The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  When Pa reached the cat-walk, he found the lower end floating. He stepped it down into the mud, under water. “Think ya can make it awright, John?” he asked.

  “I’ll be awright. Jus’ go on.”

  Pa cautiously climbed the cat-walk and squeezed himself in the narrow opening. The two lamps were turned low. Ma sat on the mattress beside Rose of Sharon, and Ma fanned her still face with a piece of cardboard. Mrs. Wainwright poked dry brush into the stove, and a dank smoke edged out around the lids and filled the car with a smell of burning tissue. Ma looked up at Pa when he entered, and then quickly down.

  “How—is she?” Pa asked.

  Ma did not look up at him again. “Awright, I think. Sleepin’.”

  The air was fetid and close with the smell of the birth. Uncle John clambered in and held himself upright against the side of the car. Mrs. Wainwright left her work and came to Pa. She pulled him by the elbow toward the corner of the car. She picked up a lantern and held it over an apple box in the corner. On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy.

  “Never breathed,” said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.”

  Uncle John turned and shuffled tiredly down the car to the dark end. The rain whished softly on the roof now, so softly that they could hear Uncle John’s tired sniffling from the dark.

  Pa looked up at Mrs. Wainwright. He took the lantern from her hand and put it on the floor. Ruthie and Winfield were asleep on their own mattress, their arms over their eyes to cut out the light.

  Pa walked slowly to Rose of Sharon’s mattress. He tried to squat down, but his legs were too tired. He knelt instead. Ma fanned her square of cardboard back and forth. She looked at Pa for a moment, and her eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s eyes.

  Pa said, “We—done—what we could.”

  “I know.”

  “We worked all night. An’ a tree cut out the bank.”

  “I know.”

  “You can hear it under the car.”

  “I know. I heard it.”

  “Think she’s gonna be all right?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Well—couldn’ we—of did nothin’?”

  Ma’s lips were stiff and white. “No. They was on’y one thing to do—ever—an’ we done it.”

  “We worked till we dropped, an’ a tree—Rain’s lettin’ up some.” Ma looked at the ceiling, and then down again. Pa went on, compelled to talk. “I dunno how high she’ll rise. Might flood the car.”

  “I know.”

  “You know ever’thing.”

  She was silent, and the cardboard moved slowly back and forth.

  “Did we slip up?” he pleaded. “Is they anything we could of did?”

  Ma looked at him strangely. Her white lips smiled in a dreaming compassion. “Don’t take no blame. Hush! It’ll be awright. They’s changes—all over.”

  “Maybe the water—maybe we’ll have to go.”

  “When it’s time to go—we’ll go. We’ll do what we got to do. Now hush. You might wake her.”

  Mrs. Wainwright broke twigs and poked them in the sodden, smoking fire.

  From outside came the sound of an angry voice. “I’m goin’ in an’ see the son-of-a-bitch myself.”

  And then, just outside the door, Al’s voice, “Where you think you’re goin’?”

  “Goin’ in to see that bastard Joad.”

  “No, you ain’t. What’s the matter’th you?”

  “If he didn’t have that fool idear about the bank, we’d a got out. Now our car is dead.”

  “You think ours is burnin’ up the road?”

  “I’m a-goin’ in.”

  Al’s voice was cold. “You’re gonna fight your way in.”

  Pa got slowly to his feet and went to the door. “Awright, Al. I’m comin’ out. It’s awright, Al.” Pa slid down the catwalk. Ma heard him say, “We got sickness. Come on down here.”

  The rain scattered lightly on the roof now, and a new-risen breeze blew it along in sweeps. Mrs. Wainwright came from the stove and looked down at Rose of Sharon. “Dawn’s a-comin’ soon, ma’am. Whyn’t you git some sleep? I’ll set with her.”

  “No,” Ma said. “I ain’t tar’d.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Come on, you lay down awhile.”

  Ma fanned the air slowly with her cardboard. “You been frien’ly,” she said. “We thank you.”

  The stout woman smiled. “No need to thank. Ever’body’s in the same wagon. S’pose we was down. You’d a give us a han’.”

