The Grapes of Wrath

The guests were moving in through the gateway, families from the farms, migrants from the ditch camps. Children straining to be free and quiet parents holding them back.

Jule said, “These here dances done funny things. Our people got nothing, but jes’ because they can ast their frien’s to come here to the dance, sets ’em up an’ makes ’em proud. An’ the folks respects ’em ’count of these here dances. Fella got a little place where I was a-workin’. He come to a dance here. I ast him myself, an’ he come. Says we got the only decent dance in the county, where a man can take his girls an’ his wife. Hey! Look.”

Three young men were coming through the gate— young working men in jeans. They walked close together. The guard at the gate questioned them, and they answered and passed through.

“Look at ’em careful,” Jule said. He moved to the guard. “Who ast them three?” he asked.

“Fella named Jackson, Unit Four.”

Jule came back to Tom. “I think them’s our fellas.”

“How ya know?”

“I dunno how. Jes’ got a feelin’. They’re kinda scared. Foller ’em an’ tell Willie to look ’em over, an’ tell Willie to check with Jackson, Unit Four. Get him to see if they’re all right. I’ll stay here.”

Tom strolled after the three young men. They moved toward the dance floor and took their positions quietly on the edge of the crowd. Tom saw Willie near the band and signaled him.

“What cha want?” Willie asked.

“Them three— see— there?”

“Yeah.”

“They say a fella name’ Jackson, Unit Four, ast ’em.”

Willie craned his neck and saw Huston and called him over. “Them three fellas,” he said. “We better get Jackson, Unit Four, an’ see if he ast ’em.”

Huston turned on his heel and walked away; and in a few moments he was back with a lean and bony Kansan. “This here’s Jackson,” Huston said. “Look, Jackson see them three young fellas—?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, did you ast ’em?”

“No.”

“Ever see ’em before?”

Jackson peered at them. “Sure. Worked at Gregorio’s with ’em.”

“So they knowed your name.”

“Sure. I worked right beside ’em.”

“Awright,” Huston said. “Don’t you go near ’em. We ain’t gonna th’ow ’em out if they’re nice. Thanks, Mr. Jackson.”

“Good work,” he said to Tom. “I guess them’s the fellas.”

“Jule picked ’em out,” said Tom.

“Hell, no wonder,” said Willie. “His Injun blood smelled ’em. Well, I’ll point ’em out to the boys.”

A sixteen-year-old boy came running through the crowd. He stopped, panting, in front of Huston. “Mista Huston,” he said. “I been like you said. They’s a car with six men parked down by the euc’lyptus trees, an’ they’s one with four men up that north-side road. I ast ’em for a match. They got guns. I seen ’em.”

Huston’s eyes grew hard and cruel. “Willie,” he said, “you sure you got ever’thing ready?” Willie grinned happily. “Sure. have, Mr. Huston. Ain’t gonna be no trouble.”

“Well, don’t hurt ’em. ’Member now. If you kin, quiet an’ nice, I kinda like to see ’em. Be in my tent.”

“I’ll see what we kin do,” said Willie. Dancing had not formally started, but now Willie climbed onto the platform. “Choose up your squares,” he called. The music stopped. Boys and girls, young men and women, ran about until eight squares were ready on the big floor, ready and waiting. The girls held their hands in front of them and squirmed their fingers. The boys tapped their feet restlessly. Around the floor the old folks sat, smiling slightly, holding the children back from the floor. And in the distance the Jesus-lovers sat with hard condemning faces and watched the sin.

Ma and Rose of Sharon sat on a bench and watched. And as each boy asked Rose of Sharon as partner, Ma said, “No, she ain’t well.” And Rose of Sharon blushed and her eyes were bright.

The caller stepped to the middle of the floor and held up his hands. “All ready? Then let her go!”

The music snarled out “Chicken Reel,” shrill and clear, fiddle skirling, harmonicas nasal and sharp, and the guitars booming on the bass strings. The caller named the turns, the squares moved. And they danced forward and back, hands ’round, swing your lady. The caller, in a frenzy, tapped his feet, strutted back and forth, went through the figures as he called them.

“Swing your ladies an’ a dol ce do. Join hans’ roun’ an’ away we go.” The music rose and fell, and the moving shoes beating in time on the platform sounded like drums. “Swing to the right an a swing to lef’; break, now— break— back to— back,” the caller sang the high vibrant monotone. Now the girls’ hair lost the careful combing. Now perspiration stood out on the foreheads of the boys. Now the experts showed the tricky inter-steps. And the old people on the edge of the floor took up the rhythm, patted their hands softly, and tapped their feet; and they smiled gently and then caught one another’s eyes and nodded.

Ma leaned her head close to Rose of Sharon’s ear. “Maybe you wouldn’ think it, but your Pa was as nice a dancer as I ever seen, when he was young.” And Ma smiled. “Makes me think of ol’ times,” she said. And on the faces of the watchers the smiles were of old times.