“An’ that’s why you make fun?”
“What cha mean?”
“Doin’ a dirty thing like this. Shames ya, don’t it? Got to act flip, huh?” Her voice was gentle. The clerk watched her, fascinated. He didn’t answer. “That’s how it is,” Ma said finally. “Forty cents for meat, fifteen for bread, quarter for potatoes. That’s eighty cents. Coffee?”
“Twenty cents the cheapest, ma’am.”
“An’ that’s the dollar. Seven of us workin’, an’ that’s supper.” She studied her hand. “Wrap ’em up,” she said quickly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thanks.” He put the potatoes in a bag and folded the top carefully down. His eyes slipped to Ma, and then hid in his work again. She watched him, and she smiled a little.
“How’d you get a job like this?” she asked.
“A fella got to eat,” he began; and then, belligerently, “A fella got a right to eat.”
“What fella?” Ma asked.
He placed the four packages on the counter. “Meat,” he said. “Potatoes, bread, coffee. One dollar, even.” She handed him her slip of paper and watched while he entered the name and the amount in a ledger. “There,” he said. “Now we’re all even.”
Ma picked up her bags. “Say,” she said. “We got no sugar for the coffee. My boy Tom, he wants sugar. Look!” she said. “They’re a-workin’ out there. You let me have some sugar an’ I’ll bring the slip in later.”
The little man looked away—took his eyes as far from Ma as he could. “I can’t do it,” he said softly. “That’s the rule. I can’t. I’d get in trouble. I’d get canned.”
“But they’re a-workin’ out in the field now. They got more’n a dime comin’. Gimme ten cents’ of sugar. Tom, he wanted sugar in his coffee. Spoke about it.”
“I can’t do it, ma’am. That’s the rule. No slip, no groceries. The manager, he talks about that all the time. No, I can’t do it. No, I can’t. They’d catch me. They always catch fellas. Always. I can’t.”
“For a dime?”
“For anything, ma’am.” He looked pleadingly at her. And then his face lost its fear. He took ten cents from his pocket and rang it up in the cash register. “There,” he said with relief. He pulled a little bag from under the counter, whipped it open and scooped some sugar into it, weighed the bag, and added a little more sugar. “There you are,” he said. “Now it’s all right. You bring in your slip an’ I’ll get my dime back.”
Ma studied him. Her hand went blindly out and put the little bag of sugar on the pile in her arm. “Thanks to you,” she said quietly. She started for the door, and when she reached it, she turned about. “I’m learnin’ one thing good,” she said. “Learnin’ it all a time, ever’ day. If you’re in trouble or hurt or need—go to poor people. They’re the only ones that’ll help—the only ones.” The screen door slammed behind her.
The little man leaned his elbows on the counter and looked after her with his surprised eyes. A plump tortoise-shell cat leaped up on the counter and stalked lazily near to him. It rubbed sideways against his arms, and he reached out with his hand and pulled it against his cheek. The cat purred loudly, and the tip of its tail jerked back and forth.
Tom and Al and Pa and Uncle John walked in from the orchard when the dusk was deep. Their feet were a little heavy against the road.
“You wouldn’ think jus’ reachin’ up an’ pickin’d get you in the back,” Pa said.
“Be awright in a couple days,” said Tom. “Say, Pa, after we eat I’m a-gonna walk out an’ see what all that fuss is outside the gate. It’s been a-workin’ on me. Wanta come?”
“No,” said Pa. “I like to have a little while to jus’ work an’ not think about nothin’. Seems like I jus’ been beatin’ my brains to death for a hell of a long time. No, I’m gonna set awhile, an’ then go to bed.”
“How ’bout you, Al?”
Al looked away. “Guess I’ll look aroun’ in here, first,” he said.
“Well, I know Uncle John won’t come. Guess I’ll go her alone. Got me all curious.”
Pa said, “I’ll get a hell of a lot curiouser ’fore I’ll do anything about it—with all them cops out there.”
“Maybe they ain’t there at night,” Tom suggested.
“Well, I ain’t gonna find out. An’ you better not tell Ma where you’re a-goin’. She’ll jus’ squirt her head off worryin’.”
Tom turned to Al. “Ain’t you curious?”
“Guess I’ll jes’ look aroun’ this here camp,” Al said.
