Right!
Jesus, he never argued! His scales mus’ be crooked. Well, that’s a nice day anyways.
They say a thousan’ men are on their way to this field. We’ll be fightin’ for a row tomorra. We’ll be snatchin’ cotton, quick.
Cotton Pickers Wanted. More men picking, quicker to the gin.
Now into the cotton camp.
Side-meat tonight, by God! We got money for side-meat! Stick out a han’ to the little fella, he’s wore out. Run in ahead an’ git us four poun’ of side-meat. The ol’ woman’ll make some nice biscuits tonight, ef she ain’t too tired.
Chapter 28
The boxcars, twelve of them, stood end to end on a little flat beside the stream. There were two rows of six each, the wheels removed. Up to the big sliding doors slatted planks ran for cat-walks. They made good houses, water-tight and draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car. No windows, but the wide doors stood open. In some of the cars a canvas hung down in the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary.
The Joads had one end of an end car. Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe. Even with the wide door open, it was dark in the ends of the car. Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle of the car.
“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s almost nicer than anything we had ’cept the gov’ment camp.”
Each night she unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them up again. And every day they went into the fields and picked the cotton, and every night they had meat. On a Saturday they drove into Tulare, and they bought a tin stove and new overalls for Al and Pa and Winfield and Uncle John, and they bought a dress for Ma and gave Ma’s best dress to Rose of Sharon.
“She’s so big,” Ma said. “Jus’ a waste of good money to get her a new dress now.”
The Joads had been lucky. They got in early enough to have a place in the boxcars. Now the tents of the late-comers filled the little flat, and those who had the boxcars were old timers, and in a way aristocrats.
The narrow stream slipped by, out of the willows, and back into the willows again. From each car a hard-beaten path went down to the stream. Between the cars the clothes lines hung, and every day the lines were covered with drying clothes.
In the evening they walked back from the fields, carrying their folded cotton bags under their arms. They went into the store which stood at the crossroads, and there were many pickers in the store, buying their supplies.
“How much today?”
“We’re doin’ fine. We made three and a half today. Wisht she’d keep up. Them kids is gettin’ to be good pickers. Ma’s worked ’em up a little bag for each. They couldn’ tow a growed-up bag. Dump into ours. Made bags outa a couple old shirts. Work fine.”
And Ma went to the meat counter, her forefinger pressed against her lips, blowing on her finger, thinking deeply. “Might get some pork chops,” she said. “How much?”
“Thirty cents a pound, ma’am.”
“Well, lemme have three poun’s. An’ a nice piece a boilin’ beef. My girl can cook it tomorra. An’ a bottle a milk for my girl. She dotes on milk. Gonna have a baby. Nurse-lady tol’ her to eat lots a milk. Now, le’s see, we got potatoes.”
Pa came close, carrying a can of sirup in his hands. “Might get this here,” he said. “Might have some hotcakes.”
Ma frowned. “Well—well, yes. Here, we’ll take this here. Now—we got plenty lard.”
Ruthie came near, in her hands two large boxes of Cracker Jack, in her eyes a brooding question, which on a nod or a shake of Ma’s head might become tragedy or joyous excitement. “Ma?” She held up the boxes, jerked them up and down to make them attractive.
“Now you put them back——”
The tragedy began to form in Ruthie’s eyes. Pa said, “They’re on’y nickel apiece. Them little fellas worked good today.”
“Well —” The excitement began to steal into Ruthie’s eyes. “Awright.”
Ruthie turned and fled. Halfway to the door she caught Winfield and rushed him out the door, into the evening.
Uncle John fingered a pair of canvas gloves with yellow leather palms, tried them on and took them off and laid them down. He moved gradually to the liquor shelves, and he stood studying the labels on the bottles. Ma saw him. “Pa,” she said, and motioned with her head toward Uncle John.
Pa lounged over to him. “Gettin’ thirsty, John?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Jus’ wait till cotton’s done,” said Pa. “Then you can go on a hell of a drunk.”
“’Tain’t sweatin’ me none,” Uncle John said. “I’m workin’ hard an’ sleepin’ good. No dreams nor nothin’.”
“Jus’ seen you sort of droolin’ out at them bottles.”
