The Grapes of Wrath (67 page)

“What ya want?” Al demanded.

Ma said, “We got to figger what to do. Maybe we better keep on the back roads. Tom says so.”

“It’s my face,” Tom added. “Anybody’d know. Any cop’d know me.”

“Well, which way you wanta go? I figgered north. We been south.”

“Yeah,” said Tom, “but keep on back roads.”

Al asked, “How ’bout pullin’ off an’ catchin’ some sleep, goin’ on tomorra?”

Ma said quickly, “Not yet. Le’s get some distance fust.”

“O.K.” Al got back in his seat and drove on.

Ruthie and Winfield covered up their heads again. Ma called, “Is Winfiel’ all right?”

“Sure, he’s awright,” Ruthie said. “He been sleepin’.”

Ma leaned back against the truck side. “Gives ya a funny feelin’ to be hunted like. I’m gittin’ mean.”

“Ever’body’s gittin’ mean,” said Pa. “Ever’body. You seen that fight today. Fella changes. Down that gov’ment camp we wasn’ mean.”

Al turned right on a graveled road, and the yellow lights shuddered over the ground. The fruit trees were gone now, and cotton plants took their place. They drove on for twenty miles through the cotton, turning, angling on the country roads. The road paralleled a bushy creek and turned over a concrete bridge and followed the stream on the other side. And then, on the edge of the creek the lights showed a long line of red boxcars, wheelless; and a big sign on the edge of the road said, “Cotton Pickers Wanted.” Al slowed down. Tom peered between the side-bars of the truck. A quarter of a mile past the boxcars Tom hammered on the car again. Al stopped beside the road and got out again.

“Now what ya want?”

“Shut off the engine an’ climb up here,” Tom said.

Al got into the seat, drove off into the ditch, cut lights and engine. He climbed over the tail gate. “Awright,” he said.

Tom crawled over the pots and knelt in front of Ma. “Look,” he said. “It says they want cotton pickers. I seen that sign. Now I been tryin’ to figger how I’m gonna stay with you, an’ not make no trouble. When my face gets well, maybe it’ll be awright, but not now. Ya see them cars back there. Well, the pickers live in them. Now maybe they’s work there. How about if you get work there an’ live in one of them cars?”

“How ’bout you?” Ma demanded.

“Well, you seen that crick, all full a brush. Well, I could hide in that brush an’ keep outa sight. An’ at night you could bring me out somepin to eat. I seen a culvert, little ways back. I could maybe sleep in there.”

Pa said, “By God, I’d like to get my hands on some cotton! There’s work, I un’erstan’.”

“Them cars might be a purty place to stay,” said Ma. “Nice an’ dry. You think they’s enough brush to hide in, Tom?”

“Sure. I been watchin’. I could fix up a little place, hide away. Soon’s my face gets well, why, I’d come out.”

“You gonna scar purty bad,” said Ma.

“Hell! Ever’body got scars.”

“I picked four hunderd poun’s oncet,” Pa said. “’Course it was a good heavy crop. If we all pick, we could get some money.”

“Could get some meat,” said Al. “What’ll we do right now?”

“Go back there, an’ sleep in the truck till mornin’,” Pa said. “Git work in the mornin’. I can see them bolls even in the dark.”

“How ’bout Tom?” Ma asked.

“Now you jus’ forget me, Ma. I’ll take me a blanket. You look out on the way back. They’s a nice culvert. You can bring me some bread or potatoes, or mush, an’ just leave it there. I’ll come get it.”

“Well!”

“Seems like good sense to me,” said Pa.

“It is good sense,” Tom insisted. “Soon’s my face gets a little better, why, I’ll come out an’ go to pickin’.”

“Well, awright,” Ma agreed. “But don’ you take no chancet. Don’ let nobody see you for a while.”

Tom crawled to the back of the truck. “I’ll jus’ take this here blanket. You look for that culvert on the way back, Ma.”

“Take care,” she begged. “You take care.”

“Sure,” said Tom. “Sure I will.” He climbed the tail board, stepped down the bank. “Good night,” he said.

Ma watched his figure blur with the night and disappear into the bushes beside the stream. “Dear Jesus, I hope it’s awright,” she said.

Al asked, “You want I should go back now?”

“Yeah,” said Pa.

“Go slow,” said Ma. “I wanta be sure an’ see that culvert he said about. I got to see that.”

Al backed and filled on the narrow road, until he had reversed his direction. He drove slowly back to the line of box-cars. The truck lights showed the cat-walks up to the wide car doors. The doors were dark. No one moved in the night. Al shut off his lights.

