The Grapes of Wrath

“Dead and bloody. ’Course nobody wouldn’ speak to her no more. She had a go away. Can’t tech sin ’thout catchin’ it. No, sir. An’ they was another, done the same thing. An’ she skinnied out, an’— know what? One night she was gone. An’ two days, she’s back. Says she was visitin’. But— she ain’t got no baby. Know what I think? I think the manager, he took her away to drop her baby. He don’ believe in sin. Tol’ me hisself. Says the sin is bein’ hungry. Says the sin is bein’ cold. Says— I tell ya, he tol’ me hisself— can’t see God in them things. Says them girls skinnied out ’cause they didn’ git ’nough food. Well, I fixed him up.” She rose to her feet and stepped back. Her eyes were sharp. She pointed a rigid forefinger in Rose of Sharon’s face. “I says, ’Git back!’ I says. I says, ’I knowed the devil was rampagin’ in this here camp. Now I know who the devil is. Git back, Satan,’ I says. An’, by Chris’ he got back! Tremblin’ he was, an’ sneaky. Says, ’Please!’ Says, ’Please don’ make the folks unhappy.’ I says, ’Unhappy? How ’bout their soul? How ’bout them dead babies an’ them poor sinners ruint ’count of play-actin’?’ He jes’ looked, an’ he give a sick grin an’ went away. He knowed when he met a real testifier to the Lord. I says, ’I’m a-helpin’ Jesus watch the goin’s-on. An’ you an’ them other sinners ain’t gittin’ away with it.’” She picked up her box of dirty clothes. “You take heed. I warned you. You take heed a that pore chile in your belly an’ keep outa sin.” And she strode away titanically, and her eyes shone with virtue.

Rose of Sharon watched her go, and then she put her head down on her hands and whimpered into her palms. A soft voice sounded beside her. She looked up, ashamed. It was the little white-clad manager. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”

Her eyes blinded with tears. “But I done it,” she cried. “I hug-danced. I didn’ tell her. I done it in Sallisaw. Me an’ Connie.”

“Don’t worry,” he said.

“She says I’ll drop the baby.”

“I know she does. I kind of keep my eye on her. She’s a good woman, but she makes people unhappy.”

Rose of Sharon sniffled wetly. “She knowed two girls los’ their baby right in this here camp.”

The manager squatted down in front of her. “Look!” he said.

“Listen to me. I know them too. They were too hungry and too tired. And they worked too hard. And they rode on a truck over bumps. They were sick. It wasn’t their fault.”

“But she said—”

“Don’t worry. That woman likes to make trouble.”

“But she says you was the devil.”

“I know she does. That’s because I won’t let her make people miserable.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t you worry. She doesn’t know.” And he walked quickly away.

Rose of Sharon looked after him; his lean shoulders jerked as he walked. She was still watching his slight figure when Ma came back, clean and pink, her hair combed and wet, and gathered in a knot. She wore her figured dress and the old cracked shoes; and the little earrings hung in her ears.

“I done it,” she said. “I stood in there an’ let warm water come a-floodin’ an’ a-flowin’ down over me. An’ they was a lady says you can do it ever’ day if you want. An’— them ladies’ committee come yet?”

“Uh-uh!” said the girl.

“An’ you jes’ set there an’ didn’ redd up the camp none!” Ma gathered up the tin dishes as she spoke. “We got to get in shape,” she said. “Come on, stir! Get that sack and kinda sweep along the groun’.” She picked up the equipment, put the pans in their box and the box in the tent. “Get them beds neat,” she ordered. “I tell ya I ain’t never felt nothin’ so nice as that water.”

Rose of Sharon listlessly followed orders. “Ya think Connie’ll be back today?”

“Maybe— maybe not. Can’t tell.”

“You sure he knows where-at to come?”

“Sure.”

“Ma— ya don’ think— they could a killed him when they burned-?”

“Not him,” Ma said confidently. “He can travel when he wants jackrabbit-quick an’ fox-sneaky.”

“I wisht he’d come.”

“He’ll come when he comes.”

“Ma—”

“I wisht you’d get to work.”

“Well, do you think dancin’ an’ play-actin’ is sins an’ll make me drop the baby?”

Ma stopped her work and put her hands on her hips. “Now what you talkin’ about? You ain’t done no play-actin’.”

“Well, some folks here done it, an’ one girl, she dropped her baby— dead— an’ bloody, like it was a judgment.”

Ma stared at her. “Who tol’ you?”

“Lady that come by. An’ that little fella in white clothes, he come by an’ he says that ain’t what done it.”

Ma frowned. “Rosasharn,” she said, “you stop pickin’ at yourself. You’re jest a-teasin’ yourself up to cry. I don’ know what’s come at you. Our folks ain’t never did that. They took what come to ’em dry-eyed. I bet it’s that Connie give you all them notions. He was jes’ too big for his overhalls.” And she said sternly, “Rosasharn, you’re jest one person, an’ they’s a lot of other folks. You git to your proper place. I knowed people built theirself up with sin till they figgered they was big mean shucks in the sight a the Lord.”

“But, Ma—”