“I guess they bust the strike, awright,” said Tom. “I guess you’ll start at two an’ a half cents.”
“But a fella could work at a run, an’ still he couldn’ eat.”
“I know,” said Tom. “Eat win’fall peaches. That’ll keep ya up.”
Ma turned the dough and stirred the coffee. “Listen to me,” she said. “I’m gettin’ cornmeal today. We’re a-gonna eat cornmeal mush. An’ soon’s we get enough for gas, we’re movin’ away. This ain’t a good place. An’ I ain’t gonna have Tom out alone. No, sir.”
“Ya can’t do that, Ma. I tell you I’m jus’ a danger to ya.”
Her chin was set. “That’s what we’ll do. Here, come eat this here, an’ then get out to work. I’ll come out soon’s I get washed up. We got to make some money.”
They ate the fried dough so hot that it sizzled in their mouths. And they tossed the coffee down and filled their cups and drank more coffee.
Uncle John shook his head over his plate. “Don’t look like we’re a-gonna get shet of this here. I bet it’s my sin.”
“Oh, shut up!” Pa cried. “We ain’t got the time for your sin now. Come on now. Le’s get out to her. Kids, you come he’p. Ma’s right. We got to go outa here.”
When they were gone, Ma took a plate and a cup to Tom. “Better eat a little somepin.”
“I can’t, Ma. I’m so darn sore I couldn’ chew.”
“You better try.”
“No, I can’t, Ma.”
She sat down on the edge of his mattress. “You got to tell me,” she said. “I got to figger how it was. I got to keep straight. What was Casy a-doin’? Why’d they kill ’im?”
“He was jus’ standin’ there with the lights on’ ’im.”
“What’d he say? Can ya ’member what he says?”
Tom said, “Sure. Casy said, ‘You got no right to starve people.’ An’ then this heavy fella called him a red son-of-a-bitch. An’ Casy says, ‘You don’ know what you’re a-doin’.’ An’ then this guy smashed ’im.”
Ma looked down. She twisted her hands together. “Tha’s what he said—‘You don’ know what you’re doin’ ’?”
“Yeah!”
Ma said, “I wisht Granma could a heard.”
“Ma—I didn’ know what I was a-doin’, no more’n when you take a breath. I didn’ even know I was gonna do it.”
“It’s awright. I wisht you didn’ do it. I wisht you wasn’ there. But you done what you had to do. I can’t read no fault on you.” She went to the stove and dipped a cloth in the heating dishwater. “Here,” she said. “Put that there on your face.”
He laid the warm cloth over his nose and cheek, and winced at the heat. “Ma, I’m a-gonna go away tonight. I can’t go puttin’ this on you folks.”
Ma said angrily, “Tom! They’s a whole lot I don’ un’erstan’. But goin’ away ain’t gonna ease us. It’s gonna bear us down.” And she went on, “They was the time when we was on the lan’. They was a boundary to us then. Ol’ folks died off, an’ little fellas come, an’ we was always one thing—we was the fambly—kinda whole and clear. An’ now we ain’t clear no more. I can’t get straight. They ain’t nothin’ keeps us clear. Al—he’s a-hankerin’ an’ a-jibbitin’ to go off on his own. An’ Uncle John is jus’ a-draggin’ along. Pa’s lost his place. He ain’t the head no more. We’re crackin’ up, Tom. There ain’t no fambly now. An’ Rosasharn—” She looked around and found the girl’s wide eyes. “She gonna have her baby an’ they won’t be no fambly. I don’ know. I been a-tryin’ to keep her goin’. Winfiel’—what’s he gonna be, this-a-way? Gettin’ wild, an’ Ruthie too—like animals. Got nothin’ to trus’. Don’ go, Tom. Stay an’ help.”
“O.K.,” he said tiredly. “O.K. I shouldn’, though. I know it.”
Ma went to her dishpan and washed the tin plates and dried them. “You didn’ sleep.”
“No.”
“Well, you sleep. I seen your clothes was wet. I’ll hang ’em by the stove to dry.” She finished her work. “I’m goin’ now. I’ll pick. Rosasharn, if anybody comes, Tom’s sick, you hear? Don’ let nobody in. You hear?” Rose of Sharon nodded. “We’ll come back at noon. Get some sleep, Tom. Maybe we can get outa here tonight.” She moved swiftly to him. “Tom, you ain’t gonna slip out?”
“No, Ma.”
