The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Jessie nodded. “I heard,” she said softly, “I heard. We got to take Mis’ Joad aroun’.”

  Ma said, “It sure is nice.”

  “Le’s go to the sewin’ room,” Annie suggested. “Got two machines. They’s a-quiltin’, an’ they’re makin’ dresses. You might like ta work over there.”

  When the committee called on Ma, Ruthie and Winfield faded imperceptibly back out of reach.

  “Whyn’t we go along an’ listen?” Winfield asked.

  Ruthie gripped his arm. “No,” she said. “We got washed for them sons-a-bitches. I ain’t goin’ with ’em.”

  Winfield said, “You tol’ on me ’bout the toilet. I’m a-gonna tell what you called them ladies.”

  A shadow of fear crossed Ruthie’s face. “Don’ do it. I tol’ ’cause I knowed you didn’ really break it.”

  “You did not,” said Winfield.

  Ruthie said, “Le’s look aroun’.” They strolled down the line of tents, peering into each one, gawking self-consciously. At the end of the unit there was a level place on which a croquet court had been set up. Half a dozen children played seriously. In front of a tent an elderly lady sat on a bench and watched. Ruthie and Winfield broke into a trot. “Leave us play,” Ruthie cried. “Leave us get in.”

  The children looked up. A pig-tailed little girl said, “Nex’ game you kin.”

  “I wanta play now,” Ruthie cried.

  “Well, you can’t. Not till nex’ game.”

  Ruthie moved menacingly out on the court. “I’m a-gonna play.” The pig-tails gripped her mallet tightly. Ruthie sprang at her, slapped her, pushed her, and wrested the mallet from her hands. “I says I was gonna play,” she said triumphantly.

  The elderly lady stood up and walked onto the court. Ruthie scowled fiercely and her hands tightened on the mallet. The lady said, “Let her play—like you done with Ralph las’ week.”

  The children laid their mallets on the ground and trooped silently off the court. They stood at a distance and looked on with expressionless eyes. Ruthie watched them go. Then she hit a ball and ran after it. “Come on, Winfiel’. Get a stick,” she called. And then she looked in amazement. Winfield had joined the watching children, and he too looked at her with expressionless eyes. Defiantly she hit the ball again. She kicked up a great dust. She pretended to have a good time. And the children stood and watched. Ruthie lined up two balls and hit both of them, and she turned her back on the watching eyes, and then turned back. Suddenly she advanced on them, mallet in hand. “You come an’ play,” she demanded. They moved silently back at her approach. For a moment she stared at them, and then she flung down the mallet and ran crying for home. The children walked back on the court.

  Pigtails said to Winfield, “You can git in the nex’ game.”

  The watching lady warned them, “When she comes back an’ wants to be decent, you let her. You was mean yourself, Amy.” The game went on, while in the Joad tent Ruthie wept miserably.

  The truck moved along the beautiful roads, past orchards where the peaches were beginning to color, past vineyards with the clusters pale and green, under lines of walnut trees whose branches spread half across the road. At each entrance-gate Al slowed; and at each gate there was a sign: “No help wanted. No trespassing.”

  Al said, “Pa, they’s boun’ to be work when them fruits gets ready. Funny place—they tell ya they ain’t no work ’fore you ask ’em.” He drove slowly on.

  Pa said, “Maybe we could go in anyways an’ ask if they know where they’s any work. Might do that.”

  A man in blue overalls and a blue shirt walked along the edge of the road. Al pulled up beside him. “Hey, mister,” Al said. “Know where they’s any work?”

  The man stopped and grinned, and his mouth was vacant of front teeth. “No,” he said. “Do you? I been walkin’ all week, an’ I can’t tree none.”

  “Live in that gov’ment camp?” Al asked.

  “Yeah!”

  “Come on, then. Git up back, an’ we’ll all look.” The man climbed over the side-boards and dropped in the bed.

  Pa said, “I ain’t got no hunch we’ll find work. Guess we got to look, though. We don’t even know where-at to look.”

  “Shoulda talked to the fellas in the camp,” Al said. “How you feelin’, Uncle John?”

  “I ache,” said Uncle John. “I ache all over, an’ I got it comin’. I oughta go away where I won’t bring down punishment on my own folks.”

