struggled and pushed herself up. “Ma!” “You couldn’ he’p it.”

The girl lay back again, and covered her eyes with her arms. Ruthie
crept close and looked down in awe. She whispered harshly, “She sick, Ma? She gonna die?”

“’Course not. She’s gonna be awright. Awright.”

Pa came in with his armload of packages. “How is she?”

“Awright,” Ma said. “She’s gonna be awright.”

Ruthie reported to Winfield. “She ain’t gonna die. Ma says so.”

And Winfield, picking his teeth with a splinter in a very adult manner, said, “I knowed it all the time.”

“How’d you know?”

“I won’t tell,” said Winfield, and he spat out a piece of the splinter.

Ma built the fire up with the last twigs and cooked the bacon and made gravy. Pa had brought store bread. Ma scowled when she saw it. “We got any money lef’?”

“Nope,” said Pa. “But we was so hungry.”

“An’ you got store bread,” Ma said accusingly.

“Well, we was awful hungry. Worked all night long.”

Ma sighed. “Now what we gonna do?”

As they ate, the water crept up and up. Al gulped his food and he and Pa built the platform. Five feet wide, six feet long, four feet above the floor. And the water crept to the edge of the doorway, seemed to hesitate a long time, and then moved slowly inward over the floor. And outside, the rain began again, as it had before, big heavy drops splashing on the water, pounding hollowly on the roof.

Al said, “Come on now, let’s get the mattresses up. Let’s put the blankets up, so they don’t git wet.” They piled their possessions up on the platform, and the water crept over the floor. Pa and Ma, Al and Uncle John, each at a corner, lifted Rose of Sharon’s mattress, with the girl on it, and put it on top of the pile.

And the girl protested, “I can walk. I’m awright.” And the water crept over the floor, a thin film of it. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma, and Ma put her hand under the blanket and felt her breast and nodded.

In the other end of the boxcar, the Wainwrights were pounding, building a platform for themselves. The rain thickened, and then passed away.

Ma looked down at her feet. The water was half an inch deep on the car floor by now. “You, Ruthie—Winfiel’!” she called distractedly.
“Come get on top of the pile. You’ll get cold.” She saw them safely up, sitting awkwardly beside Rose of Sharon. Ma said suddenly, “We got to git out.”

“We can’t,” Pa said. “Like Al says, all our stuff’s here. We’ll pull off the boxcar door an’ make more room to set on.”

The family huddled on the platforms, silent and fretful. The water was six inches deep in the car before the flood spread evenly over the embankment and moved into the cotton field on the other side. During that day and night the men slept soddenly, side by side on the boxcar door. And Ma lay close to Rose of Sharon. Sometimes Ma whispered to her and sometimes sat up quietly, her face brooding. Under the blanket she hoarded the remains of the store bread.

The rain had become intermittent now—little wet squalls and quiet times. On the morning of the second day Pa splashed through the camp and came back with ten potatoes in his pockets. Ma watched him sullenly while he chopped out part of the inner wall of the car, built a fire, and scooped water into a pan. The family ate the steaming boiled potatoes with their fingers. And when this last food was gone, they stared at the gray water; and in the night they did not lie down for a long time.

When the morning came they awakened nervously. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma.

Ma nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “It’s time for it.” And then she turned to the car door, where the men lay. “We’re a-gettin’ outa here,” she said savagely, “gettin’ to higher groun’. An’ you’re comin’ or you ain’t comin’, but I’m takin’ Rosasharn an’ the little fellas outa here.”

“We can’t!” Pa said weakly.

“Awright, then. Maybe you’ll pack Rosasharn to the highway, any-ways, an’ then come back. It ain’t rainin’ now, an’ we’re a-goin’.”

“Awright, we’ll go,” Pa said.

Al said, “Ma, I ain’t goin’.”

“Why not?”

“Well—Aggie—why, her an’ me——”

Ma smiled. “’Course,” she said. “You stay here, Al. Take care of the
stuff. When the water goes down—why, we’ll come back. Come quick, ’fore it rains again,” she told Pa. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re goin’ to a dry place.”

“I can walk.”

“Maybe a little, on the road. Git your back bent, Pa.”

Pa slipped into the water and stood waiting. Ma helped Rose of Sharon down from the platform and steadied her across the car. Pa took her in his arms, held her as high as he could, and pushed his way carefully through the deep water, around the car, and to the highway. He set her down on her feet and held onto her. Uncle John carried Ruthie and followed. Ma slid down into the water, and for a moment her skirts billowed out around her.

“Winfiel’, set on my shoulder. Al—we’ll come back soon’s the water’s down. Al —” She paused. “If—if Tom comes—tell him we’ll be back. Tell him be careful. Winfiel’! Climb on my shoulder—there! Now, keep your feet still.” She staggered off through the breast-high water. At the highway embankment they helped her up and lifted Winfield from her shoulder.

They stood on the highway and looked back over the sheet of water, the dark red blocks of the cars, the trucks and automobiles deep in the slowly moving water. And as they stood, a little misting rain began to fall.

“We got to git along,” Ma said. “Rosasharn, you feel like you could walk?”

“Kinda dizzy,” the girl said. “Feel like I been beat.”

Pa complained, “Now we’re a-goin’, where’ we goin’?”

“I dunno. Come on, give your han’ to Rosasharn.” Ma took the girl’s right arm to steady her, and Pa her left. “Goin’ someplace where it’s dry. Got to. You fellas ain’t had dry clothes on for two days.” They moved slowly along the highway. They could hear the rushing of the water in the stream beside the road. Ruthie and Winfield marched together, splashing their feet against the road. They went slowly along the road. The sky grew darker and the rain thickened. No traffic moved along the highway.

“We got to hurry,” Ma said. “If this here girl gits good an’ wet—I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”

“You ain’t said where-at we’re a-hurryin’ to,” Pa reminded her sarcastically.

The road curved along beside the stream. Ma searched the land and the flooded fields. Far off the road, on the left, on a slight rolling hill a rain-blackened barn stood. “Look!” Ma said. “Look there! I bet it’s dry in that barn. Le’s go there till the rain stops.”

Pa sighed. “Prob’ly get run out by the fella owns it.”

Ahead, beside the road, Ruthie saw a spot of red. She raced to it. A scraggly geranium gone wild, and there was one rain-beaten blossom on it. She picked the flower. She took a petal carefully off and stuck it on her nose. Winfield ran up to see.

“Lemme have one?” he said.

“No, sir! It’s all mine. I foun’ it.” She stuck another red petal on her forehead, a little bright-red heart.

“Come on, Ruthie! Lemme have one. Come on, now.” He grabbed at the flower in her hand and missed it, and Ruthie banged him in the face with her open hand. He stood for a moment, surprised, and then his lips shook and his eyes welled.

The others caught up. “Now what you done?” Ma asked.

“Now what you done?”

“He tried to grab my fl’ar.”

Winfield sobbed, “I—on’y wanted one—to—stick on my nose.”

“Give him one, Ruthie.”

“Leave him find his own. This here’s mine.”