“You sure? You won’t go?”
“No, Ma. I’ll be here.”
“Awright. ’Member, Rosasharn.” She went out and closed the door firmly behind her.
Tom lay still—and then a wave of sleep lifted him to the edge of unconsciousness and dropped him slowly back and lifted him again.
“You—Tom!”
“Huh? Yeah!” He started awake. He looked over at Rose of Sharon. Her eyes were blazing with resentment. “What you want?”
“You killed a fella!”
“Yeah. Not so loud! You wanta rouse somebody?”
“What da I care?” she cried. “That lady tol’ me. She says what sin’s gonna do. She tol’ me. What chance I got to have a nice baby? Connie’s gone, an’ I ain’t gettin’ good food. I ain’t gettin’ milk.” Her voice rose hysterically. “An’ now you kill a fella. What chance that baby got to get bore right? I know—gonna be a freak—a freak! I never done no dancin’.”
Tom got up. “Sh!” he said. “You’re gonna get folks in here.”
“I don’ care. I’ll have a freak! I didn’ dance no hug-dance.”
He went near to her. “Be quiet.”
“You get away from me. It ain’t the first fella you killed, neither.” Her face was growing red with hysteria. Her words blurred. “I don’ wanta look at you.” She covered her head with her blanket.
Tom heard the choked, smothered cries. He bit his lower lip and studied the floor. And then he went to Pa’s bed. Under the edge of the mattress the rifle lay, a lever-action Winchester .38, long and heavy. Tom picked it up and dropped the lever to see that a cartridge was in the chamber. He tested the hammer on half-cock. And then he went back to his mattress. He laid the rifle on the floor beside him, stock up and barrel pointing down. Rose of Sharon’s voice thinned to a whimper. Tom lay down again and covered himself, covered his bruised cheek with the blanket and made a little tunnel to breathe through. He sighed, “Jesus, oh, Jesus!”
Outside, a group of cars went by, and voices sounded.
“How many men?”
“Jes’ us—three. Whatcha payin’?”
“You go to house twenty-five. Number’s right on the door.”
“O.K., mister. Whatcha payin’?”
“Two and a half cents.”
“Why, goddamn it, a man can’t make his dinner!”
“That’s what we’re payin’. There’s two hundred men coming from the South that’ll be glad to get it.”
“But, Jesus, mister!”
“Go on now. Either take it or go on along. I got no time to argue.”
“But——”
“Look. I didn’ set the price. I’m just checking you in. If you want it, take it. If you don’t, turn right around and go along.”
“Twenty-five, you say?”
“Yes, twenty-five.”
Tom dozed on his mattress. A stealthy sound in the room awakened him. His hand crept to the rifle and tightened on the grip. He drew back the covers from his face. Rose of Sharon was standing beside his mattress.
“What you want?” Tom demanded.
“You sleep,” she said. “You jus’ sleep off. I’ll watch the door. They won’t nobody get in.”
He studied her face for a moment. “O.K.,” he said, and he covered his face with the blanket again.
In the beginning dusk Ma came back to the house. She paused on the doorstep and knocked and said, “It’s me,” so that Tom would not be worried. She opened the door and entered, carrying a bag. Tom awakened and sat up on his mattress. His wound had dried and tightened so that the unbroken skin was shiny. His left eye was drawn nearly shut. “Anybody come while we was gone?
” Ma asked.
“No,” he said. “Nobody. I see they dropped the price.”
“How’d you know?”
“I heard folks talkin’ outside.”
Rose of Sharon looked dully up at Ma.
Tom pointed at her with his thumb. “She raised hell, Ma. Thinks all the trouble is aimed right smack at her. If I’m gonna get her upset like that I oughta go ’long.”
Ma turned on Rose of Sharon. “What you doin’?”
The girl said resentfully, “How’m I gonna have a nice baby with stuff like this?”
Ma said, “Hush! You hush now. I know how you’re a-feelin’, an’ I know you can’t he’p it, but you jus’ keep your mouth shut.”
She turned back to Tom. “Don’t pay her no mind, Tom. It’s awful hard, an’ I ’member how it is. Ever’thing is a-shootin’ right at you when you’re gonna have a baby, an’ ever’thing anybody says is a insult, an’ ever’thing’s against you. Don’t pay no mind. She can’t he’p it. It’s jus’ the way she feels.”
“I don’ wanta hurt her.”