  Pa put his hand on John’s knee. “Look here,” he said, “don’ you go away. We’re droppin’ folks all the time—Grampa an’ Granma dead, Noah an’ Connie—run out, an’ the preacher—in jail.”

  “I got a hunch we’ll see that preacher agin,” John said.

  Al fingered the ball on the gear-shift lever. “You don’ feel good enough to have no hunches,” he said. “The hell with it. Le’s go back an’ talk, an’find out where they’s some work. We’re jus’ huntin’ skunks under water.” He stopped the truck and leaned out the window and called back, “Hey! Lookie! We’re a-goin’ back to the camp an’ try an’ see where they’s work. They ain’t no use burnin’ gas like this.”

  The man leaned over the truck side. “Suits me,” he said. “My dogs is wore clean up to the ankle. An’ I ain’t even got a nibble.”

  Al turned around in the middle of the road and headed back.

  Pa said, “Ma’s gonna be purty hurt, ’specially when Tom got work so easy.”

  “Maybe he never got none,” Al said. “Maybe he jus’ went lookin’, too. I wisht I could get work in a garage. I’d learn that stuff quick, an’ I’d like it.”

  Pa grunted, and they drove back toward the camp in silence.

  When the committee left, Ma sat down on a box in front of the Joad tent, and she looked helplessly at Rose of Sharon. “Well—” she said, “well—I ain’t been so perked up in years. Wasn’t them ladies nice?”

  “I get to work in the nursery,” Rose of Sharon said. “They tol’ me. I can find out all how to do for babies, an’ them I’ll know.”

  Ma nodded in wonder. “Wouldn’t it be nice if the menfolks all got work?” she asked. “Them a-workin’, an’ a little money comin’ in?” Her eyes wandered into space. “Them a-workin’, an’ us a-workin’ here, an’ all them nice people. Fust thing we get a little ahead I’d get me a little stove—nice one. They don’ cost much. An’ then we’d get a tent, big enough, an’ maybe secon’-han’ springs for the beds. An’ we’d use this here tent jus’ to eat under. An’ Sat’dy night we’ll go to the dancin’. They says you can invite folks if you want. I wisht we had some frien’s to invite. Maybe the men’ll know somebody to invite.”

  Rose of Sharon peered down the road. “That lady that says I’ll lose the baby—” she began.

  “Now you stop that,” Ma warned her.

  Rose of Sharon said softly, “I seen her. She’s a-comin’ here, I think. Yeah! Here she comes. Ma, don’t let her——”

  Ma turned and looked at the approaching figure.

  “Howdy,” the woman said. “I’m Mis’ Sandry—Lisbeth Sandry. I seen your girl this mornin’.”

  “Howdy do,” said Ma.

  “Are you happy in the Lord?”

  “Pretty happy,” said Ma.

  “Are you saved?”

  “I been saved.” Ma’s face was closed and waiting.

  “Well, I’m glad,” Lisbeth said. “The sinners is awful strong aroun’ here. You come to a awful place. They’s wicketness all around about. Wicket people, wicket goin’s-on that a lamb’-blood Christian jes’ can’t hardly stan’. They’s sinners all around us.”

  Ma colored a little, and shut her mouth tightly. “Seems to me they’s nice people here,” she said shortly.

  Mrs. Sandry’s eyes stared. “Nice!” she cried. “You think they’re nice when they’s dancin’ an’ huggin’? I tell ya, ya eternal soul ain’t got a chancet in this here camp. Went out to a meetin’ in Weedpatch las’ night. Know what the preache
r says? He says, ‘They’s wicketness in that camp.’ He says, ‘The poor is tryin’ to be rich.’ He says, ‘They’s dancin’ an’ huggin’ when they should be wailin’ an’ moanin’ in sin.’ That’s what he says. ‘Ever’body that ain’t here is a black sinner,’ he says. I tell you it made a person feel purty good to hear ’im. An’ we knowed we was safe. We ain’t danced.”

  Ma’s face was red. She stood up slowly and faced Mrs. Sandry. “Git!” she said. “Git out now, ’fore I git to be a sinner a-tellin’ you where to go. Git to your wailin’ an’ moanin’.”

  Mrs. Sandry’s mouth dropped open. She stepped back. And then she became fierce. “I thought you was Christians.”

  “So we are,” Ma said.

