“Well—not exactly—but the way I heard it, they think he got hit. They think—he’ll have——”
Tom put his hand up slowly and touched his bruised cheek.
Ma cried, “It ain’t so, what they say!”
“Easy, Ma,” Tom said. “They got it cold. Anything them drum-corpse fellas say is right if it’s against us.”
Ma peered through the ill light, and she watched Tom’s face, and particularly his lips. “You promised,” she said.
“Ma, I—maybe this fella oughta go away. If—this fella done somepin wrong, maybe he’d think, ‘O.K. Le’s get the hangin’ over. I done wrong an’ I got to take it.’ But this fella didn’ do nothin’ wrong. He don’ feel no worse’n if he killed a skunk.”
Ruthie broke in, “Ma, me an’ Winfiel’ knows. He don’ have to go this-fella’in’ for us.”
Tom chuckled. “Well, this fella don’ want no hangin’, ’cause he’d do it again. An’ same time, he don’t aim to bring trouble down on his folks. Ma—I got to go.”
Ma covered her mouth with her fingers and coughed to clear her throat. “You can’t,” she said. “They wouldn’ be no way to hide out. You couldn’ trus’ nobody. But you can trus’ us. We can hide you, an’ we can see you get to eat while your face gets well.”
“But, Ma——”
She got to her feet. “You ain’t goin’. We’re a-takin’ you. Al, you back the truck against the door. Now, I got it figgered out. We’ll put one mattress on the bottom, an’ then Tom gets quick there, an’ we take another mattress an’ sort of fold it so it makes a cave, an’ he’s in the cave; and then we sort of wall it in. He can breathe out the end, ya see. Don’t argue. That’s what we’ll do.”
Pa complained, “Seems like the man ain’t got no say no more. She’s jus’ a heller. Come time we get settled down, I’m a-gonna smack her.”
“Come that time, you can,” said Ma. “Roust up, Al. It’s dark enough.”
Al went outside to the truck. He studied the matter and backed up near the steps.
Ma said, “Quick now. Git that mattress in!”
Pa and Uncle John flung it over the end gate. “Now that one.” They tossed the second mattress up. “Now—Tom, you jump up there an’ git under. Hurry up.”
Tom climbed quickly, and dropped. He straightened one mattress and pulled the second on top of him. Pa bent it upwards, stood it sides up, so that the arch covered Tom. He could see out between the side-boards of the truck. Pa and Al and Uncle John loaded quickly, piled the blankets on top of Tom’s cave, stood the buckets against the sides, spread the last mattress behind. Pots and pans, extra clothes, went in loose, for their boxes had been burned. They were nearly finished loading when a guard moved near, carrying his shotgun across his crooked arm.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he asked.
“We’re goin’ out,” said Pa.
“What for?”
“Well—we got a job offered—good job.”
“Yeah? Where’s it at?”
“Why—down by Weedpatch.”
“Let’s have a look at you.” He turned a flashlight in Pa’s face, in Uncle John’s, and in Al’s. “Wasn’t there another fella with you?”
Al said, “You mean that hitch-hiker? Little short fella with a pale face?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s what he looked like.”
“We jus’ picked him up on the way in. He went away this mornin’ when the rate dropped.”
“What did he look like again?”
“Short fella. Pale face.”
“Was he bruised up this mornin’?”
“I didn’ see nothin’,” said Al. “Is the gas pump open?”
“Yeah, till eight.”
“Git in,” Al cried. “If we’re gonna get to Weedpatch ’fore mornin’ we gotta ram on. Gettin’ in front, Ma?”
“No, I’ll set in back,” she said. “Pa, you set back here too. Let Rosasharn set in front with Al an’ Uncle John.”
“Give me the work slip, Pa,” said Al. “I’ll get gas an’ change if I can.”
The guard watched them pull along the street and turn left to the gasoline pumps.
“Put in two,” said Al.
“You ain’t goin’ far.”
“No, not far. Can I get change on this here work slip?”
“Well—I ain’t supposed to.”
“Look, mister,” Al said. “We got a good job offered if we get there tonight. If we don’t, we miss out. Be a good fella.”
“Well, O.K. You sign her over to me.”
Al got out and walked around the nose of the Hudson. “Sure I will,” he said. He unscrewed the water cap and filled the radiator.
