The Grapes of Wrath (54 page)

“You shouldn’ think we’re a-buttin’ into your business, Mis’ Joad. This here camp got a lot of stuff ever’body uses. An’ we got rules we made ourself. Now we’re a-goin’ to the unit. That there, ever’body uses, an’ ever’body got to take care of it.” They strolled to the unroofed section where the wash trays were, twenty of them. Eight were in use, the women bending over, scrubbing the clothes, and the piles of wrung-out clothes were heaped on the clean concrete floor. “Now you can use these here any time you want,” Jessie said. “The on’y thing is, you got to leave ’em clean.”

The women who were washing looked up with interest. Jessie said loudly, “This here’s Mis’ Joad an’ Rosasharn, come to live.” They greeted Ma in a chorus, and Ma made a dumpy little bow at them and said, “Proud to meet ya.”

Jessie led the committee into the toilet and shower room.

“I been here awready,” Ma said. “I even took a bath.”

“That’s what they’re for,” Jessie said. “An’ they’s the same rule. You got to leave ’em clean. Ever’ week they’s a new committee to swab out oncet a day. Maybe you’ll git on that committee. You got to bring your own soap.”

“We got to get some soap,” Ma said. “We’re all out.”

Jessie’s voice became almost reverential. “You ever used this here kind?” she asked, and pointed to the toilets.

“Yes, ma’am. Right this mornin’.”

Jessie sighed. “Tha’s good.”

Ella Summers said, “Jes’ las’ week——”

Jessie interrupted sternly, “Mis’ Summers—I’ll tell.”

Ella gave ground. “Oh, awright.”

Jessie said, “Las’ week, when you was Chair, you done it all. I’ll thank you to keep out this week.”

“Well, tell what that lady done,” Ella said.

“Well,” said Jessie, “it ain’t this committee’s business to go a-blabbin’, but I won’t pass no names. Lady come in las’ week, an’ she got in here ’fore the committee got to her, an’ she had her ol’ man’s pants in the toilet, an’ she says, ‘It’s too low, an’ it ain’t big enough. Bust your back over her,’ she says. ‘Why couldn’ they stick her higher?”’ The committee smiled superior smiles.

Ella broke in, “Says, ‘Can’t put ’nough in at oncet.”’ And Ella weathered Jessie’s stern glance.

Jessie said, “We got our troubles with toilet paper. Rule says you can’t take none away from here.” She clicked her tongue sharply. “Whole camp chips in for toilet paper.” For a moment she was silent, and then she confessed. “Number Four is usin’ more than any other. Somebody’s a-stealin’ it. Come up in general ladies’ meetin’. ‘Ladies’ side, Unit Number Four is usin’ too much.’ Come right up in meetin’!”

Ma was following the conversation breathlessly. “Stealin’ it—what for?”

“Well,” said Jessie, “we had trouble before. Las’ time they was three little girls cuttin’ paper dolls out of it. Well, we caught them. But this time we don’t know. Hardly put a roll out ’fore it’s gone. Come right up in meetin’. One lady says we oughta have a little bell that rings ever’ time the roll turns oncet. Then we could count how many ever’body takes.” She shook her head. “I jes’ don’ know,” she said. “I been worried all week. Somebody’s a-stealin’ toilet paper from Unit Four.”

From the doorway came a whining voice, “Mis’ Bullitt.” The committee turned. “Mis’ Bullitt, I hearn what you says.” A flushed, perspiring woman stood in the doorway. “I couldn’ git up in meetin’. Mis’ Bullitt. I jes’ couldn’. They’d a-laughed or somepin.”

“What you talkin’ about?” Jessie advanced.

“Well, we-all—maybe—it’s us. But we ain’t a-stealin’, Mis’ Bullitt.”

Jessie advanced on her, and the perspiration beaded out on the flustery confessor. “We can’t he’p it. Mis’ Bullitt.”

“Now you tell what you’re tellin’,” Jessie said. “This here unit’s suffered a shame ’bout that toilet paper.”

“All week, Mis’ Bullitt. We couldn’ he’p it. You know I got five girls.”

“What they been a-doin’ with it?” Jessie demanded ominously.

“Jes’ usin’ it. Hones’, jes’ usin’ it.”

“They ain’t got the right! Four-five sheets is enough. What’s the matter’th ’em?”

The confessor bleated, “Skitters. All five of ’em. We been low on money. They et green grapes. They all five got the howlin’ skitters. Run out ever’ ten minutes.” She defended them, “But they ain’t stealin’ it.”

Jessie sighed. “You should a tol’,” she said. “You got to tell. Here’s Unit Four sufferin’ shame ’cause you never tol’. Anybody can git the skitters.”

The meek voice whined, “I jes’ can’t keep ’em from eatin’ them green grapes. An’ they’re a-gettin’ worse all a time.”

Ella Summers burst out, “The Aid. She oughta git the Aid.”

