The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  “Well, ever’body tol’ his pa that, an’ finally cooled ’im down. Somebody says they’s Hatfield blood on his mother’s side in ol’ Turnbull, an’ he’s got to live up to it. I don’t know about that. Him an’ his folks went on to California six months ago.”

  Joad took the last of the rabbit from the wire and passed it around. He settled back and ate more slowly now, chewed evenly, and wiped the grease from his mouth with his sleeve. And his eyes, dark and half closed, brooded as he looked into the dying fire. “Ever’body’s goin’ west,” he said. “I got me a parole to keep. Can’t leave the state.”

  “Parole?” Muley asked. “I heard about them. How do they work?”

  “Well, I got out early, three years early. They’s stuff I gotta do, or they send me back in. Got to report ever’ so often.”

  “How they treat ya there in McAlester? My woman’s cousin was in McAlester an’ they give him hell.”

  “It ain’t so bad,” said Joad. “Like ever’place else. They give ya hell if ya raise hell. You get along O.K. les’ some guard gets it in for ya. Then you catch plenty hell. I got along O.K. Minded my own business, like any guy would. I learned to write nice as hell. Birds an’ stuff like that, too; not just word writin’. My ol’ man’ll be sore when he sees me whip out a bird in one stroke. Pa’s gonna be mad when he sees me do that. He don’t like no fancy stuff like that. He don’t even like word writin’. Kinda scares ’im, I guess. Ever’ time Pa seen writin’, somebody took somepin away from ’im.”

  “They didn’ give you no beatin’s or nothin’ like that?”

  “No, I jus’ tended my own affairs. ’Course you get goddamn good an’ sick a-doin’ the same thing day after day for four years. If you done somepin you was ashamed of, you might think about that. But, hell, if I seen Herb Turnbull comin’ for me with a knife right now, I’d squash him down with a shovel again.”

  “Anybody would,” said Muley. The preacher stared into the fire, and his high forehead was white in the settling dark. The flash of little flames picked out the cords of his neck. His hands, clasped about his knees, were busy pulling knuckles.

  Joad threw the last bones into the fire and licked his fingers and then wiped them on his pants. He stood up and brought the bottle of water from the porch, took a sparing drink, and passed the bottle before he sat down again. He went on, “The thing that give me the mos’ trouble was, it didn’ make no sense. You don’t look for no sense when lightnin’ kills a cow, or it comes up a flood. That’s jus’ the way things is. But when a bunch of men take an’ lock you up four years, it ought to have some meaning. Men is supposed to think things out. Here they put me in, an’ keep me an’ feed me four years. That ought to either make me so I won’t do her again or else punish me so I’ll be afraid to do her again”—he paused—“but if Herb or anybody else come for me, I’d do her again. Do her before I could figure her out. Specially if I was drunk. That sort of senselessness kind a worries a man.”

  Muley observed, “Judge says he give you a light sentence ’cause it wasn’t all your fault.”

  Joad said, “They’s a guy in McAlester—lifer. He studies all the time. He’s sec’etary of the warden—writes the warden’s letters an’ stuff like that. Well, he’s one hell of a bright guy an’ reads law an’ all stuff like that. Well, I talked to him one time about her, ’cause he reads so much stuff. An’ he says it don’t do no good to read books. Says he’s read ever’thing about prisons now, an’ in the old times; an’ he says she makes less sense to him now than she did before he starts readin’. He says it’s a thing that started way to hell an’ gone back, an’ nobody seems to be able to stop her, an’ nobody got sense enough to change her. He says for God’s sake don’t read about her because he says for one thing you’ll jus’ get messed up worse, an’ for another you won’t have no respect for the guys that work the gover’ments.”

  “I ain’t got a hell of a lot of respec’ for ’em now,” said Muley. “On’y kind a gover’ment we got that leans on us fellas is the ‘safe margin a profit.’ There’s one thing that got me stumped, an’ that’s Willy Feeley—drivin’ that cat’, an’ gonna be a straw boss on lan’ his own folks used to farm. That worries me. I can see how a fella might come from some other place an’ not know no better, but Willy belongs. Worried me so I went up to ’im and ast ’im. Right off he got mad. ‘I got two little kids,’ he says. ‘I got a wife an’ my wife’s mother. Them people got to eat.’ Gets madder’n hell. ‘Fust an’ on’y thing I got to think about is my own folks,’ he says. ‘What happens to other folks is their look-out,’ he says. Seems like he’s ’shamed, so he gets mad.”

