The Grapes of Wrath (37 page)

When supper was over and the dishes dipped and wiped, the dark had come, and then the men squatted down to talk.

And they talked of the land behind them. I don’ know what it’s coming to, they said. The country’s spoilt.

It’ll come back though, on’y we won’t be there.

Maybe, they thought, maybe we sinned some way we didn’t know about.

Fella says to me, gov’ment fella, an’ he says, she’s gullied up on ya. Gov’ment fella. He says, if ya plowed ’cross the contour, she won’t gully. Never did have no chance to try her. An’ the new super’ ain’t plowin’ ’cross the contour. Runnin’ a furrow four miles long that ain’t stoppin’ or goin’ aroun’ Jesus Christ Hisself.

And they spoke softly of their homes: They was a little cool-house under the win’mill. Use’ ta keep milk in there ta cream up, an’ watermelons. Go in there midday when she was hotter’n a heifer, an’ she’d be jus’ as cool, as cool as you’d want. Cut open a melon in there an’ she’d hurt your mouth, she was so cool. Water drippin’ down from the tank.

They spoke of their tragedies: Had a brother Charley, hair as yella as corn, an’ him a growed man. Played the ’cordeen nice too. He was harrowin’ one day an’ he went up to clear his lines. Well, a rattlesnake buzzed an’ them horses bolted an’ the harrow went over Charley, an’
the points dug into his guts an’ his stomach, an’ they pulled his face off an’—God Almighty!

They spoke of the future: Wonder what it’s like out there?

Well, the pitchers sure do look nice. I seen one where it’s hot an’ fine, an’ walnut trees an’ berries; an’ right behind, close as a mule’s ass to his withers, they’s a tall up mountain covered with snow. That was a pretty thing to see.

If we can get work it’ll be fine. Won’t have no cold in the winter. Kids won’t freeze on the way to school. I’m gonna take care my kids don’t miss no more school. I can read good, but it ain’t no pleasure to me like with a fella that’s used to it.

And perhaps a man brought out his guitar to the front of his tent. And he sat on a box to play, and everyone in the camp moved slowly in toward him, drawn in toward him. Many men can chord a guitar, but perhaps this man was a picker. There you have something—the deep chords beating, beating, while the melody runs on the strings like little footsteps. Heavy hard fingers marching on the frets. The man played and the people moved slowly in on him until the circle was closed and tight, and then he sang “Ten-Cent Cotton and Forty-Cent Meat.” And the circle sang softly with him. And he sang “Why Do You Cut Your Hair, Girls?” And the circle sang. He wailed the song, “I’m Leaving Old Texas,” that eerie song that was sung before the Spaniards came, only the words were Indian then.

And now the group was welded to one thing, one unit, so that in the dark the eyes of the people were inward, and their minds played in other times, and their sadness was like rest, like sleep. He sang the “McAlester Blues” and then, to make up for it to the older people, he sang “Jesus Calls Me to His Side.” The children drowsed with the music and went into the tents to sleep, and the singing came into their dreams.

And after a while the man with the guitar stood up and yawned. Good night, folks, he said.

And they murmured, Good night to you.

And each wished he could pick a guitar, because it is a gracious thing. Then the people went to their beds, and the camp was quiet. And the owls coasted overhead, and the coyotes gabbled in the distance, and into
the camp skunks walked, looking for bits of food—waddling, arrogant skunks, afraid of nothing.

The night passed, and with the first streak of dawn the women came out of the tents, built up the fires, and put the coffee to boil. And the men came out and talked softly in the dawn.

When you cross the Colorado river, there’s the desert, they say. Look out for the desert. See you don’t get hung up. Take plenty water, case you get hung up.

I’m gonna take her at night.

Me too. She’ll cut the living Jesus outa you.

The families ate quickly, and the dishes were dipped and wiped. The tents came down. There was a rush to go. And when the sun arose, the camping place was vacant, only a little litter left by the people. And the camping place was ready for a new world in a new night.

But along the highway the cars of the migrant people crawled out like bugs, and the narrow concrete miles stretched ahead.

The Joad family moved slowly westward, up into the mountains of New Mexico, past the pinnacles and pyramids of the upland. They climbed into the high country of Arizona, and through a gap they looked down on the Painted Desert. A border guard stopped them.

“Where you going?”

“To California,” said Tom.

“How long you plan to be in Arizona?”

“No longer’n we can get acrost her.”

“Got any plants?”

