Casy had come quietly near, and he heard Tom speaking. “I didn’ run away,” he said. “I’ll he’p you folks, but I won’t fool ya.”
Pa said, “Won’t you say a few words? Ain’t none of our folks ever been buried without a few words.”
“I’ll say ’em,” said the preacher.
Connie led Rose of Sharon to the graveside, she reluctant. “You got to,” Connie said. “It ain’t decent not to. It’ll jus’ be a little.”
The firelight fell on the grouped people, showing their faces and their eyes, dwindling on their dark clothes. All the hats were off now. The light danced, jerking over the people.
Casy said, “It’ll be a short one.” He bowed his head, and the others followed his lead. Casy said solemnly, “This here ol’ man jus’ lived a life an’ jus’ died out of it. I don’t know whether he was good or bad, but that don’t matter much. He was alive, an’ that’s what matters. An’ now he’s dead, an’ that don’t matter. Heard a fella tell a poem one time, an’ he says ‘All that lives is holy.’ Got to thinkin’, an’ purty soon it means more than the words says. An’ I wouldn’t pray for a ol’ fella that’s dead. He’s awright. He got a job to do, but it’s all laid out for ’im an’ there’s on’y one way to do it. But us, we got a job to do, an’ they’s a thousan’ ways, an’ we don’ know which one to take. An’ if I was to pray, it’d be for the folks that don’ know which way to turn. Grampa here, he got the easy straight. An’ now cover ’im up and let ’im get to his work.” He raised his head.
Pa said, “Amen,” and the others muttered, “A-men.” Then Pa took the shovel, half filled it with dirt, and spread it gently into the black hole. He handed the shovel to Uncle John, and John dropped in a shovelful. Then the shovel went from hand to hand until every man had his turn. When all had taken their duty and their right, Pa attacked the mound of loose dirt and hurriedly filled the hole. The women moved back to the fire to see to supper. Ruthie and Winfield watched, absorbed.
Ruthie said solemnly, “Grampa’s down under there.” And Winfield looked at her with horrified eyes. And then he ran away to the fire and sat on the ground and sobbed to himself.
Pa half filled the hole, and then he stood panting with the effort while Uncle John finished it. And John was shaping up the mound when Tom stopped him. “Listen,” Tom said. “’F we leave a grave, they’ll have it open in no time. We got to hide it. Level her off an’ we’ll strew dry grass. We got to do that.”
Pa said, “I didn’ think a that. It ain’t right to leave a grave unmounded.”
“Can’t he’p it,” said Tom. “They’d dig ’im right up, an’ we’d get it for breakin’ the law. You know what I get if I break the law.”
“Yeah,” Pa said. “I forgot that.” He took the shovel from John and leveled the grave. “She’ll sink, come winter,” he said.
“Can’t he’p that,” said Tom. “We’ll be a long ways off by winter. Tromp her in good, an’ we’ll strew stuff over her.”
When the pork and potatoes were done the families sat about on the ground and ate, and they were quiet, staring into the fire. Wilson, tearing a slab of meat with his teeth, sighed with contentment. “Nice eatin’ pig,” he said.
“Well,” Pa explained, “we had a couple shoats, an’ we thought we might’s well eat ’em. Can’t get nothin’ for them. When we get kinda use’ ta movin’ an’ Ma can set up bread, why, it’ll be pretty nice, seein’ the country an’ two kags a’ pork right in the truck. How long you folks been on the road?”
Wilson cleared his teeth with his tongue and swallowed. “We ain’t been lucky,” he said. “We been three weeks from home.”
“Why, God Awmighty, we aim to be in California in ten days or less.”
Al broke in, “I dunno, Pa. With that load we’re packin’, we maybe ain’t never gonna get there. Not if they’s mountains to go over.”
They were silent about the fire. Their faces were turned downward and their hair and foreheads showed in the firelight. Above the little dome of the firelight the summer stars shone thinly, and the heat of the day was gradually withdrawing. On her mattress, away from the fire, Granma whimpered softly like a puppy. The heads of all turned in her direction.
Ma said, “Rosasharn, like a good girl go lay down with Granma. She needs somebody now. She’s knowin’, now.”
Rose of Sharon got to her feet and walked to the mattress and lay beside the old woman, and the murmur of their soft voices drifted to the fire. Rose of Sharon and Granma whispered together on the mattress.
