The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  “Try an’ tell ’em, Tom. They’ll get two an’ a half, jus’ the minute we’re gone. You know what two an’ a half is—that’s one ton of peaches picked an’ carried for a dollar.” He dropped his head. “No—you can’t do it. You can’t get your food for that. Can’t eat for that.”

  “I’ll try to get to tell the folks.”

  “How’s your ma?”

  “Purty good. She liked that gov’ment camp. Baths an’ hot water.”

  “Yeah—I heard.”

  “It was pretty nice there. Couldn’find no work, though. Had a leave.”

  “I’d like to go to one,” said Casy. “Like to see it. Fella says they ain’t no cops.”

  “Folks is their own cops.”

  Casy looked up excitedly. “An’ was they any trouble? Fightin’, stealin’, drinkin’?”

  “No,” said Tom.

  “Well, if a fella went bad—what then? What’d they do?”

  “Put ’im outa the camp.”

  “But they wasn’ many?”

  “Hell, no,” said Tom. “We was there a month, an’ on’y one.”

  Casy’s eyes shone with excitement. He turned to the other men. “Ya see?” he cried. “I tol’ you. Cops cause more trouble than they stop. Look, Tom. Try an’ get the folks in there to come on out. They can do it in a couple days. Them peaches is ripe. Tell ’em.”

  “They won’t,” said Tom. “They’re a-gettin’ five, an’ they don’ give a damn about nothin’ else.”

  “But jus’ the minute they ain’t strikebreakin’ they won’t get no five.”

  “I don’ think they’ll swalla that. Five they’re a-gettin’. Tha’s all they care about.”

  “Well, tell ’em anyways.”

  “Pa wouldn’ do it,” Tom said. “I know ’im. He’d say it wasn’t none of his business.”

  “Yes,” Casy said disconsolately. “I guess that’s right. Have to take a beatin’ ’fore he’ll know.”

  “We was outa food,” Tom said. “Tonight we had meat. Not much, but we had it. Think Pa’s gonna give up his meat on account a other fellas? An’ Rosasharn oughta get milk. Think Ma’s gonna wanta starve that baby jus’ ’cause a bunch a fellas is yellin’ outside a gate?”

  Casy said sadly, “I wisht they could see it. I wisht they could see the on’y way they can depen’ on their meat—Oh, the hell! Get tar’d sometimes. God-awful tar’d. I knowed a fella. Brang ’im in while I was in the jail house. Been tryin’ to start a union. Got one started. An’ then them vigilantes bust it up. An’ know what? Them very folks he been tryin’ to help tossed him out. Wouldn’ have nothin’ to do with ’im. Scared they’d get saw in his comp’ny. Says, ‘Git out. You’re a danger on us.’ Well, sir, it hurt his feelin’s purty bad. But then he says, ‘It ain’t so bad if you know.’ He says, ‘French Revolution—all them fellas that figgered her out got their heads chopped off. Always that way,’ he says. ‘Jus’ as natural as rain. You didn’ do it for fun no way. Doin’ it ’cause you have to. ’Cause it’s you. Look a Washington,’ he says. ‘Fit the Revolution, an’ after, them sons-a-bitches turned on him. An’ Lincoln the same. Same folks yellin’ to kill ’em. Natural as rain.”’

  “Don’t soun’ like no fun,” said Tom.

  “No, it don’t. This fella in jail, he says, ‘Anyways, you do what you can. An’,’ he says, ‘the on’y thing you got to look at is that ever’ time they’s a little step fo’ward, she may slip back a little, but she never slips clear back. You can prove that,’ he says, ‘an’ that makes the whole thing right. An’ that means they wasn’t no waste even if it seemed like they was.”’

  “Talkin’,” said Tom. “Always talkin’. Take my brother Al. He’s out lookin’ for a girl. He don’t care ’bout nothin’ else. Couple days he’ll get him a girl. Think about it all day an’ do it all night. He don’t give a damn ’bout steps up or down or sideways.”

  “Sure,” said Casy. “Sure. He’s jus’ doin’ what he’s got to do. All of us like that.”

  The man seated outside pulled the tent flap wide. “Goddamn it, I don’ like it,” he said.

  Casy looked out at him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’ know. I jus’ itch all over. Nervous as a cat.”

  “Well, what’s the matter?”