“You and Uncle John climb up back,” he said to Rose of Sharon. “I’ll sleep in the seat here.”

Uncle John helped the heavy girl to climb up over the tail board. Ma piled the pots in a small space. The family lay wedged close together in the back of the truck.

A baby cried, in long jerking cackles, in one of the boxcars. A dog trotted out, sniffing and snorting, and moved slowly around the Joad truck. The tinkle of moving water came from the streambed.

Cotton Pickers Wanted—placards on the road, handbills out, orange- colored handbills—Cotton Pickers Wanted.

Here, up this road, it says.

The dark green plants stringy now, and the heavy bolls clutched in the pod. White cotton spilling out like popcorn.

Like to get our hands on the bolls. Tenderly, with the fingertips.

I’m a good picker.

Here’s the man, right here.

I aim to pick some cotton.

Got a bag?

Well, no, I ain’t.

Cost ya a dollar, the bag. Take it out o’ your first hunderd and fifty. Eighty cents a hunderd first time over the field. Ninety cents second time over. Get your bag there. One dollar. ’F you ain’t got the buck, we’ll take it out of your first hunderd and fifty. That’s fair, and you know it.

Sure it’s fair. Good cotton bag, last all season. An’ when she’s wore out, draggin’, turn ’er aroun’, use the other end. Sew up the open end. Open up the wore end. And when both ends is gone, why, that’s nice cloth! Makes a nice pair a summer drawers. Makes nightshirts. And well, hell—a cotton bag’s a nice thing.

Hang it around your waist. Straddle it, drag it between your legs. She drags light at first. And your fingertips pick out the fluff, and the hands go twisting into the sack between your legs. Kids come along behind; got no bags for the kids—use a gunny sack or put it in your ol’ man’s bag. She hangs heavy, some, now. Lean forward, hoist ’er along. I’m a good hand with cotton. Finger-wise, boll-wise. Jes’ move along talkin’,
an’ maybe singin’ till the bag gets heavy. Fingers go right to it. Fingers know. Eyes see the work—and don’t see it.

Talkin’ across the rows——

They was a lady back home, won’t mention no names—had a nigger kid all of a sudden. Nobody knowed before. Never did hunt out the nigger. Couldn’ never hold up her head no more. But I started to tell—she was a good picker.

Now the bag is heavy, boost it along. Set your hips and tow it along, like a work horse. And the kids pickin’ into the old man’s sack. Good crop here. Gets thin in the low places, thin and stringy. Never seen no cotton like this here California cotton. Long fiber, bes’ damn cotton I ever seen. Spoil the lan’ pretty soon. Like a fella wants to buy some cotton lan’—Don’ buy her, rent her. Then when she’s cottoned on down, move someplace new.

Lines of people moving across the fields. Finger-wise. Inquisitive fingers snick in and out and find the bolls. Hardly have to look.

Bet I could pick cotton if I was blind. Got a feelin’ for a cotton boll. Pick clean, clean as a whistle.

Sack’s full now. Take her to the scales. Argue. Scale man says you got rocks to make weight. How ’bout him? His scales is fixed. Sometimes he’s right, you got rocks in the sack. Sometimes you’re right, the scales is crooked. Sometimes both; rocks an’ crooked scales. Always argue, always fight. Keeps your head up. An’ his head up. What’s a few rocks? Jus’ one, maybe. Quarter pound? Always argue.

Back with the empty sack. Got our own book. Mark in the weight. Got to. If they know you’re markin’, then they don’t cheat. But God he’p ya if ya don’ keep your own weight.

This is good work. Kids runnin’ aroun’. Heard ’bout the cotton-pickin’ machine?

Yeah, I heard.

Think it’ll ever come?

Well, if it comes—fella says it’ll put han’ pickin’ out.

Come night. All tired. Good pickin’, though. Got three dollars, me an’ the ol’ woman an’ the kids.

The cars move to the cotton fields. The cotton camps set up. The screened high trucks and trailers are piled high with white fluff. Cotton
clings to the fence wires, and cotton rolls in little balls along the road when the wind blows. And clean white cotton, going to the gin. And the big, lumpy bales standing, going to the compress. And cotton clinging to your clothes and stuck to your whiskers. Blow your nose, there’s cotton in your nose.

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 evening. 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.

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 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.

Uncle John fingered a pair of canvas gloves with yellow leather palms, tried them on and took them off and laid them down. He moved
gradually to the liquor shelves, and he stood studying the labels on the bottles. Ma saw him. “Pa,” she said, and motioned with her head toward Uncle John.