Noah said, “Funny thing is—losin’ Grampa ain’t made me feel no different than I done before. I ain’t no sadder than I was.”
“It’s just the same thing,” Casy said. “Grampa an’ the old place, they was jus’ the same thing.”
Al said, “It’s a goddamn shame. He been talkin’ what he’s gonna do, how he gonna squeeze grapes over his head an’ let the juice run in his whiskers, an’ all stuff like that.”
Casy said, “He was foolin’, all the time. I think he knowed it. An’ Grampa didn’ die tonight. He died the minute you took ’im off the place.”
“You sure a that?” Pa cried.
“Why, no. Oh, he was breathin’,” Casy went on, “but he was dead. He was that place, an’ he knowed it.”
Uncle John said, “Did you know he was a-dyin’?”
“Yeah,” said Casy. “I knowed it.”
John gazed at him, and a horror grew in his face. “An’ you didn’ tell nobody?”
“What good?” Casy asked.
“We—we might of did somepin.”
“What?”
“I don’ know, but——”
“No,” Casy said, “you couldn’ a done nothin’. Your way was fixed an’ Grampa didn’ have no part in it. He didn’ suffer none. Not after fust thing this mornin’. He’s jus’ stayin’ with the lan’. He couldn’ leave it.”
Uncle John sighed deeply.
Wilson said, “We hadda leave my brother Will.” The heads turned toward him. “Him an’ me had forties side by side. He’s older’n me. Neither one ever drove a car. Well, we went in an’ we sol’ ever’thing. Will, he bought a car, an’ they give him a kid to show ’im how to use it. So the afternoon ’fore we’re gonna start, Will an’ Aunt Minnie go a-practicin’. Will, he comes to a bend in the road an’ he yells ‘Whoa’ an’ yanks back, an’ he goes through a fence. An’ he yells ‘Whoa, you bastard’ an’ tromps down on the gas an’ goes over into a gulch. An’ there he was. Didn’t have nothin’ more to sell an’ didn’t have no car. But it were his own damn fault, praise God. He’s so damn mad he won’t come along with us, jus’ set there a-cussin’ an’ a-cussin’.”
“What’s he gonna do?”
“I dunno. He’s too mad to figger. An’ we couldn’ wait. On’y had eighty-five dollars to go on. We couldn’ set an’ cut it up, but we et it up anyways. Didn’ go a hunderd mile when a tooth in the rear end bust, an’ cost thirty dollars to get her fix’, an’ then we got to get a tire, an’ then a spark plug cracked, an’ Sairy got sick. Had ta stop ten days. An’ now the goddamn car is bust again, an’ money’s gettin’ low. I dunno when we’ll ever get to California. ’F I could on’y fix a car, but I don’ know nothin’ about cars.”
Al asked importantly, “What’s the matter?”
“Well, she jus’ won’t run. Starts an’ farts an’ stops. In a minute she’ll start again, an’ then ’fore you can git her goin’, she peters out again.”
“Runs a minute an’ then dies?”
“Yes, sir. An’ I can’t keep her a-goin’ no matter how much gas I give her. Got worse an’ worse, an’ now I cain’t get her a-movin’ a-tall.”
Al was very proud and very mature, then. “I think you got a plugged gas line. I’ll blow her out for ya.”
And Pa was proud too. “He’s a good hand with a car,” Pa said.
“Well, I’ll sure thank ya for a han’. I sure will. Makes a fella kinda feel—like a little kid, when
he can’t fix nothin’. When we get to California I aim to get me a nice car. Maybe she won’t break down.”
Pa said, “When we get there. Gettin’ there’s the trouble.”
“Oh, but she’s worth it,” said Wilson. “Why, I seen han’bills how they need folks to pick fruit, an’ good wages. Why, jus’ think how it’s gonna be, under them shady trees a-pickin’ fruit an’ takin’ a bite ever’ once in a while. Why, hell, they don’t care how much you eat ’cause they got so much. An’ with them good wages, maybe a fella can get hisself a little piece a land an’ work out for extra cash. Why, hell, in a couple years I bet a fella could have a place of his own.”
Pa said, “We seen them han’bills. I got one right here.” He took out his purse and from it took a folded orange handbill. In black type it said, “Pea Pickers Wanted in California. Good Wages All Season. 800 Pickers Wanted.”