“Lookin’ for girls, huh?”
“Mindin’ my own business,” Al said acidly.
“I’m still a-goin’,” said Tom.
They emerged from the orchard into the dusty street between the red shacks. The low yellow light of kerosene lanterns shone from some of the doorways, and inside, in the half-gloom, the black shapes of people moved about. At the end of the street a guard still sat, his shotgun resting against his knee.
Tom paused as he passed the guard. “Got a place where a fella can get a bath, mister?”
The guard studied him in the half-light. At last he said, “See that water tank?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, there’s a hose over there.”
“Any warm water?”
“Say, who in hell you think you are, J. P. Morgan?”
“No,” said Tom. “No, I sure don’t. Good night, mister.”
The guard grunted contemptuously. “Hot water, for Christ’s sake. Be wantin’ tubs next.” He stared glumly after the four Joads.
A second guard came around the end house. “’S’matter, Mack?”
“Why, them goddamn Okies. ‘Is they warm water?’ he says.”
The second guard rested his gun butt on the ground. “It’s them gov’ment camps,” he said. “I bet that fella been in a gov’ment camp. We ain’t gonna have no peace till we wipe them camps out. They’ll be wantin’ clean sheets, first thing we know.”
Mack asked, “How is it out at the main gate—hear anything?”
“Well, they was out there yellin’ all day. State police got it in hand. They’re runnin’ the hell outa them smart guys. I heard they’s a long lean son-of-a-bitch spark-pluggin’ the thing. Fella says they’ll get him tonight, an’ then she’ll go to pieces.”
“We won’t have no job if it comes too easy,” Mack said.
“We’ll have a job, all right. These goddamn Okies! You got to watch ’em all the time. Things get a little quiet, we can always stir ’em up a little.”
“Have trouble when they cut the rate here, I guess.”
“We sure will. No, you needn’ worry about us havin’ work—not while Hooper’s snubbin’ close.”
The fire roared in the Joad house. Hamburger patties splashed and hissed in the grease, and the potatoes bubbled. The house was full of smoke, and the yellow lantern light threw heavy black shadows on the walls. Ma worked quickly about the fire while Rose of Sharon sat on a box resting her heavy abdomen on her knees.
“Feelin’ better now?” Ma asked.
“Smell a cookin’ gets me. I’m hungry, too.”
“Go set in the door,” Ma said. “I got to have that box to break up anyways.”
The men trooped in. “Meat, by God!” said Tom. “And coffee. I smell her. Jesus, I’m hungry! I et a lot of peaches, but they didn’ do no good. Where can we wash, Ma?”
“Go down to the water tank. Wash down there. I jus’ sent Ruthie an’ Winfiel’ to wash.” The men went out again.
“Go on now, Rosasharn,” Ma ordered. “Either you set in the door or else on the bed. I got to break that box up.”
The girl helped herself up with her hands. She moved heavily to one of the mattresses and sat down on it. Ruthie and Winfield came in quietly, trying by silence and by keeping close to the wall to remain obscure.
Ma looked over at them. “I got a feelin’ you little fellas is lucky they ain’t much light,” she said. She pounced at Winfield and fe
lt his hair. “Well, you got wet, anyway, but I bet you ain’t clean.”
“They wasn’t no soap,” Winfield complained.
“No, that’s right. I couldn’ buy no soap. Not today. Maybe we can get soap tomorra.” She went back to the stove, laid out the plates, and began to serve the supper. Two patties apiece and a big potato. She placed three slices of bread on each plate. When the meat was all out of the frying pan she poured a little of the grease on each plate. The men came in again, their faces dripping and their hair shining with water.
“Leave me at her,” Tom cried.
They took the plates. They ate silently, wolfishly, and wiped up the grease with the bread. The children retired into the corner of the room, put their plates on the floor, and knelt in front of the food like little animals.
Tom swallowed the last of his bread. “Got any more, Ma?”
“No,” she said. “That’s all. You made a dollar, an’ that’s a dollar’s worth.”
“That?”
“They charge extry out here. We got to go in town when we can.”
“I ain’t full,” said Tom.
“Well, tomorra you’ll get in a full day. Tomorra night—we’ll have plenty.”
Al wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Guess I’ll take a look around,” he said.
