The Grapes of Wrath (72 page)

“Why?” they demanded.

“’Cause you got to. Rosasharn gonna have her baby.”

“I wanta watch, Ma. Please let me.”

“Ruthie! You git now. You git quick.” There was no argument against such a tone. Ruthie and Winfield went reluctantly down the car. Ma lighted the lantern. Mrs. Wainwright brought her Rochester lamp down and set it on the floor, and its big circular flame lighted the boxcar brightly.

Ruthie and Winfield stood behind the brush pile and peered over. “Gonna have a baby, an’ we’re a-gonna see,” Ruthie said softly. “Don’t you make no noise now. Ma won’t let us watch. If she looks this-a-way, you scrunch down behin’ the brush. Then we’ll see.”

“There ain’t many kids seen it,” Winfield said.

“There ain’t no kids seen it,” Ruthie insisted proudly. “On’y us.”

Down by the mattress, in the bright light of the lamp, Ma and Mrs. Wainwright held conference. Their voices were raised a little over the hollow beating of the rain. Mrs. Wainwright took a paring knife from her apron pocket and slipped it under the mattress. “Maybe it don’t do no good,” she said apologetically. “Our folks always done it. Don’t do no harm, anyways.”

Ma nodded. “We used a plow point. I guess anything sharp’ll work, long as it can cut birth pains. I hope it ain’t gonna be a long one.”

“You feelin’ awright now?”

Rose of Sharon nodded nervously. “Is it a-comin’?”

“Sure,” Ma said. “Gonna have a nice baby. You jus’ got to help us. Feel like you could get up an’ walk?”

“I can try.”

“That’s a good girl,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “That
is
a good girl. We’ll he’p you, honey. We’ll walk with ya.” They helped her to her feet and pinned a blanket over her shoulders. Then Ma held her arm from one side, and Mrs. Wainwright from the other. They walked her to the brush pile and turned slowly and walked her back, over and over; and the rain drummed deeply on the roof.

Ruthie and Winfield watched anxiously. “When’s she goin’ to have it?” he demanded.

“Sh! Don’t draw ’em. We won’t be let to look.”

Aggie joined them behind the brush pile. Aggie’s lean face and yellow hair showed in the lamplight, and her nose was long and sharp in the shadow of her head on the wall.

Ruthie whispered, “You ever saw a baby bore?”

“Sure,” said Aggie.

“Well, when’s she gonna have it?”

“Oh, not for a long, long time.”

“Well, how long?”

“Maybe not ’fore tomorrow mornin’.”

“Shucks!” said Ruthie. “Ain’t no good watchin’ now, then. Oh! Look!”

The walking women had stopped. Rose of Sharon had stiffened, and she whined with pain. They laid her down on the mattress and wiped her forehead while she grunted and clenched her fists. And Ma talked softly to her. “Easy,” Ma said. “Gonna be all right—all right. Jus’ grip ya han’s. Now, then, take your lip inta your teeth. Tha’s good—tha’s good.” The pain passed on. They let her rest awhile, and then helped her up again, and the three walked back and forth, back and forth between the pains.

Pa stuck his head in through the narrow opening. His hat dripped with water. “What ya shut the door for?” he asked. And then he saw the walking women.

Ma said, “Her time’s come.”

“Then—then we couldn’ go ’f we wanted to.”

“No.”

“Then we got to buil’ that bank.”

“You got to.”

Pa sloshed through the mud to the stream. His marking stick was four inches down. Twenty men stood in the rain. Pa cried, “We got to build her. My girl got her pains.” The men gathered about him.

“Baby?”

“Yeah. We can’t go now.”

A tall man said, “It ain’t our baby. We kin go.”

“Sure,” Pa said. “You can go. Go on. Nobody’s stoppin’ you. They’s only eight shovels.” He hurried to the lowest part of the bank and drove his shovel into the mud. The shovelful lifted with a sucking sound. He drove it again, and threw the mud into the low place on the stream bank. And beside him the other men ranged themselves. They heaped the mud up in a long embankment, and those who had no shovels cut live willow whips and wove them in a mat and kicked them into the bank. Over the men came a fury of work, a fury of battle. When one man dropped his shovel, another took it up. They had shed their coats and hats. Their shirts and trousers clung tightly to their bodies, their shoes were shapeless blobs of mud. A shrill scream came from the Joad car. The men stopped, listened uneasily, and then plunged to work again. And the little levee of earth extended until it connected with the highway embankment on either end. They were tired now, and the shovels moved more slowly. And the stream rose slowly. It edged above the place where the first dirt had been thrown.

