The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Ruthie pointed. “It was a-hissin’ and a-swishin’. Stopped now.”

  “Show me what you done,” Ma demanded.

  Winfield went reluctantly to the toilet. “I didn’ push it hard,” he said. “I jus’ had aholt of this here, an’—” The swish of water came again. He leaped away.

  Ma threw back her head and laughed, while Ruthie and Winfield regarded her resentfully. “Tha’s the way she works,” Ma said. “I seen them before. When you finish, you push that.”

  The shame of their ignorance was too great for the children. They went out the door, and they walked down the street to stare at a large family eating breakfast.

  Ma watched them out of the door. And then she looked about the room. She went to the shower closets and looked in. She walked to the wash basins and ran her finger over the white porcelain. She turned the water on a little and held her finger in the stream, and jerked her hand away when the water came hot. For a moment she regarded the basin, and then, setting the plug, she filled the bowl a little from the hot faucet, a little from the cold. And then she washed her hands in the warm water, and she washed her face. She was brushing water through her hair with her fingers when a step sounded on the concrete floor behind her. Ma swung around. An elderly man stood looking at her with an expression of righteous shock.

  He said harshly, “How you come in here?”

  Ma gulped, and she felt the water dripping from her chin and soaking through her dress. “I didn’ know,” she said apologetically. “I thought this here was for folks to use.”

  The elderly man frowned on her. “For men folks,” he said sternly. He walked to the door and pointed to a sign on it: MEN. “There,” he said. “That proves it. Didn’ you see that?”

  “No,” Ma said in shame, “I never seen it. Ain’t they a place where I can go?”

  The man’s anger departed. “You jus’ come?” he asked more kindly.

  “Middle of the night,” said Ma.

  “Then you ain’t talked to the Committee?”

  “What committee?”

  “Why, the Ladies’ Committee.”

  “No, I ain’t.”

  He said proudly, “The Committee’ll call on you purty soon an’ fix you up. We take care of folks that jus’ come in. Now, if you want a ladies’ toilet, you jus’ go on the other side of the building. That side’s yourn.”

  Ma said uneasily, “Ya say a ladies’ committee—comin’ to my tent?”

  He nodded his head. “Purty soon, I guess.”

  “Thank ya,” said Ma. She hurried out, and half ran to the tent.

  “Pa,” she called. “John, git up! You, Al. Git up an’ git washed.” Startled sleepy eyes looked out at her. “All of you,” Ma cried. “You git up an’ git your face washed. An’ comb your hair.”

  Uncle John looked pale and sick. There was a red bruised place on his chin.

  Pa demanded, “What’s the matter?”

  “The Committee,” Ma cried. “They’s a committee—a ladies’ committee a-comin’ to visit. Git up now, an’ git washed. An’ while we was a-sleepin’ an’ a-snorin’, Tom’s went out an’ got work. Git up, now.”

  They came sleepily out of the tent. Uncle John staggered a little, and his face was pained.

  “Git over to that house and wash up,” Ma ordered. “We got to get breakfus’ an’ be ready for the Committee.” She went to a little pile of split wood in the camp lot. She started a fire and put up her cooking irons. “Pone,” she said to herself. “Pone an’ gravy. That’s quick. Got to be quick.” She talked on to herself, and Ruthie and Winfield stood by, wondering.

  The smoke of the morning fires arose all over the camp, and the mutter of talk came from all sides.

  Rose of Sharon, unkempt and sleepy-eyed, crawled out of the tent. Ma turned from the cornmeal she was measuring in fistfuls. She looked at the girl’s wrinkled dirty dress, at her frizzled uncombed hair. “You got to clean up,” she said briskly. “Go right over and clean up. You got a clean dress. I washed it. Git your hair combed. Git the seeds out a your eyes.” Ma was excited.

  Rose of Sharon said sullenly, “I don’ feel good. I wisht Connie would come. I don’t feel like doin’ nothin’ ’thout Connie.”

  Ma turned full around on her. The yellow cornmeal clung to her hands and wrists. “Rosasharn,” she said sternly, “you git upright. You jus’ been mopin’ enough. They’s a ladies’ committee a-comin’, an’ the fambly ain’t gonna be frawny when they get here.”

  “But I don’ feel good.”

  Ma advanced on her, mealy hands held out. “Git,” Ma said. “They’s times when how you feel got to be kep’ to yourself.”

