The Grapes of Wrath

“I dunno,” said Tom. “Sounds kinda nice. When ya think you can get ta work an’ quit thinkin’ a spell? We got to get work. Money’s ’bout gone. Pa gives five dollars to get a painted piece of board stuck up over Granma. We ain’t got much lef’.”

A lean brown mongrel dog came sniffing around the side of the tent. He was nervous and flexed to run. He sniffed close before he was aware of the two men, and then looking up he saw them, leaped sideways, and fled, ears back, bony tail clamped protectively. Casy watched him go, dodging around a tent to get out of sight. Casy sighed. “I ain’t doin’ nobody no good,” he said. “Me or nobody else. I was thinkin’ I’d go off alone by myself. I’m a-eatin’ your food an’ a-takin’ up room. An’ I ain’t give you nothin’. Maybe I could get a steady job an’ maybe pay back some a the stuff you’ve give me.”

Tom opened his mouth and thrust his lower jaw forward, and he tapped his lower teeth with a dried piece of mustard stalk. His eyes stared over the camp, over the gray tents and the shacks of weed and tin and paper. “Wisht I had a sack a Durham,” he said. “I ain’t had a smoke in a hell of a time. Use’ ta get tobacco in McAlester. Almost wisht I was back.” He tapped his teeth again and suddenly he turned on the preacher. “Ever been in a jail house?”

“No,” said Casy. “Never been.”

“Don’t go away right yet,” said Tom. “Not right yet.”

“Quicker I get lookin’ for work— quicker I’m gonna find some.”

Tom studied him with half-shut eyes and he put on his cap again. “Look,” he said, “this ain’t no lan’ of milk an’ honey like the preachers say. They’s a mean thing here. The folks here is scared of us people comin’ west; an’ so they get cops out tryin’ to scare us back.”

“Yeah,” said Casy. “I know. What you ask about me bein’ in jail for?”

Tom said slowly, “When you’re in jail— you get to kinda— sensin’ stuff. Guys ain’t let to talk a hell of a lot together— two maybe, but not a crowd. An’ so you get kinda sensy. If somepin’s gonna bust— if say a fella’s goin’ stir-bugs an’ take a crack at a guard with a mop handle— why, you know it ’fore it happens. An’ if they’s gonna be a break or a riot, nobody don’t have to tell ya. You’re sensy about it. You know.”

“Yeah?”

“Stick aroun’.” said Tom. “Stick aroun’ till tomorra anyways. Somepin’s gonna come up. I was talkin’ to a kid up the road. An’ he’s bein’ jus’ as sneaky an’ wise as a dog coyote, but he’s too wise. Dog coyote a-mindin’ his own business an’ innocent an’ sweet, jus’ havin’ fun an’ no harm— well, they’s a hen roost clost by.”

Casy watched him intently, started to ask a question, and then shut his mouth tightly. He waggled his toes slowly and, releasing his knees, pushed out his foot so he could see it. “Yeah,” he said, “I won’t go right yet.”

Tom said, “When a bunch of folks, nice quiet folks, don’t know nothin’ about nothin’— somepin’s goin’ on.”

“I’ll stay,” said Casy.

“An’ tomorra we’ll go out in the truck an’ look for work.”

“Yeah!” said Casy, and he waved his toes up and down and studied them gravely. Tom settled back on his elbow and closed his eyes. Inside the tent he could hear the murmur of Rose of Sharon’s voice and Connie’s answering.

The tarpaulin made a dark shadow and the wedge-shaped light at each end was hard and sharp. Rose of Sharon lay on a mattress and Connie squatted beside her. “I oughta help Ma,” Rose of Sharon said. “I tried, but ever’ time I stirred about I throwed up.”

Connie’s eyes were sullen. “If I’d of knowed it would be like this I wouldn’ of came. I’d a studied nights ’bout tractors back home an’ got me a three-dollar job. Fella can live awful nice on three dollars a day, an’ go to the pitcher show ever’ night, too.”

Rose of Sharon looked apprehensive. “You’re gonna study nights ’bout radios,” she said. He was long in answering. “Ain’t you?” she demanded.

“Yeah, sure. Soon’s I get on my feet. Get a little money.” She rolled up on her elbow. “You ain’t givin’ it up!”

“No— no— ’course not. But— I didn’ know they was places like this we got to live in.”

The girl’s eyes hardened. “You got to,” she said quietly.

“Sure. Sure, I know. Got to get on my feet. Get a little money. Would a been better maybe to stay home an’ study ’bout tractors. Three dollars a day they get, an’ pick up extra money, too.” Rose of Sharon’s eyes were calculating. When he looked down at her he saw in her eyes a measuring of him, a calculation of him. “But I’m gonna study,” he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.”

She said fiercely, “We got to have a house ’fore the baby comes.

We ain’t gonna have this baby in no tent.”

“Sure,” he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.” He went out of the tent and looked down at Ma, crouched over the brush fire. Rose of Sharon rolled on her back and stared at the top of the tent. And then she put her thumb in her mouth for a gag and she cried silently.