Tom asked, “Ain’t you got no car?”
Both Wallaces were silent, and Tom, looking at their faces, saw that they were ashamed.
Wilkie said, “Place we work at is on’y a mile up the road.”
Timothy said angrily, “No, we ain’t got no car. We sol’ our car. Had to. Run outa food, run outa ever’thing. Couldn’ git no job. Fellas come aroun’ ever’ week, buyin’ cars. Come aroun’, an’ if you’re hungry, why, they’ll buy your car. An’ if you’re hungry enough, they don’t hafta pay nothin’ for it. An’—we was hungry enough. Give us ten dollars for her.” He spat into the road.
Wilkie said quietly, “I was in Bakersfiel’ las’ week. I seen her— a-settin’ in a use’-car lot—settin’ right there, an’ seventy-five dollars was the sign on her.”
“We had to,” Timothy said. “It was either us let ’em steal our car or us steal somepin from them. We ain’t had to steal yet, but, goddamn it, we been close!”
Tom said, “You know, ’fore we lef’ home, we heard they was plenty work out here. Seen han’bills askin’ folks to come out.”
“Yeah,” Timothy said. “We seen ’em too. An’ they ain’t much work. An’ wages is comin’ down all a time. I git so goddamn tired jus’ figgerin’ how to eat.”
“You got work now,” Tom suggested.
“Yeah, but it ain’t gonna las’ long. Workin’ for a nice fella. Got a little place. Works ’longside of us. But, hell—it ain’t gonna las’ no time.”
Tom said, “Why in hell you gonna git me on? I’ll make it shorter. What you cuttin’ your own throat for?”
Timothy shook his head slowly. “I dunno. Got no sense, I guess. We figgered to get us each a hat. Can’t do it, I guess. There’s the place, off to the right there. Nice job, too. Gettin’ thirty cents an hour. Nice frien’ly fella to work for.”
They turned off the highway and walked down a graveled road, through a small kitchen orchard; and behind the trees they came to a small white farm house, a few shade trees, and a barn; behind the barn a vineyard and a field of cotton. As the three men walked past the house a screen door banged, and a stocky sunburned man came down the back steps. He wore a paper sun helmet, and he rolled up his sleeves as he came across the yard. His heavy sunburned eyebrows were drawn down in a scowl. His cheeks were sunburned a beef red.
“Mornin’, Mr. Thomas,” Timothy said.
“Morning.” The man spoke irritably.
Timothy said, “This here’s Tom Joad. We wondered if you could see your way to put him on?”
Thomas scowled at Tom. And then he laughed shortly, and his brows still scowled. “Oh, sure! I’ll put him on. I’ll put everybody on. Maybe I’ll get a hundred men on.”
“We jus’ thought—” Timothy began apologetically.
Thomas interrupted him. “Yes, I been thinkin’ too.” He swung around and faced them. “I’ve got some things to tell you. I been paying you thirty cents an hour—that right?”
“Why, sure, Mr. Thomas—but——”
“And I been getting thirty cents’ worth of work.” His heavy hard hands clasped each other.
“We try to give a good day of work.”
“Well, goddamn it, this morning you’re getting twenty-five cents an hour, and you take it or leave it.” The redness of his face deepened with anger.
Timothy said, “We’ve give you good work. You said so yourself.”
“I know it. But it seems like I ain’t hiring my own men any more.” He swallowed. “Look,” he said. “I got sixty-five acres here. Did you ever hear of the Farmers’ Association?”
“Why, sure.”
“Well, I belong to it. We had a meeting last night. Now, do you know who runs the Farmers’ Association? I’ll tell you. The Bank of the West. That bank owns most of this valley, and it’s got paper on everything it don’t own. So last night the member from the bank told me, he said, ‘You’re paying thirty cents an hour. You’d better cut it down to twenty-five.’ I said, ‘I’ve got good men. They’re worth thirty.’ And he says, ‘It isn’t that,’ he says. ‘The wage is twenty-five now. If you pay thirty, it’ll only cause unrest. And by the way,’ he says, ‘you going to need the usual amount for a crop loan next year?”’ Thomas stopped. His breath was panting through his lips. “You see? The rate is twenty-five cents—and like it.”
“We done good work,” Timothy said helplessly.