“No plants.”

“I ought to look your stuff over.”

“I tell you we ain’t got no plants.”

The guard put a little sticker on the windshield.

“O.K. Go ahead, but you better keep movin’.”

“Sure. We aim to.”

They crawled up the slopes, and the low twisted trees covered the slopes. Holbrook, Joseph City, Winslow. And then the tall trees began, and the cars spouted steam and labored up the slopes. And there was Flagstaff, and that was the top of it all. Down from Flagstaff over the great plateaus, and the road disappeared in the distance ahead. The water grew scarce, water was to be bought, five cents, ten cents, fifteen cents a gallon. The sun drained the dry rocky country, and ahead were jagged broken peaks, the western wall of Arizona. And now they were in flight from the sun and the drought. They drove all night, and came to the mountains in the night. And they crawled the jagged ramparts in the night, and their dim lights flickered on the pale stone walls of the road. They passed the summit in the dark and came slowly down in
the late night, through the shattered stone debris of Oatman; and when the daylight came they saw the Colorado river below them. They drove to Topock, pulled up at the bridge while a guard washed off the windshield sticker. Then across the bridge and into the broken rock wilderness. And although they were dead weary and the morning heat was growing, they stopped.

Pa called, “We’re there—we’re in California!” They looked dully at the broken rock glaring under the sun, and across the river the terrible ramparts of Arizona.

“We got the desert,” said Tom. “We got to get to the water and rest.”

The road runs parallel to the river, and it was well into the morning when the burning motors came to Needles, where the river runs swiftly among the reeds.

The Joads and Wilsons drove to the river, and they sat in the cars looking at the lovely water flowing by, and the green reeds jerking slowly in the current. There was a little encampment by the river, eleven tents near the water, and the swamp grass on the ground. And Tom leaned out of the truck window. “Mind if we stop here a piece?”

A stout woman, scrubbing clothes in a bucket, looked up. “We don’t own it, mister. Stop if you want. They’ll be a cop down to look you over.” And she went back to her scrubbing in the sun.

The two cars pulled to a clear place on the swamp grass. The tents were passed down, the Wilson tent set up, the Joad tarpaulin stretched over its rope.

Winfield and Ruthie walked slowly down through the willows to the reedy place. Ruthie said, with soft vehemence, “California. This here’s California an’ we’re right in it!”

Winfield broke a tule and twisted it free, and he put the white pulp in his mouth and chewed it. They walked into the water and stood quietly, the water about the calves of their legs.

“We got the desert yet,” Ruthie said.

“What’s the desert like?”

“I don’t know. I seen pitchers once says a desert. They was bones ever’place.”

“Man bones?”

“Some, I guess, but mos’ly cow bones.”

“We gonna get to see them bones?”

“Maybe. I don’ know. Gonna go ’crost her at night. That’s what Tom said. Tom says we get the livin’ Jesus burned outa us if we go in daylight.”

“Feels nicet an’ cool,” said Winfield, and he squidged his toes in the sand of the bottom.

They heard Ma calling, “Ruthie! Winfiel’! You come back.” They turned and walked slowly back through the reeds and the willows.

The other tents were quiet. For a moment, when the cars came up, a few heads had stuck out between the flaps, and then were withdrawn. Now the family tents were up and the men gathered together.

Tom said, “I’m gonna go down an’ take a bath. That’s what I’m gonna do—before I sleep. How’s Granma sence we got her in the tent?”

“Don’ know,” said Pa. “Couldn’ seem to wake her up.” He cocked his head toward the tent. A whining, babbling voice came from under the canvas. Ma went quickly inside.

“She woke up, awright,” said Noah. “Seems like all night she was a-croakin’ up on the truck. She’s all outa sense.”

Tom said, “Hell! She’s wore out. If she don’t get some res’ pretty soon, she ain’ gonna las’. She’s jes’ wore out. Anybody comin’ with me? I’m gonna wash, an’ I’m gonna sleep in the shade—all day long.” He moved away, and the other men followed him. They took off their clothes in the willows and then they walked into the water and sat down. For a long time they sat, holding themselves with heels dug into the sand, and only their heads stuck out of the water.

“Jesus, I needed this,” Al said. He took a handful of sand from the bottom and scrubbed himself with it. They lay in the water and looked across at the sharp peaks called Needles, and at the white rock mountains of Arizona.

“We come through them,” Pa said in wonder.

