“No, ma’am,” the girl said softly.
The woman put one brown wrinkled hand on Rose of Sharon’s knee, and the girl flinched under the touch. “You let me warn you now. They ain’t but a few deep down Jesus-lovers lef’. Ever’ Sat’dy night when that there strang ban’ starts up an’ should be a-playin’ hymnody, they’re a-reelin’—yes, sir, a-reelin’. I seen ’em. Won’ go near, myself, nor I don’ let my kin go near. They’s clutch-an’-hug, I tell ya.” She paused for emphasis and then said, in a hoarse whisper, “They do more. They give a stage play.” She backed away and cocked her head to see how Rose of Sharon would take such a revelation.
“Actors?” the girl said in awe.
“No, sir!” the woman exploded. “Not actors, not them already damn’ people. Our own kinda folks. Our own people. An’ they was little children didn’ know no better, in it, an’ they was pertendin’ to be stuff they wasn’t. I didn’ go near. But I hearn ’em talkin’ what they was a-doin’. The devil was jus’ a-struttin’ through this here camp.”
Rose of Sharon listened, her eyes and mouth open. “Oncet in school we give a Chris’ chile play—Christmus.”
“Well—I ain’ sayin’ tha’s bad or good. They’s good folks thinks a Chris’ chile is awright. But—well, I wouldn’ care to come right out flat an’ say so. But this here wasn’ no Chris’ chile. This here was sin an’ delusion an’ devil stuff. Struttin’ an’ paradin’ an’ speakin’ like they’re somebody they ain’t. An’ dancin’ an’ clutchin’ an’ a-huggin’.”
Rose of Sharon sighed.
“An’ not jus’ a few, neither,” the brown woman went on. “Gettin’ so’s you can almos’ count the deep-down lamb-blood folks on your toes. An’ don’ you think them sinners is puttin’ nothin’ over on God, neither. No, sir, He’s a-chalkin’ ’em up sin by sin, an’ He’s drawin’ His line an’ addin’ ’em up sin by sin. God’s a-watchin’, an’ I’m a-watchin’. He’s awready smoked two of ’em out.”
Rose of Sharon panted, “Has?”
The brown woman’s voice was rising in intensity. “I seen it. Girl a-carryin’ a little one, jes’ like you. An’ she play-acted, an’ she hug-danced. And”—the voice grew bleak and ominous—“she thinned out and she skinnied out, an’—she dropped that baby, dead.”
“Oh, my!” The girl was pale.
“Dead and bloody. ’Course nobody wouldn’ speak to her no more. She had a go away. Can’t tech sin ’thout catchin’ it. No, sir. An’ they was another, done the same thing. An’ she skinnied out, an’—know what? One night she was gone. An’ two days, she’s back. Says she was visitin’. But—she ain’t got no baby. Know what I think? I think the manager, he took her away to drop her baby. He don’ believe in sin. Tol’ me hisself. Says the sin is bein’ hungry. Says the sin is bein’ cold. Says—I tell ya, he tol’ me hisself—can’t see God in them things. Says them girls skinnied out ’cause they didn’ git ’nough food. Well, I fixed him up.” She rose to her feet and stepped back. Her eyes were sharp. She pointed a rigid fore-finger in Rose of Sharon’s face. “I says, ‘Git back!’ I says. I says, ‘I knowed the devil was rampagin’ in this here camp. Now I know who the devil is. Git back, Satan,’ I says. An’, by Chris’, he got back! Tremblin’ he was, an’ sneaky. Says, ‘Please!’ Says, ‘Please don’ make the folks unhappy.’ I says, ‘Unhappy? How ’bout their soul? How ’bout them dead babies an’ them poor sinners ruint ’count of play-actin’?’ He jes’ looked, an’ he give a sick grin an’ went away. He knowed when he met a real testifier to the Lord. I says, ‘I’m a-helpin’ Jesus watch the goin’s-on. An’ you an’ them other sinners ain’t gittin’ away with it.” She picked up her box of dirty clothes. “You take heed. I warned you. You take heed a that pore chile in your belly an’ keep outa sin.” And she strode away titanically, and her eyes shone with virtue.
Rose of Sharon watched her go, and then she put her head down on her hands and whimpered into her palms. A soft voice sounded beside her. She looked up, ashamed. It was the little white-clad manager. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
Her eyes blinded with tears. “But I done it,” she cried. “I hug-danced. I didn’ tell her. I done it in Sallisaw. Me an’ Connie.”
“Don’t worry,” he said.
“She says I’ll drop the baby.”
