The Grapes of Wrath

“It don’t hurt nothin’, Ma,” Tom said. “This fella was always gonna break out. Make a plan, he would; but he couldn’ keep it to hisself an’ purty soon ever’body knowed it, even the warden. He’d make his break an’ they’d take ’im by the han’ an’ lead ’im back. Well, one time he drawed a plan where he’s goin’ over. ’Course he showed it aroun’, an’ ever’body kep’ still. An’ he hid out, an’ ever’body kep’ still. So he’s got himself a rope somewheres, an’ he goes over the wall. They’s six guards outside with a great big sack, an’ Hooligan comes quiet down the rope an’ they jus’ hol’ the sack out an’ he goes right inside. They tie up the mouth an’ take ’im back inside. Fellas laughed so hard they like to died. But it busted Hooligan’s spirit. He jus’ cried an’ cried, an’ moped aroun’ an’ got sick. Hurt his feelin’s so bad. Cut his wrists with a pin an’ bled to death ’cause his feelin’s was hurt. No harm in ’im at all. They’s all kinds a screwballs in stir.”

“Don’ talk about it,” Ma said. “I knowed Purty Boy Floyd’s ma. He wan’t a bad boy. Jus’ got drove in a corner.” The sun moved up toward noon and the shadow of the truck grew lean and moved in under the wheels.

“Mus’ be Pixley up the road,” Al said. “Seen a sign a little back.” They drove into the little town and turned eastward on a narrower road. And the orchards lined the way and made an aisle.

“Hope we can find her easy,” Tom said.

Ma said, “That fella said the Hooper ranch. Said anybody’d tell us. Hope they’s a store near by. Might get some credit, with four men workin’. I could get a real nice supper if they’d gimme some credit. Make up a big stew maybe.”

“An’ coffee,” said Tom. “Might even get me a sack a Durham. I ain’t had no tobacca of my own for a long time.”

Far ahead the road was blocked with cars, and a line of white motorcycles was drawn up along the roadside. “Mus’ be a wreck,” Tom said.

As they drew near, a State policeman, in boots and Sam Browne belt, stepped around the last parked car. He held up his hand and Al pulled to a stop. The policeman leaned confidentially on the side of the car. “Where you going?”

Al said, “Fella said they was work pickin’ peaches up this way.”

“Want to work, do you?”

“Damn right,” said Tom. “O.K. Wait here a minute.” He moved to the side of the road and called ahead. “One more. That’s six cars ready. Better take this batch through.” Tom called, “Hey! What’s the matter?” The patrol man lounged back. “Got a little trouble up ahead. Don’t you worry. You’ll get through. Just follow the line.”

There came the splattering blast of motorcycles starting. The line of cars moved on, with the Joad truck last. Two motorcycles led the way, and two followed.

Tom said uneasily, “I wonder what’s a matter.”

“Maybe the road’s out,” Al suggested. “Don’ need four cops to lead us. I don’ like it.” The motorcycles ahead speeded up. The line of old cars speeded up.

Al hurried to keep in back of the last car. “These here is our own people, all of ’em,” Tom said. “I don’ like this.”

Suddenly the leading policemen turned off the road into a wide graveled entrance. The old cars whipped after them. The motorcycles roared their motors. Tom saw a line of men standing in the ditch beside the road, saw their mouths open as though they were yelling, saw their shaking fists and their furious faces. A stout woman ran toward the cars, but a roaring motorcycle stood in her way. A high wire gate swung open. The six old cars moved through and the gate closed behind them. The four motorcycles turned and sped back in the direction from which they had come. And now that the motors were gone, the distant yelling of the men in the ditch could be heard. Two men stood beside the graveled road. Each one carried a shotgun.

One called, “Go on, go on. What the hell are you waiting for?” The six cars moved ahead, turned a bend and came suddenly on the peach camp.

There were fifty little square, flat-roofed boxes, each with a door and a window, and the whole group in a square. A water tank stood high on one edge of the camp. And a little grocery store stood on the other side. At the end of each row of square houses stood two men armed with shotguns and wearing big silver stars pinned to their shirts.

The six cars stopped. Two bookkeepers moved from car to car. “Want to work?” Tom answered, “Sure, but what is this?”

“That’s not your affair. Want to work?”

“Sure we do.”

“Name?”

“Joad.”

“How many men?”

“Four.”

“Women?”

“Two.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

“Can all of you work?”

“Why— I guess so.”

“O.K. Find house sixty-three. Wages five cents a box. No bruised fruit. All right, move along now. Go to work right away.”

The cars moved on. On the door of each square red house a number was painted. “Sixty,” Tom said. “There’s sixty. Must be down that way. There, sixty-one, sixty-two— There she is.”

Al parked the truck close to the door of the little house. The family came down from the top of the truck and looked about in bewilderment. Two deputies approached. They looked closely into each face.

“Name?”