The Grapes of Wrath

“Watch the look in his eye,” said Ma. “He looks baptized. Got that look they call lookin’ through. He sure looks baptized. An’ a-walkin’ with his head down, a-starin’ at nothin’ on the groun’. There is a man that’s baptized.” And she was silent, for Casy had drawn near the door.

“You gonna get sun-shook, walkin’ around like that,” said Tom.

Casy said, “Well, yeah— maybe.” He appealed to them all suddenly, to Ma and Grampa and Tom. “I got to get goin’ west. I got to go. I wonder if I kin go along with you folks.” And then he stood, embarrassed by his own speech.

Ma looked to Tom to speak, because he was a man, but Tom did not speak. She let him have the chance that was his right, and then she said, “Why, we’d be proud to have you. ’Course I can’t say right now; Pa says all the men’ll talk tonight and figger when we gonna start. I guess maybe we better not say till all the men come. John an’ Pa an’ Noah an’ Tom an’ Grampa an’ Al an’ Connie, they’re gonna figger soon’s they get back. But if they’s room I’m pretty sure we’ll be proud to have ya.”

The preacher sighed. “I’ll go anyways,” he said. “Somepin’s happening. I went up an’ I looked, an’ the houses is all empty, an’ the lan’ is empty, an’ this whole country is empty. I can’t stay here no more. I got to go where the folks is goin’. I’ll work in the fiel’s, an’ maybe I’ll be happy.”

“An’ you ain’t gonna preach?” Tom asked.

“I ain’t gonna preach.”

“An’ you ain’t gonna baptize?” Ma asked.

“I ain’t gonna baptize. I’m gonna work in the fiel’s, in the green fiel’s, an’ I’m gonna be near to folks. I ain’t gonna try to teach ’em nothin’. I’m gonna try to learn. Gonna learn why the folks walks in the grass, gonna hear ’em talk, gonna hear ’em sing. Gonna listen to kids eatin’ mush. Gonna hear husban’ an’ wife a-poundin’ the mattress in the night. Gonna eat with ’em an’ learn.” His eyes were wet and shining. “Gonna lay in the grass, open an’ honest with anybody that’ll have me. Gonna cuss an’ swear an’ hear the poetry of folks talkin’. All that’s holy, all that’s what I didn’t understan’. All them things is the good things.”

The preacher sat humbly down on the chopping block beside the door. “I wonder what they is for a fella so lonely.” Tom coughed delicately. “For a fella that don’t preach no more—” he began.

“Oh, I’m a talker!” said Casy. “No gettin’ away from that. But I ain’t preachin’. Preachin’ is tellin’ folks stuff. I’m askin’ ’em. That ain’t preachin’, is it?”

“I don’ know,” said Tom. “Preachin’s a kinda tone a voice, an’ preachin’s a way a lookin’ at things. Preachin’s bein’ good to folks when they wanna kill ya for it. Las’ Christmus in McAlester, Salvation Army come an’ done us good. Three solid hours a cornet music, an’ we set there. They was bein’ nice to us. But if one of us tried to walk out, we’d a-drawed solitary. That’s preachin. Doin’ good to a fella that’s down an’ can’t smack ya in the puss for it. No, you ain’t no preacher. But don’t you blow no cornets aroun’ here.”

Ma threw some sticks into the stove. “I’ll get you a bite now, but it ain’t much.”

Grampa brought his box outside and sat on it and leaned against the wall, and Tom and Casy leaned back against the house wall. And the shadow of the afternoon moved out from the house.