“I didn’ hardly see ’em. Funny thing. I wanta buy stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Like to git one a them safety razors. Thought I’d like to have some a them gloves over there. Awful cheap.”
“Can’t pick no cotton with gloves,” said Pa.
“I know that. An’ I don’t need no safety razor, neither. Stuff settin’ out there, you jus’ feel like buyin’ it whether you need it or not.”
Ma called, “Come on. We got ever’thing.” She carried a bag. Uncle John and Pa each took a package. Outside Ruthie and Winfield were waiting, their eyes strained, their cheeks puffed and full of Cracker Jack.
“Won’t eat no supper, I bet,” Ma said.
People streamed toward the boxcar camp. The tents were lighted. Smoke poured from the stovepipes. The Joads climbed up their cat-walk and into their end of the boxcar. Rose of Sharon sat on a box beside the stove. She had a fire started, and the tin stove was wine-colored with heat. “Did ya get milk?” she demanded.
“Yeah. Right here.”
“Give it to me. I ain’t had any sence noon.”
“She thinks it’s like medicine.”
“That nurse-lady says so.”
“You got potatoes ready?”
“Right there—peeled.”
“We’ll fry ’em,” said Ma. “Got pork chops. Cut up them potatoes in the new fry pan. And th’ow in a onion. You fellas go out an’ wash, an’ bring in a bucket a water. Where’s Ruthie an’ Winfiel’? They oughta wash. They each got Cracker Jack,” Ma told Rose of Sharon. “Each got a whole box.”
The men went out to wash in the stream. Rose of Sharon sliced the potatoes into the frying pan and stirred them about with the knife point.
Suddenly the tarpaulin was thrust aside. A stout perspiring face looked in from the other end of the car. “How’d you all make out, Mis’ Joad?”
Ma swung around. “Why, evenin’, Mis’ Wainwright. We done good. Three an’ a half. Three fifty-seven, exact.”
“We done four dollars.”
“Well,” said Ma. “’Course they’s more of you.”
“Yeah. Jonas is growin’ up. Havin’ pork chops, I see.”
Winfield crept in through the door. “Ma!”
“Hush a minute. Yes, my men jus’ loves pork chops.”
“I’m cookin’ bacon,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Can you smell it cookin’?”
“No—can’t smell it over these here onions in the potatoes.”
“She’s burnin’!” Mrs. Wainwright cried, and her head jerked back.
“Ma,” Winfield said.
“What? You sick from Cracker Jack?”
“Ma—Ruthie tol’.”
“Tol’ what?”
“’Bout Tom.”
Ma stared. “Tol’?” Then she knelt in front of him. “Winfiel’, who’d she tell?”
Embarrassment seized Winfield. He backed away. “Well, she on’y tol’ a little bit.”
“Winfiel’! Now you tell what she said.”
“She—she didn’ eat all her Cracker Jack. She kep’ some, an’ she et jus’ one piece at a time, slow, like she always done, an’ she says, ‘Bet
you wisht you had some lef’.”
“Winfiel’!” Ma demanded. “You tell now.” She looked back nervously at the curtain. “Rosasharn, you go over talk to Mis’ Wainwright so she don’ listen.”
“How ’bout these here potatoes?”
“I’ll watch ’em. Now you go. I don’ want her listenin’ at that curtain.” The girl shuffled heavily down the car and went around the side of the hung tarpaulin.
Ma said, “Now, Winfiel’, you tell.”
“Like I said, she et jus’ one little piece at a time, an’ she bust some in two so it’d las’ longer.”
“Go on, hurry up.”
“Well, some kids come aroun’, an’ ’course they tried to get some, but Ruthie, she jus’ nibbled an’ nibbled, an’ wouldn’ give ’em none. So they got mad. An’ one kid grabbed her Cracker Jack box.”
“Winfiel’, you tell quick about the other.”