  Jim Casy had been staring at the dying fire, and his eyes had grown wider and his neck muscles stood higher. Suddenly he cried, “I got her! If ever a man got a dose of the sperit, I got her! Got her all of a flash!” He jumped to his feet and paced back and forth, his head swinging. “Had a tent one time. Drawed as much as five hundred people ever’ night. That’s before either you fellas seen me.” He stopped and faced them. “Ever notice I never took no collections when I was preachin’ out here to folks—in barns an’ in the open?”

  “By God, you never,” said Muley. “People around here got so use’ to not givin’ you money they got to bein’ a little mad when some other preacher come along an’ passed the hat. Yes, sir!”

  “I took somepin to eat,” said Casy. “I took a pair a pants when mine was wore out, an’ a ol’ pair a shoes when I was walkin’ through to the groun’, but it wasn’t like when I had the tent. Some days there I’d take in ten or twenty dollars. Wasn’t happy that-a-way, so I give her up, an’ for a time I was happy. I think I got her now. I don’ know if I can say her. I guess I won’t try to say her—but maybe there’s a place for a preacher. Maybe I can preach again. Folks out lonely on the road, folks with no lan’, no home to go to. They got to have some kind of home. Maybe—” He stood over the fire. The hundred muscles of his neck stood out in high relief, and the firelight went deep into his eyes and ignited red embers. He stood and looked at the fire, his face tense as though he were listening, and the hands that had been active to pick, to handle, to throw ideas, grew quiet, and in a moment crept into his pockets. The bats flittered in and out of the dull firelight, and the soft watery burble of a night hawk came from across the fields.

  Tom reached quietly into his pocket and brought out his tobacco, and he rolled a cigarette slowly and looked over it at the coals while he worked. He ignored the whole speech of the preacher, as though it were some private thing that should not be inspected. He said, “Night after night in my bunk I figgered how she’d be when I come home again. I figgered maybe Grampa or Granma’d be dead, an’ maybe there’d be some new kids. Maybe Pa’d not be so tough. Maybe Ma’d set back a little an’ let Rosasharn do the work. I knowed it wouldn’t be the same as it was. Well, we’ll sleep here I guess, an’ come daylight we’ll get on to Uncle John’s. Leastwise I will. You think you’re comin’ along, Casy?”

  The preacher still stood looking into the coals. He said slowly, “Yeah, I’m goin’ with you. An’ when your folks start out on the road I’m goin’ with them. An’ where folks are on the road, I’m gonna be with them.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Joad. “Ma always favored you. Said you was a preacher to trust. Rosasharn wasn’t growed up then.” He turned his head. “Muley, you gonna walk on over with us?” Muley was looking toward the road over which they had come. “Think you’ll come along, Muley?” Joad repeated.

  “Huh? No. I don’t go no place, an’ I don’t leave no place. See that glow over there, jerkin’ up an’ down? That’s prob’ly the super’ntendent of this stretch a cotton. Somebody maybe seen our fire.”

  Tom looked. The glow of light was nearing over the hill. “We ain’t doin’ no harm,” he said. “We’ll jus’ set here. We ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

  Muley cackled. “Yeah! We’re doin’ somepin jus’ bein’ here. We’re trespassin’. We can’t stay. They been t
ryin’ to catch me for two months. Now you look. If that’s a car comin’ we go out in the cotton an’ lay down. Don’t have to go far. Then by God let ’em try to fin’ us! Have to look up an’ down ever’ row. Jus’ keep your head down.”

  Joad demanded, “What’s come over you, Muley? You wasn’t never no run-an’-hide fella. You was mean.”

  Muley watched the approaching lights. “Yeah!” he said. “I was mean like a wolf. Now I’m mean like a weasel. When you’re huntin’ somepin you’re a hunter, an’ you’re strong. Can’t nobody beat a hunter. But when you get hunted—that’s different. Somepin happens to you. You ain’t strong; maybe you’re fierce, but you ain’t strong. I been hunted now for a long time. I ain’t a hunter no more. I’d maybe shoot a fella in the dark, but I don’t maul nobody with a fence stake no more. It don’t do no good to fool you or me. That’s how it is.”