“Ella Summers,” Jessie said, “I’m a-tellin’ you for the las’ time, you ain’t the Chair.” She turned back to the raddled little woman. “Ain’t you got no money, Mis’ Joyce?”

She looked ashamedly down. “No, but we might git work any time.”

“Now you hol’ up your head,” Jessie said. “That ain’t no crime. You jes’ waltz right over t’ the Weedpatch store an’ git you some grocteries. The camp got twenty dollars’ credit there. You git yourself fi’ dollars’ worth. An’ you kin pay it back to the Central Committee when you git work. Mis’ Joyce, you knowed that,” she said sternly. “How come you let your girls git hungry?”

“We ain’t never took no charity,” Mrs. Joyce said.

“This ain’t charity, an’ you know it,” Jessie raged. “We had all that out. They ain’t no charity in this here camp. We won’t have no charity. Now you waltz right over an’ git you some grocteries, an’ you bring the slip to me.”

Mrs. Joyce said timidly, “S’pose we can’t never pay? We ain’t had work for a long time.”

“You’ll pay if you can. If you can’t, that ain’t none of our business, an’ it ain’t your business. One fella went away, an’ two months later he sent
back the money. You ain’t got the right to let your girls git hungry in this here camp.”

Mrs. Joyce was cowed. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Git you some cheese for them girls,” Jessie ordered. “That’ll take care a them skitters.”

“Yes, ma’am.” And Mrs. Joyce scuttled out of the door.

Jessie turned in anger on the committee. “She got no right to be stiff-necked. She got no right, not with our own people.”

Annie Littlefield said, “She ain’t been here long. Maybe she don’t know. Maybe she’s took charity one time-another. Nor,” Annie said, “don’t you try to shut me up, Jessie. I got a right to pass speech.” She turned half to Ma. “If a body’s ever took charity, it makes a burn that don’t come out. This ain’t charity, but if you ever took it, you don’t forget it. I bet Jessie ain’t ever done it.”

“No, I ain’t,” said Jessie.

“Well, I did,” Annie said. “Las’ winter; an’ we was a-starvin’—me an’ Pa an’ the little fellas. An’ it was a-rainin’. Fella tol’ us to go to the Salvation Army.” Her eyes grew fierce. “We was hungry—they made us crawl for our dinner. They took our dignity. They—I hate ’em! An’—maybe Mis’ Joyce took charity. Maybe she didn’ know this ain’t charity. Mis’ Joad, we don’t allow nobody in this camp to build their-self up that-a-way. We don’t allow nobody to give nothing to another person. They can give it to the camp, an’ the camp can pass it out. We won’t have no charity!” Her voice was fierce and hoarse. “I hate ’em,” she said. “I ain’t never seen my man beat before, but them—them Salvation Army done it to ’im.”

Jessie nodded. “I heard,” she said softly, “I heard. We got to take Mis’ Joad aroun’.”

Ma said, “It sure is nice.”

“Le’s go to the sewin’ room,” Annie suggested. “Got two machines. They’s a-quiltin’, an’ they’re makin’ dresses. You might like ta work over there.”

When the committee called on Ma, Ruthie and Winfield faded imperceptibly back out of reach.

“Whyn’t we go along an’ listen?” Winfield asked.

Ruthie gripped his arm. “No,” she said. “We got washed for them sons-a-bitches. I ain’t goin’ with ’em.”

Winfield said, “You tol’ on me ’bout the toilet. I’m a-gonna tell what you called them ladies.”

A shadow of fear crossed Ruthie’s face. “Don’ do it. I tol’ ’cause I knowed you didn’ really break it.”

“You did not,” said Winfield.

Ruthie said, “Le’s look aroun’.” They strolled down the line of tents, peering into each one, gawking self-consciously. At the end of the unit there was a level place on which a croquet court had been set up. Half a dozen children played seriously. In front of a tent an elderly lady sat on a bench and watched. Ruthie and Winfield broke into a trot. “Leave us play,” Ruthie cried. “Leave us get in.”

The children looked up. A pig-tailed little girl said, “Nex’ game you kin.”

“I wanta play now,” Ruthie cried.

“Well, you can’t. Not till nex’ game.”

Ruthie moved menacingly out on the court. “I’m a-gonna play.” The pig-tails gripped her mallet tightly. Ruthie sprang at her, slapped her, pushed her, and wrested the mallet from her hands. “I says I was gonna play,” she said triumphantly.

The elderly lady stood up and walked onto the court. Ruthie scowled fiercely and her hands tightened on the mallet. The lady said, “Let her play—like you done with Ralph las’ week.”