“I know she does. I kind of keep my eye on her. She’s a good woman, but she makes people unhappy.”
Rose of Sharon sniffled wetly. “She knowed two girls los’ their baby right in this here camp.”
The manager squatted down in front of her. “Look!” he said. “Listen to me. I know them too. They were too hungry and too tired. And they worked too hard. And they rode on a truck over bumps. They were sick. It wasn’t their fault.”
“But she said——”
“Don’t worry. That woman likes to make trouble.”
“But she says you was the devil.”
“I know she does. That’s because I won’t let her make people miserable.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t you worry. She doesn’t know.” And he walked quickly away.
Rose of Sharon looked after him; his lean shoulders jerked as he walked. She was still watching his slight figure when Ma came back, clean and pink, her hair combed and wet, and gathered in a knot. She wore her figured dress and the old cracked shoes; and the little earrings hung in her ears.
“I done it,” she said. “I stood in there an’ let warm water come a-floodin’ an’ a-flowin’ down over me. An’ they was a lady says you can do it ever’ day if you want. An’—them ladies’ committee come yet?”
“Uh-uh!” said the girl.
“An’ you jus’ set there an’ didn’ redd up the camp none!” Ma gathered up the tin dishes as she spoke. “We got to get in shape,” she said. “Come on, stir! Get that sack and kinda sweep along the groun’.” She picked up the equipment, put the pans in their box and the box in the tent. “Get them beds neat,” she ordered. “I tell ya I ain’t never felt nothin’ so nice as that water.”
Rose of Sharon listlessly followed orders. “Ya think Connie’ll be back today?”
“Maybe—maybe not. Can’t tell.”
“You sure he knows where-at to come?”
“Sure.”
“Ma—ya don’ think—they could a killed him when they burned—?”
“Not him,” Ma said confidently. “He can travel when he wants—jackrabbit-quick an’ fox-sneaky.”
“I wisht he’d come.”
“He’ll come when he comes.”
“Ma——”
“I wisht you’d get to work.”
“Well, do you think dancin’ an’ play-actin’ is sins an’ll make me drop the baby?”
Ma stopped her work and put her hands on her hips. “Now what you talkin’ about? You ain’t done no playactin’.”
“Well, some folks here done it, an’ one girl, she dropped her baby—dead—an’ bloody, like it was a judgment.”
Ma stared at her. “Who tol’ you?”
“Lady that come by. An’ that little fella in white clothes, he come by an’ he says that ain’t what done it.”
Ma frowned. “Rosasharn,” she said, “you stop pickin’ at yourself. You’re jest a-teasin’ yourself up to cry. I don’ know what’s come at you. Our folks ain’t never did that. They took what come to ’em dry-eyed. I bet it’s that Connie give you all them notions. He was jes’ too big for his overhalls.” And she said sternly, “Rosasharn, you’re jest one person, an’ they’s a lot of other folks. You git to your proper place. I knowed people built theirself up with sin till they figgered they was big mean shucks in the sight a the Lord.”
“But, Ma——”
“No. Jes’ shut up an’ git to work. You ain’t big enough or mean enough to worry God much. An’ I’m gonna give you the back a my han’ if you don’ stop this pickin’ at yourself.” She swept the ashes into the fire hole and brushed the stones on its edge. She saw the committee coming along the ro
ad. “Git workin’,” she said. “Here’s the ladies comin’. Git a-workin’ now, so’s I can be proud.” She didn’t look again, but she was conscious of the approach of the committee.
There could be no doubt that it was the committee; three ladies, washed, dressed in their best clothes: a lean woman with stringy hair and steel-rimmed glasses, a small stout lady with curly gray hair and a small sweet mouth, and a mammoth lady, big of hock and buttock, big of breast, muscled like a dray-horse, powerful and sure. And the committee walked down the road with dignity.
Ma managed to have her back turned when they arrived. They stopped, wheeled, stood in a line. And the great woman boomed, “Mornin’, Mis’ Joad, ain’t it?”
Ma whirled around as though she had been caught off guard. “Why, yes—yes. How’d you know my name?”
“We’re the committee,” the big woman said. “Ladies’ Committee of Sanitary Unit Number Four. We got your name in the office.”
Ma flustered, “We ain’t in very good shape yet. I’d be proud to have you ladies come an’ set while I make up some coffee.”
The plump committee woman said, “Give our names, Jessie. Mention our names to Mis’ Joad. Jessie’s the Chair,” she explained.
Jessie said formally, “Mis’ Joad, this here’s Annie Littlefield an’ Ella Summers, an’ I’m Jessie Bullitt.”