“Two, you say?”
“Yeah, two.”
“Which way you goin’?”
“South. We got a job.”
“Yeah? Jobs is scarce—reg’lar jobs.”
“We got a frien’,” Al said. “Job’s all waitin’ for us. Well, so long.” The truck swung around and bumped over the dirt street into the road. The feeble headlight jiggled over the way, and the right headlight blinked on and off from a bad connection. At every jolt the loose pots and pans in the truck-bed jangled and crashed.
Rose of Sharon moaned softly.
“Feel bad?” Uncle John asked.
“Yeah! Feel bad all a time. Wisht I could set still in a nice place. Wisht we was home an’ never come. Connie wouldn’ a went away if we was home. He would a studied up an’ got someplace.” Neither Al nor Uncle John answered her. They were embarrassed about Connie.
At the white painted gate to the ranch a guard came to the side of the truck. “Goin’ out for good?”
“Yeah,” said Al. “Goin’ north. Got a job.”
The guard turned his flashlight on the truck, turned it up into the tent. Ma and Pa looked stonily down into the glare. “O.K.” The guard swung the gate open. The truck turned left and moved toward 101, the great north-south highway.
“Know where we’re a-goin’?” Uncle John asked.
“No,” said Al. “Jus’ goin’, an’ gettin’ goddamn sick of it.”
“I ain’t so tur’ble far from my time,” Rose of Sharon said threateningly. “They better be a nice place for me.”
The night air was cold with the first sting of frost. Beside the road the leaves were beginning to drop from the fruit trees. On the load, Ma sat with her back against the truck side, and Pa sat opposite, facing her.
Ma called, “You all right, Tom?”
His muffled voice came back, “Kinda tight in here. We all through the ranch?”
“You be careful,” said Ma. “Might git stopped.”
Tom lifted up one side of his cave. In the dimness of the truck the pots jangled. “I can pull her down quick,” he said. “’Sides, I don’ like gettin’ trapped in here.” He rested up on his elbow. “By God, she’s gettin’ cold, ain’t she?”
“They’s clouds up,” said Pa. “Fellas says it’s gonna be an early winter.”
“Squirrels a-buildin’ high, or grass seeds?” Tom asked. “By God, you can tell weather from anythin’. I bet you could find a fella could tell weather from a old pair of underdrawers.”
“I dunno,” Pa said. “Seems like it’s gittin’ on winter to me. Fella’d have to live here a long time to know.”
“Which way we a-goin’?” Tom asked.
“I dunno. Al, he turned off lef’. Seems like he’s goin’ back the way we come.”
Tom said, “I can’t figger what’s best. Seems like if we get on the main highway they’ll be more cops. With my face this-a-way, they’d pick me right up. Maybe we oughta keep to back roads.”
Ma said, “Hammer on the back. Get Al to stop.”
Tom pounded the front board with his fist; the truck pulled to a stop on the side of the road. Al got out and walked to the back. Ruthie and Winfield peeked out from under their blanket.
“What ya want?” Al demanded.
Ma said, “We got to figger what
to do. Maybe we better keep on the back roads. Tom says so.”
“It’s my face,” Tom added. “Anybody’d know. Any cop’d know me.”
“Well, which way you wanta go? I figgered north. We been south.”
“Yeah,” said Tom, “but keep on back roads.”
Al asked, “How ’bout pullin’ off an’ catchin’ some sleep, goin’ on tomorra?”
Ma said quickly, “Not yet. Le’s get some distance fust.”
“O.K.” Al got back in his seat and drove on.
Ruthie and Winfield covered up their heads again. Ma called, “Is Winfiel’ all right?”
“Sure, he’s awright,” Ruthie said. “He been sleepin’.”
Ma leaned back against the truck side. “Gives ya a funny feelin’ to be hunted like. I’m gittin’ mean.”
“Ever’body’s gittin’ mean,” said Pa. “Ever’body. You seen that fight today. Fella changes. Down that gov’ment camp we wasn’ mean.”