“Ain’t you got it yet? Mr. Bank hires two thousand men an’ I hire three. I’ve got paper to meet. Now if you can figure some way out, by Christ, I’ll take it! They got me.”
Timothy shook his head. “I don’ know what to say.”
“You wait here.” Thomas walked quickly to the house. The door slammed after him. In a moment he was back, and he carried a newspaper in his hand. “Did you see this? Here, I’ll read it: ‘Citizens, angered at red agitators, burn squatters’ camp. Last night a band of citizens, infuriated at the agitation going on in a local squatters’ camp, burned the tents to the ground and warned agitators to get out of the county.”’
Tom began, “Why, I —” and then he closed his mouth and was silent.
Thomas folded the paper carefully and put it in his pocket. He had himself in control again. He said quietly, “Those men were sent out by the Association. Now I’m giving ’em away. And if they ever find out I told, I won’t have a farm next year.”
“I jus’ don’t know what to say,” Timothy said. “If they was agitators, I can see why they was mad.”
Thomas said, “I watched it a long time. There’s always red agitators just before a pay cut. Always. Goddamn it, they got me trapped. Now, what are you going to do? Twenty-five cents?”
Timothy looked at the ground. “I’ll work,” he said.
“Me too,” said Wilkie.
Tom said, “Seems like I walked into somepin. Sure, I’ll work. I got to work.”
Thomas pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and wiped his mouth and chin. “I don’t know how long it can go on. I don’t know how you men can feed a family on what you get now.”
“We can while we work,” Wilkie said. “It’s when we don’t git work.”
Thomas looked at his watch. “Well, let’s go out and dig some ditch. By God,” he said, “I’m a-gonna tell you. You fellas live in that government camp, don’t you?”
Timothy stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“And you have dances every Saturday night?”
Wilkie smiled. “We sure do.”
“Well, look out next Saturday night.”
Suddenly Timothy straightened. He stepped close. “What you mean? I belong to the Central Committee. I got to know.”
Thomas looked apprehensive. “Don’t you ever tell I told.”
“What is it?” Timothy demanded.
“Well, the Association don’t like the government camps. Can’t get a deputy in there. The people make their own laws, I hear, and you can’t arrest a man without a warrant. Now if there was a big fight and maybe shooting—a bunch of deputies could go in and clean out the camp.”
Timothy had changed. His shoulders were straight and his eyes cold. “What you mean?”
“Don’t you ever tell where you heard,” Thomas said uneasily. “There’s going to be a fight in the camp Saturday night. And there’s going to be deputies ready to go in.”
Tom demanded, “Why, for God’s sake? Those folks ain’t bothering nobody.”
“I’ll tell you why,” Thomas said. “Those folks in the camp are getting used to being treated like humans. When they go back to the squatters’ camps they’ll be hard to handle.” He wiped his face again. “Go on out to work now. Jesus, I hope I haven’t talked myself out of my farm. But I like you people.”
Timothy stepped in front of him and put out a hard lean hand, and Thomas took it. “Nobody won’t know who tol’. We thank you. They won’t be no fight.”
“Go on to work,” Thomas said. “And it’s twenty-five cents an hour.”
“We’ll take it,”
Wilkie said, “from you.”
Thomas walked away toward the house. “I’ll be out in a piece,” he said. “You men get to work.” The screen door slammed behind him.
The three men walked out past the little white-washed barn, and along a field edge. They came to a long narrow ditch with sections of concrete pipe lying beside it.
“Here’s where we’re a-workin’,” Wilkie said.
His father opened the barn and passed out two picks and three shovels. And he said to Tom, “Here’s your beauty.”
Tom hefted the pick. “Jumping Jesus! If she don’t feel good!”
“Wait’ll about ’leven o’clock,” Wilkie suggested. “See how good she feels then.”
They walked to the end of the ditch. Tom took off his coat and dropped it on the dirt pile. He pushed up his cap and stepped into the ditch. Then he spat on his hands. The pick arose into the air and flashed down. Tom grunted softly. The pick rose and fell, and the grunt came at the moment it sank into the ground and loosened the soil.
Wilkie said, “Yes, sir, Pa, we got here a first-grade muckstick man. This here boy been married to that there little digger.”