The children laid their mallets on the ground and trooped silently off the court. They stood at a distance and looked on with expressionless eyes. Ruthie watched them go. Then she hit a ball and ran after it. “Come on, Winfiel’. Get a stick,” she called. And then she looked in amazement. Winfield had joined the watching children, and he too looked at her with expressionless eyes. Defiantly she hit the ball again. She kicked up a great dust. She pretended to have a good time. And the children stood and watched. Ruthie lined up two balls and hit both of them, and she turned her back on the watching eyes, and then turned back. Suddenly she advanced on them, mallet in hand. “You come an’ play,” she demanded. They moved silently back at her approach. For a moment she stared at them, and then she flung down the
mallet and ran crying for home. The children walked back on the court.

Pigtails said to Winfield, “You can git in the nex’ game.”

The watching lady warned them, “When she comes back an’ wants to be decent, you let her. You was mean yourself, Amy.” The game went on, while in the Joad tent Ruthie wept miserably.

The truck moved along the beautiful roads, past orchards where the peaches were beginning to color, past vineyards with the clusters pale and green, under lines of walnut trees whose branches spread half across the road. At each entrance-gate Al slowed; and at each gate there was a sign: “No help wanted. No trespassing.”

Al said, “Pa, they’s boun’ to be work when them fruits gets ready. Funny place—they tell ya they ain’t no work ’fore you ask ’em.” He drove slowly on.

Pa said, “Maybe we could go in anyways an’ ask if they know where they’s any work. Might do that.”

A man in blue overalls and a blue shirt walked along the edge of the road. Al pulled up beside him. “Hey, mister,” Al said. “Know where they’s any work?”

The man stopped and grinned, and his mouth was vacant of front teeth. “No,” he said. “Do you? I been walkin’ all week, an’ I can’t tree none.”

“Live in that gov’ment camp?” Al asked.

“Yeah!”

“Come on, then. Git up back, an’ we’ll all look.” The man climbed over the side-boards and dropped in the bed.

Pa said, “I ain’t got no hunch we’ll find work. Guess we got to look, though. We don’t even know where-at to look.”

“Shoulda talked to the fellas in the camp,” Al said. “How you feelin’, Uncle John?”

“I ache,” said Uncle John. “I ache all over, an’ I got it comin’. I oughta go away where I won’t bring down punishment on my own folks.”

Pa put his hand on John’s knee. “Look here,” he said, “don’ you go away. We’re droppin’ folks all the time—Grampa an’ Granma dead, Noah an’ Connie—run out, an’ the preacher—in jail.”

“I got a hunch we’ll see that preacher agin,” John said.

Al fingered the ball on the gear-shift lever. “You don’ feel good enough to have no hunches,” he said. “The hell with it. Le’s go back an’ talk, an’find out where they’s some work. We’re jus’ huntin’ skunks under water.” He stopped the truck and leaned out the window and called back, “Hey! Lookie! We’re a-goin’ back to the camp an’ try an’ see where they’s work. They ain’t no use burnin’ gas like this.”

The man leaned over the truck side. “Suits me,” he said. “My dogs is wore clean up to the ankle. An’ I ain’t even got a nibble.”

Al turned around in the middle of the road and headed back.

Pa said, “Ma’s gonna be purty hurt, ’specially when Tom got work so easy.”

“Maybe he never got none,” Al said. “Maybe he jus’ went lookin’, too. I wisht I could get work in a garage. I’d learn that stuff quick, an’ I’d like it.”

Pa grunted, and they drove back toward the camp in silence.

When the committee left, Ma sat down on a box in front of the Joad tent, and she looked helplessly at Rose of Sharon. “Well—” she said, “well—I ain’t been so perked up in years.
Wasn’t
them ladies nice?”

“I get to work in the nursery,” Rose of Sharon said. “They tol’ me. I can find out all how to do for babies, an’ them I’ll know.”

Ma nodded in wonder. “Wouldn’t it be nice if the menfolks all got work?” she asked. “Them a-workin’, an’ a little money comin’ in?” Her eyes wandered into space. “Them a-workin’, an’ us a-workin’ here, an’ all them nice people. Fust thing we get a little ahead I’d get me a little stove—nice one. They don’ cost much. An’ then we’d get a tent, big enough, an’ maybe secon’-han’ springs for the beds. An’ we’d use this here tent jus’ to eat under. An’ Sat’dy night we’ll go to the dancin’. They says you can invite folks if you want. I wisht we had some frien’s to invite. Maybe the men’ll know somebody to invite.”

Rose of Sharon peered down the road. “That lady that says I’ll lose the baby—” she began.

“Now you stop that,” Ma warned her.

Rose of Sharon said softly, “I seen her. She’s a-comin’ here, I think. Yeah! Here she comes. Ma, don’t let her——”

Ma turned and looked at the approaching figure.

“Howdy,” the woman said. “I’m Mis’ Sandry—Lisbeth Sandry. I seen your girl this mornin’.”

“Howdy do,” said Ma.

“Are you happy in the Lord?”

“Pretty happy,” said Ma.

“Are you saved?”

“I been saved.” Ma’s face was closed and waiting.