“Hush! Jus’ don’ talk.” She set her bag down on the cold stove. “Didn’ hardly make nothin’,” she said. “I tol’ you, we’re gonna get outa here. Tom, try an’ wrassle me some wood. No—you can’t. Here, we got on’y this one box lef’. Break it up. I tol’ the other fellas to pick up some sticks on the way back. Gonna have mush an’ a little sugar on.”
Tom got up and stamped the last box to small pieces. Ma carefully built her fire in one end of the stove, conserving the flame under one stove hole. She filled a kettle with water and put it over the flame. The kettle rattled over the direct fire, rattled and wheezed.
“How was it pickin’ today?” Tom asked.
Ma dipped a cup into her bag of cornmeal. “I don’ wanta talk about it. I was thinkin’ today how they use’ to be jokes. I don’ like it, Tom. We don’t joke no more. When they’s a joke, it’s a mean bitter joke, an’ they ain’t no fun in it. Fella says today, ‘Depression is over. I seen a jackrabbit, an’ they wasn’t nobody after him.’ An’ another fella says, ‘That ain’t the reason. Can’t afford to kill jackrabbits no more. Catch ’em and milk ’em an’ turn ’em loose. One you seen prob’ly gone dry.’ That’s how I mean. Ain’t really funny, not funny like that time Uncle John converted an Injun an’ brang him home, an’ that Injun et his way clean to the bottom of the bean bin, an’ then backslid with Uncle John’s whisky. Tom, put a rag with col’ water on your face.”
The dusk deepened. Ma lighted the lantern and hung it on a nail. She fed the fire and poured cornmeal gradually into the hot water. “Rosasharn.” she said, “can you stir the mush?”
Outside there was a patter of running feet. The door burst open and banged against the wall. Ruthie rushed in. “Ma!” she cried. “Ma. Winfiel’ got a fit!”
“Where? Tell me!”
Ruthie panted, “Got white an’ fell down. Et so many peaches he skittered hisself all day. Jus’ fell down. White!”
“Take me!” Ma demanded. “Rosasharn, you watch that mush.”
She went out with Ruthie. She ran heavily up the street behind the little girl. Three men walked toward her in the dusk, and the center man carried Winfield in his arms. Ma ran up to them. “He’s mine,” she cried. “Give ’im to me.”
“I’ll carry ’im for you, ma’am.”
“No, here, give ’im to me.” She hoisted the little boy and turned back; and then she remembered herself. “I sure thank ya,” she said to the men.
“Welcome, ma’am. The little fella’s purty weak. Looks like he got worms.”
Ma hurried back, and Winfield was limp and relaxed in her arms. Ma carried him into the house and knelt down and laid him on a mattress. “Tell me. What’s the matter?” she demanded. He opened his eyes dizzily and shook his head and closed his eyes again.
Ruthie said, “I tol’ ya, Ma. He skittered all day. Ever’ little while. Et too many peaches.”
Ma felt his head. “He ain’t fevered. But he’s white and drawed out.”
Tom came near and held the lantern down. “I know,” he said. “He’s hungered. Got no strength. Get him a can a milk an’ make him drink it. Make ’im take milk on his mush.”
“Winfiel’,” Ma said. “Tell how ya feel.”
“Dizzy,” said Winfield, “jus’ a-whirlin’ dizzy.”
“You never seen sech skitters,” Ruthie said importantly.
Pa and Uncle John and Al came into the house. Their arms were full of sticks and bits of brush. They dropped their loads by the stove. “Now what?” Pa demanded.
“It’s Winfiel’. He needs some milk.”
“Christ Awmighty! We all need stuff!”
Ma said, “How much’d we make today?”
“Dollar forty-two.”
“Well, you go right over’n get a can a milk for Winfiel’.”
“Now why’d he have to get sick?”
“I don’t know why, but he is. Now you git!” Pa went grumbling out the door. “You stirrin’ that mush?”
“Yeah.” Rose of Sharon speeded up the stirring to prove it.
Al complained, “God Awmighty, Ma! Is mush all we get after workin’ till dark?”
“Al, you know we got to git. Take all we got for gas. You know.”
“But, God Awmighty, Ma! A fella needs meat if he’s gonna work.”
“Jus’ you sit quiet,” she said. “We got to take the bigges’ thing an’ whup it fust. An’ you know what that thing is.”
Tom asked, “Is it about me?”
“We’ll talk when we’ve et,” said Ma. “Al, we got enough gas to go a ways, ain’t we?”