Wilson looked at it curiously. “Why, that’s the one I seen. The very same one. You s’pose—maybe they got all eight hunderd awready?”
Pa said, “This is jus’ one little part a California. Why, that’s the secon’ biggest State we got. S’pose they did get all them eight hunderd. They’s plenty places else. I rather pick fruit anyways. Like you says, under them trees an’ pickin’ fruit—why, even the kids’d like to do that.”
Suddenly Al got up and walked to the Wilsons’ touring car. He looked in for a moment and then came back and sat down.
“You can’t fix her tonight,” Wilson said.
“I know. I’ll get to her in the morning.”
Tom had watched his young brother carefully. “I was thinkin’ somepin like that myself,” he said.
Noah asked, “What you two fellas talkin’ about?”
Tom and Al were silent, each waiting for the other. “You tell ’em,” Al said finally.
“Well, maybe it’s no good, an’ maybe it ain’t the same thing Al’s thinking. Here she is, anyways. We got a overload, but Mr. an’ Mis’ Wilson ain’t. If some of us folks could ride with them an’ take some a their light stuff in the truck, we wouldn’t break no springs an’ we could git up hills. An’ me an’ Al both knows about a car, so we could keep that car a-rollin’. We’d keep together on the road an’ it’d be good for ever’body.”
Wilson jumped up. “Why, sure. Why, we’d be proud. We certain’y would. You hear that, Sairy?”
“It’s a nice thing,” said Sairy. “Wouldn’ be a burden on you folks?”
“No, by God,” said Pa. “Wouldn’t be no burden at all. You’d be helpin’ us.”
Wilson settled back uneasily. “Well, I dunno.”
“What’s a matter, don’ you wanta?”
“Well, ya see—I on’y got ’bout thirty dollars lef’, an’ I won’t be no burden.”
Ma said, “You won’t be no burden. Each’ll help each, an’ we’ll all git to California. Sairy Wilson he’ped lay Grampa out,” and she stopped. The relationship was plain.
Al cried, “That car’ll take six easy. Say me to drive, an’ Rosasharn an’ Connie and Granma. Then we take the big light stuff an’ pile her on the truck. An’ we’ll trade off ever’ so often.” He spoke loudly, for a load of worry was lifted from him.
They smiled shyly and looked down at the ground. Pa fingered the dusty earth with his fingertips. He said, “Ma favors a white house with oranges growin’ around. They’s a big pitcher on a calendar she seen.”
Sairy said, “If I get sick again, you got to go on an’ get there. We ain’t a-goin’ to burden.”
Ma looked carefully at Sairy, and she seemed to see for the first time the pain-tormented eyes and the face that was haunted and shrinking with pain. And Ma said, “We gonna see you get through. You said yourself, you can’t let help go unwanted.”
Sairy studied her wrinkled hands in the firelight. “We got to get some sleep tonight.” She stood up.
“Grampa—it’s like he’s dead a year,” Ma said.
The families moved lazily to their sleep, yawning luxuriously. Ma sloshed the tin plates off a little and rubbed the grease free with a flour sack. The fire died down and the stars descended. Few passenger cars went by on the highway now, but the transport trucks thundered by at intervals and put little earthquakes in the ground. In the ditch the cars were hardly visible under the starlight. A tied dog howled at the service station down the road. The families were quiet and sleeping, and the field mice grew bold and scampered about among the mattresses. Only Sairy Wilson was awake. She stared into the sky and braced her body firmly against pain.
Chapter 14
The western land, nervous under the beginning change. The Western States, nervous as horses before a thunder storm. The great owners, nervous, sensing a change, knowing nothing of the nature of the change. The great owners, striking at the immediate thing, the widening government, the growing labor unity; striking at new taxes, at plans; not knowing these things are results, not causes. Results, not causes; results, not causes. The causes lie deep and simply—the causes are a hunger in a stomach, multiplied a million times; a hunger in a single soul, hunger for joy and some security, multiplied a million times; muscles and mind aching to grow, to work, to create, multiplied a million times. The last clear definite function of man—muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need—this is man. To build a wall, to build a house, a dam, and in the wall and house and dam to put something of Manself, and to Manself take back something of the wall, the house, the dam; to take hard muscles from the lifting, to take the clear lines and form from conceiving. For man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, emerges ahead of his accomplishments. This you may say of man—when theories change and crash, when schools, philosophies, when narrow dark alleys of thought, national, religious, economic, grow and disintegrate, man reaches, stumbles forward, painfully, mistakenly sometimes. Having stepped forward, he may slip back, but only half a step, never the full step back. This you may say and know it and know it. This you may know when the bombs plummet out of the black planes on the market place, when prisoners are stuck like pigs, when the crushed bodies drain filthily in the dust. You may know it in this way. If the step were not being taken, if the stumbling-forward ache were not alive, the bombs would not fall, the throats would not be cut. Fear the time when the bombs stop falling while the bombers live—for every bomb is proof that the spirit has not died. And fear the time when the strikes stop while the great owners live—for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken. And this you can know—fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe.