  “I don’ know. Seems like I hear somepin, an’ then I listen an’ they ain’t nothin’ to hear.”

  “You’re jus’ jumpy,” the wizened man said. He got up and went outside. And in a second he looked into the tent. “They’s a great big ol’ black cloud a-sailin’ over. Bet she’s got thunder. That’s what’s itchin’ him —’lectricity.” He ducked out again. The other two men stood up from the ground and went outside.

  Casy said softly, “All of ’em’s itchy. Them cops been sayin’ how they’re gonna beat the hell outa us an’ run us outa the county. They figger I’m a leader ’cause I talk so much.”

  The wizened face looked in again. “Casy, turn out that lantern an’ come outside. They’s somepin.”

  Casy turned the screw. The flame drew down into the slots and popped and went out. Casy groped outside and Tom followed him. “What is it?” Casy asked softly.

  “I dunno. Listen!”

  There was a wall of frog sounds that merged with silence. A high, shrill whistle of crickets. But through this background came other sounds—faint footsteps from the road, a crunch of clods up on the bank, a little swish of brush down the stream.

  “Can’t really tell if you hear it. Fools you. Get nervous,” Casy reassured them. “We’re all nervous. Can’t really tell. You hear it, Tom?”

  “I hear it,” said Tom. “Yeah, I hear it. I think they’s guys comin’ from ever’ which way. We better get outa here.”

  The wizened man whispered, “Under the bridge span—out that way. Hate to leave my tent.”

  “Le’s go,” said Casy.

  They moved quietly along the edge of the stream. The black span was a cave before them. Casy bent over and moved through. Tom behind. Their feet slipped into the water. Thirty feet they moved, and their breathing echoed from the curved ceiling. Then they came out on the other side and straightened up.

  A sharp call, “There they are!” Two flashlight beams fell on the men, caught them, blinded them. “Stand where you are.” The voices came out of the darkness. “That’s him. That shiny bastard. That’s him.”

  Casy stared blindly at the light. He breathed heavily. “Listen,” he said. “You fellas don’ know what you’re doin’. You’re helpin’ to starve kids.”

  “Shut up, you red son-of-a-bitch.”

  A short heavy man stepped into the light. He carried a new white pick handle.

  Casy went on, “You don’ know what you’re a-doin’.”

  The heavy man swung with the pick handle. Casy dodged down into the swing. The heavy club crashed into the side of his head with a dull crunch of bone, and Casy fell sideways out of the light.

  “Jesus, George. I think you killed him.”

  “Put the light on him,” said George. “Serve the son-of-a-bitch right.” The flashlight beam dropped, searched and found Casy’s crushed head.

  Tom looked down at the preacher. The light crossed the heavy man’s legs and the white new pick handle. Tom leaped silently. He wrenched the club free. The first time he knew he had missed and struck a shoulder, but the second time his crushing blow found the head, and as the heavy man sank down, three more blows found his head. The lights danced about. There were shouts, the sound of running feet, crashing through brush. Tom stood over the prostrate man. And then a club reached his head, a glancing blow. He felt the stroke like an electric shock. And then he was running along the stream, bending low. He heard the splash of footsteps following him. Suddenly he turned and squirmed up into the brush, deep into a poison-oak thicket. And he lay still. The footsteps came near, the light beams glanced along the stream bottom. Tom wriggled up through the thicket to the top. He emerged in an orchard. And still he could hear the
calls, the pursuit in the stream bottom. He bent low and ran over the cultivated earth; the clods slipped and rolled under his feet. Ahead he saw the bushes that bounded the field, bushes along the edges of an irrigation ditch. He slipped through the fence, edged in among vines and blackberry bushes. And then he lay still, panting hoarsely. He felt his numb face and nose. The nose was crushed, and a trickle of blood dripped from his chin. He lay still on his stomach until his mind came back. And then he crawled slowly over the edge of the ditch. He bathed his face in the cool water, tore off the tail of his blue shirt and dipped it and held it against his torn cheek and nose. The water stung and burned.

  The black cloud had crossed the sky, a blob of dark against the stars. The night was quiet again.