Uncle John ducked his head under the water. “Well, we’re here. This here’s California, an’ she don’t look so prosperous.”

“Got the desert yet,” said Tom. “An’ I hear she’s a son-of-a-bitch.”

Noah asked, “Gonna try her tonight?”

“What ya think, Pa?” Tom asked.

“Well, I don’ know. Do us good to get a little res’, ’specially Granma. But other ways, I’d kinda like to get acrost her an’ get settled into a job.
On’y got ’bout forty dollars left. I’ll feel better when we’re all workin’, an’ a little money comin’ in.”

Each man sat in the water and felt the tug of the current. The preacher let his arms and hands float on the surface. The bodies were white to the neck and wrists, and burned dark brown on hands and faces, with V’s of brown at the collar bones. They scratched themselves with sand.

And Noah said lazily, “Like to jus’ stay here. Like to lay here forever. Never get hungry an’ never get sad. Lay in the water all life long, lazy as a brood sow in the mud.”

And Tom, looking at the ragged peaks across the river and the Needles downstream: “Never seen such tough mountains. This here’s a murder country. This here’s the bones of a country. Wonder if we’ll ever get in a place where folks can live ’thout fightin’ hard scrabble an’ rocks. I seen pitchers of a country flat an’ green, an’ with little houses like Ma says, white. Ma got her heart set on a white house. Get to thinkin’ they ain’t no such country. I seen pitchers like that.”

Pa said, “Wait till we get to California. You’ll see nice country then.”

“Jesus Christ, Pa! This here
is
California.”

Two men dressed in jeans and sweaty blue shirts came through the willows and looked toward the naked men. They called, “How’s the swimmin’?”

“Dunno,” said Tom. “We ain’t tried none. Sure feels good to set here, though.”

“Mind if we come in an’ set?”

“She ain’t our river. We’ll len’ you a little piece of her.”

The men shucked off their pants, peeled their shirts, and waded out. The dust coated their legs to the knee; their feet were pale and soft with sweat. They settled lazily into the water and washed listlessly at their flanks. Sun-bitten, they were, a father and a boy. They grunted and groaned with the water.

Pa asked politely, “Goin’ west?”

“Nope. We come from there. Goin’ back home. We can’t make no livin’ out there.”

“Where’s home?” Tom asked.

“Panhandle, come from near Pampa.”

Pa asked, “Can you make a livin’ there?”

“Nope. But at leas’ we can starve to death with folks we know. Won’t have a bunch a fellas that hates us to starve with.”

Pa said, “Ya know, you’re the second fella talked like that. What makes ’em hate you?”

“Dunno,” said the man. He cupped his hands full of water and rubbed his face, snorting and bubbling. Dusty water ran out of his hair and streaked his neck.

“I like to hear some more ’bout this,” said Pa.

“Me too,” Tom added. “Why these folks out west hate ya?”

The man looked sharply at Tom. “You jus’ goin’ wes’?”

“Jus’ on our way.”

“You ain’t never been in California?”

“No, we ain’t.”

“Well, don’ take my word. Go see for yourself.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, “but a fella kind a likes to know what he’s gettin’ into.”

“Well, if you truly wanta know, I’m a fella that’s asked questions an’ give her some thought. She’s a nice country. But she was stole a long time ago. You git acrost the desert an’ come into the country aroun’ Bakersfield. An’ you never seen such purty country—all orchards an’ grapes, purtiest country you ever seen. An’ you’ll pass lan’ flat an’fine with water thirty feet down, and that lan’s layin’ fallow. But you can’t have none of that lan’. That’s a Lan’ and Cattle Company. An’ if they don’t want ta work her, she ain’t gonna git worked. You go in there an’ plant you a little corn, an’ you’ll go to jail!”

“Good lan’, you say? An’ they ain’t workin’ her?”

“Yes, sir. Good lan’ an’ they ain’t! Well, sir, that’ll get you a little mad, but you ain’t seen nothin’. People gonna have a look in their eye. They gonna look at you an’ their face says, ‘I don’t like you, you son-of-a-bitch.’ Gonna be deputy sheriffs, an’ they’ll push you aroun’. You camp on the roadside, an’ they’ll move you on. You gonna see in people’s face how they hate you. An’—I’ll tell you somepin. They hate you ’cause they’re scairt. They know a hungry fella gonna get food even if he got to take it. They know that fallow lan’s a sin an’ somebody’ gonna take it. What the hell! You never been called ‘Okie’ yet.”