The Grapes of Wrath

The sun rose on their right, and the great shadow of the truck ran beside them, flicking over the fence posts beside the road. They ran on past the rebuilt Hooverville.

“Look,” said Tom. “They got new people there. Looks like the same place.”

Al came slowly out of his sullenness. “Fella tol’ me some a them people been burned out fifteen-twenty times. Says they jus’ go hide down the willows an’ then they come out an’ build ’em another weed shack. Jus’ like gophers. Got so use’ to it they don’t even get mad no more, this fella says. They jus’ figger it’s like bad weather.”

“Sure was bad weather for me that night,” said Tom. They moved up the wide highway. And the sun’s warmth made them shiver. “Gettin’ snappy in the mornin’,” said Tom. “Winter’s on the way. I jus’ hope we can get some money ’fore it comes. Tent ain’t gonna be nice in the winter.”

Ma sighed, and then she straightened her head. “Tom,” she said, “we gotta have a house in the winter. I tell ya we got to. Ruthie’s awright, but Winfiel’ ain’t so strong. We got to have a house when the rains come. I heard it jus’ rains cats aroun’ here.”

“We’ll get a house, Ma. You res’ easy. You gonna have a house.”

“Jus’ so’s it’s got a roof an’ a floor. Jus’ to keep the little fellas off’n the groun’.”

“We’ll try, Ma.”

“I don’ wanna worry ya now.”

“We’ll try, Ma.”

“I jus’ get panicky sometimes,” she said. “I jus’ lose my spunk.”

“I never seen you when you lost it.”

“Nights I do, sometimes.” There came a harsh hissing from the front of the truck. Tom grabbed the wheel tight and he thrust the brake down to the floor. The truck bumped to a stop. Tom sighed. “Well, there she is.” He leaned back in the seat. Al leaped out and ran to the right front tire.

“Great big nail,” he called. “We got any tire patch?”

“No,” said Al. “Used it all up. Got patch, but no glue stuff.” Tom turned and smiled sadly at Ma. “You shouldn’ a tol’ about that dollar,” he said. “We’d a fixed her some way.” He got out of the car and went to the flat tire. Al pointed to a big nail protruding from the flat casing. “There she is!”

“If they’s one nail in the county, we run over it.”

“Is it bad?” Ma called.

“No, not bad, but we got to fix her.” The family piled down from the top of the truck. “Puncture?” Pa asked, and then he saw the tire and was silent.

Tom moved Ma from the seat and got the can of tire patch from underneath the cushion. He unrolled the rubber patch and took out the tube of cement, squeezed it gently. “She’s almos’ dry,” he said. “Maybe they’s enough. Awright, Al. Block the back wheels. Le’s get her jacked up.”

Tom and Al worked well together. They put stones behind the wheels, put the jack under the front axle, and lifted the weight off the limp casing. They ripped off the casing. They found the hole, dipped a rag in the gas tank and washed the tube around the hole. And then, while Al held the tube tight over his knee, Tom tore the cement tube in two and spread the little fluid thinly on the rubber with his pocket knife. He scraped the gum delicately. “Now let her dry while I cut a patch.” He trimmed and beveled the edge of the blue patch. Al held the tube tight while Tom put the patch tenderly in place. “There! Now bring her to the running board while I tap her with a hammer.” He pounded the patch carefully, then stretched the tube and watched the edges of the patch. “There she is! She’s gonna hold. Stick her on the rim an’ we’ll pump her up. Looks like you keep your buck, Ma.”

Al said, “I wisht we had a spare. We got to get us a spare, Tom, on a rim an’ all pumped up. Then we can fix a puncture at night.”

“When we get money for a spare we’ll get us some coffee an’ side-meat instead,” Tom said.

The light morning traffic buzzed by on the highway, and the sun grew warm and bright. A wind, gentle and sighing, blew in puffs from the southwest, and the mountains on both sides of the great valley were indistinct in a pearly mist.

Tom was pumping at the tire when a roadster, coming from the north, stopped on the other side of the road. A brown-faced man dressed in a light gray business suit got out and walked across to the truck. He was bareheaded. He smiled, and his teeth were very white against his brown skin. He wore a massive gold wedding ring on the third finger of his left hand. A little gold football hung on a slender chain across his vest.

“Morning,” he said pleasantly. Tom stopped pumping and looked up. “Mornin’.” The man ran his fingers through his coarse, short, graying hair.

“You people looking for work?”

“We sure are, mister. Lookin’ even under boards.”

“Can you pick peaches?”

“We never done it,” Pa said. “We can do anything,” Tom said hurriedly. “We can pick anything there is.” The man fingered his gold football. “Well, there’s plenty of work for you about forty miles north.”

“We’d sure admire to get it,” said Tom. “You tell us how to get there, an’ we’ll go a-lopin’.”