“Wait, I’ll go with you.” Tom followed him outside. In the darkness Tom went close to his brother. “Sure you don’ wanta come with me?”
“No. I’m gonna look aroun’ like I said.”
“O.K.,” said Tom. He turned away and strolled down the street. The smoke from the houses hung low to the ground, and the lanterns threw their pictures of doorways and windows into the street. On the doorsteps people sat and looked out into the darkness. Tom could see their heads turn as their eyes followed him down the street. At the street end the dirt road continued across a stubble field, and the black lumps of haycocks were visible in the starlight. A thin blade of moon was low in the sky toward the west, and the long cloud of the milky way trailed clearly overhead. Tom’s feet sounded softly on the dusty road, a dark patch against the yellow stubble. He put his hands in his pockets and trudged along toward the main gate. An embankment came close to the road. Tom could hear the whisper of water against the grasses in the irrigation ditch. He climbed up the bank and looked down on the dark water, and saw the stretched reflections of the stars. The State road was ahead. Car lights swooping past showed where it was. Tom set out again toward it. He could see the high wire gate in the starlight.
A figure stirred beside the road. A voice said, “Hello—who is it?”
Tom stopped and stood still. “Who are you?”
A man stood up and walked near. Tom could see the gun in his hand. Then a flashlight played on his face. “Where you think you’re going?”
“Well, I thought I’d take a walk. Any law against it?”
“You better walk some other way.”
Tom asked, “Can’t I even get out of here?”
“Not tonight you can’t. Want to walk back, or shall I whistle some help an’ take you?”
“Hell,” said Tom, “it ain’t nothin’ to me. If it’s gonna cause a mess, I don’t give a darn. Sure, I’ll go back.”
The dark figure relaxed. The flash went off. “Ya see, it’s for your own good. Them crazy pickets might get you.”
“What pickets?”
“Them goddamn reds.”
“Oh,” said Tom. “I didn’ know ’bout them.”
“You seen ’em when you come, didn’ you?”
“Well, I seen a bunch a guys, but they was so many cops I didn’ know. Thought it was a accident.”
“Well, you better git along back.”
“That’s O.K. with me, mister.” He swung about and started back. He walked quietly along the road a hundred yards, and then he stopped and listened. The twittering call of a raccoon sounded near the irrigation ditch and, very far away, the angry howl of a tied dog. Tom sat down beside the road and listened. He heard the high soft laughter of a night hawk and the stealthy movement of a creeping animal in the stubble. He inspected the skyline in both directions, dark frames both ways, nothing to show against. Now he stood up and walked slowly to the right of the road, off into the stubble field, and he walked bent down, nearly as low as the haycocks. He moved slowly and stopped occasionally to listen. At last he came to the wire fence, five strands of taut barbed wire. Beside the fence he lay on his back, moved his head under the lowest strand, held the wire up with his hands and slid himself under, pushing against the ground with his feet.
He was about to get up when a group of men walked by on the edge of the highway. Tom waited until they were far ahead before he stood up and followed them. He watched the side of the road for tents. A few automobiles went by. A stream cut across the fields, and the highway crossed it on a small concrete bridge. Tom looked over the side of the bridge. In the bottom of the deep ravine he saw a tent and a lantern was burning inside. He watched it for a moment, saw the shadows of people against the canvas walls. Tom climbed a fence and moved down into the ravine through brush and dwarf willows; and in the bottom, beside a tiny stream, he found a trail. A man sat on a box in front of the tent.
“Evenin’,” Tom said.
“Who are you?”
“Well—I guess, well—I’m jus’ goin’ past.”
“Know anybody here?”
“No. I tell you I was jus’ goin’ past.”
A head stuck out of the tent. A voice said, “What’s the matter?”
“Casy!” Tom cried. “Casy! For Chris’ sake, what you doin’ here?”
“Why, my God, it’s Tom Joad! Come on in, Tommy. Come on in.”
“Know him, do ya?” the man in front asked.
“Know him? Christ, yes. Knowed him for years. I come west with him. Come on in, Tom.” He clutched Tom’s elbow and pulled him into the tent.
Three other men sat on the ground, and in the center of the tent a lantern burned. The men looked up suspiciously. A dark-faced, scowling man held out his hand. “Glad to meet ya,” he said. “I heard what Casy said. This the fella you was tellin’ about?”
