The Grapes of Wrath

Sharon. She said, “You got to stay.” The girl set her jaw. “I’m a-goin,” she said. “Ma, I got to go.”

“Well, you got no cotton sack. You can’t pull no sack.”

“I’ll pick into your sack.”

“I wisht you wouldn’.”

“I’m a-goin’.” Ma sighed. “I’ll keep my eye on you. Wisht we could have a doctor.” Rose of Sharon moved nervously about the car. She put on a light coat and took it off. “Take a blanket,” Ma said. “Then if you wanta res’, you can keep warm.” They heard the truck motor roar up behind the boxcar. “We gonna be first out,” Ma said exultantly. “Awright, get your sacks. Ruthie, don’ you forget them shirts I fixed for you to pick in.”

Wainwrights and Joads climbed into the truck in the dark. The dawn was coming, but it was slow and pale.

“Turn lef’,” Ma told Al. “They’ll be a sign out where we’re goin’.” They drove along the dark road. And other cars followed them, and behind, in the camp, the cars were being started, the families piling in; and the cars pulled out on the highway and turned left.

A piece of cardboard was tied to a mailbox on the righthand side of the road, and on it, printed with blue crayon, “Cotton Pickers Wanted.” Al turned into the entrance and drove out to the barnyard. And the barnyard was full of cars already. An electric globe on the end of the white barn lighted a group of men and women standing near the scales, their bags rolled under their arms. Some of the women wore the bags over their shoulders and crossed in front.

“We ain’t so early as we thought,” said Al. He pulled the truck against a fence and parked. The families climbed down and went to join the waiting group, and more cars came in from the road and parked, and more families joined the group. Under the light on the barn end, the owner signed them in.

“Hawley?” he said. “H-a-w-l-e-y? How many?”

“Four. Will—”

“Will.”

“Benton—”

“Benton.”

“Amelia—”

“Amelia.”

“Claire—”

“Claire. Who’s next? Carpenter? How many?”

“Six.”

He wrote them in the book, with a space left for the weights. “Got your bags? I got a few. Cost you a dollar.” And the cars poured into the yard. The owner pulled his sheep-lined leather jacket up around his throat. He looked at the driveway apprehensively. “This twenty isn’t gonna take long to pick with all these people,” he said.

Children were climbing into the big cotton trailer, digging their toes into the chicken-wire sides. “Git off there,” the owner cried. “Come on down. You’ll tear that wire loose.” And the children climbed slowly down, embarrassed and silent. The gray dawn came. “I’ll have to take a tare for dew,” the owner said. “Change it when the sun comes out. All right, go out when you want. Light enough to see.”

The people moved quickly out into the cotton field and took their rows. They tied the bags to their waists and they slapped their hands together to warm stiff fingers that had to be nimble. The dawn colored over the eastern hills, and the wide line moved over the rows. And from the highway the cars still moved in and parked in the barnyard until it was full, and they parked along the road on both sides. The wind blew briskly across the field. “I don’t know how you all found out,” the owner said. “There must be a hell of a grapevine. The twenty won’t last till noon. What name? Hume? How many?”

The line of people moved out across the field, and the strong steady west wind blew their clothes. Their fingers flew to the spilling bolls, and flew to the long sacks growing heavy behind them.

Pa spoke to the man in the row to his right. “Back home we might get rain out of a wind like this. Seems a little mite frosty for rain. How long you been out here?” He kept his eyes down on his work as he spoke.

His neighbor didn’t look up. “I been here nearly a year.”

“Would you say it was gonna rain?”

“Can’t tell, an’ that ain’t no insult, neither. Folks that lived here all their life can’t tell. If the rain can git in the way of a crop, it’ll rain. Tha’s what they say out here.”

Pa looked quickly at the western hills. Big gray clouds were coasting over the ridge, riding the wind swiftly. “Them looks like rain-heads,” he said.

His neighbor stole a squinting look. “Can’t tell,” he said. And all down the line of rows the people looked back at the clouds. And then they bent lower to their work, and their hands flew to the cotton. They raced at the picking, raced against time and cotton weight, raced against the rain and against each other— only so much cotton to pick, only so much money to be made. They came to the other side of the field and ran to get a new row. And now they faced into the wind, and they could see the high gray clouds moving over the sky toward the rising sun. And more cars parked along the roadside, and new pickers came to be checked in. The line of people moved frantically across the field, weighed at the end, marked their cotton, checked the weights into their own books, and ran for new rows.