The Western States nervous under the beginning change. Texas and Oklahoma, Kansas and Arkansas, New Mexico, Arizona, California. A single family moved from the land. Pa borrowed money from the bank, and now the bank wants the land. The land company—that’s the bank when it has land—wants tractors, not families on the land. Is a tractor bad? Is the power that turns the long furrows wrong? If this tractor were ours it would be good—not mine, but ours. If our tractor turned the long furrows of our land, it would be good. Not my land, but ours. We could love that tractor then as we have loved this land when it was ours. But this tractor does two things—it turns the land and turns us off the land. There is little difference between this tractor and a tank. The people are driven, intimidated, hurt by both. We must think about this.
One man, one family driven from the land; this rusty car creaking along the highway to the west. I lost my land, a single tractor took my land. I am alone and I am bewildered. And in the night one family camps in a ditch and another family pulls in and the tents come out. The two men squat on their hams and the women and children listen. Here is the node, you who hate change and fear revolution. Keep these two squatting men apart; make them hate, fear, suspect each other. Here is the anlage of the thing you fear. This is the zy
gote. For here “I lost my land” is changed; a cell is split and from its splitting grows the thing you hate—“We lost our land.” The danger is here, for two men are not as lonely and perplexed as one. And from this first “we” there grows a still more dangerous thing: “I have a little food” plus “I have none.” If from this problem the sum is “We have a little food,” the thing is on its way, the movement has direction. Only a little multiplication now, and this land, this tractor are ours. The two men squatting in a ditch, the little fire, the sidemeat stewing in a single pot, the silent, stone-eyed women; behind, the children listening with their souls to words their minds do not understand. The night draws down. The baby has a cold. Here, take this blanket. It’s wool. It was my mother’s blanket—take it for the baby. This is the thing to bomb. This is the beginning—from “I” to “we.”
If you who own the things people must have could understand this, you might preserve yourself. If you could separate causes from results, if you could know that Paine, Marx, Jefferson, Lenin, were results, not causes, you might survive. But that you cannot know. For the quality of owning freezes you forever into “I,” and cuts you off forever from the “we.”
The Western States are nervous under the beginning change. Need is the stimulus to concept, concept to action. A half-million people moving over the country; a million more restive, ready to move; ten million more feeling the first nervousness.
And tractors turning the multiple furrows in the vacant land.
Chapter 15
Along 66 the hamburger stands—Al & Susy’s Place—Carl’s Lunch—Joe & Minnie—Will’s Eats. Board-and-bat shacks. Two gasoline pumps in front, a screen door, a long bar, stools, and a foot rail. Near the door three slot machines, showing through glass the wealth in nickels three bars will bring. And beside them, the nickel phonograph with records piled up like pies, ready to swing out to the turntable and play dance music, “Ti-pi-ti-pi-tin,” “Thanks for the Memory,” Bing Crosby, Benny Goodman. At one end of the counter a covered case; candy cough drops, caffeine sulphate called Sleepless, No-Doze; candy, cigarettes, razor blades, aspirin, Bromo-Seltzer, Alka-Seltzer. The walls decorated with posters, bathing girls, blondes with big breasts and slender hips and waxen faces, in white bathing suits, and holding a bottle of Coca-Cola and smiling—see what you get with a Coca-Cola. Long bar, and salts, peppers, mustard pots, and paper napkins. Beer taps behind the counter, and in back the coffee urns, shiny and steaming, with glass gauges showing the coffee level. And pies in wire cages and oranges in pyramids of four. And little piles of Post Toasties, corn flakes, stacked up in designs.
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