Pa laughed in triumph. “She’d come over if we hadn’ a built up!” he cried.

The stream rose slowly up the side of the new wall, and tore at the willow mat. “Higher!” Pa cried. “We got to git her higher!”

The evening came, and the work went on. And now the men were beyond weariness. Their faces were set and dead. They worked jerkily, like machines. When it was dark the women set lanterns in the car doors, and kept pots of coffee handy. And the women ran one by one to the Joad car and wedged themselves inside.

The pains were coming close now, twenty minutes apart. And Rose
of Sharon had lost her restraint. She screamed fiercely under the fierce pains. And the neighbor women looked at her and patted her gently and went back to their own cars.

Ma had a good fire going now, and all her utensils, filled with water, sat on the stove to heat. Every little while Pa looked in the car door. “All right?” he asked.

“Yeah! I think so,” Ma assured him.

As it grew dark, someone brought out a flashlight to work by. Uncle John plunged on, throwing mud on top of the wall.

“You take it easy,” Pa said. “You’ll kill yaself.”

“I can’the’p it. I can’t stan’ that yellin’. It’s like—it’s like when——”

“I know,” Pa said. “But jus’ take it easy.”

Uncle John blubbered, “I’ll run away. By God, I got to work or I’ll run away.”

Pa turned from him. “How’s she stan’ on the last marker?”

The man with the flashlight threw the beam on the stick. The rain cut whitely through the light. “Comin’ up.”

“She’ll come up slower now,” Pa said. “Got to flood purty far on the other side.”

“She’s comin’ up, though.”

The women filled the coffee pots and set them out again. And as the night went on, the men moved slower and slower, and they lifted their heavy feet like draft horses. More mud on the levee, more willows interlaced. The rain fell steadily. When the flashlight turned on faces, the eyes showed staring, and the muscles on the cheeks were welted out.

For a long time the screams continued from the car, and at last they were still.

Pa said, “Ma’d call me if it was bore.” He went on shoveling the mud sullenly.

The stream eddied and boiled against the bank. Then, from up the stream there came a ripping crash. The beam of the flashlight showed a great cottonwood toppling. The men stopped to watch. The branches of the tree sank into the water and edged around with the current while the stream dug out the little roots. Slowly the tree was freed, and slowly it edged down the stream. The weary men watched, their mouths
hanging open. The tree moved slowly down. Then a branch caught on a stump, snagged and held. And very slowly the roots swung around and hooked themselves on the new embankment. The water piled up behind. The tree moved and tore the bank. A little stream slipped through. Pa threw himself forward and jammed mud in the break. The water piled against the tree. And then the bank washed quickly down, washed around ankles, around knees. The men broke and ran, and the current worked smoothly into the flat, under the cars, under the automobiles.

Uncle John saw the water break through. In the murk he could see it. Uncontrollably his weight pulled him down. He went to his knees, and the tugging water swirled about his chest.

Pa saw him go. “Hey! What’s the matter?” He lifted him to his feet. “You sick? Come on, the cars is high.”

Uncle John gathered his strength. “I dunno,” he said apologetically. “Legs give out. Jus’ give out.” Pa helped him along toward the cars.

When the dike swept out, Al turned and ran. His feet moved heavily. The water was about his calves when he reached the truck. He flung the tarpaulin off the nose and jumped into the car. He stepped on the starter. The engine turned over and over, and there was no bark of the motor. He choked the engine deeply. The battery turned the sodden motor more and more slowly, and there was no cough. Over and over, slower and slower. Al set the spark high. He felt under the seat for the crank and jumped out. The water was higher than the running board. He ran to the front end. Crank case was under water now. Frantically he fitted the crank and twisted around and around, and his clenched hand on the crank splashed in the slowly flowing water at each turn. At last his frenzy gave out. The motor was full of water, the battery fouled by now. On slightly higher ground two cars were started and their lights on. They floundered in the mud and dug their wheels down until finally the drivers cut off the motors and sat still, looking into the headlight beams. And the rain whipped white streaks through the lights. Al went slowly around the truck, reached in, and turned off the ignition.

When Pa reached the cat-walk, he found the lower end floating. He stepped it down into the mud, under water. “Think ya can make it awright, John?” he asked.

“I’ll be awright. Jus’ go on.”