  “Well, you go out an’ hide,” said Joad. “Leave me an’ Casy tell these bastards a few things.” The beam of light was closer now, and it bounced into the sky and then disappeared, and then bounced up again. All three men watched.

  Muley said, “There’s one more thing about bein’ hunted. You get to thinkin’ about all the dangerous things. If you’re huntin’ you don’t think about ’em, an’ you ain’t scared. Like you says to me, if you get in any trouble they’ll sen’ you back to McAlester to finish your time.”

  “That’s right,” said Joad. “That’s what they tol’ me, but settin’ here restin’ or sleepin’ on the groun’—that ain’t gettin’ in no trouble. That ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong. That ain’t like gettin’ drunk or raisin’ hell.”

  Muley laughed. “You’ll see. You jus’ set here, an’ the car’ll come. Maybe it’s Willy Feeley, an’ Willy’s a deputy sheriff now. ‘What you doin’ trespassin’ here?’ Willy says. Well, you always did know Willy was full a crap, so you says, ‘What’s it to you?’ Willy gets mad an’ says, ‘You get off or I’ll take you in.’ An’ you ain’t gonna let no Feeley push you aroun’ ’cause he’s mad an’ scared. He’s made a bluff an’ he got to go on with it, an’ here’s you gettin’ tough an’ you got to go through—oh, hell, it’s a lot easier to lay out in the cotton an’ let ’em look. It’s more fun, too, ’cause they’re mad an’ can’t do nothin’, an’ you’re out there a-laughin’ at ’em. But you jus’ talk to Willy or any boss, an’ you slug hell out of ’em an’ they’ll take you in an’ run you back to McAlester for three years.”

  “You’re talkin’ sense,” said Joad. “Ever’ word you say is sense. But, Jesus, I hate to get pushed around! I lots rather take a sock at Willy.”

  “He got a gun,” said Muley. “He’ll use it ’cause he’s a deputy. Then he either got to kill you or you got to get his gun away an’ kill him. Come on, Tommy. You can easy tell yourself you’re foolin’ them lyin’ out like that. An’ it all just amounts to what you tell yourself.” The strong lights angled up into the sky now, and the even drone of a motor could be heard. “Come on, Tommy. Don’t have to go far, jus’ fourteen-fifteen rows over, an’ we can watch what they do.”

  Tom got to his feet. “By God, you’re right!” he said. “I ain’t got a thing in the worl’ to win, no matter how it comes out.”

  “Come on, then, over this way.” Muley moved around the house and out into the cotton field about fifty yards. “This is good,” he said, “Now lay down. You on’y got to pull your head down if they start the spotlight goin’. It’s kinda fun.” The three men stretched out at full length and propped themselves on their elbows. Muley sprang up and ran toward the house, and in a few moments he came back and threw a bundle of coats and shoes down. “They’d of taken ’em along just to get even,” he said. The lights topped the rise and bore down on the house.

  Joad asked, “Won’t they come out here with flashlights an’ look aroun’ for us? I wisht I had a stick.”

  Muley giggled. “No, they won’t. I tol’ you I’m mean like a weasel. Willy done that one night an’ I clipped ’im from behint with a fence stake. Knocked him colder’n a wedge. He tol’ later how five guys come at him.”

  The car drew up to the house and a spotlight snapped on. “Duck,” said Muley. The bar of cold white light swung over their heads and crisscrossed the field. The hiding men could not see any movement, but they heard a car door slam and they heard voices. “Scairt to get in the light,” Muley whispered. “Once-twice I’ve took a shot at the headlights. That keeps Willy careful. He got somebody with ’im tonight.” They heard footsteps on wood, and then from inside the house they saw the glow of a flashlight. “Shall I shoot through the house?” Muley whispered. “They couldn’t see where it come from. Give ’em somepin to think about.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” said Joad.

  “Don’t do it,” Casy whispered. “It won’t do no good. Jus’ a waste. We got to get thinkin’ about doin’ stuff that means somepin.”

  A scratching sound came from near the house. “Puttin’ out the fire,” Muley whispered. “Kickin’ dust over it.” The car doors slammed, the headlights swung around and faced the road again. “Now duck!” said Muley. They dropped their heads and the spotlight swept over them and crossed and recrossed the cotton field, and then the car started and slipped away and topped the rise and disappeared.