  “No, you ain’t. You’re hell-burnin’ sinners, all of you! An’ I’ll mention it in meetin’, too. I can see your black soul a-burnin’. I can see that innocent child in that there girl’s belly a-burnin’.”

  A low wailing cry escaped from Rose of Sharon’s lips. Ma stooped down and picked up a stick of wood.

  “Git!” she said coldly. “Don’ you never come back. I seen your kind before. You’d take the little pleasure, wouldn’ you?” Ma advanced on Mrs. Sandry.

  For a moment the woman backed away and then suddenly she threw back her head and howled. Her eyes rolled up, her shoulders and arms flopped loosely at her side, and a string of thick ropy saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. She howled again and again, long deep animal howls. Men and women ran up from the other tents, and they stood near—frightened and quiet. Slowly the woman sank to her knees and the howls sank to a shuddering, bubbling moan. She fell sideways and her arms and legs twitched. The white eye-balls showed under the open eyelids.

  A man said softly, “The sperit. She got the sperit.” Ma stood looking down at the twitching form.

  The little manager strolled up casually. “Trouble?” he asked. The crowd parted to let him through. He looked down at the woman. “Too bad,” he said. “Will some of you help get her back to her tent?” The silent people shuffled their feet. Two men bent over and lifted the woman, one held her under the arms and the other took her feet. They carried her away, and the people moved slowly after them. Rose of Sharon went under the tarpaulin and lay down and covered her face with a blanket.

  The manager looked at Ma, looked down at the stick in her hand. He smiled tiredly. “Did you clout her?” he asked.

  Ma continued to stare after the retreating people. She shook her head slowly. “No—but I would a. Twicet today she worked my girl up.”

  The manager said, “Try not to hit her. She isn’t well. She just isn’t well.” And he added softly, “I wish she’d go away, and all her family. She brings more trouble on the camp than all the rest together.”

  Ma got herself in hand again. “If she comes back, I might hit her. I ain’t sure. I won’t let her worry my girl no more.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Joad,” he said. “You won’t ever see her again. She works over the newcomers. She won’t ever come back. She thinks you’re a sinner.”

  “Well, I am,” said Ma.

  “Sure. Everybody is, but not the way she means. She isn’t well, Mrs. Joad.”

  Ma looked at him gratefully, and she called, “You hear that, Rosasharn? She ain’t well. She’s crazy.” But the girl did not raise her head. Ma said, “I’m warnin’ you, mister. If she comes back, I ain’t to be trusted. I’ll hit her.”

  He smiled wryly. “I know how you feel,” he said. “But just try not to. That’s all I ask—just try not to.” He walked slowly away toward the tent where Mrs. Sandry had been carried.

  Ma went into the tent and sat down beside Rose of Sharon. “Look up,” she said. The girl lay still. Ma gently lifted the blanket from her daughter’s face. “That woman’s kinda crazy,” she said. “Don’t you believe none of them things.”

  Rose of Sharon whispered in terror, “When she said about burnin’, I—felt burnin’.”

  “That ain’t true,” said Ma.

  “I’m tar’d out,” the girl whispered. “I’m tar’d a things happenin’. I wanta sleep. I wanta sleep.”

  “Well, you sleep, then. This here’s a nice place. You can sleep.”

  “But she might come back.”

  “She won’t,” said Ma. “I’m a-gonna set right outside, an’ I won’t let her come back. Res’ up now, ’cause you got to get to work in the nu’sery purty soon.”

  Ma struggled to her feet and went to sit in the entrance to the tent. She sat on a box and put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her cupped hands. She saw the movement in the camp, heard the voices of the children, the hammering of an iron rim; but her eyes were staring ahead of her.

  Pa, coming back along the road, found her there, and he squatted near her. She looked slowly over at him. “Git work?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, ashamed. “We looked.”

  “Where’s Al and John and the truck?”

  “Al’s fixin’ somepin. Had ta borry some tools. Fella says Al got to fix her there.”

  Ma said sadly, “This here’s a nice place. We could be happy here awhile.”

  “If we could get work.”

  “Yeah! If you could get work.”

  He felt her sadness, and studied her face. “What you a-mopin’ about? If it’s sech a nice place why have you got to mope?”