Tom said, “I put in time (umph). Yes, sir, I sure did (umph). Put in my years (umph!). Kinda like the feel (umph!).” The soil loosened ahead of him. The sun cleared the fruit trees now and the grape leaves were golden green on the vines. Six feet along and Tom stepped aside and wiped his forehead. Wilkie came behind him. The shovel rose and fell and the dirt flew out to the pile beside the lengthening ditch.
“I heard about this here Central Committee,” said Tom. “So you’re one of ’em.”
“Yes, sir,” Timothy replied. “And it’s a responsibility. All them people. We’re doin’ our best. An’ the people in the camp a-doin’ their best. I wisht them big farmers wouldn’ plague us so. I wisht they wouldn’.”
Tom climbed back into the ditch and Wilkie stood aside. Tom said, “How ’bout this fight (umph!) at the dance, he tol’ about (umph)? What they wanta do that for?”
Timothy followed behind Wilkie, and Timothy’s shovel beveled the bottom of the ditch and smoothed it ready for the pipe. “Seems like they got to drive us,” Timothy said. “They’re scairt we’ll organize, I guess. An’ maybe they’re right. This here camp is a organization. People there look out for theirselves. Got the nicest strang band in these parts. Got a little charge account in the store for folks that’s hungry. Fi’ dollars—you can git that much food an’ the camp’ll stan’ good. We ain’t never had no trouble with the law. I guess the big farmers is scairt of that. Can’t throw us in jail—why, it scares ’em. Figger maybe if we can gove’n ourselves, maybe we’ll do other things.”
Tom stepped clear of the ditch and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “You hear what that paper said ’bout agitators up north a Bakersfiel’?”
“Sure,” said Wilkie. “They do that all a time.”
“Well, I was there. They wasn’t no agitators. What they call reds. What the hell is these reds anyways?”
Timothy scraped a little hill level in the bottom of the ditch. The sun made his white bristle beard shine. “They’s a lot a fellas wanta know what reds is.” He laughed. “One of our boys foun’ out.” He patted the piled earth gently with his shovel. “Fella named Hines—got ’bout thirty thousan’ acres, peaches and grapes—got a cannery an’ a winery. Well, he’s all a time talkin’ about ‘them goddamn reds.’ ‘Goddamn reds is drivin’ the country to ruin,’ he says, an’‘We got to drive these here red bastards out.’ Well, they were a young fella jus’ come out west here, an’ he’s listenin’ one day. He kinda scratched his head an’ he says, ‘Mr. Hines, I ain’t been here long. What is these goddamn reds?’ Well, sir, Hines says, ‘A red is any son-of-a-bitch that wants thirty cents an hour when we’re payin’ twenty-five!’ Well, this young fella he thinks about her, an’ he scratches his head, an’ he says, ‘Well, Jesus, Mr. Hines. I ain’t a son-of-a-bitch, but if that’s what a red is—why, I want thirty cents an hour. Ever’body does. Hell, Mr. Hines, we’re all reds.”’ Timothy drove his shovel along the ditch bottom, and the solid earth shone where the shovel cut it.
Tom laughed. “Me too, I guess.” His pick arced up and drove down, and the earth cracked under it. The sweat rolled down his forehead and down the sides of his nose, and it glistened on his neck. “Damn it,” he said, “a pick is a nice tool (umph), if you don’ fight it (umph). You an’ the pick (umph) workin’ together (umph).”
In line, the three men worked, and the ditch inched along, and the sun shone hotly down on them in the growing morning.
When Tom left her, Ruthie gazed in at the door of the sanitary unit for a while. Her courage was not strong without Winfield to boast for. She put a bare foot in on the concrete floor, and then withdrew it. Down the line a woman came out of a tent and started a fire in a tin camp stove. Ruthie took a few steps in that direction, but she could not leave. She crept to the entrance of the Joad tent and looked in. On one side, lying on the ground, lay Uncle John, his mouth open and his snores bubbling spittily in his throat. Ma and Pa were covered with a comfort, their heads in, away from the light. Al was on the far side from Uncle John, and his arm was flung over his eyes. Near the front of the tent Rose of Sharon and Winfield lay, and there was the space where Ruthie had been, beside Winfield. She squatted down and peered in. Her eyes remained on Winfield’s tow head; and as she looked, the little boy opened his eyes and stared out at her, and his eyes were solemn. Ruthie put her finger to her lips and beckoned with her other hand. Winfield rolled his eyes over to Rose of Sharon. Her pink flushed face was near to him, and her mouth was open a little. Winfield carefully loosened the blanket and slipped out. He crept out of the tent cautiously and joined Ruthie. “How long you been up?” he whispered.
