The Grapes of Wrath

“I dunno. I dunno. I guess so. They had the lights on us.” For a moment Ma stared into his eyes. “Pa,” she said, “break up some boxes. We got to get breakfas’. You got to go to work. Ruthie, Winfiel’. If anybody asts you— Tom is sick— you hear? If you tellhe’llget sent to jail. You hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Keep your eye on ’em, John. Don’ let ’em talk to nobody.” She built the fire as Pa broke the boxes that had held the goods. She made her dough, put a pot of coffee to boil. The light wood caught and roared its flame in the chimney.

Pa finished breaking the boxes. He came near to Tom. “Casy— he was a good man. What’d he wanta mess with that stuff for?” Tom said dully, “They come to work for fi’ cents a box.”

“That’s what we’re a-gettin’.”

“Yeah. What we was a-doin’ was breakin’ strike. They give them fellas two an’ a half cents.”

“You can’t eat on that.”

“I know,” Tom said wearily. “That’s why they struck. Well, I think they bust the strike las’ night. We’ll maybe be gettin’ two an’ a half cents today.”

“Why, the sons-a-bitches—”

“Yeah! Pa. You see? Casy was still a— good man. Goddamn it, I can’t get that pitcher outa my head. Him layin’ there— head jus’ crushed flat an’ oozin’. Jesus!” He covered his eyes with his hand. “Well, what we gonna do?” Uncle John asked. Al was standing up now. “Well, by God, I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get out of it.”

“No, you ain’t, Al,” Tom said. “We need you now. I’m the one. I’m a danger now. Soon’s I get on my feet I got to go.”

Ma worked at the stove. Her head was half turned to hear. She put grease in the frying pan, and when it whispered with heat, she spooned the dough into it.

Tom went on, “You got to stay, Al. You got to take care a the truck.”

“Well, I don’ like it.”

“Can’t help it, Al. It’s your folks. You can help ’em. I’m a danger to ’em.” Al grumbled angrily. “I don’ know why I ain’t let to get me a job in a garage.”

“Later, maybe.” Tom looked past him, and he saw Rose of Sharon lying on the mattress. Her eyes were huge— opened wide. “Don’t worry,” he called to her. “Don’t you worry. Gonna get you some milk today.” She blinked slowly, and didn’t answer him.

Pa said, “We got to know, Tom. Think ya killed this fella?”

“I don’ know. It was dark. An’ somebody smacked me. I don’ know. I hope so. I hope I killed the bastard.”

“Tom!” Ma called. “Don’ talk like that.”

From the street came the sound of many cars moving slowly. Pa stepped to the window and looked out. “They’s a whole slew a new people comin’ in,” he said.

“I guess they bust the strike awright,” said Tom. “I guess you’ll start at two an’ a half cents.”

“But a fella could work at a run, an’ still he couldn’ eat.”

“I know,” said Tom. “Eat win’fall peaches. That’ll keep ya up.” Ma turned the dough and stirred the coffee. “Listen to me,” she said. “I’m gettin’ cornmeal today. We’re a-gonna eat cornmeal mush. An’ soon’s we get enough for gas, we’re movin’ away. This ain’t a good place. An’ I ain’t gonna have Tom out alone. No, sir.”

“Ya can’t do that, Ma. I tell you I’m jus’ a danger to ya.”

Her chin was set. “That’s what we’ll do. Here, come eat this here, an’ then get out to work. I’ll come out soon’s I get washed up. We got to make some money.”

They ate the fried dough so hot that it sizzled in their mouths. And they tossed the coffee down and filled their cups and drank more coffee.

Uncle John shook his head over his plate. “Don’t look like we’re a-gonna get shet of this here. I bet it’s my sin.”

“Oh, shut up!” Pa cried. “We ain’t got time for your sin now. Come on now. Le’s get out to her. Kids, you come he’p. Ma’s right. We got to go outa here.”

When they were gone, Ma took a plate and a cup to Tom. “Better eat a little somepin.”

“I can’t, Ma. I’m so darn sore I couldn’ chew.”

“You better try.”

“No, I can’t, Ma.” She sat down on the edge of his mattress. “You got to tell me,” she said. “I got to figger how it was. I got to keep straight. What was Casy a-doin’? Why’d they kill ’im?”

“He was jus’ standin’ there with the lights on ’im.”

“What’d he say? Can ya ’member what he says?” Tom said, “Sure. Casy said, ’You got no right to starve people.’ An’ then this heavy fella called him a red son-of-a-bitch. An’ Casy says, ’You don’ know what you’re a-doin’.’ An’ then this guy smashed ’im.”

Ma looked down. She twisted her hands together. “Tha’s what he said ’You don’ know what you’re doin’?”

“Yeah!”

Ma said, “I wisht Granma could a heard.”

“Ma— I didn’ know what I was a-doin’, no more’n when you take a breath. I didn’ even know I was gonna do it.”

“It’s awright. I wisht you didn’ do it. I wisht you wasn’ there. But you done what you had to do. I can’t read no fault on you.” She went to the stove and dipped a cloth in the heating dishwater. “Here,” she said. “Put that there on your face.”

He laid the warm cloth over his nose and cheek, and winced at the heat. “Ma, I’m a-gonna go away tonight. I can’t go puttin’ this on you folks.”