Pa cautiously climbed the cat-walk and squeezed himself in the narrow opening. The two lamps were turned low. Ma sat on the mattress beside Rose of Sharon, and Ma fanned her still face with a piece of cardboard. Mrs. Wainwright poked dry brush into the stove, and a dank smoke edged out around the lids and filled the car with a smell of burning tissue. Ma looked up at Pa when he entered, and then quickly down.

“How—is she?” Pa asked.

Ma did not look up at him again. “Awright, I think. Sleepin’.”

The air was fetid and close with the smell of the birth. Uncle John clambered in and held himself upright against the side of the car. Mrs. Wainwright left her work and came to Pa. She pulled him by the elbow toward the corner of the car. She picked up a lantern and held it over an apple box in the corner. On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy.

“Never breathed,” said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.”

Uncle John turned and shuffled tiredly down the car to the dark end. The rain whished softly on the roof now, so softly that they could hear Uncle John’s tired sniffling from the dark.

Pa looked up at Mrs. Wainwright. He took the lantern from her hand and put it on the floor. Ruthie and Winfield were asleep on their own mattress, their arms over their eyes to cut out the light.

Pa walked slowly to Rose of Sharon’s mattress. He tried to squat down, but his legs were too tired. He knelt instead. Ma fanned her square of cardboard back and forth. She looked at Pa for a moment, and her eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s eyes.

Pa said, “We—done—what we could.”

“I know.”

“We worked all night. An’ a tree cut out the bank.”

“I know.”

“You can hear it under the car.”

“I know. I heard it.”

“Think she’s gonna be all right?”

“I dunno.”

“Well—couldn’ we—of did nothin’?”

Ma’s lips were stiff and white. “No. They was on’y one thing to do—ever—an’ we done it.”

“We worked till we dropped, an’ a tree—Rain’s lettin’ up some.” Ma looked at the ceiling, and then down again. Pa went on, compelled to talk. “I dunno how high she’ll rise. Might flood the car.”

“I know.”

“You know ever’thing.”

She was silent, and the cardboard moved slowly back and forth.

“Did we slip up?” he pleaded. “Is they anything we could of did?”

Ma looked at him strangely. Her white lips smiled in a dreaming compassion. “Don’t take no blame. Hush! It’ll be awright. They’s changes—all over.”

“Maybe the water—maybe we’ll have to go.”

“When it’s time to go—we’ll go. We’ll do what we got to do. Now hush. You might wake her.”

Mrs. Wainwright broke twigs and poked them in the sodden, smoking fire.

From outside came the sound of an angry voice. “I’m goin’ in an’ see the son-of-a-bitch myself.”

And then, just outside the door, Al’s voice, “Where you think you’re goin’?”

“Goin’ in to see that bastard Joad.”

“No, you ain’t. What’s the matter’th you?”

“If he didn’t have that fool idear about the bank, we’d a got out. Now our car is dead.”

“You think ours is burnin’ up the road?”

“I’m a-goin’ in.”

Al’s voice was cold. “You’re gonna fight your way in.”

Pa got slowly to his feet and went to the door. “Awright, Al. I’m comin’ out. It’s awright, Al.” Pa slid down the catwalk. Ma heard him say, “We got sickness. Come on down here.”

The rain scattered lightly on the roof now, and a new-risen breeze blew it along in sweeps. Mrs. Wainwright came from the stove and looked down at Rose of Sharon. “Dawn’s a-comin’ soon, ma’am. Whyn’t you git some sleep? I’ll set with her.”

“No,” Ma said. “I ain’t tar’d.”

“In a pig’s eye,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Come on, you lay down awhile.”

Ma fanned the air slowly with her cardboard. “You been frien’ly,” she said. “We thank you.”

The stout woman smiled. “No need to thank. Ever’body’s in the same wagon. S’pose we was down. You’d a give us a han’.”

“Yes,” Ma said, “we would.”

“Or anybody.”

“Or anybody. Use’ ta be the fambly was fust. It ain’t so now. It’s anybody. Worse off we get, the more we got to do.”

“We couldn’ a saved it.”

“I know,” said Ma.

Ruthie sighed deeply and took her arm from over her eyes. She looked blindly at the lamp for a moment, and then turned her head and looked at Ma. “Is it bore?” she demanded. “Is the baby out?”

Mrs. Wainwright picked up a sack and spread it over the apple box in the corner.

“Where’s the baby?” Ruthie demanded.

Ma wet her lips. “They ain’t no baby. They never was no baby. We was wrong.”