“I am,” he said. “So Ruthie got mad an’ chased ’em, an’ she fit one, an’ then she fit another, an’ then one big girl up an’ licked her. Hit ’er a good one. So then Ruthie cried, an’ she said she’d git her big brother, an’ he’d kill that big girl. An’ that big girl said, Oh, yeah? Well, she got a big brother too.” Winfield was breathless in his telling. “So then they fit, an’ that big girl hit Ruthie a good one, an’ Ruthie said her brother’d kill that big girl’s brother. An’ that big girl said how about if her brother kil’t our brother. An’ then—an’ then, Ruthie said our brother already kil’t two fellas. An’—an’—that big girl said, ‘Oh, yeah! You’re jus’ a little smarty liar.’ An’ Ruthie said, Oh, yeah? Well, our brother’s a-hidin’ right now from killin’ a fella, an’ he can kill that big girl’s brother too. An’ then they called names an’ Ruthie throwed a rock, an’ that big girl chased her, an’ I come home.”
“Oh, my!” Ma said wearily. “Oh! My dear sweet Lord Jesus asleep in a manger! What we goin’ to do now?” She put her forehead in her hand and rubbed her eyes. “What we gonna do now?” A smell of burning potatoes came from the roaring stove. Ma moved automatically and turned them.
“Rosasharn!” Ma called. The girl appeared around the curtain. “Come watch this here supper. Winfiel’, you go out an’ you fin’ Ruthie an’ bring her back here.”
“Gonna whup her, Ma?” he asked hopefully.
“No. This here you couldn’ do nothin’ about. Why, I wonder, did she haf’ to do it? No. It won’t do no good to whup her. Run now, an’find her an’ bring her back.”
Winfield ran for the car door, and he met the three men tramping up the cat-walk, and he stood aside while they came in.
Ma said softly, “Pa, I got to talk to you. Ruthie tol’ some kids how Tom’s a-hidin’.”
“What?”
“She tol’. Got in a fight an’ tol’.”
“Why, the little bitch!”
“No, she didn’ know what she was a-doin’. Now look, Pa. I want you to stay here. I’m goin’ out an’ try to fin’ Tom an’ tell him. I got to tell ’im to be careful. You stick here, Pa, an’ kinda watch out for things. I’ll take ’im some dinner.”
“Awright,” Pa agreed.
“Don’ you even mention to Ruthie what she done. I’ll tell her.”
At that moment Ruthie came in, with Winfield behind her. The little girl was dirtied. Her mouth was sticky, and her nose still dripped a little blood from her fight. She looked shamed and frightened. Winfield triumphantly followed her. Ruthie looked fiercely about, but she went to a corner of the car and put her back in the corner. Her shame and fierceness were blended.
“I tol’ her what she done,” Winfield said.
Ma was putting two chops and some fried potatoes on a tin plate. “Hush, Winfiel’,” she said. “They ain’t no need to hurt her feelings no more’n what they’re hurt.”
Ruthie’s body hurtled across the car. She grabbed Ma around the middle and buried her head in Ma’s stomach, and her strangled sobs shook her whole body. Ma tried to loosen her, but the grubby fingers clung tight. Ma brushed the hair on the back of her head gently, and she patted her shoulders. “Hush,” she said. “You didn’ know.”
Ruthie raised her dirty, tear-stained, bloody face. “They stoled my Cracker Jack!” she cried. “That big son-of-a-bitch of a girl, she belted me —” She went off into hard crying again.
“Hush!” Ma said. “Don’ talk like that. Here. Let go. I’m a-goin’ now.”
“Whyn’t ya whup her, Ma? If she didn’t git snotty with her Cracker Jack ’twouldn’ a happened. Go on, give her a whup.”
“You jus’ min’ your business, mister,” Ma said fiercely. “You’ll git a whup yourself. Now leggo, Ruthie.”
Winfield retired to a rolled mattress, and he regarded the family cynically and dully. And he put himself in a good position of defense, for Ruthie would attack him at the first opportunity, and he knew it. Ruthie went quietly, heartbrokenly to the other side of the car.
Ma put a sheet of newspaper over the tin plate. “I’m a-goin’ now,” she said.
“Ain’t you gonna eat nothin’ yourself ?” Uncle John demanded.
“Later. When I come back. I wouldn’ want nothin’ now.” Ma walked to the open door; she steadied herself down the steep, cleated cat-walk.
On the stream side of the boxcars, the tents were pitched close together, their guy ropes crossing one another, and the pegs of one at the canvas line of the next. The lights shone through the cloth, and all the chimneys belched smoke. Men and women stood in the doorways talking. Children ran feverishly about. Ma moved majestically down the line of tents. Here and there she was recognized as she went by. “Evenin’, Mis’ Joad.”
