The Grapes of Wrath

“Up near Muskogee twenty years ago, they was a blin’ man with a fiddle—”

“I seen a fella oncet could slap his heels four times in one jump.”

“Swedes up in Dakota— know what they do sometimes? Put pepper on the floor. Gits up the ladies’ skirts an’ makes ’em purty lively— lively as a filly in season. Swedes do that sometimes.”

In the distance the Jesus-lovers watched their restive children. “Look on sin,” they said. “Them folks is ridin’ to hell on a poker. It’s a shame the godly got to see it.” And their children were silent and nervous.

“One more roun’ an’ then a little res’,” the caller chanted. “Hit her hard, ’cause we’re gonna stop soon.” And the girls were damp and flushed, and they danced with open mouths and serious reverent faces, and the boys flung back their long hair and pranced, pointed their toes, and clicked their heels. In and out the squares moved, crossing, backing, whirling, and the music shrilled.

Then suddenly it stopped. The dancers stood still, panting with fatigue. And the children broke from restraint, dashed on the floor, chased one another madly, ran, slid, stole caps, and pulled hair. The dancers sat down, fanning themselves with their hands. The members of the band got up and stretched themselves and sat down again. And the guitar players worked softly over their strings.

Now Willie called, “Choose again for another square, if you can.” The dancers scrambled to their feet and new dancers plunged forward for partners. Tom stood near the three young men. He saw them force their way through, out on the floor, toward one of the forming squares. He waved his hand at Willie, and Willie spoke to the fiddler. The fiddler squawked his bow across the strings. Twenty young men lounged slowly across the floor. The three reached the square. And one of them said, “I’ll dance with this here.”

A blond boy looked up in astonishment. “She’s my partner.”

“Listen, you little son-of-a-bitch—”

Off in the darkness a shrill whistle sounded. The three were walled in now. And each one felt the grip of hands. And then the wall of men moved slowly off the platform.

Willie yelped, “Le’s go!” The music shrilled out, the caller intoned the figures, the feet thudded on the platform.

A touring car drove to the entrance. The driver called, “Open up. We hear you got a riot.”

The guard kept his position. “We got no riot. Listen to that music. Who are you?”

“Deputy sheriffs.”

“Got a warrant?”

“We don’t need a warrant if there’s a riot.”

“Well, we got no riots here,” said the gate guard.

The men in the car listened to the music and the sound of the caller, and then the car pulled away and parked in a crossroad and waited.

In the moving squad each of the three young men was pinioned, and a hand was over each mouth. When they reached the darkness the group opened up.

Tom said, “That sure was did nice.” He held both arms of his victim from behind.

Willie ran over to them from the dance floor. “Nice work,” he said. “On’y need six now. Huston wants to see these here fellers.”

Huston himself emerged from the darkness. “These the ones?”

“Sure,” said Jule. “Went right up an’ started it. But they didn’ even swing once.”

“Let’s look at ’em.” The prisoners were swung around to face them. Their heads were down. Huston put a flashlight beam in each sullen face. “What did you wanta do it for?” he asked. There was no answer. “Who the hell tol’ you to do it?”

“Goddarn it, we didn’ do nothing. We was jes’ gonna dance.”

“No, you wasn’t,” Jule said. “You was gonna sock that kid.”

Tom said, “Mr. Huston, jus’ when these here fellas moved in, somebody give a whistle.”

“Yeah, I know! The cops come right to the gate.” He turned back. “We ain’t gonna hurt you. Now who tol’ you to come bus’ up our dance?” He waited for a reply. “You’re our own folks,” Huston said sadly. “You belong with us. How’d you happen to come? We know all about it,” he added.

“Well, goddamn it, a fella got to eat.”

“Well, who sent you? Who paid you to come?”

“We ain’t been paid.”

“An’ you ain’t gonna be. No fight, no pay. Ain’t that right?” One of the pinioned men said, “Do what you want. We ain’t gonna tell nothing.”

Huston’s head sank down for a moment, and then he said softly, “O.K. Don’t tell. But looka here. Don’t knife your own folks. We’re tryin’ to get along, havin’ fun an’ keepin’ order. Don’t tear all that down. Jes’ think about it. You’re jes’ harmin’ yourself.

“Awright, boys, put ’em over the back fence. An’ don’t hurt ’em. They don’t know what they’re doin’.” The squad moved slowly toward the rear of the camp, and Huston looked after them. Jule said, “Le’s jes’ take one good kick at ’em.”

“No, you don’t!” Willie cried. “I said we wouldn’.”

“Jes’ one nice little kick,” Jule pleaded. “Jes’ loft ’em over the fence.”