She led him away with elaborate caution, and when they were safe, she said, “I never been to bed. I was up all night.”
“You was not,” Winfield said. “You’re a dirty liar.”
“Awright,” she said. “If I’m a liar I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’ that happened. I ain’t gonna tell how the fella got killed with a stab knife an’ how they was a bear come in an’ took off a little chile.”
“They wasn’t no bear,” Winfield said uneasily. He brushed up his hair with his fingers and he pulled down his overalls at the crotch.
“All right—they wasn’t no bear,” she said sarcastically.
“An’ they ain’t no white things made outa dish-stuff, like in the catalogues.”
Winfield regarded her gravely. He pointed to the sanitary unit. “In there?” he asked.
“I’m a dirty liar,” Ruthie said. “It ain’t gonna do me no good to tell stuff to you.”
“Le’s go look,” Winfield said.
“I already been,” Ruthie said. “I already set on ’em. I even pee’d in one.”
“You never neither,” said Winfield.
They went to the unit building, and that time Ruthie was not afraid. Boldly she led the way into the building. The toilets lined one side of the large room, and each toilet had its compartment with a door in front of it. The porcelain was gleaming white. Hand basins lined another wall, while on the third wall were four shower compartments.
“There,” said Ruthie. “Them’s the toilets. I seen ’em in the catalogue.” The children drew near to one of the toilets. Ruthie, in a burst of bravado, boosted her skirt and sat down. “I tol’ you I been here,” she said. And to prove it, there was a tinkle of water in the bowl.
Winfield was embarrassed. His hand twisted the flushing lever. There was a roar of water. Ruthie leaped into the air and jumped away. She and Winfield stood in the middle of the room and looked at the toilet. The hiss of water continued in it.
“You done it,” Ruthie said. “You went an’ broke it. I seen you.”
“I never. Honest I never.”
“I seen you,” Ruthie said. “You jus’ ain’t to be trusted with no nice stuff.”
Winfield sunk
his chin. He looked up at Ruthie and his eyes filled with tears. His chin quivered. And Ruthie was instantly contrite.
“Never you mind,” she said. “I won’t tell on you. We’ll pretend like she was already broke. We’ll pretend we ain’t even been in here.” She led him out of the building.
The sun lipped over the mountain by now, shone on the corrugated-iron roofs of the five sanitary units, shone on the gray tents and on the swept ground of the streets between the tents. And the camp was waking up. The fires were burning in camp stoves, in the stoves made of kerosene cans and of sheets of metal. The smell of smoke was in the air. Tent flaps were thrown back and people moved about in the streets. In front of the Joad tent Ma stood looking up and down the street. She saw the children and came over to them.
“I was worryin’,” Ma said. “I didn’ know where you was.”
“We was jus’ lookin’,” Ruthie said.
“Well, where’s Tom? You seen him?”
Ruthie became important. “Yes, ma’am. Tom, he got me up an’ he tol’ me what to tell you.” She paused to let her importance be apparent.
“Well—what?” Ma demanded.
“He said tell you —” She paused again and looked to see that Winfield appreciated her position.
Ma raised her hand, the back of it toward Ruthie. “What?”
“He got work,” said Ruthie quickly. “Went out to work.” She looked apprehensively at Ma’s raised hand. The hand sank down again, and then it reached out for Ruthie. Ma embraced Ruthie’s shoulders in a quick convulsive hug, and then released her.
Ruthie stared at the ground in embarrassment, and changed the subject. “They got toilets over there,” she said. “White ones.”
“You been in there?” Ma demanded.
“Me an’ Winfiel’,” she said; and then, treacherously, “Winfiel’, he bust a toilet.”
Winfield turned red. He glared at Ruthie. “She pee’d in one,” he said viciously.
Ma was apprehensive. “Now what did you do? You show me.” She forced them to the door and inside. “Now what’d you do?”
The Grapes of Wrath Page 41