“Evenin’.”
“Takin’ somepin out, Mis’ Joad?”
“They’s a frien’. I’m takin’ back some bread.”
She came at last to the end of the line of tents. She stopped and looked back. A glow of light was on the camp, and the soft overtone of a multitude of speakers. Now and then a harsher voice cut through. The smell of smoke filled the air. Someone played a harmonica softly, trying for an effect, one phrase over and over.
Ma stepped in among the willows beside the stream. She moved off the trail and waited, silently, listening to hear any possible follower. A man walked down the trail toward the camp, boosting his suspenders and buttoning his jeans as he went. Ma sat very still, and he passed on without seeing her. She waited five minutes and then she stood up and crept on up the trail beside the stream. She moved quietly, so quietly that she could hear the murmur of the water above her soft steps on the willow leaves. Trail and stream swung to the left and then to the right again until they neared the highway. In the gray starlight she could see the embankment and the black round hole of the culvert where she always left Tom’s food. She moved forward cautiously, thrust her package into the hole, and took back the empty tin plate which was left there. She crept back among the willows, forced her way into a thicket, and sat down to wait. Through the tangle she could see the black hole of the culvert. She clasped her knees and sat silently. In a few moments the thicket crept to life again. The field mice moved cautiously over the leaves. A skunk padded heavily and unself-consciously down the trail, carrying a faint effluvium with him. And then a wind stirred the willows delicately, as though it tested them, and a shower of golden leaves coasted down to the ground. Suddenly a gust boiled in and racked the trees, and a cricking downpour of leaves fell. Ma could feel them on her hair and on her shoulders. Over the sky a plump black cloud moved, erasing the stars. The fat drops of rain scattered down, splashing loudly on the fallen leaves, and the cloud moved on and unveiled the stars again. Ma shivered. The wind blew past and left the thicket quiet, but the rushing of the trees went on down the stream. From back at the camp came the thin penetrating tone of a violin feeling about for a tune.
Ma heard a stealthy step among the leaves far to her left, and she grew tense. She released her knees and straightened her head, the better to hear. The movement stopped, and
after a long moment began again. A vine rasped harshly on the dry leaves. Ma saw a dark figure creep into the open and draw near to the culvert. The black round hole was obscured for a moment, and then the figure moved back. She called softly, “Tom!” The figure stood still, so still, so low to the ground that it might have been a stump. She called again, “Tom, oh, Tom!” Then the figure moved.
“That you, Ma?”
“Right over here.” She stood up and went to meet him.
“You shouldn’ of came,” he said.
“I got to see you, Tom. I got to talk to you.”
“It’s near the trail,” he said. “Somebody might come by.”
“Ain’t you got a place, Tom?”
“Yeah—but if—well, s’pose somebody seen you with me—whole fambly’d be in a jam.”
“I got to, Tom.”
“Then come along. Come quiet.” He crossed the little stream, wading carelessly through the water, and Ma followed him. He moved through the brush, out into a field on the other side of the thicket, and along the plowed ground. The blackening stems of the cotton were harsh against the ground, and a few fluffs of cotton clung to the stems. A quarter of a mile they went along the edge of the field, and then he turned into the brush again. He approached a great mound of wild blackberry bushes, leaned over and pulled a mat of vines aside. “You got to crawl in,” he said.
Ma went down on her hands and knees. She felt sand under her, and then the black inside of the mound no longer touched her, and she felt Tom’s blanket on the ground. He arranged the vines in place again. It was lightless in the cave.
“Where are you, Ma?”
“Here. Right here. Talk soft, Tom.”
“Don’t worry. I been livin’ like a rabbit some time.”
She heard him unwrap his tin plate.
“Pork chops,” she said. “And fry potatoes.”
“God Awmighty, an’ still warm.”
Ma could not see him at all in the blackness, but she could hear him chewing, tearing at the meat and swallowing.
“It’s a pretty good hide-out,” he said.
Ma said uneasily, “Tom—Ruthie tol’ about you.” She heard him gulp.
The Grapes of Wrath Page 55