“’Bout a quarter tank,” said Al.
“I wisht you’d tell me,” Tom said.
“After. Jus’ wait.”
“Keep a-stirrin’ that mush, you. Here, lemme put on some coffee. You can have sugar on your mush or in your coffee. They ain’t enough for both.”
Pa came back with one tall can of milk. “’Leven cents,” he said disgustedly.
“Here!” Ma took the can and stabbed it open. She let the thick stream out into a cup, and handed it to Tom. “Give that to Winfiel’.”
Tom knelt beside the mattress. “Here, drink this.”
“I can’t. I’d sick it all up. Leave me be.”
Tom stood up. “He can’t take it now, Ma. Wait a little.”
Ma took the cup and set it on the window ledge. “Don’t none of you touch that,” she warned. “That’s for Winfiel’.”
“I ain’t had no milk,” Rose of Sharon said sullenly. “I oughta have some.”
“I know, but you’re still on your feet. This here little fella’s down. Is that mush good an’ thick?”
“Yeah. Can’t hardly stir it no more.”
“Awright, le’s eat. Now here’s the sugar. They’s about one spoon each. Have it on ya mush or in ya coffee.”
Tom said, “I kinda like salt an’ pepper on mush.”
“Salt her if you like,” Ma said. “The pepper’s out.”
The boxes were all gone. The family sat on the mattresses to eat their mush. They served themselves again and again, until the pot was nearly empty. “Save some for Winfiel’,” Ma said.
Winfield sat up and drank his milk, and instantly he was ravenous. He put the mush pot between his legs and ate what was left and scraped at the crust on the sides. Ma poured the rest of the canned milk in a cup and sneaked it to Rose of Sharon to drink secretly in a corner. She poured the hot black coffee into the cups and passed them around.
“Now will you tell what’s goin’ on?” Tom asked. “I wanta hear.”
Pa said uneasily, “I wisht Ruthie an’ Winfiel’ didn’ hafta hear. Can’t they go outside?”
Ma said, “No. They got to act growed up, even if they ain’t. They’s no help for it. Ruthie—you an’ Winfiel’ ain’t ever to say what you hear, else you’ll jus’ break us to pieces.”
“We won’t,” Ruthie said. “We’re growed u
p.”
“Well, jus’ be quiet, then.” The cups of coffee were on the floor. The short thick flame of the lantern, like a stubby butterfly’s wing, cast a yellow gloom on the walls.
“Now tell,” said Tom.
Ma said, “Pa, you tell.”
Uncle John slupped his coffee. Pa said, “Well, they dropped the price like you said. An’ they was a whole slew a new pickers so goddamn hungry they’d pick for a loaf a bread. Go for a peach, an’ somebody’d get it first. Gonna get the whole crop picked right off. Fellas runnin’ to a new tree. I seen fights—one fella claims it’s his tree, ’nother fella wants to pick off ’n it. Brang these here folks from as far’s El Centro. Hungrier’n hell. Work all day for a piece a bread. I says to the checker, ‘We can’t work for two an’ a half cents a box,’ an’ he says, ‘Go on, then, quit. These fellas can.’ I says, ‘Soon’s they get fed up they won’t.’ An’ he says, ‘Hell, we’ll have these here peaches in ’fore they get fed up.”’ Pa stopped.
“She was a devil,” said Uncle John. “They say they’s two hunderd more men comin’ in tonight.”
Tom said, “Yeah! But how about the other?”
Pa was silent for a while. “Tom,” he said, “looks like you done it.”
“I kinda thought so. Couldn’ see. Felt like it.”
“Seems like the people ain’t talkin’ ’bout much else,” said Uncle John. “They got posses out, an’ they’s fellas talkin’ up a lynchin’—’course when they catch the fella.”
Tom looked over at the wide-eyed children. They seldom blinked their eyes. It was as though they were afraid something might happen in the split second of darkness. Tom said, “Well—this fella that done it, he on’y done it after they killed Casy.”
Pa interrupted, “That ain’t the way they’re tellin’ it now. They’re sayin’ he done it fust.”
Tom’s breath sighed out, “Ah-h!”
“They’re workin’ up a feelin’ against us folks. That’s what I heard. All them drum-corpse fellas an’ lodges an’ all that. Say they’re gonna get this here fella.”
“They know what he looks like?” Tom asked.
The Grapes of Wrath Page 53