Al turned right on a graveled road, and the yellow lights shuddered over the ground. The fruit trees were gone now, and cotton plants took their place. They drove on for twenty miles through the cotton, turning, angling on the country roads. The road paralleled a bushy creek and turned over a concrete bridge and followed the stream on the other side. And then, on the edge of the creek the lights showed a long line of red boxcars, wheelless; and a big sign on the edge of the road said, “Cotton Pickers Wanted.” Al slowed down. Tom peered between the side-bars of the truck. A quarter of a mile past the boxcars Tom hammered on the car again. Al stopped beside the road and got out again.
“Now what ya want?”
“Shut off the engine an’ climb up here,” Tom said.
Al got into the seat, drove off into the ditch, cut lights and engine. He climbed over the tail gate. “Awright,” he said.
Tom crawled over the pots and knelt in front of Ma. “Look,” he said. “It says they want cotton pickers. I seen that sign. Now I been tryin’ to figger how I’m gonna stay with you, an’ not make no trouble. When my face gets well, maybe it’ll be awright, but not now. Ya see them cars back there. Well, the pickers live in them. Now maybe they’s work there. How about if you get work there an’ live in one of them cars?”
“How ’bout you?” Ma demanded.
“Well, you seen that crick, all full a brush. Well, I could hide in that brush an’ keep outa sight. An’ at night you could bring me out somepin to eat. I seen a culvert, little ways back. I could maybe sleep in there.”
Pa said, “By God, I’d like to get my hands on some cotton! There’s work, I un’erstan’.”
“Them cars might be a purty place to stay,” said Ma. “Nice an’ dry. You think they’s enough brush to hide in, Tom?”
“Sure. I been watchin’. I could fix up a little place, hide away. Soon’s my face gets well, why, I’d come out.”
“You gonna scar purty bad,” said Ma.
“Hell! Ever’body got scars.”
“I picked four hunderd poun’s oncet,” Pa said. “’Course it was a good heavy crop. If we all pick, we could get some money.”
“Could get some meat,” said Al. “What’ll we do right now?”
“Go back there, an’ sleep in the truck till mornin’,” Pa said. “Git work in the mornin’. I can see them bolls even in the dark.”
“How ’bout Tom?” Ma asked.
“Now you jus’ forget me, Ma. I’ll take me a blanket. You look out on the way back. They’s a nice culvert. You can bring me some bread or potatoes, or mush, an’ just leave it there. I’ll come get it.”
“Well!”
“Seems like good sense to me,” said Pa.
“It is good sense,” Tom insisted. “Soon’s my face gets a little better, why, I’ll come out an’ go to pickin’.”
“Well, awright,” Ma agreed. “But don’ you take no chancet. Don’ let nobody see you for a while.”
Tom crawled to the back of the truck. “I’ll jus’ take this here blanket. You look for that culvert on the way back, Ma.”
“Take care,” she begged. “You take care.”
“Sure,” said Tom. “Sure I will.” He climbed the tail board, stepped down the bank. “Good night,” he said.
Ma watched his figure blur with the night and disappear into the bushes beside the stream. “Dear Jesus, I hope it’s awright,” she said.
Al asked, “You want I should go back now?”
“Yeah,” said Pa.
“Go slow,” said Ma. “I wanta be sure an’ see that culvert he said about. I got to see that.”
Al backed and filled on the narrow road, until he had reversed his direction. He drove slowly back to the line of box-cars. The truck lights showed the cat-walks up to the wide car doors. The doors were dark. No one moved in the night. Al shut off his lights.
“You and Uncle John climb up back,” he said to Rose of Sharon. “I’ll sleep in the seat here.”
Uncle John helped the heavy girl to climb up over the tail board. Ma piled the pots in a small space. The family lay wedged close together in the back of the truck.
A baby cried, in long jerking cackles, in one of the boxcars. A dog trotted out, sniffing and snorting, and moved slowly around the Joad truck. The tinkle of moving water came from the streambed.
Chapter 27
Cotton Pickers Wanted—placards on the road, handbills out, orange- colored handbills—Cotton Pickers Wanted.
Here, up this road, it says.
The dark green plants stringy now, and the heavy bolls clutched in the pod. White cotton spilling out like popcorn.
Like to get our hands on the bolls. Tenderly, with the fingertips.
I’m a good picker.
Here’s the man, right here.
I aim to pick some cotton.
Got a bag?
Well, no, I ain’t.