“I’m proud to make your acquaintance,” Ma said. “Won’t you set down? They ain’t nothin’ to set on yet,” she added. “But I’ll make up some coffee.”
“Oh, no,” said Annie formally. “Don’t put yaself out. We jes’ come to call an’ see how you was, an’ try to make you feel at home.”
Jessie Bullitt said sternly, “Annie, I’ll thank you to remember I’m Chair.”
“Oh! Sure, sure. But next week I am.”
“Well, you wait’ll next week then. We change ever’ week,” she explained to Ma.
“Sure you wouldn’ like a little coffee?” Ma asked helplessly.
“No, thank you.” Jessie took charge. “We gonna show you ’bout the sanitary unit fust, an’ then if you wanta, we’ll sign you up in the Ladies’ Club an’ give you duty. ’Course you don’ have to join.”
“Does—does it cost much?”
“Don’t cost nothing but work. An’ when you’re knowed, maybe you can be ’lected to this committee,” Annie interrupted. “Jessie, here, is on the committee for the whole camp. She’s a big committee lady.”
Jessie smiled with pride. “’Lected unanimous,” she said. “Well, Mis’ Joad, I guess it’s time we tol’ you ’bout how the camp runs.”
Ma said, “This here’s my girl, Rosasharn.”
“How do,” they said.
“Better come ’long too.”
The huge Jessie spoke, and her manner was full of dignity and kindness, and her speech was rehearsed.
“You shouldn’ think we’re a-buttin’ into your business, Mis’ Joad. This here camp got a lot of stuff ever’body uses. An’ we got rules we made ourself. Now we’re a-goin’ to the unit. That there, ever’body uses, an’ ever’body got to take care of it.” They strolled to the unroofed section where the wash trays were, twenty of them. Eight were in use, the women bending over, scrubbing the clothes, and the piles of wrung-out clothes were heaped on the clean concrete floor. “Now you can use these here any time you want,” Jessie said. “The on’y thing is, you got to leave ’em clean.”
The women who were washing looked up with interest. Jessie said loudly, “This here’s Mis’ Joad an’ Rosasharn, come to live.” They greeted Ma in a chorus, and Ma made a dumpy little bow at them and said, “Proud to meet ya.”
Jessie led the committee into the toilet and shower room.
“I been here awready,” Ma said. “I even took a bath.”
“That’s what they’re for,” Jessie said. “An’ they’s the same rule. You got to leave ’em clean. Ever’ week they’s a new committee to swab out oncet a day. Maybe you’ll git on that committee. You got to bring your own soap.”
“We got to get some soap,” Ma said. “We’re all out.”
Jessie’s voice became almost reverential. “You ever used this here kind?” she asked, and pointed to the toilets.
“Yes, ma’am. Right this mornin’.”
Jessie sighed. “Tha’s good.”
Ella Summers said, “Jes’ las’ week——”
Jessie interrupted sternly, “Mis’ Summers—I’ll tell.”
Ella gave ground. “Oh, awright.”
Jessie said, “Las’ week, when you was Chair, you done it all. I’ll thank you to keep out this week.”
“Well, tell what that lady done,” Ella said.
“Well,” said Jessie, “it ain’t this committee’s business to go a-blabbin’, but I won’t pass no names. Lady come in las’ week, an’ she got in here ’fore the committee got to her, an’ she had her ol’ man’s pants in the toilet, an’ she says, ‘It’s too low, an’ it ain’t big enough. Bust your back over her,’ she says. ‘Why couldn’ they stick her higher?”’ The committee smiled superior smiles.
Ella broke in, “Says, ‘Can’t put ’nough in at oncet.”’ And Ella weathered Jessie’s stern glance.
Jessie said, “We got our troubles with toilet paper. Rule says you can’t take none away from here.” She clicked her tongue sharply. “Whole camp chips in for toilet paper.” For a moment she was silent, and then she confessed. “Number Four is usin’ more than any other. Somebody’s a-stealin’ it. Come up in general ladies’ meetin’. ‘Ladies’ side, Unit Number Four is usin’ too much.’ Come right up in meetin’!”
Ma was following the conversation breathlessly. “Stealin’ it—what for?”
“Well,” said Jessie, “we had trouble before. Las’ time they was three little girls cuttin’ paper dolls out of it. Well, we caught them. But this time we don’t know. Hardly put a roll out ’fore it’s gone. Come right up in meetin’. One lady says we oughta have a little bell that rings ever’ time the roll turns oncet. Then we could count how many ever’body takes.” She shook her head. “I jes’ don’ know,” she said. “I been worried all week. Somebody’s a-stealin’ toilet paper from Unit Four.”
