The Grapes of Wrath

“Hm. Well, Al’s a good boy. Kinda figgers he’s a dunghill rooster these days, but he’s a good steady boy. I couldn’ want for a better boy.”

“Oh, we ain’t complainin’ about Al as a fella! We like him. But what scares Mis’ Wainwright an’ me— well, she’s a growed-up woman-girl. An’ what if we go away, or you go away, an’ we find out Aggie’s in trouble? We ain’t had no shame in our family.”

Ma said softly, “We’ll try an’ see that we don’t put no shame on you.”

He stood up quickly. “Thank you, ma’am. Aggie’s a growed-up woman-girl. She’s a good girl— jes’ as nice an’ good. We’ll sure thank you, ma’am, if you’ll keep shame from us. It ain’t Aggie’s fault. She’s growed up.”

“Pa’ll talk to Al,” said Ma. “Or if Pa won’t, I will.”

Wainwright said, “Good night, then, an’ we sure thank ya.” He went around the end of the curtain. They could hear him talking softly in the other end of the car, explaining the result of his embassy.

Ma listened a moment, and then, “You fellas,” she said. “Come over an’ set here.” Pa and Uncle John got heavily up from their squats. They sat on the mattress beside Ma. “Where’s the little fellas?” Pa pointed to a mattress in the corner. “Ruthie, she jumped Winfiel’ an’ bit ’im. Made ’em both lay down. Guess they’re asleep. Rosasharn, she went to set with a lady she knows.” Ma sighed. “I foun’ Tom,” she said softly. “I— sent ’im away. Far off.” Pa nodded slowly. Uncle John dropped his chin on his chest. “Couldn’ do nothin’ else,” Pa said. “Think he could, John?” Uncle John looked up. “I can’t think nothin’ out,” he said. “Don’ seem like I’m hardly awake no more.”

“Tom’s a good boy,” Ma said; and then she apologized, “I didn’ mean no harm a-sayin’ I’d talk to Al.”

“I know,” Pa said quietly. “I ain’t no good any more. Spen’ all my time a-thinkin’ how it use’ ta be. Spen’ all my time thinkin’ of home, an’ I ain’t never gonna see it no more.”

“This here’s purtier— better lan’,” said Ma. “I know. I never even see it, thinkin’ how the willow’s los’ its leaves now. Sometimes figgerin’ to mend that hole in the south fence. Funny! Woman takin’ over the fambly. Woman sayin’ we’ll do this here, an’ we’ll go there. An’ I don’ even care.”

“Woman can change better’n a man,” Ma said soothingly. “Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head. Don’ you mind. Maybe— well, maybe nex’ year we can get a place.”

“We got nothin’, now,” Pa said. “Comin’ a long time— no work, no crops. What we gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat? An’ I tell you Rosasharn ain’t so far from due. Git so I hate to think. Go diggin’ back to a ol’ time to keep from thinkin’. Seems like our life’s over an’ done.”

“No, it ain’t,” Ma smiled. “It ain’t, Pa. An’ that’s one more thing a woman knows. I noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks— baby born an’ a man dies, an’ that’s a jerk— gets a farm an’ loses his farm, an’ that’s a jerk. Woman, it’s all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on. Woman looks at it like that. We ain’t gonna die out. People is goin’ on— changin’ a little, maybe, but goin’ right on.”

“How can you tell?” Uncle John demanded. “What’s to keep ever’thing from stoppin’; all the folks from jus’ gettin’ tired an’ layin’ down?”

Ma considered. She rubbed the shiny back of one hand with the other, pushed the fingers of her right hand between the fingers of her left. “Hard to say,” she said. “Ever’thing we do— seems to me is aimed right at goin’ on. Seems that way to me. Even gettin’ hungry— even bein’ sick; some die, but the rest is tougher. Jus’ try to live the day, jus’ the day.”

Uncle John said, “If on’y she didn’ die that time—”

“Jus’ live the day,” Ma said. “Don’ worry yaself.”

“They might be a good year nex’ year, back home,” said Pa. Ma said, “Listen!” There were creeping steps on the cat-walk, and then Al came in past the curtain. “Hullo,” he said. “I thought you’d be sleepin’ by now.”

“Al,” Ma said. “We’re a-talkin’. Come set here.”

“Sure— O.K. I wanta talk too. I’ll hafta be goin’ away pretty soon now.”

“You can’t. We need you here. Why you got to go away?”

“Well, me an’ Aggie Wainwright, we figgers to get married, an’ I’m gonna git a job in a garage, an’ we’ll have a rent’ house for a while, an!—” He looked up fiercely. “Well, we are, an’ they ain’t nobody can stop us!”

They were staring at him. “Al,” Ma said at last, “we’re glad. We’re awful glad.”

“You are?”

“Why, ’course we are. You’re a growed man. You need a wife. But don’ go right now, Al.”

“I promised Aggie,” he said. “We got to go. We can’t stan’ this no more.”

“Jus’ stay till spring,” Ma begged. “Jus’ till spring. Won’t you stay till spring? Who’d drive the truck?”

“Well—”

Mrs. Wainwright put her head around the curtain. “You heard yet?” she demanded.

“Yeah! Jus’ heard.”

“Oh, my! I wisht— I wisht we had a cake. I wisht we had— a cake or somepin.”

“I’ll set on some coffee an’ make up some pancakes,” Ma said. “We got sirup.”