  Tom stepped into the water and felt the bottom drop from under his feet. He threshed the two strokes across the ditch and pulled himself heavily up the other bank. His clothes clung to him. He moved and made a slopping noise; his shoes squished. Then he sat down, took off his shoes and emptied them. He wrung the bottoms of his trousers, took off his coat and squeezed the water from it.

  Along the highway he saw the dancing beams of the flashlights, searching the ditches. Tom put on his shoes and moved cautiously across the stubble field. The squishing noise no longer came from his shoes. He went by instinct toward the other side of the stubble field, and at last he came to the road. Very cautiously he approached the square of houses.

  Once a guard, thinking he heard a noise, called, “Who’s there?”

  Tom dropped and froze to the ground, and the flashlight beam passed over him. He crept silently to the door of the Joad house. The door squalled on its hinges. And Ma’s voice, calm and steady and wide awake:

  “What’s that?”

  “Me. Tom.”

  “Well, you better get some sleep. Al ain’t in yet.”

  “He must a foun’ a girl.”

  “Go on to sleep,” she said softly. “Over under the window.”

  He found his place and took off his clothes to the skin. He lay shivering under his blanket. And his torn face awakened from its numbness, and his whole head throbbed.

  It was an hour more before Al came in. He moved cautiously near and stepped on Tom’s wet clothes.

  “Sh!” said Tom.

  Al whispered, “You awake? How’d you get wet?”

  “Sh,” said Tom. “Tell you in the mornin’.”

  Pa turned on his back, and his snoring filled the room with gasps and snorts.

  “You’re col’,” Al said.

  “Sh. Go to sleep.” The little square of the window showed gray against the black of the room.

  Tom did not sleep. The nerves of his wounded face came back to life and throbbed, and his cheek bone ached, and his broken nose bulged and pulsed with pain that seemed to toss him about, to shake him. He watched the little square window, saw the stars slide down over it and drop from sight. At intervals he heard the footsteps of the watchmen.

  At last the roosters crowed, far away, and gradually the window lightened. Tom touched his swollen face with his fingertips, and at his movement Al groaned and murmured in his sleep.

  The dawn came finally. In the houses, packed together, there was a sound of movement, a crash of breaking sticks, a little clatter of pans. In the graying gloom Ma sat up suddenly. Tom could see her face, swollen with sleep. She looked at the window, for a long moment. And then she threw the blanket off and found her dress. Still sitting down, she put it over her head and held her arms up and let the dress slide down to her waist. She stood up and pulled the dress down around her ankles. Then, in bare feet, she stepped carefully to the window and looked out, and while she stared at the growing light, her quick fingers unbraided her hair and smoothed the strands and braided them up again. Then she clasped her hands in front of her and stood motionless for a moment. Her face was lighted sharply by the window. She turned, stepped carefully among the mattresses, and found the lantern. The shade screeched up, and she lighted the wick.

  Pa rolled over and blinked at her. She said, “Pa, you got more money?”

  “Huh? Yeah. Paper wrote for sixty cents.”

  “Well, git up an’ go buy some flour an’ lard. Quick, now.”

  Pa yawned. “Maybe the store ain’t open.”

  “Make ’em open it. Got to get somepin in you fellas. You got to get out to work.”

  Pa struggled into his overalls and put on his rusty coat. He went sluggishly out the door, yawning and stretching.

  The children awakened and watched from under their blanket, like mice. Pale light filled the room now, but colorless light, before the sun. Ma glanced at the mattresses. Uncle John was awake, Al slept heavily. Her eyes moved to Tom. For a moment she peered at him, and then she moved quickly to him. His face was puffed and blue, and the blood was dried black on his lips and chin. The edges of the torn cheek were gathered and tight.

  “Tom,” she whispered, “what’s the matter?”

  “Sh!” he said. “Don’t talk loud. I got in a fight.”

  “Tom!”

  “I couldn’ help it, Ma.”

  She knelt down beside him. “You in trouble?”

  He was a long time answering. “Yeah,” he said. “In trouble. I can’t go out to work. I got to hide.”

  The children crawled near on their hands and knees, staring greedily. “What’s the matter’th him, Ma?”

  “Hush!” Ma said. “Go wash up.”

  “We got no soap.”

  “Well, use water.”

  “What’s the matter’th Tom?”

  “Now you hush. An’ don’t you tell nobody.”

  They backed away and squatted down against the far wall, knowing they would not be inspected.

