The Grapes of Wrath

The three men on the seat were glum as they drove toward home over the dusty road. Al, bending over the wheel, kept shifting eyes from the road to the instrument panel, watching the ammeter needle, which jerked suspiciously, watching the oil gauge and the heat indicator. And his mind was cataloguing weak points and suspicious things about the car. He listened to the whine, which might be the rear end, dry; and he listened to tappets lifting and falling. He kept his hand on the gear lever, feeling the turning gears through it. And he had let the clutch out against the brake to test for slipping clutch plates. He might be a musking goat sometimes, but this was his responsibility, this truck, its running, and its maintenance. If something went wrong it would be his fault, and while no one would say it, everyone, and Al most of all, would know it was his fault. And so he felt it, watched it, and listened to it. And his face was serious and responsible. And everyone respected him and his responsibility. Even Pa, who was the leader, would hold a wrench and take orders from Al.

They were all tired on the truck. Ruthie and Winfield were tired from seeing too much movement, too many faces, from fighting to get licorice whips; tired from the excitement of having Uncle John secretly slip gum into their pockets.

And the men in the seat were tired and angry and sad, for they had got eighteen dollars for every movable thing from the farm: the horses, the wagon, the implements, and all the furniture from the house. Eighteen dollars. They had assailed the buyer, argued; but they were routed when his interest seemed to flag and he had told them he didn’t want the stuff at any price. Then they were beaten, believed him, and took two dollars less than he had first offered. And now they were weary and frightened because they had gone against a system they did not understand and it had beaten them. They knew the team and the wagon were worth much more. They knew the buyer man would get much more, but they didn’t know how to do it. Merchandising was a secret to them.

Al, his eyes darting from road to panel board, said, “That fella, he ain’t a local fella. Didn’ talk like a local fella. Clothes was different, too.”

And Pa explained, “When I was in the hardware store I talked to some men I know. They say there’s fellas comin’ in jus’ to buy up the stuff us fellas got to sell when we get out. They say these new fellas is cleaning up. But there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. Maybe Tommy should of went. Maybe he could of did better.”

John said, “But the fella wasn’t gonna take it at all. We couldn’t haul it back.”

“These men I know told about that,” said Pa. “Said the buyer fellas always done that. Scairt folks that way. We jus’ don’t know how to go about stuff like that. Ma’s gonna be disappointed. She’ll be mad an’ disappointed.”

Al said, “When ya think we’re gonna go, Pa?”

“I dunno. We’ll talk her over tonight an’ decide. I’m sure glad Tom’s back. That makes me feel good. Tom’s a good boy.”

Al said, “Pa, some fellas was talkin’ about Tom, an’ they says he’s parole’. An’ they says that means he can’t go outside the State, or if he goes, an’ they catch him, they send ’im back for three years.”

Pa looked startled. “They said that? Seem like fellas that knowed? Not jus’ blowin’ off?”

“I don’t know,” said Al. “They was just a-talkin’ there, an’ I didn’t let on he’s my brother. I jus’ stood an’ took it in.”

Pa said, “Jesus Christ, I hope that ain’t true! We need Tom. I’ll ask ’im about that. We got trouble enough without they chase the hell out of us. I hope it ain’t true. We got to talk that out in the open.”

Uncle John said, “Tom, he’ll know.”

They fell silent while the truck battered along. The engine was noisy, full of little clashings, and the brake rods banged. There was a wooden creaking from the wheels, and a thin jet of steam escaped through a hole in the top of the radiator cap. The truck pulled a high whirling column of red dust behind it. They rumbled up the last little rise while the sun was still half-face above the horizon, and they bore down on the house as it disappeared. The brakes squealed when they stopped, and the sound printed in Al’s head— no lining left.

Ruthie and Winfield climbed yelling over the side walls and dropped to the ground. They shouted, “Where is he? Where’s Tom?” And then they saw him standing beside the door, and they stopped, embarrassed, and walked slowly toward him and looked shyly at him.

And when he said, “Hello, how you kids doin’?” they replied softly, “Hello! All right.” And they stood apart and watched him secretly, the great brother who had killed a man and been in prison. They remembered how they had played prison in the chicken coop and fought for the right to be prisoner.

Connie Rivers lifted the high tail-gate out of the truck and got down and helped Rose of Sharon to the ground; and she accepted it nobly, smiling her wise, self-satisfied smile, mouth tipped at the corners a little fatuously.