  “Yes,” Ma said, “we would.”

  “Or anybody.”

  “Or anybody. Use’ ta be the fambly was fust. It ain’t so now. It’s anybody. Worse off we get, the more we got to do.”

  “We couldn’ a saved it.”

  “I know,” said Ma.

  Ruthie sighed deeply and took her arm from over her eyes. She looked blindly at the lamp for a moment, and then turned her head and looked at Ma. “Is it bore?” she demanded. “Is the baby out?”

  Mrs. Wainwright picked up a sack and spread it over the apple box in the corner.

  “Where’s the baby?” Ruthie demanded.

  Ma wet her lips. “They ain’t no baby. They never was no baby. We was wrong.”

  “Shucks!” Ruthie yawned. “I wisht it had a been a baby.”

  Mrs. Wainwright sat down beside Ma and took the cardboard from her and fanned the air. Ma folded her hands in her lap, and her tired eyes never left the face of Rose of Sharon, sleeping in exhaustion. “Come on,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “Jus’ lay down. You’ll be right beside her. Why, you’d wake up if she took a deep breath, even.”

  “Awright, I will.” Ma stretched out on the mattress beside the sleeping girl. And Mrs. Wainwright sat on the floor and kept watch.

  Pa and Al and Uncle John sat in the car doorway and watched the steely dawn come. The rain had stopped, but the sky was deep and solid with cloud. As the light came, it was reflected on the water. The men could see the current of the stream, slipping swiftly down, bearing black branches of trees, boxes, boards. The water swirled into the flat where the boxcars stood. There was no sign of the embankment left. On the flat the current stopped. The edges of the flood were lined with yellow foam. Pa leaned out the door and placed a twig on the cat-walk, just above the water line. The men watched the water slowly climb to it, lift it gently and float it away. Pa placed another twig an inch above the water and settled back to watch.

  “Think it’ll come inside the car?” Al asked.

  “Can’t tell. They’s a hell of a lot of water got to come down from the hills yet. Can’t tell. Might start up to rain again.”

  Al said, “I been a-thinkin’. If she come in, ever’thing’ll get soaked.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, she won’t come up more’n three-four feet in the car ’cause she’ll go over the highway an’ spread out first.”

  “How you know?” Pa asked.

  “I took a sight on her, off the end of the car.” He held his hand. “’Bout this far up she’ll come.”

  “Awright,” Pa said. “What about it? We won’t be here.”

  “We got to be here. Truck’s here. Take a week to get the water out of her when the flood goes down.”

  “Well—what’s your idear?”

  “We can tear out the side-boards of the truck an’ build a kinda platform in here to pile our stuff ’an to set up on.”

  “Yeah? How’ll we cook—how’ll we eat?”

  “Well, it’ll keep our stuff dry.”

  The light grew stronger outside, a gray metallic light. The second little stick floated away from the cat-walk. Pa placed another one higher up. “Sure climbin’,” he said. “I guess we better do that.”

  Ma turned restlessly in her sleep. Her eyes started wide open. She cried sharply in warning, “Tom! Oh, Tom! Tom!”

  Mrs. Wainwright spoke soothingly. The eyes flicked closed again and Ma squirmed under her dream. Mrs. Wainwri
ght got up and walked to the doorway. “Hey!” she said softly. “We ain’t gonna git out soon.” She pointed to the corner of the car where the apple box was. “That ain’t doin’ no good. Jus’ cause trouble an’ sorra. Couldn’ you fellas kinda—take it out an’ bury it?”

  The men were silent. Pa said at last, “Guess you’re right. Jus’ cause sorra. ’Gainst the law to bury it.”

  “They’s lots a things ’gainst the law that we can’the’p doin’.”

  “Yeah.”

  Al said, “We oughta git them truck sides tore off ’fore the water comes up much more.”

  Pa turned to Uncle John. “Will you take an’ bury it while Al an me git that lumber in?”

  Uncle John said sullenly, “Why do I got to do it? Why don’t you fellas? I don’ like it.” And then, “Sure. I’ll do it. Sure, I will. Come on, give it to me.” His voice began to rise. “Come on! Give it to me.”

