The Grapes of Wrath

At eleven o’clock the field was picked and the work was done. The wire-sided trailers were hooked on behind wire-sided trucks, and they moved out to the highway and drove away to the gin. The cotton fluffed out through the chicken wire and little clouds of cotton blew through the air, and rags of cotton caught and waved on the weeds beside the road. The pickers clustered disconsolately back to the barnyard and stood in line to be paid off.

“Hume, James. Twenty-two cents. Ralph, thirty cents. Joad, Thomas, ninety cents. Winfield, fifteen cents.” The money lay in rolls, silver and nickels and pennies. And each man looked in his own book as he was being paid. “Wainwright, Agnes, thirty-four cents. Tobin, sixty-three cents.” The line moved past slowly. The families went back to their cars, silently. And they drove slowly away.

Joads and Wainwrights waited in the truck for the driveway to clear. And as they waited, the first drops of rain began to fall. Al put his hand out of the cab to feel them. Rose of Sharon sat in the middle, and Ma on the outside. The girl’s eyes were lusterless again.

“You shouldn’ of came,” Ma said. “You didn’ pick more’n ten-fifteen pounds.” Rose of Sharon looked down at her great bulging belly, and she didn’t reply. She shivered suddenly and held her head high. Ma, watching her closely, unrolled her cotton bag, spread it over Rose of Sharon’s shoulders, and drew her close.

At last the way was clear. Al started his motor and drove out into the highway. The big infrequent drops of rain lanced down and splashed on the road, and as the truck moved along, the drops became smaller and close. Rain pounded on the cab of the truck so loudly that it could be heard over the pounding of the old worn motor. On the truck bed the Wainwrights and Joads spread their cotton bags over their heads and shoulders.

Rose of Sharon shivered violently against Ma’s arm, and Ma cried, “Go faster, Al. Rosasharn got a chill. Gotta get her feet in hot water.”

Al speeded the pounding motor, and when he came to the boxcar camp, he drove down close to the red cars. Ma was spouting orders before they were well stopped. “Al,” she commanded, “you an’ John an’ Pa go into the willows an’ c’lect all the dead stuff you can. We got to keep warm.”

“Wonder if the roof leaks.”

“No, I don’ think so. Be nice an’ dry, but we got to have wood. Got to keep warm. Take Ruthie an’ Winfiel’ too. They can get twigs. This here girl ain’t well.” Ma got out, and Rose of Sharon tried to follow, but her knees buckled and she sat down heavily on the running board.

Fat Mrs. Wainwright saw her. “What’s a matter? Her time come?”

“No, I don’ think so,” said Ma. “Got a chill. Maybe took col’. Gimme a han’, will you?” The two women supported Rose of Sharon. After a few steps her strength came back— her legs took her weight.

“I’m awright, Ma,” she said. “It was jus’ a minute there.” The older women kept hands on her elbows. “Feet in hot water,” Ma said wisely. They helped her up the cat-walk and into the boxcar.

“You rub her,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “I’ll get a far’ goin’.” She used the last of the twigs and built up a blaze in the stove. The rain poured now, scoured at the roof of the car.

Ma looked up at it. “Thank God we got a tight roof,” she said. “Them tents leaks, no matter how good. Jus’ put on a little water, Mis’ Wainwright.”

Rose of Sharon lay still on a mattress. She let them take off her shoes and rub her feet. Mrs. Wainwright bent over her. “You got pain?” she demanded.

“No. Jus’ don’ feel good. Jus’ feel bad.”

“I got pain killer an’ salts,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “You’re welcome to ’em if you want ’em. Perfec’ly welcome.”

The girl shivered violently. “Cover me up, Ma. I’m col’.” Ma brought all the blankets and piled them on top of her. The rain roared down on the roof.

Now the wood-gatherers returned, their arms piled high with sticks and their hats and coats dripping. “Jesus, she’s wet,” Pa said. “Soaks you in a minute.”

Ma said, “Better go back an’ get more. Burns up awful quick. Be dark purty soon.” Ruthie and Winfield dripped in and threw their sticks on the pile. They turned to go again. “You stay,” Ma ordered. “Stan’ up close to the fire an’ get dry.”

The afternoon was silver with rain, the roads glittered with water. Hour by hour the cotton plants seemed to blacken and shrivel. Pa and Al and Uncle John made trip after trip into the thickets and brought back loads of dead wood. They piled it near the door, until the heap of it nearly reached the ceiling, and at last they stopped and walked toward the stove. Streams of water ran from their hats to their shoulders. The edges of their coats dripped and their shoes squished as they walked.

“Awright, now, get off them clothes,” Ma said. “I got some nice coffee for you fellas. An’ you got dry overhalls to put on. Don’ stan’ there.”

The evening came early. In the boxcars the families huddled together, listening to the pouring water on the roofs.

CHAPTER 29