  Muley sat up. “Willy always tries that las’ flash. He done it so often I can time ’im. An’ he still thinks it’s cute.”

  Casy said, “Maybe they left some fellas at the house. They’d catch us when we come back.”

  “Maybe. You fellas wait here. I know this game.” He walked quietly away, and only a slight crunching of clods could be heard from his passage. The two waiting men tried to hear him, but he had gone. In a moment he called from the house. “They didn’t leave nobody. Come on back.” Casey and Joad struggled up and walked back toward the black bulk of the house. Muley met them near the smoking dust pile which had been their fire. “I didn’ think they’d leave nobody,” he said proudly. “Me knockin’ Willy over an’ takin’ a shot at the lights once-twice keeps ’em careful. They ain’t sure who it is, an’ I ain’t gonna let ’em catch me. I don’t sleep near no house. If you fellas wanta come along, I’ll show you where to sleep, where there ain’t nobody gonna stumble over ya.”

  “Lead off,” said Joad. “We’ll folla you. I never thought I’d be hidin’ out on my old man’s place.”

  Muley set off across the fields, and Joad and Casy followed him. They kicked the cotton plants as they went. “You’ll be hidin’ from lots of stuff,” said Muley. They marched in single file across the fields. They came to a water-cut and slid easily down to the bottom of it.

  “By God, I bet I know,” cried Joad. “Is it a cave in the bank?”

  “That’s right. How’d you know?”

  “I dug her,” said Joad. “Me an’ my brother Noah dug her. Lookin’ for gold we says we was, but we was jus’ diggin’ caves like kids always does.” The walls of the water-cut were above their heads now. “Ought to be pretty close,” said Joad. “Seems to me I remember her pretty close.”

  Muley said, “I’ve covered her with bresh. Nobody couldn’t find her.” The bottom of the gulch leveled off, and the footing was sand.

  Joad settled himself on the clean sand. “I ain’t gonna sleep in no cave,” he said. “I’m gonna sleep right here.” He rolled his coat and put it under his head.

  Muley pulled at the covering brush and crawled into his cave. “I like it in here,” he called. “I feel like nobody can come at me.”

  Jim Casy sat down on the sand beside Joad.

  “Get some sleep,” said Joad. “We’ll start for Uncle John’s at daybreak.”

  “I ain’t sleepin’,” said Casy. “I got too much to puzzle with.” He drew up his feet and clasped his legs. He threw back his head and looked at the sharp stars. Joad yawned and brought one hand back under his head. They were silent, and gradually the skittering life of the ground, of holes and burrows, of the brush, began again; the gophers moved, and the
rabbits crept to green things, the mice scampered over clods, and the winged hunters moved soundlessly overhead.

  Chapter 7

  In the towns, on the edges of the towns, in fields, in vacant lots, the used-car yards, the wreckers’ yards, the garages with blazoned signs—Used Cars, Good Used Cars. Cheap transportation, three trailers. ’27 Ford, clean. Checked cars, guaranteed cars. Free radio. Car with 100 gallons of gas free. Come in and look. Used Cars. No overhead.

  A lot and a house large enough for a desk and chair and a blue book. Sheaf of contracts, dog-eared, held with paper clips, and a neat pile of unused contracts. Pen—keep it full, keep it working. A sale’s been lost ’cause a pen didn’t work.

  Those sons-of-bitches over there ain’t buying. Every yard gets ’em. They’re lookers. Spend all their time looking. Don’t want to buy no cars; take up your time. Don’t give a damn for your time. Over there, them two people—no, with the kids. Get ’em in a car. Start ’em at two hundred and work down. They look good for one and a quarter. Get ’em rolling. Get ’em out in a jalopy. Sock it to ’em! They took our time.

  Owners with rolled-up sleeves. Salesmen, neat, deadly, small intent eyes watching for weaknesses.

  Watch the woman’s face. If the woman likes it we can screw the old man. Start’ em on that Cad’. Then you can work ’em down to that ’ 26 Buick. ’F you start on the Buick, they’ll go for a Ford. Roll up your sleeves an’ get to work. This ain’t gonna last forever. Show ’em that Nash while I get the slow leak pumped up on that ’ 25 Dodge. I’ll give you a Hymie when I’m ready.

  What you want is transportation, ain’t it? No baloney for you. Sure the upholstery is shot. Seat cushions ain’t turning no wheels over.