  “Don’ wake ’em up,” Mrs. Wainwright said. She brought the apple box to the doorway and straightened the sack decently over it.

  “Shovel’s standin’ right behin’ you,” Pa said.

  Uncle John took the shovel in one hand. He slipped out the doorway into the slowly moving water, and it rose nearly to his waist before he struck bottom. He turned and settled the apple box under his other arm.

  Pa said, “Come on, Al. Le’s git that lumber in.”

  In the gray dawn light Uncle John waded around the end of the car, past the Joad truck; and he climbed the slippery bank to the highway. He walked down the highway, past the boxcar flat, until he came to a place where the boiling stream ran close to the road, where the willows grew along the road side. He put his shovel down, and holding the box in front of him, he edged through the brush until he came to the edge of the swift stream. For a time he stood watching it swirl by, leaving its yellow foam among the willow stems. He held the apple box against his chest. And then he leaned over and set the box in the stream and steadied it with his hand. He said fiercely, “Go down an’ tell ’em. Go down in the street an’ rot an’ tell ’em that way. That’s the way you can talk. Don’ even know if you was a boy or a girl. Ain’t gonna find out. Go on down now, an’ lay in the street. Maybe they’ll know then.” He guided the box gently out into the current and let it go. It settled low in the water, edged sideways, whirled around, and turned slowly over. The sack floated away, and the box, caught in the swift water, floated quickly away, out of sight, behind the brush. Uncle John grabbed the shovel and went rapidly back to the boxcars. He sloshed down into the water and waded to the truck, where Pa and Al were working, taking down the one-by-six planks.

  Pa looked over at him. “Get it done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, look,” Pa said. “If you’ll he’p Al, I’ll go down the store an’ get some stuff to eat.”

  “Get some bacon,” Al said. “I need some meat.”

  “I will,” Pa said. He jumped down from the truck and Uncle John took his place.

  When they pushed the planks into the car door, Ma awakened and sat up. “What you doin’?”

  “Gonna build up a place to keep outa the wet.”

  “Why?” Ma asked. “It’s dry in here.”

  “Ain’t gonna be. Water’s comin’ up.”

  Ma struggled up to her feet and went to the door. “We got to git outa here.”

  “Can’t,” Al said. “All our stuff ’s here. Truck’s here. Ever’thing we got.”

  “Where’s Pa?”

  “Gone to get stuff for breakfas’.”

  Ma looked down at the water. It was only six inches down from the floor by now. She went back to the mattress and looked at Rose of Sharon. The girl stared back at her.

  “How you feel?” Ma asked.

  “Tar’d. Jus’ tar’d out.”

  “Gonna get some breakfas’ into you.”

  “I ain’t hungry.”

  Mrs. Wainwright moved beside Ma. “She looks all right. Come through it fine.”

  Rose of Sharon’s eyes questioned Ma, and Ma tried to avoid the question. Mrs. Wainwright walked to the stove.

  “Ma.”

  “Yeah? What you want?”

  “Is—it—all right?”

  Ma gave up the attempt. She kneeled down on the mattress. “You can have more,” she said. “We done ever’thing we knowed.”

  Rose of Sharon struggled and pushed herself up. “Ma!” “You couldn’ he’p it.”

  The girl lay back again, and covered her eyes with her arms. Ruthie crept close and looked down in awe. She whispered harshly, “She sick, Ma? She gonna die?”

  “’Course not. She’s gonna be awright. Awright.”

  Pa came in with his armload of packages. “How is she?”

  “Awright,” Ma said. “She’s gonna be awright.”

  Ruthie reported to Winfield. “She ain’t gonna die. Ma says so.”

  And Winfield, picking his teeth with a splinter in a very adult manner, said, “I knowed it all the time.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “I won’t tell,” said Winfield, and he spat out a piece of the splinter.

  Ma built the fire up with the last twigs and cooked the bacon and made gravy. Pa had brought store bread. Ma scowled when she saw it. “We got any money lef’?”