  “I’m a-goin’ to vomit,” Rose of Sharon whined.

  “Well, go an’ vomit. ’Course you’re gonna vomit. Ever’body does. Git it over an’ then you clean up, an’ you wash your legs an’ put on them shoes of yourn.” She turned back to her work. “An’ braid your hair,” she said.

  A frying pan of grease sputtered over the fire, and it splashed and hissed when Ma dropped the pone in with a spoon. She mixed flour with grease in a kettle and added water and salt and stirred the gravy. The coffee began to turn over in the gallon can, and the smell of coffee rose from it.

  Pa wandered back from the sanitary unit, and Ma looked critically up. Pa said, “Ya say Tom’s got work?”

  “Yes, sir. Went out ’fore we was awake. Now look in that box an’ get you some clean overhalls an’ a shirt. An’, Pa, I’m awful busy. You git in Ruthie an’ Winfiel’s ears. They’s hot water. Will you do that? Scrounge aroun’ in their ears good, an’ their necks. Get ’em red an’ shinin’.”

  “Never seen you so bubbly,” Pa said.

  Ma cried, “This here’s the time the fambly got to get decent. Comin’ acrost they wasn’t no chancet. But now we can. Th’ow your dirty overhalls in the tent an’ I’ll wash ’em out.”

  Pa went inside the tent, and in a moment he came out with pale blue, washed overalls and shirt on. And he led the sad and startled children toward the sanitary unit.

  Ma called after him, “Scrounge aroun’ good in their ears.”

  Uncle John came to the door of the men’s side and looked out, and then he went back and sat on the toilet a long time and held his aching head in his hands.

  Ma had taken up a panload of brown pone and was dropping spoons of dough in the grease for a second pan when a shadow fell on the ground beside her. She looked over her shoulder. A little man dressed all in white stood behind her—a man with a thin, brown, lined face and merry eyes. He was lean as a picket. His white clean clothes were frayed at the seams. He smiled at Ma. “Good morning,” he said.

  Ma looked at his white clothes and her face hardened with suspicion. “Mornin’,” she said.

  “Are your Mrs. Joad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m Jim Rawley. I’m camp manager. Just dropped by to see if everything’s all right. Got everything you need?”

  Ma studied him suspiciously. “Yes,” she said.

  Rawley said, “I was asleep when you came last night. Lucky we had a place for you.” His voice was warm.

  Ma said simply, “It’s nice. ’Specially them wash tubs.”

  “You wait till the women get to washing. Pretty soon now. You never heard such a fuss. Like a meeting. Know what they did yesterday, Mrs. Joad? They had a chorus. Singing a hymn tune and rubbing the clothes all in time. That was something to hear, I tell you.”

  The suspicion was going out of Ma’s face. “Must a been nice. You’re the boss?”

  “No,” he said. “The people here worked me out of a job. They keep the camp clean, they keep order, they do everything. I never saw such people. They’re making clothes in the meeting hall. And they’re making toys. Never saw such people.”

  Ma looked down at her dirty dress. “We ain’t clean yet,” she said. “You jus’ can’t keep clean a-travelin’.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said. He sniffed the air. “Say—is th
at your coffee smells so good?”

  Ma smiled. “Does smell nice, don’t it? Outside it always smells nice.” And she said proudly, “We’d take it in honor ’f you’d have some breakfus’ with us.”

  He came to the fire and squatted on his hams, and the last of Ma’s resistance went down. “We’d be proud to have ya,” she said. “We ain’t got much that’s nice, but you’re welcome.”

  The little man grinned at her. “I had my breakfast. But I’d sure like a cup of that coffee. Smells so good.”

  “Why—why, sure.”

  “Don’t hurry yourself.”

  Ma poured a tin cup of coffee from the gallon can. She said, “We ain’t got sugar yet. Maybe we’ll get some today. If you need sugar, it won’t taste good.”

  “Never use sugar,” he said. “Spoils the taste of good coffee.”

  “Well, I like a little sugar,” said Ma. She looked at him suddenly and closely, to see how he had come so close so quickly. She looked for motive on his face, and found nothing but friendliness. Then she looked at the frayed seams on his white coat, and she was reassured.

  He sipped the coffee. “I guess the ladies’ll be here to see you this morning.”

