The Grapes of Wrath

Ma waved the flies away from the bowl of gravy. “We ain’t got room to set down,” she said. “Jus’ get yaself a plate an’ set down wherever ya can. Out in the yard or someplace.”

Suddenly Tom said, “Hey! Where’s the preacher? He was right here. Where’d he go?”

Pa said, “I seen him, but he’s gone.”

And Granma raised a shrill voice, “Preacher? You got a preacher?

Go git him. We’ll have a grace.” She pointed at Grampa. “Too late for him— he’s et. Go git the preacher.”

Tom stepped out on the porch. “Hey, Jim! Jim Casy!” he called. He walked out in the yard. “Oh, Casy!” The preacher emerged from under the tank, sat up, and then stood up and moved toward the house. Tom asked, “What was you doin’, hidin’?”

“Well, no. But a fella shouldn’t butt his head in where a fambly got fambly stuff. I was jus’ settin’ a-thinkin’.”

“Come on in an’ eat,” said Tom. “Granma wants a grace.”

“But I ain’t a preacher no more,” Casy protested.

“Aw, come on. Give her a grace. Don’t do you no harm, an’ she likes ’em.” They walked into the kitchen together.

Ma said quietly, “You’re welcome.”

And Pa said, “You’re welcome. Have some breakfast.”

“Grace fust,” Granma clamored. “Grace fust.”

Grampa focused his eyes fiercely until he recognized Casy. “Oh, that preacher,” he said. “Oh, he’s all right. I always liked him since I seen him—” He winked so lecherously that Granma thought he had spoken and retorted, “Shut up, you sinful ol’ goat.”

Casy ran his fingers through his hair nervously. “I got to tell you, I ain’t a preacher no more. If me jus’ bein’ glad to be here an’ bein’ thankful for people that’s kind and generous, if that’s enough— why, I’ll say that kinda grace. But I ain’t a preacher no more.”

“Say her,” said Granma. “An’ get in a word about us goin’ to California.” The preacher bowed his head, and the others bowed their heads. Ma folded her hands over her stomach and bowed her head. Granma bowed so low that her nose was nearly in her plate of biscuit and gravy. Tom, leaning against the wall, a plate in his hand, bowed stiffly, and Grampa bowed his head sidewise, so that he could keep one mean and merry eye on the preacher. And on the preacher’s face there was a look not of prayer, but of thought; and in his tone not supplication, but conjecture.

“I been thinkin’,” he said. “I been in the hills, thinkin’, almost you might say like Jesus went into the wilderness to think His way out of a mess of troubles.”

“Pu-raise Gawd!” Granma said, and the preacher glanced over at her in surprise.

“Seems like Jesus got all messed up with troubles, and He couldn’t figure nothin’ out, an’ He got to feelin’ what the hell good is it all, an’ what’s the use fightin’ an’ figurin’. Got tired, got good an’ tired, an’ His sperit all wore out. Jus’ about come to the conclusion, the hell with it. An’ so He went off into the wilderness.”

“A-men,” Granma bleated. So many years she had timed her responses to the pauses. And it was so many years since she had listened to or wondered at the words used.

“I ain’t sayin’ I’m like Jesus,” the preacher went on. “But I got tired like Him, an’ I got mixed up like Him, an’ I went into the wilderness like Him, without no campin’ stuff. Nighttime I’d lay on my back an’ look up at the stars; morning I’d set an’ watch the sun come up; midday I’d look out from a hill at the rollin’ dry country; evenin’ I’d foller the sun down. Sometimes I’d pray like I always done. On’y I couldn’ figure what I was prayin’ to or for. There was the hills, an’ there was me, an’ we wasn’t separate no more. We was one thing. An’ that one thing was holy.”

“Hallelujah,” said Granma, and she rocked a little, back and forth, trying to catch hold of an ecstasy.

“An’ I got thinkin’, on’y it wasn’t thinkin, it was deeper down than thinkin’. I got thinkin’ how we was holy when we was one thing, an’ mankin’ was holy when it was one thing. An’ it on’y got unholy when one mis’able little fella got the bit in his teeth an’ run off his own way, kickin’ an’ draggin’ an’ fightin’. Fella like that bust the holiness. But when they’re all workin’ together, not one fella for another fella, but one fella kind of harnessed to the whole shebangthat’s right, that’s holy. An’ then I got thinkin’ I don’t even know what I mean by holy.” He paused, but the bowed heads stayed down, for they had been trained like dogs to rise at the “amen” signal. “I can’t say no grace like I use’ ta say. I’m glad of the holiness of breakfast. I’m glad there’s love here. That’s all.” The heads stayed down. The preacher looked around. “I’ve got your breakfast cold,” he said; and then he remembered. “Amen,” he said, and all the heads rose up.