The Grapes of Wrath

“Well, I’m sure here now. How ’bout givin’ me a snort?”

Uncle John raised the pint again and the whisky gurgled. He shook the bottle. It was empty. “No more,” he said. “Wanta die so bad. Wanta die awful. Die a little bit. Got to. Like sleepin’. Die a little bit. So tar’d. Tar’d. Maybe— don’ wake up no more.” His voice crooned off. “Gonna wear a crown— a golden crown.”

Tom said, “Listen here to me, Uncle John. We’re gonna move on. You come along, an’ you can go right to sleep up on the load.”

John shook his head. “No. Go on. Ain’t goin’. Gonna res’ here. No good goin’ back. No good to nobody— jus’ a-draggin’ my sins like dirty drawers ’mongst nice folks. No. Ain’t goin’.”

“Come on. We can’t go ’less you go.”

“Go ri’ ’long. I ain’t no good. I ain’t no good. Jus’ a-draggin’ my sins, a-dirtyin’ ever’body.”

“You got no more sin’n anybody else.”

John put his head close, and he winked one eye wisely. Tom could see his face dimly in the starlight. “Nobody don’ know my sins, nobody but Jesus. He knows.”

Tom got down on his knees. He put his hand on Uncle John’s forehead, and it was hot and dry. John brushed his hand away clumsily.

“Come on,” Tom pleaded. “Come on now, Uncle John.”

“Ain’t goin’ go. Jus’ tar’d. Gon’ res’ ri’ here. Ri’ here.”

Tom was very close. He put his fist against the point of Uncle John’s chin. He made a small practice arc twice, for distance; and then, with his shoulder in the swing, he hit the chin a delicate perfect blow. John’s chin snapped up and he fell backwards and tried to sit up again. But Tom was kneeling over him and as John got one elbow up Tom hit him again. Uncle John lay still on the ground.

Tom stood up and, bending, he lifted the loose sagging body and boosted it over his shoulder. He staggered under the loose weight. John’s hanging hands tapped him on the back as he went, slowly, puffing up the bank to the highway. Once a car came by and lighted him with the limp man over his shoulder. The car slowed for a moment and then roared away.

Tom was panting when he came back to the Hooverville, down from the road and to the Joad truck. John was coming to; he struggled weakly. Tom set him gently down on the ground.

Camp had been broken while he was gone. Al passed the bundles up on the truck. The tarpaulin lay ready to bind over the load.

Al said, “He sure got a quick start.”

Tom apologized. “I had to hit ’im a little to make ’im come. Poor fella.”

“Didn’ hurt ’im?” Ma asked.

“Don’ think so. He’s a-comin’ out of it.”

Uncle John was weakly sick on the ground. His spasms of vomiting came in little gasps.

Ma said, “I lef’ a plate a potatoes for you, Tom.”

Tom chuckled. “I ain’t just in the mood right now.”

Pa called, “Awright, Al. Sling up the tarp.”

The truck was loaded and ready. Uncle John had gone to sleep. Tom and Al boosted and pulled him up on the load while Winfield made a vomiting noise behind the truck and Ruthie plugged her mouth with her hand to keep from squealing.

“Awready,” Pa said.

Tom asked, “Where’s Rosasharn?”

“Over there,” said Ma. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re a-goin’.”

The girl sat still, her chin sunk on her breast. Tom walked over to her. “Come on,” he said.

“I ain’t a-goin’.” She did not raise her head.

“You got to go.”

“I want Connie. I ain’t a-goin’ till he comes back.”

Three cars pulled out of the camp, up the road to the highway, old cars loaded with the camps and the people. They clanked up the highway and rolled away, their dim lights glancing along the road.

Tom said, “Connie’ll find us. I lef’ word up at the store where we’d be. He’ll find us.”

Ma came up and stood beside him. “Come on, Rosasharn. Come on, honey,” she said gently.

“I wanta wait.”

“We can’t wait.” Ma leaned down and took the girl by the arm and helped her to her feet.

“He’ll find us,” Tom said. “Don’ you worry. He’ll find us.” They walked on either side of the girl.

“Maybe he went to get them books to study up,” said Rose of Sharon. “Maybe he was a-gonna surprise us.”

Ma said, “Maybe that’s jus’ what he done.” They led her to the truck and helped her up on top of the load, and she crawled under the tarpaulin and disappeared into the dark cave.

Now the bearded man from the weed shack came timidly to the truck. He waited about, his hands clutched behind his back. “You gonna leave any stuff a fella could use?” he asked at last.

Pa said, “Can’t think of nothin’. We ain’t got nothin’ to leave.”

Tom asked, “Ain’t ya gettin’ out?”

For a long time the bearded man stared at him. “No,” he said at last.

“But they’ll burn ya out.”

The unsteady eyes dropped to the ground. “I know. They done it before.”

“Well, why the hell don’t ya get out?”

The bewildered eyes looked up for a moment, and then down again, and the dying firelight was reflected redly. “I don’ know. Takes so long to git stuff together.”

“You won’t have nothin’ if they burn ya out.”

“I know. You ain’t leavin’ nothin’ a fella could use?”

“Cleaned out, slick,” said Pa. The bearded man vaguely wandered away. “What’s a matter with him?” Pa demanded.