The Grapes of Wrath

Hunch along now, fill up the bag ’fore dark. Wise fingers seeking in the bolls. Hips hunching along, dragging the bag. Kids are tired now, in the evenin’. They trip over their feet in the cultivated earth. And the sun is going down.

Wisht it would last. It ain’t much money, God knows, but I wisht it would last. On the highway the old cars piling in, drawn by the handbills. Got a cotton bag? No. Cost ya a dollar, then. If they was on’y fifty of us, we could stay awhile, but they’s five hunderd. She won’t last hardly at all. I knowed a fella never did git his bag paid out. Ever’ job he got a new bag, an’ ever’ fiel’ was done ’fore he got his weight.

Try for God’s sake ta save a little money! Winter’s comin’ fast. They ain’t no work at all in California in the winter. Fill up the bag ’fore it’s dark. I seen that fella put two clods in.

Well, hell. Why not? I’m jus’ balancin’ the crooked scales. Now here’s my book, three hunderd an’ twelve poun’s. Right! Jesus, he never argued! His scales mus’ be crooked. Well, that’s a nice day anyways. They say a thousan’ men are on their way to this field. We’ll be fightin’ for a row tomorra. We’ll be snatchin’ cotton, quick. Cotton Pickers Wanted. More men picking, quicker to the gin. Now into the cotton camp. Side-meat tonight, by God! We got money for side-meat! Stick out a han’ to the little fella, he’s wore out. Run in ahead an’ git us four poun’ of side-meat. The ol’ woman’ll make some nice biscuits tonight, ef she ain’t too tired.

CHAPTER 28

THE BOXCARS, TWELVE of them, stood end to end on a little flat beside the stream. There were two rows of six each, the wheels removed. Up to the big sliding doors slatted planks ran for cat-walks. They made good houses, water-tight and draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car. No windows, but the wide doors stood open. In some of the cars a canvas hung down in the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary.

The Joads had one end of an end car. Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe. Even with the wide door open, it was dark in the ends of the car. Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle of the car.

“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s almost nicer than anything we had ’cept the gov’ment camp.”

Each night she unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them up again. And every day they went into the fields and picked the cotton, and every night they had meat. On a Saturday they drove into Tulare, and they bought a tin stove and new overalls for Al and Pa and Winfield and Uncle John, and they bought a dress for Ma and gave Ma’s best dress to Rose of Sharon.

“She’s so big,” Ma said. “Jus’ a waste of good money to get her a new dress now.”

The Joads had been lucky. They got in early enough to have a place in the boxcars. Now the tents of the late-comers filled the little flat, and those who had the boxcars were old-timers, and in a way aristocrats.

The narrow stream slipped by, out of the willows, and back into the willows again. From each car a hard-beaten path went down to the stream. Between the cars the clothes lines hung, and every day the lines were covered with drying clothes.

In the evening they walked back from the fields, carrying their folded cotton bags under their arms. They went into the store which stood at the crossroads, and there were many pickers in the store, buying their supplies.

“How much today?”

“We’re doin’ fine. We made three and a half today. Wisht she’d keep up. Them kids is gettin’ to be good pickers. Ma’s worked ’em up a little bag for each. They couldn’ tow a growed-up bag. Dump into ours. Made bags outa a couple old shirts. Work fine.”

And Ma went to the meat counter, her forefinger pressed against her lips, blowing on her finger, thinking deeply. “Might get some pork chops,” she said. “How much?”

“Thirty cents a pound, ma’am.”

“Well, lemme have three poun’s. An’ a nice piece a boilin’ beef. My girl can cook it tomorra. An’ a bottle a milk for my girl. She dotes on milk. Gonna have a baby. Nurse-lady tol’ her to eat lots a milk. Now, le’s see, we got potatoes.”

Pa came close, carrying a can of sirup in his hands. “Might get this here,” he said. “Might have some hotcakes.”

Ma frowned. “Well— well, yes. Here, we’ll take this here. Now— we got plenty lard.”

Ruthie came near, in her hands two large boxes of Cracker Jack, in her eyes a brooding question, which on a nod or a shake of Ma’s head might become tragedy or joyous excitement. “Ma?” She held up the boxes, jerked them up and down to make them attractive.

“Now you put them back—”

The tragedy began to form in Ruthie’s eyes. Pa said, “They’re on’y a nickel apiece. Them little fellas worked good today.”

“Well—” The excitement began to steal into Ruthie’s eyes. “Awright.”

Ruthie turned and fled. Halfway to the door she caught Winfield and rushed him out the door, into the evening.