From the doorway came a whining voice, “Mis’ Bullitt.” The committee turned. “Mis’ Bullitt, I hearn what you says.” A flushed, perspiring woman stood in the doorway. “I couldn’ git up in meetin’. Mis’ Bullitt. I jes’ couldn’. They’d a-laughed or somepin.”
“What you talkin’ about?” Jessie advanced.
“Well, we-all—maybe—it’s us. But we ain’t a-stealin’, Mis’ Bullitt.”
Jessie advanced on her, and the perspiration beaded out on the flustery confessor. “We can’t he’p it. Mis’ Bullitt.”
“Now you tell what you’re tellin’,” Jessie said. “This here unit’s suffered a shame ’bout that toilet paper.”
“All week, Mis’ Bullitt. We couldn’ he’p it. You know I got five girls.”
“What they been a-doin’ with it?” Jessie demanded ominously.
“Jes’ usin’ it. Hones’, jes’ usin’ it.”
“They ain’t got the right! Four-five sheets is enough. What’s the matter’th ’em?”
The confessor bleated, “Skitters. All five of ’em. We been low on money. They et green grapes. They all five got the howlin’ skitters. Run out ever’ ten minutes.” She defended them, “But they ain’t stealin’ it.”
Jessie sighed. “You should a tol’,” she said. “You got to tell. Here’s Unit Four sufferin’ shame ’cause you never tol’. Anybody can git the skitters.”
The meek voice whined, “I jes’ can’t keep ’em from eatin’ them green grapes. An’ they’re a-gettin’ worse all a time.”
Ella Summers burst out, “The Aid. She oughta git the Aid.”
“Ella Summers,” Jessie said, “I’m a-tellin’ you for the las’ time, you ain’t the Chair.” She turned back to the raddled little woman. “Ain’t you got no money, Mis’ Joyce?”
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sp; She looked ashamedly down. “No, but we might git work any time.”
“Now you hol’ up your head,” Jessie said. “That ain’t no crime. You jes’ waltz right over t’ the Weedpatch store an’ git you some grocteries. The camp got twenty dollars’ credit there. You git yourself fi’ dollars’ worth. An’ you kin pay it back to the Central Committee when you git work. Mis’ Joyce, you knowed that,” she said sternly. “How come you let your girls git hungry?”
“We ain’t never took no charity,” Mrs. Joyce said.
“This ain’t charity, an’ you know it,” Jessie raged. “We had all that out. They ain’t no charity in this here camp. We won’t have no charity. Now you waltz right over an’ git you some grocteries, an’ you bring the slip to me.”
Mrs. Joyce said timidly, “S’pose we can’t never pay? We ain’t had work for a long time.”
“You’ll pay if you can. If you can’t, that ain’t none of our business, an’ it ain’t your business. One fella went away, an’ two months later he sent back the money. You ain’t got the right to let your girls git hungry in this here camp.”
Mrs. Joyce was cowed. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.
“Git you some cheese for them girls,” Jessie ordered. “That’ll take care a them skitters.”
“Yes, ma’am.” And Mrs. Joyce scuttled out of the door.
Jessie turned in anger on the committee. “She got no right to be stiff-necked. She got no right, not with our own people.”
Annie Littlefield said, “She ain’t been here long. Maybe she don’t know. Maybe she’s took charity one time-another. Nor,” Annie said, “don’t you try to shut me up, Jessie. I got a right to pass speech.” She turned half to Ma. “If a body’s ever took charity, it makes a burn that don’t come out. This ain’t charity, but if you ever took it, you don’t forget it. I bet Jessie ain’t ever done it.”
“No, I ain’t,” said Jessie.
“Well, I did,” Annie said. “Las’ winter; an’ we was a-starvin’—me an’ Pa an’ the little fellas. An’ it was a-rainin’. Fella tol’ us to go to the Salvation Army.” Her eyes grew fierce. “We was hungry—they made us crawl for our dinner. They took our dignity. They—I hate ’em! An’—maybe Mis’ Joyce took charity. Maybe she didn’ know this ain’t charity. Mis’ Joad, we don’t allow nobody in this camp to build their-self up that-a-way. We don’t allow nobody to give nothing to another person. They can give it to the camp, an’ the camp can pass it out. We won’t have no charity!” Her voice was fierce and hoarse. “I hate ’em,” she said. “I ain’t never seen my man beat before, but them—them Salvation Army done it to ’im.”
The Grapes of Wrath Page 43
