The Grapes of Wrath

“There’s going to be a fight in the camp Saturday night. And there’s going to be deputies ready to go in.”

Tom demanded, “Why, for God’s sake? Those folks ain’t bothering nobody.”

“I’ll tell you why,” Thomas said. “Those folks in the camp are getting used to being treated like humans. When they go back to the squatters’ camps they’ll be hard to handle.” He wiped his face again. “Go on out to work now. Jesus, I hope I haven’t talked myself out of my farm. But I like you people.”

Timothy stepped in front of him and put out a hard lean hand, and Thomas took it. “Nobody won’t know who tol’. We thank you. They won’t be no fight.”

“Go on to work,” Thomas said. “And it’s twenty-five cents an hour.”

“We’ll take it,” Wilkie said, “from you.”

Thomas walked away toward the house. “I’ll be out in a piece,” he said. “You men get to work.” The screen door slammed behind him.

The three men walked out past the little white-washed barn, and along a field edge. They came to a long narrow ditch with sections of concrete pipe lying beside it.

“Here’s where we’re a-workin’,” Wilkie said.

His father opened the barn and passed out two picks and three shovels. And he said to Tom, “Here’s your beauty.”

Tom hefted the pick. “Jumping Jesus! If she don’t feel good!”

“Wait’ll about ’leven o’clock,” Wilkie suggested. “See how good she feels then.”

They walked to the end of the ditch. Tom took off his coat and dropped it on the dirt pile. He pushed up his cap and stepped into the ditch. Then he spat on his hands. The pick arose into the air and flashed down. Tom grunted softly. The pick rose and fell, and the grunt came at the moment it sank into the ground and loosened the soil.

Wilkie said, “Yes, sir, Pa, we got here a first-grade muckstick man. This here boy been married to that there little digger.”

Tom said, “I put in time ( umph ). Yes, sir, I sure did ( umph ). Put in my years ( umph! ). Kinda like the feel ( umph! ).” The soil loosened ahead of him. The sun cleared the fruit trees now and the grape leaves were golden green on the vines. Six feet along and Tom stepped aside and wiped his forehead. Wilkie came behind him. The shovel rose and fell and the dirt flew out to the pile beside the lengthening ditch.

“I heard about this here Central Committee,” said Tom. “So you’re one of ’em.”

“Yes, sir,” Timothy replied. “And it’s a responsibility. All them people. We’re doin’ our best. An’ the people in the camp a-doin’ their best. I wisht them big farmers wouldn’ plague us so. I wisht they wouldn’.”

Tom climbed back into the ditch and Wilkie stood aside. Tom said, “How ’bout this fight (umph!) at the dance, he tol’ about (umph)? What they wanta do that for?”

Timothy followed behind Wilkie, and Timothy’s shovel beveled the bottom of the ditch and smoothed it ready for the pipe. “Seems like they got to drive us,” Timothy said. “They’re scairt we’ll organize, I guess. An’ maybe they’re right. This here camp is a organization. People there look out for theirselves. Got the nicest strang band in these parts. Got a little charge account in the store for folks that’s hungry. Fi’ dollars— you can git that much food an’ the camp’ll stan’ good. We ain’t never had no trouble with the law. I guess the big farmers is scairt of that. Can’t throw us in jail— why, it scares ’em. Figger maybe if we can gove’n ourselves, maybe we’ll do other things.”

Tom stepped clear of the ditch and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “You hear what that paper said ’bout agitators up north a Bakersfiel’?”

“Sure,” said Wilkie. “They do that all a time.”

“Well, I was there. They wasn’t no agitators. What they call reds. What the hell is these reds anyways?”

Timothy scraped a little hill level in the bottom of the ditch. The sun made his white bristle beard shine. “They’s a lot of fellas wanta know what reds is.” He laughed. “One of our boys foun’ out.” He patted the piled earth gently with his shovel. “Fella named Hines— got ’bout thirty thousand acres, peaches and grapes— got a cannery an’ a winery. Well, he’s all a time talkin’ about ’them goddamn reds.’ ’Goddamn reds is drivin’ the country to ruin,’ he says, an’ ’We got to drive these here red bastards out.’ Well, they were a young fella jus’ come out west here, an’ he’s listenin’ one day. He kinda scratched his head an’ he says, ’Mr. Hines, I ain’t been here long. What is these goddamn reds?’ Well, sir, Hines says, ’A red is any son-of-a-bitch that wants thirty cents an hour when we’re payin’ twenty-five!’ Well, this young fella he thinks about her, an’ he scratches his head, an’ he says, ’Well, Jesus, Mr. Hines. I ain’t a son-of-a-bitch, but if that’s what a red is— why, I want thirty cents an hour. Ever’body does. Hell, Mr. Hines, we’re all reds.’” Timothy drove his shovel along the ditch bottom, and the solid earth shone where the shovel cut it.