  She gazed at him, and she closed her eyes slowly. “Funny, ain’t it. All the time we was a-movin’ an’ shovin’, I never thought none. An’ now these here folks been nice to me, been awful nice; an’ what’s the first thing I do? I go right back over the sad things—that night Grampa died an’ we buried him. I was all full up of the road, and bumpin’ and movin’, an’ it wasn’t so bad. But now I come out here, an’ it’s worse now. An’ Granma—an’ Noah walkin’ away like that! Walkin’ away jus’ down the river. Them things was part of all, an’ now they come a-flockin’ back. Granma a pauper, an’ buried a pauper. That’s sharp now. That’s awful sharp. An’ Noah walkin’ away down the river. He don’ know what’s there. He jus’ don’ know. An’ we don’ know. We ain’t never gonna know if he’s alive or dead. Never gonna know. An’ Connie sneakin’ away. I didn’ give ’em brain room before, but now they’re a-flockin’ back. An’ I oughta be glad ’cause we’re in a nice place.” Pa watched her mouth while she talked. Her eyes were closed. “I can remember how them mountains was, sharp as ol’ teeth beside the river where Noah walked. I can remember how the stubble was on the groun’ where Grampa lies. I can remember the choppin’ block back home with a feather caught on it, all criss-crossed with cuts, an’ black with chicken blood.”

  Pa’s voice took on her tone. “I seen the ducks today,” he said. “Wedgin’ south—high up. Seems like they’re awful dinky. An’ I seen the blackbirds a-settin’ on the wires, an’ the doves was on the fences.” Ma opened her eyes and looked at him. He went on, “I seen a little whirlwin’, like a man a-spinnin’ acrost a fiel’. An’ the ducks drivin’ on down, wedgin’ on down to the southward.”

  Ma smiled. “Remember?” she said. “Remember what we’d always say at home? ‘Winter’s a-comin’ early,’ we said, when the ducks flew. Always said that, an’ winter come when it was ready to come. But we always said, ‘She’s a-comin’ early.’ I wonder what we meant.”

  “I seen the blackbirds on the wires,” said Pa. “Settin’ so close together. An’ the doves. Nothin’ sets so still as a dove—on the fence wires—maybe two, side by side. An’ this little whirlwin’—big as a man, an’ dancin’ off acrost a fiel’. Always did like the little fellas, big as a man.”

  “Wisht I wouldn’t think how it is home,” said Ma. “It ain’t our home no more. Wisht I’d forget it. An’ Noah.”

  “He wasn’t ever right—I mean—well, it was my fault.”

  “I tol’ you never to say that. Woudn’ a lived at all, maybe.”

  “But I should a knowed more.”

  “Now stop,” said Ma. “Noah was strange. Maybe he�
��ll have a nice time by the river. Maybe it’s better so. We can’t do no worryin’. This here is a nice place, an’ maybe you’ll get work right off.”

  Pa pointed at the sky. “Look—more ducks. Big bunch. An’ Ma, ‘Winter’s a-comin’ early.”’

  She chuckled. “They’s things you do, an’ you don’ know why.”

  “Here’s John,” said Pa. “Come on an’ set, John.”

  Uncle John joined them. He squatted down in front of Ma. “We didn’ get nowheres,” he said. “Jus’ run aroun’. Say, Al wants to see ya. Says he got to git a tire. Only one layer a cloth lef’, he says.”

  Pa stood up. “I hope he can git her cheap. We ain’t got much lef’. Where is Al?”

  “Down there, to the nex’ cross-street an’ turn right. Says gonna blow out an’ spoil a tube if we don’ get a new one.” Pa strolled away, and his eyes followed the giant V of ducks down the sky.

  Uncle John picked a stone from the ground and dropped it from his palm and picked it up again. He did not look at Ma. “They ain’t no work,” he said.

  “You didn’ look all over,” Ma said.

  “No, but they’s signs out.”

  “Well, Tom musta got work. He ain’t been back.”

  Uncle John suggested, “Maybe he went away—like Connie, or like Noah.”

  Ma glanced sharply at him, and then her eyes softened. “They’s things you know,” she said. “They’s stuff you’re sure of. Tom’s got work, an’ he’ll come in this evenin’. That’s true,” She smiled in satisfaction. “Ain’t he a fine boy!” she said. “Ain’t he a good boy!”