Cost ya a dollar, the bag. Take it out o’ your first hunderd and fifty. Eighty cents a hunderd first time over the field. Ninety cents second time over. Get your bag there. One dollar. ’F you ain’t got the buck, we’ll take it out of your first hunderd and fifty. That’s fair, and you know it.
Sure it’s fair. Good cotton bag, last all season. An’ when she’s wore out, draggin’, turn ’er aroun’, use the other end. Sew up the open end. Open up the wore end. And when both ends is gone, why, that’s nice cloth! Makes a nice pair a summer drawers. Makes nightshirts. And well, hell—a cotton bag’s a nice thing.
Hang it around your waist. Straddle it, drag it between your legs. She drags light at first. And your fingertips pick out the fluff, and the hands go twisting into the sack between your legs. Kids come along behind; got no bags for the kids—use a gunny sack or put it in your ol’ man’s bag. She hangs heavy, some, now. Lean forward, hoist ’er along. I’m a good hand with cotton. Finger-wise, boll-wise. Jes’ move along talkin’, an’ maybe singin’ till the bag gets heavy. Fingers go right to it. Fingers know. Eyes see the work—and don’t see it.
Talkin’ across the rows——
They was a lady back home, won’t mention no names—had a nigger kid all of a sudden. Nobody knowed before. Never did hunt out the nigger. Couldn’ never hold up her head no more. But I started to tell—she was a good picker.
Now the bag is heavy, boost it along. Set your hips and tow it along, like a work horse. And the kids pickin’ into the old man’s sack. Good crop here. Gets thin in the low places, thin and stringy. Never seen no cotton like this here California cotton. Long fiber, bes’ damn cotton I ever seen. Spoil the lan’ pretty soon. Like a fella wants to buy some cotton lan’—Don’ buy her, rent her. Then when she’s cottoned on down, move someplace new.
Lines of people moving across the fields. Finger-wise. Inquisitive fingers snick in and out and find the bolls. Hardly have to look.
Bet I could pick cotton if I was blind. Got a feelin’ for a cotton boll. Pick clean, clean as a whistle.
Sack’s full now. Take her to the scales. Argue. Scale man says you got rocks to make weig
ht. How ’bout him? His scales is fixed. Sometimes he’s right, you got rocks in the sack. Sometimes you’re right, the scales is crooked. Sometimes both; rocks an’ crooked scales. Always argue, always fight. Keeps your head up. An’ his head up. What’s a few rocks? Jus’ one, maybe. Quarter pound? Always argue.
Back with the empty sack. Got our own book. Mark in the weight. Got to. If they know you’re markin’, then they don’t cheat. But God he’p ya if ya don’ keep your own weight.
This is good work. Kids runnin’ aroun’. Heard ’bout the cotton-pickin’ machine?
Yeah, I heard.
Think it’ll ever come?
Well, if it comes—fella says it’ll put han’ pickin’ out.
Come night. All tired. Good pickin’, though. Got three dollars, me an’ the ol’ woman an’ the kids.
The cars move to the cotton fields. The cotton camps set up. The screened high trucks and trailers are piled high with white fluff. Cotton clings to the fence wires, and cotton rolls in little balls along the road when the wind blows. And clean white cotton, going to the gin. And the big, lumpy bales standing, going to the compress. And cotton clinging to your clothes and stuck to your whiskers. Blow your nose, there’s cotton in your nose.
Hunch along now, fill up the bag ’fore dark. Wise fingers seeking in the bolls. Hips hunching along, dragging the bag. Kids are tired, now in the evening. They trip over their feet in the cultivated earth. And the sun is going down.
Wisht it would last. It ain’t much money, God knows, but I wisht it would last.
On the highway the old cars piling in, drawn by the handbills.
Got a cotton bag?
No.
Cost ya a dollar, then.
If they was on’y fifty of us, we could stay awhile, but they’s five hunderd. She won’t last hardly at all. I knowed a fella never did git his bag paid out. Ever’ job he got a new bag, an’ ever’ fiel’ was done ’fore he got his weight.
Try for God’s sake ta save a little money! Winter’s comin’ fast. They ain’t no work at all in California in the winter. Fill up the bag ’fore it’s dark. I seen that fella put two clods in.
Well, hell. Why not? I’m jus’ balancin’ the crooked scales.
Now here’s my book, three hunderd an’ twelve poun’s.
The Grapes of Wrath Page 54
