The Grapes of Wrath

Casy nodded. “Get in front a Granma.” He pried the tight jaws apart and reached into the old man’s throat for the tongue. And as he lifted it clear, a rattling breath came out, and a sobbing breath was indrawn. Casy found a stick on the ground and held down the tongue with it, and the uneven breath rattled in and out.

Granma hopped about like a chicken. “Pray,” she said. “Pray, you. Pray, I tell ya.” Sairy tried to hold her back. “Pray, goddamn you!” Granma cried.

Casy looked up at her for a moment. The rasping breath came louder and more unevenly. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—”

“Glory!” shouted Granma.

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done— on earth— as it is in Heaven.”

“Amen.”

A long gasping sigh came from the open mouth, and then a crying release of air.

“Give us this day— our daily bread— and forgive us—” The breathing had stopped. Casy looked down into Grampa’s eyes and they were clear and deep and penetrating, and there was a knowing serene look in them.

“Hallelujah!” said Granma. “Go on.”

“Amen,” said Casy.

Granma was still then. And outside the tent all the noise had stopped. A car whished by on the highway. Casy still knelt on the floor beside the mattress. The people outside were listening, standing quietly intent on the sounds of dying. Sairy took Granma by the arm and led her outside, and Granma moved with dignity and held her head high. She walked for the family and held her head straight for the family. Sairy took her to a mattress lying on the ground and sat her down on it. And Granma looked straight ahead, proudly, for she was on show now. The tent was still, and at last Casy spread the tent flaps with his hands and stepped out.

Pa asked softly, “What was it?”

“Stroke,” said Casy. “A good quick stroke.”

Life began to move again. The sun touched the horizon and flattened over it. And along the highway there came a long line of huge freight trucks with red sides. They rumbled along, putting a little earthquake in the ground, and the standing exhaust pipes sputtered blue smoke from the Diesel oil. One man drove each truck, and his relief man slept in a bunk high up against the ceiling. But the trucks never stopped; they thundered day and night and the ground shook under their heavy march.

The family became a unit. Pa squatted down on the ground, and Uncle John beside him. Pa was the head of the family now. Ma stood behind him. Noah and Tom and Al squatted, and the preacher sat down, and then reclined on his elbow. Connie and Rose of Sharon walked at a distance. Now Ruthie and Winfield, clattering up with a bucket of water held between them, felt the change, and they slowed up and set down the bucket and moved quietly to stand with Ma.

Granma sat proudly, coldly, until the group was formed, until no one looked at her, and then she lay down and covered her face with her arm. The red sun set and left a shining twilight on the land, so that faces were bright in the evening and eyes shone in reflection of the sky. The evening picked up light where it could.

Pa said, “It was in Mr. Wilson’s tent.”

Uncle John nodded. “He loaned his tent.”

“Fine friendly folks,” Pa said softly.

Wilson stood by his broken car, and Sairy had gone to the mattress to sit beside Granma, but Sairy was careful not to touch her.

Pa called, “Mr. Wilson!” The man scuffed near and squatted down, and Sairy came and stood beside him. Pa said, “We’re thankful to you folks.”

“We’re proud to help,” said Wilson.

“We’re beholden to you,” said Pa.

“There’s no beholden in a time of dying,” said Wilson, and Sairy echoed him, “Never no beholden.”

Al said, “I’ll fix your car— me an’ Tom will.” And Al looked proud that he could return the family’s obligation.

“We could use some help.” Wilson admitted the retiring of the obligation.

Pa said, “We got to figger what to do. They’s laws. You got to report a death, an’ when you do that, they either take forty dollars for the undertaker or they take him for a pauper.”

Uncle John broke in, “We never did have no paupers.” Tom said, “Maybe we got to learn. We never got booted off no land before, neither.”

“We done it clean,” said Pa. “There can’t no blame be laid on us. We never took nothin’ we couldn’ pay; we never suffered no man’s charity. When Tom here got in trouble we could hold up our heads. He only done what any man would a done.”

“Then what’ll we do?” Uncle John asked.

“We go in like the law says an’ they’ll come out for him. We on’y got a hundred an’ fifty dollars. They take forty to bury Grampa an’ we won’t get to California— or else they’ll bury him a pauper.” The men stirred restively, and they studied the darkening ground in front of their knees.

Pa said softly, “Grampa buried his pa with his own hand, done it in dignity, an’ shaped the grave nice with his own shovel. That was a time when a man had the right to be buried by his own son an’ a son had the right to bury his own father.”

“The law says different now,” said Uncle John.