  Ma asked, “Is it bad?”

  “Nose busted.”

  “I mean the trouble?”

  “Yeah. Bad!”

  Al opened his eyes and looked at Tom. “Well, for Chris’ sake! What was you in?”

  “What’s a matter?” Uncle John asked.

  Pa clumped in. “They was open all right.” He put a tiny bag of flour and his package of lard on the floor beside the stove. “’S’a matter?” he asked.

  Tom braced himself on one elbow for a moment, and then he lay back. “Jesus, I’m weak. I’m gonna tell ya once. So I’ll tell all of ya. How ’bout the kids?”

  Ma looked at them, huddled against the wall. “Go wash ya face.”

  “No,” Tom said. “They got to hear. They got to know. They might blab if they don’ know.”

  “What the hell is this?” Pa demanded.

  “I’m a-gonna tell. Las’ night I went out to see what all the yellin’ was about. An’ I come on Casy.”

  “The preacher?”

  “Yeah, Pa. The preacher, on’y he was a-leadin’ the strike. They come for him.”

  Pa demanded, “Who come for him?”

  “I dunno. Same kinda guys that turned us back on the road that night. Had pick handles.” He paused. “They killed ’im. Busted his head. I was standin’ there. I went nuts. Grabbed the pick handle.” He looked bleakly back at the night, the darkness, the flashlights, as he spoke. “I—I clubbed a guy.”

  Ma’s breath caught in her throat. Pa stiffened. “Kill ’im?” he asked softly.

  “I—don’t know. I was nuts. Tried to.”

  Ma asked, “Was you saw?”

  “I dunno. I dunno. I guess so. They had the lights on us.”

  For a moment Ma stared into his eyes. “Pa,” she said, “break up some boxes. We got to get breakfas’. You got to go to work. Ruthie, Winfiel’. If anybody asts you—Tom is sick—you hear? If you tell—he’ll—get sent to jail. You hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Keep your eye on ’em, John. Don’ let ’em talk to nobody.” She built the fire as Pa broke the boxes that had held the goods. She made her dough, put a pot of coffee to boil. The light wood caught and roared its flame in the chimney.

  Pa finished breaking the boxes. H
e came near to Tom. “Casy—he was a good man. What’d he wanta mess with that stuff for?”

  Tom said dully, “They come to work for fi’ cents a box.”

  “That’s what we’re a-gettin’.”

  “Yeah. What we was a-doin’ was breakin’ strike. They give them fellas two an’ a half cents.”

  “You can’t eat on that.”

  “I know,” Tom said wearily. “That’s why they struck. Well, I think they bust that strike las’ night. We’ll maybe be gettin’ two an’ a half cents today.”

  “Why, the sons-a-bitches——”

  “Yeah! Pa. You see? Casy was still a—good man. Goddamn it, I can’t get that pitcher outa my head. Him layin’ there—head jus’ crushed flat an’ oozin’. Jesus!” He covered his eyes with his hand.

  “Well, what we gonna do?” Uncle John asked.

  Al was standing up now. “Well, by God, I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get out of it.”

  “No, you ain’t, Al,” Tom said. “We need you now. I’m the one. I’ma danger now. Soon’s I get on my feet I got to go.”

  Ma worked at the stove. Her head was half turned to hear. She put grease in the frying pan, and when it whispered with heat, she spooned the dough into it.

  Tom went on, “You got to stay, Al. You got to take care a the truck.”

  “Well, I don’ like it.”

  “Can’t help it, Al. It’s your folks. You can help ’em. I’m a danger to ’em.”

  Al grumbled angrily. “I don’ know why I ain’t let to get me a job in a garage.”

  “Later, maybe.” Tom looked past him, and he saw Rose of Sharon lying on the mattress. Her eyes were huge—opened wide. “Don’t worry,” he called to her. “Don’t you worry. Gonna get you some milk today.” She blinked slowly, and didn’t answer him.

  Pa said, “We got to know, Tom. Think ya killed this fella?”

  “I don’ know. It was dark. An’ somebody smacked me. I don’ know. I hope so. I hope I killed the bastard.”

  “Tom!” Ma called. “Don’ talk like that.”

  From the street came the sound of many cars moving slowly. Pa stepped to the window and looked out. “They’s a whole slew a new people comin’ in,” he said.