“Sure. This is him. Well, for God’s sake! Where’s your folks? What you doin’ here?”
“Well,” said Tom, “we heard they was work this-a-way. An’ we come, an’ a bunch a State cops run us into this here ranch an’ we been a-pickin’ peaches all afternoon. I seen a bunch a fellas yellin’. They wouldn’ tell me nothin’, so I come out here to see what’s goin’ on. How’n hell’d you get here, Casy?”
The preacher leaned forward and the yellow lantern light fell on his high pale forehead. “Jail house is a kinda funny place,” he said. “Here’s me, been a-goin’ into the wilderness like Jesus to try find out somepin. Almost got her sometimes, too. But it’s in the jail house I really got her.” His eyes were sharp and merry. “Great big ol’ cell, an’ she’s full all a time. New guys come in, and guys go out. An’ ’course I talked to all of ’em.”
“’Course you did,” said Tom. “Always talk. If you was up on the gallows you’d be passin’ the time a day with the hangman. Never seen sech a talker.”
The men in the tent chuckled. A wizened little man with a wrinkled face slapped his knee. “Talks all the time,” he said. “Folks kinda likes to hear ’im, though.”
“Use’ ta be a preacher,” said Tom. “Did he tell that?”
“Sure, he told.”
Casy grinned. “Well, sir,” he went on, “I begin gettin’ at things. Some a them fellas in the tank was drunks, but mostly they was there ’cause they stole stuff; an’ mostly it was stuff they needed an’ couldn’ get no other way. Ya see?” he asked.
“No,” said Tom.
“Well, they was nice fellas, ya see. What made ’em bad was they needed stuff. An’ I begin to see, then. It’s need that makes all the trouble. I ain’t got it worked out. Well, one day they give us some beans that was sour. One fella started yellin’, an’ nothin’ happened. He ye
lled his head off. Trusty come along an’ looked in an’ went on. Then another fella yelled. Well, sir, then we all got yellin’. And we all got on the same tone, an’ I tell ya, it jus’ seemed like that tank bulged an’ give and swelled up. By God! Then somepin happened! They come a-runnin’, and they give us some other stuff to eat—give it to us. Ya see?”
“No,” said Tom.
Casy put his chin down on his hands. “Maybe I can’t tell you,” he said. “Maybe you got to find out. Where’s your cap?”
“I come out without it.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Hell, she’s big as a cow. I bet she got twins. Gonna need wheels under her stomach. Got to holdin’ it with her han’s, now. You ain’ tol’ me what’s goin’ on.”
The wizened man said, “We struck. This here’s a strike.”
“Well, fi’ cents a box ain’t much, but a fella can eat.”
“Fi’ cents?” the wizened man cried. “Fi’ cents! They payin’ you fi’ cents?”
“Sure. We made a buck an’ a half.”
A heavy silence fell in the tent. Casy stared out the entrance, into the dark night. “Lookie, Tom,” he said at last. “We come to work there. They says it’s gonna be fi’ cents. There was a hell of a lot of us. We got there an’ they says they’re payin’ two an’ a half cents. A fella can’t even eat on that, an’ if he got kids—So we says we won’t take it. So they druv us off. An’ all the cops in the worl’ come down on us. Now they’re payin’ you five. When they bust this here strike—ya think they’ll pay five?”
“I dunno,” Tom said. “Payin’ five now.”
“Lookie,” said Casy. “We tried to camp together, an’ they druv us like pigs. Scattered us. Beat the hell outa fellas. Druv us like pigs. They run you in like pigs, too. We can’t las’ much longer. Some people ain’t et for two days. You goin’ back tonight?”
“Aim to,” said Tom.
“Well—tell the folks in there how it is, Tom. Tell ’em they’re starvin’ us an’ stabbin’ theirself in the back. ’Cause sure as cowflops she’ll drop to two an’ a half jus’ as soon as they clear us out.”
“I’ll tell ’em,” said Tom. “I don’ know how. Never seen so many guys with guns. Don’ know if they’ll even let a fella talk. An’ folks don’ pass no time of day. They jus’ hang down their heads an’ won’t even give a fella a howdy.”
The Grapes of Wrath Page 51
