The Grapes of Wrath

Floyd said, “Maybe I shouldn’, but— yeah, I’ll tell ya. Fella come through an’ he says they’s gonna be work up north.”

“Up north?”

“Yeah— place called Santa Clara Valley, way to hell an’ gone up north.”

“Yeah? Kinda work?”

“Prune pickin’, an’ pears an’ cannery work. Says it’s purty near ready.”

“How far?” Tom demanded.

“Oh, Christ knows. Maybe two hundred miles.”

“That’s a hell of a long ways,” said Tom. “How we know they’s gonna be work when we get there?”

“Well, we don’ know,” said Floyd. “But they ain’t nothin’ here, an’ this fella says he got a letter from his brother, an’ he’s on his way. He says not to tell nobody, they’ll be too many. We oughta get out in the night. Oughta get there and get some work lined up.”

Tom studied him. “Why we gotta sneak away?”

“Well, if ever’body gets there, ain’t gonna be work for nobody.”

“It’s a hell of a long way,” Tom said.

Floyd sounded hurt. “I’m jus’ givin’ you the tip. You don’ have to take it. Your brother here he’ped me, an’ I’m givin’ you the tip.”

“You sure there ain’t no work here?”

“Look, I been scourin’ aroun’ for three weeks all over hell, an’ I ain’t had a bit a work, not a single han’-holt. ’F you wanta look aroun’ an’ burn up gas lookin’, why, go ahead. I ain’t beggin’ you. More that goes, the less chance I got.”

Tom said, “I ain’t findin’ fault. It’s jus’ such a hell of a long ways. An’ we kinda hoped we could get work here an’ rent a house to live in.”

Floyd said patiently, “I know ya jus’ got here. They’s stuff ya got to learn. If you’d let me tell ya, it’d save ya somepin. If ya don’ let me tell ya, then ya got to learn the hard way. You ain’t gonna settle down cause they ain’t no work to settle ya. An’ your belly ain’t gonna let ya settle down. Now— that’s straight.”

“Wisht I could look aroun’ first,” Tom said uneasily.

A sedan drove through the camp and pulled up at the next tent. A man in overalls and a blue shirt climbed out. Floyd called to him, “Any luck?”

“There ain’t a han’-turn of work in the whole darn country, not till cotton pickin’.” And he went into the ragged tent.

“See?” said Floyd.

“Yeah, I see. But two hunderd miles, Jesus!”

“Well, you ain’t settlin’ down no place for a while. Might’s well make up your mind to that.”

“We better go,” Al said.

Tom asked, “When is they gonna be work aroun’ here?”

“Well, in a month the cotton’ll start. If you got plenty money you can wait for the cotton.”

Tom said, “Ma ain’t a-gonna wanta move. She’s all tar’d out.”

Floyd shrugged his shoulders. “I ain’t a-tryin’ to push ya north.

Suit yaself. I jus’ tol’ ya what I heard.” He picked the oily gasket from the running board and fitted it carefully on the block and pressed it down. “Now,” he said to Al, “’f you want to give me a han’ with that engine head.”

Tom watched while they set the heavy head gently down over the head bolts and dropped it evenly. “Have to talk about it.” he said.

Floyd said, “I don’t want nobody but your folks to know about it. Jus’ you. An’ I wouldn’t of tol’ you if ya brother didn’ he’p me out here.”

Tom said, “Well, I sure thank ya for tellin’ us. We got to figger it out. Maybe we’ll go.”

Al said, “By God, I think I’ll go if the res’ goes or not. I’ll hitch there.”

“An’ leave the fambly?” Tom asked.

“Sure. I’d come back with my jeans plumb fulla jack. Why not?”

“Ma ain’t gonna like no such thing,” Tom said. “An’ Pa, he ain’t gonna like it neither.”

Floyd set the nuts and screwed them down as far as he could with his fingers. “Me an’ my wife come out with our folks,” he said. “Back home we wouldn’ of thought of goin’ away. Wouldn’ of thought of it. But, hell, we was all up north a piece and I come down here, an’ they moved on, an’ now God knows where they are. Been lookin’ an’ askin’ about ’em ever since.” He fitted his wrench to the enginehead bolts and turned them down evenly, one turn to each nut, around and around the series.

Tom squatted down beside the car and squinted his eyes up the line of tents. A little stubble was beaten into the earth between the tents. “No, sir,” he said, “Ma ain’t gonna like you goin’ off.”

“Well, seems to me a lone fella got more chance of work.”

“Maybe, but Ma ain’t gonna like it at all.”

Two cars loaded with disconsolate men drove down into the camp.

Floyd lifted his eyes, but he didn’t ask them about their luck. Their dusty faces were sad and resistant. The sun was sinking now, and the yellow sunlight fell on the Hooverville and on the willows behind it. The children began to come out of the tents, to wander about the camp. And from the tents the women came and built their little fires. The men gathered in squatting groups and talked together.

A new Chevrolet coupe turned off the highway and headed down into the camp. It pulled to the center of the camp, Tom said, “Who’s this? They don’t belong here.”

Floyd said, “I dunno— cops, maybe.”