  “We ain’t clean,” Ma said. “They shouldn’t be comin’ till we get cleaned up a little.”

  “But they know how it is,” the manager said. “They came in the same way. No, sir. The committees are good in this camp because they do know.” He finished his coffee and stood up. “Well, I got to go on. Anything you want, why, come over to the office. I’m there all the time. Grand coffee. Thank you.” He put the cup on the box with the others, waved his hand, and walked down the line of tents. And Ma heard him speaking to the people as he went.

  Ma put down her head and she fought with a desire to cry.

  Pa came back leading the children, their eyes still wet with pain at the ear-scrounging. They were subdued and shining. The sunburned skin on Winfield’s nose was scrubbed off. “There,” Pa said. “Got dirt an’ two layers a skin. Had to almost lick ’em to make ’em stan’ still.”

  Ma appraised them. “They look nice,” she said. “He’p yaself to pone an’ gravy. We got to get stuff outa the way an’ the tent in order.”

  Pa served plates for the children and for himself. “Wonder where Tom got work?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, if he can, we can.”

  Al came excitedly to the tent. “What a place!” he said. He helped himself and poured coffee. “Know what a fella’s doin’? He’s buildin’ a house trailer. Right over there, back a them tents. Got beds an’ a stove—ever’thing. Jus’ live in her. By God, that’s the way to live! Right where you stop—tha’s where you live.”

  Ma said, “I ruther have a little house. Soon’s we can, I want a little house.”

  Pa said, “Al—after we’ve et, you an’ me an’ Uncle John’ll take the truck an’ go out lookin’ for work.”

  “Sure,” said Al. “I like to get a job in a garage if they’s any jobs. Tha’s what I really like. An’ get me a little ol’ cut-down Ford. Paint her yella an’ go a-kyoodlin’ aroun’. Seen a purty girl down the road. Give her a big wink, too. Purty as hell, too.”

  Pa said sternly, “You better get you some work ’fore you go a-tom-cattin’.”

  Uncle John came out of the toilet and moved slowly near. Ma frowned at him.

  “You ain’t washed—” she began, and then she saw how sick and weak and sad he looked. “You go on in the tent an’ lay down,” she said. “You ain’t well.”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I sinned, an’ I got to take my punishment.” He squatted down disconsolately and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  Ma took the last pones from the pan. She said casually, “The manager of the camp come an’ set an’ had a cup a coffee.”

  Pa looked over slowly. “Yeah? What’s he want awready?”

  “Jus’ come to pass the time,” Ma said daintily. “Jus’ set down an’ had coffee. Said he didn’ get good coffee so often, an’ smelt our’n.”

  “What’d he want?” Pa demanded again.

  “Didn’ want nothin’. Come to see how we was gettin’ on.”

  “I don’ believe it,” Pa said. “He’s probably a-snootin’ an’ a-smellin’ aroun’.”

  “He was not!” Ma cried angrily. “I can tell a fella that’s snootin’ aroun’ quick as the nex’ person.”

  Pa tossed his coffee grounds out of his cup.

  “You got to quit that,” Ma said. “This here’s a clean place.”

  “You see she don’t get so goddamn clean a fella can’t live in her,” Pa said jealously. “Hurry up, Al. We’re goin’ out lookin’ for a job.”

  Al wiped his mouth with his hand. “I’m ready,” he said.

  Pa turned to Uncle John. “You a-comin’?”

  “Yes, I’m a-comin’.”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I ain’t so good, but I’m comin’.”

  Al got in the truck. “Have to get gas,” he said. He started the engine. Pa and Uncle John climbed in beside him and the truck moved away down the street.

  Ma watched them go. And then she took a bucket and went to the wash trays under the open part of the sanitary unit. She filled her bucket with hot water and carried it back to her camp. And she was washing the dishes in the bucket when Rose of Sharon came back.

  “I put your stuff on a plate,” Ma said. And then she looked closely at the girl. Her hair was dripping and combed, and her skin was bright and pink. She had put on the blue dress printed with little white flowers. On her feet she wore the heeled slippers of her wedding. She blushed under Ma’s gaze. “You had a bath,” Ma said.

  Rose of Sharon spoke huskily. “I was in there when a lady come in an’ done it. Know what you do? You get in a little stall-like, an’ you turn handles, an’ water comes a-floodin’ down on you—hot water or col’ water, jus’ like you want it—an’ I done it!”