  “Nope,” said Pa. “But we was so hungry.”

  “An’ you got store bread,” Ma said accusingly.

  “Well, we was awful hungry. Worked all night long.”

  Ma sighed. “Now what we gonna do?”

  As they ate, the water crept up and up. Al gulped his food and he and Pa built the platform. Five feet wide, six feet long, four feet above the floor. And the water crept to the edge of the doorway, seemed to hesitate a long time, and then moved slowly inward over the floor. And outside, the rain began again, as it had before, big heavy drops splashing on the water, pounding hollowly on the roof.

  Al said, “Come on now, let’s get the mattresses up. Let’s put the blankets up, so they don’t git wet.” They piled their possessions up on the platform, and the water crept over the floor. Pa and Ma, Al and Uncle John, each at a corner, lifted Rose of Sharon’s mattress, with the girl on it, and put it on top of the pile.

  And the girl protested, “I can walk. I’m awright.” And the water crept over the floor, a thin film of it. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma, and Ma put her hand under the blanket and felt her breast and nodded.

  In the other end of the boxcar, the Wainwrights were pounding, building a platform for themselves. The rain thickened, and then passed away.

  Ma looked down at her feet. The water was half an inch deep on the car floor by now. “You, Ruthie—Winfiel’!” she called distractedly. “Come get on top of the pile. You’ll get cold.” She saw them safely up, sitting awkwardly beside Rose of Sharon. Ma said suddenly, “We got to git out.”

  “We can’t,” Pa said. “Like Al says, all our stuff’s here. We’ll pull off the boxcar door an’ make more room to set on.”

  The family huddled on the platforms, silent and fretful. The water was six inches deep in the car before the flood spread evenly over the embankment and moved into the cotton field on the other side. During that day and night the men slept soddenly, side by side on the boxcar door. And Ma lay close to Rose of Sharon. Sometimes Ma whispered to her and sometimes sat up quietly, her face brooding. Under the blanket she hoarded the remains of the store bread.

  The rain had become intermittent now—little wet squalls and quiet times. On the morning of the second day Pa splashed through the camp and came back with ten potatoes in his pockets. Ma watched him sullenly while he chopped out part of the inner wall of the car, built a fire, and scooped water into a pan. The family ate the steaming boiled potatoes with their fingers. And when this last food was gone, they stared at the gray water; and in the night they did not lie down for a long time.

  When the morning came they awakened nervously. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma.

  Ma nodded her head. “Yes,” sh
e said. “It’s time for it.” And then she turned to the car door, where the men lay. “We’re a-gettin’ outa here,” she said savagely, “gettin’ to higher groun’. An’ you’re comin’ or you ain’t comin’, but I’m takin’ Rosasharn an’ the little fellas outa here.”

  “We can’t!” Pa said weakly.

  “Awright, then. Maybe you’ll pack Rosasharn to the highway, any-ways, an’ then come back. It ain’t rainin’ now, an’ we’re a-goin’.”

  “Awright, we’ll go,” Pa said.

  Al said, “Ma, I ain’t goin’.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well—Aggie—why, her an’ me——”

  Ma smiled. “’Course,” she said. “You stay here, Al. Take care of the stuff. When the water goes down—why, we’ll come back. Come quick, ’fore it rains again,” she told Pa. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re goin’ to a dry place.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Maybe a little, on the road. Git your back bent, Pa.”

  Pa slipped into the water and stood waiting. Ma helped Rose of Sharon down from the platform and steadied her across the car. Pa took her in his arms, held her as high as he could, and pushed his way carefully through the deep water, around the car, and to the highway. He set her down on her feet and held onto her. Uncle John carried Ruthie and followed. Ma slid down into the water, and for a moment her skirts billowed out around her.

  “Winfiel’, set on my shoulder. Al—we’ll come back soon’s the water’s down. Al —” She paused. “If—if Tom comes—tell him we’ll be back. Tell him be careful. Winfiel’! Climb on my shoulder—there! Now, keep your feet still.” She staggered off through the breast-high water. At the highway embankment they helped her up and lifted Winfield from her shoulder.