The Grapes of Wrath

“He got work,” said Ruthie quickly. “Went out to work.” She looked apprehensively at Ma’s raised hand. The hand sank down again, and then it reached out for Ruthie. Ma embraced Ruthie’s shoulders in a quick convulsive hug, and then released her.

Ruthie stared at the ground in embarrassment, and changed the subject. “They got toilets over there,” she said. “White ones.”

“You been in there?” Ma demanded.

“Me an’ Winfiel’,” she said; and then, treacherously, “Winfiel’, he bust a toilet.”

Winfield turned red. He glared at Ruthie. “She pee’d in one,” he said viciously.

Ma was apprehensive. “Now what did you do? You show me.” She forced them to the door and inside. “Now what’d you do?”

Ruthie pointed. “It was a-hissin’ and a-swishin’. Stopped now.”

“Show me what you done,” Ma demanded.

Winfield went reluctantly to the toilet. “I didn’ push it hard,” he said. “I jus’ had aholt of this here, an’—” The swish of water came again. He leaped away.

Ma threw back her head and laughed, while Ruthie and Winfield regarded her resentfully. “Tha’s the way she works,” Ma said. “I seen them before. When you finish, you push that.”

The shame of their ignorance was too great for the children. They went out the door, and they walked down the street to stare at a large family eating breakfast.

Ma watched them out of the door. And then she looked about the room. She went to the shower closets and looked in. She walked to the wash basins and ran her finger over the white porcelain. She turned the water on a little and held her finger in the stream, and jerked her hand away when the water came hot. For a moment she regarded the basin, and then, setting the plug, she filled the bowl a little from the hot faucet, a little from the cold. And then she washed her hands in the warm water, and she washed her face. She was brushing water through her hair with her fingers when a step sounded on the concrete floor behind her. Ma swung around. An elderly man stood looking at her with an expression of righteous shock.

He said harshly, “How you come in here?”

Ma gulped, and she felt the water dripping from her chin, and soaking through her dress. “I didn’ know,” she said apologetically. “I thought this here was for folks to use.”

The elderly man frowned on her. “For men folks,” he said sternly. He walked to the door and pointed to a sign on it: MEN. “There,” he said. “That proves it. Didn’ you see that?”

“No,” Ma said in shame, “I never seen it. Ain’t they a place where I can go?”

The man’s anger departed. “You jus’ come?” he asked more kindly.

“Middle of the night,” said Ma.

“Then you ain’t talked to the Committee?”

“What committee?”

“Why, the Ladies’ Committee.”

“No, I ain’t.”

He said proudly, “The Committee’ll call on you purty soon an’ fix you up. We take care of folks that jus’ come in. Now, if you want a ladies’ toilet, you jus’ go on the other side of the building. That side’s yourn.”

Ma said uneasily, “Ya say a ladies’ committee— comin’ to my tent?” He nodded his head. “Purty soon, I guess.”

“Thank ya,” said Ma. She hurried out, and half ran to the tent.

“Pa,” she called. “John, git up! You, Al. Git up an’ git washed.”

Startled sleepy eyes looked out at her. “All of you,” Ma cried. “You git up an’ git your face washed. An’ comb your hair.” Uncle John looked pale and sick. There was a red bruised place on his chin.

Pa demanded, “What’s the matter?”

“The Committee,” Ma cried. “They’s a committee— a ladies’ committee a-comin’ to visit. Git up now, an’ git washed. An’ while we was a-sleepin’ an’ a-snorin’, Tom’s went out an’ got work. Git up, now.”

They came sleepily out of the tent. Uncle John staggered a little, and his face was pained.

“Git over to that house and wash up,” Ma ordered. “We got to get breakfus’ an’ be ready for the Committee.” She went to a little pile of split wood in the camp lot. She started a fire and put up her cooking irons. “Pone,” she said to herself. “Pone an’ gravy. That’s quick. Got to be quick.” She talked on to herself, and Ruthie and Winfield stood by, wondering.

The smoke of the morning fires arose all over the camp, and the mutter of talk came from all sides.

Rose of Sharon, unkempt and sleepy-eyed, crawled out of the tent. Ma turned from the cornmeal she was measuring in fistfuls. She looked at the girl’s wrinkled dirty dress, at her frizzled uncombed hair. “You got to clean up,” she said briskly. “Go right over and clean up. You got a clean dress. I washed it. Git your hair combed. Git the seeds out a your eyes.” Ma was excited.

Rose of Sharon said sullenly, “I don’ feel good: I wisht Connie would come. I don’t feel like doin’ nothin’ ’thout Connie.”

Ma turned full around on her. The yellow cornmeal clung to her hands and wrists. “Rosasharn,” she said sternly, “you git upright. You jus’ been mopin’ enough. They’s a ladies’ committee a-comin’, an’ the fambly ain’t gonna be frawny when they get here.”

“But I don’ feel good.”

Ma advanced on her, mealy hands held out. “Git,” Ma said. “They’s times when how you feel got to be kep’ to yourself.”