  “I’m a-goin’ to myself,” Ma cried. “Jus’ soon as I get finish’ here. You show me how.”

  “I’m a-gonna do it ever’ day,” the girl said. “An’ that lady—she seen me, an’ she seen about the baby, an’—know what she said? Said they’s a nurse comes ever’ week. An’ I’m to go see that nurse an’ she’ll tell me jus’ what to do so’s the baby’ll be strong. Says all the ladies here do that. An’ I’m a-gonna do it.” The words bubbled out. “An’—know what—? Las’ week they was a baby borned an’ the whole camp give a party, an’ they give clothes, an’ they give stuff for the baby—even give a baby buggy—wicker one. Wasn’t new, but they give it a coat a pink paint, an’ it was jus’ like new. An’ they give the baby a name, an’ had a cake. Oh, Lord!” She subsided, breathing heavily.

  Ma said, “Praise God, we come home to our own people. I’m a-gonna have a bath.”

  “Oh, it’s nice,” the girl said.

  Ma wiped the tin dishes and stacked them. She said, “We’re Joads. We don’t look up to nobody. Grampa’s grampa, he fit in the Revolution. We was farm people till the debt. And then—them people. They done somepin to us. Ever’ time they come seemed like they was a-whippin’ me—all of us. An’ in Needles, that police. He done somepin to me, made me feel mean. Made me feel ashamed. An’ now I ain’t ashamed. These folks is our folks—is our folks. An’ that manager, he come an’ set an’ drank coffee, an’ he says, ‘Mrs. Joad’ this, an’‘Mrs. Joad’ that—an’ ‘How you gettin’ on, Mrs. Joad?”’ She stopped and sighed. “Why, I feel like people again.” She stacked the last dish. She went into the tent and dug through the clothes box for her shoes and a clean dress. And she found a little paper package with her earrings in it. As she went past Rose of Sharon, she said, “If them ladies comes, you tell ’em I’ll be right back.” She disappeared around the side of the sanitary unit.

  Rose of Sharon sat down heavily on a box and regarded her wedding shoes, black patent leather and tailored black bows. She wiped the toes with her finger
and wiped her finger on the inside of her skirt. Leaning down put a pressure on her growing abdomen. She sat up straight and touched herself with exploring fingers, and she smiled a little as she did it.

  Along the road a stocky woman walked, carrying an apple box of dirty clothes toward the wash tubs. Her face was brown with sun, and her eyes were black and intense. She wore a great apron, made from a cotton bag, over her gingham dress, and men’s brown oxfords were on her feet. She saw that Rose of Sharon caressed herself, and she saw the little smile on the girl’s face.

  “So!” she cried, and she laughed with pleasure. “What you think it’s gonna be?”

  Rose of Sharon blushed and looked down at the ground, and then peeked up, and the little shiny black eyes of the woman took her in. “I don’ know,” she mumbled.

  The woman plopped the apple box on the ground. “Got a live tumor,” she said, and she cackled like a happy hen. “Which’d you ruther?” she demanded.

  “I dunno—boy, I guess. Sure—boy.”

  “You jus’ come in, didn’ ya?”

  “Las’ night—late.”

  “Gonna stay?”

  “I don’ know. ’F we can get work, guess we will.”

  A shadow crossed the woman’s face, and the little black eyes grew fierce. “’F you can git work. That’s what we all say.”

  “My brother got a job already this mornin’.”

  “Did, huh? Maybe you’re lucky. Look out for luck. You can’t trus’ luck.” She stepped close. “You can only git one kind a luck. Cain’t have more. You be a good girl,” she said fiercely. “You be good. If you got sin on you—you better watch out for that there baby.” She squatted down in front of Rose of Sharon. “They’s scandalous things goes on in this here camp,” she said darkly. “Ever’ Sat’dy night they’s dancin’, an’ not only squar’ dancin’, neither. They’s some does clutch-an’-hug dancin’! I seen ’em.”

  Rose of Sharon said guardedly, “I like dancin’, squar’ dancin’.” And she added virtuously, “I never done that other kind.”

  The brown woman nodded her head dismally. “Well, some does. An’ the Lord ain’t lettin’ it get by, neither; an’ don’ you think He is.”