“Take an’ fan Granma,” Ma said, and she handed the cardboard to her daughter. “That’s a good thing to do. I wisht I could tell you so you’d know.”
Granma, scowling her brows down over her closed eyes, bleated, “Will! You’re dirty! You ain’t never gonna get clean.” Her little wrinkled claws moved up and scratched her cheek. A red ant ran up the curtain cloth and scrambled over the folds of loose skin on the old lady’s neck. Ma reached quickly and picked it off, crushed it between thumb and forefinger, and brushed her fingers on her dress.
Rose of Sharon waved the cardboad fan. She looked up at Ma. “She—?” And the words parched in her throat.
“Wipe your feet, Will—you dirty pig!” Granma cried.
Ma said, “I dunno. Maybe if we can get her where it ain’t so hot, but I dunno. Don’t worry yourself, Rosasharn. Take your breath in when you need it, an’ let it go when you need to.”
A large woman in a torn black dress looked into the tent. Her eyes were bleared and indefinite, and the skin sagged to her jowls and hung down in little flaps. Her lips were loose, so that the upper lip hung like a curtain over her teeth, and her lower lip, by its weight, folded outward, showing her lower gums. “Mornin’, ma’am,” she said. “Mornin’, an’ praise God for victory.”
Ma looked around. “Mornin’,” she said.
The woman stooped into the tent and bent her head over Granma. “We heerd you got a soul here ready to join her Jesus. Praise God!”
Ma’s face tightened and her eyes grew sharp. “She’s tar’d, tha’s all,” Ma said. “She’s wore out with the road an’ the heat. She’s jus’ wore out. Get a little res’, an’ she’ll be well.”
The woman leaned down over Granma’s face, and she seemed almost to sniff. Then she turned to Ma and nodded quickly, and her lips jiggled and her jowls quivered. “A dear soul gonna join her Jesus,” she said.
Ma cried, “That ain’t so!”
The woman nodded, slowly, this time, and put a puffy hand on Granma’s forehead. Ma reached to snatch the hand away, and quickly restrained herself. “Yes, it’s so, sister,” the woman said. “We got six in Holiness in our tent. I’ll go git ’em, an’ we’ll hol’ a meetin’—a prayer an’ grace. Jehovites, all. Six, countin’ me. I’ll go git ’em out.”
Ma stiffened. “No—no,” she said. “No, Granma’s tar’d. She couldn’t stan’ a meetin’.”
The woman said, “Couldn’t stan’ grace? Couldn’ stan’ the sweet breath of Jesus? What you talkin’ about, sister?”
Ma said, “No, not here. She’s too tar’d.”
The woman looked reproachfully at Ma. “Ain’t you believers, ma’am?”
“We always been Holiness,” Ma said, “but Granma’s tar’d, an’ we been a-goin’ all night. We won’t trouble you.”
“It ain’t no trouble, an’ if it was, we’d want ta do it for a soul a-soarin’ to the Lamb.”
Ma arose to her knees. “We thank ya,” she said coldly. “We ain’t gonna have no meetin’ in this here tent.”
The woman looked at her for a long time. “Well, we ain’t a-gonna let a sister go away ’thout a little praisin’. We’ll git the meetin’ goin’ in our own tent, ma’am. An’ we’ll forgive ya for your hard heart.”
Ma settled back again and turned her face to Granma, and her face was still set and hard. “She’s tar’d,” Ma said. “She’s on’y tar’d.” Granma swung her head back and forth and muttered under her breath.
The woman walked stiffly out of the tent. Ma continued to look down at the old face.
Rose of Sharon fanned her cardboard and moved the hot air in a stream. She said, “Ma!”
“Yeah?”
“Whyn’t ya let ’em hol’ a meetin’?”
“I dunno,” said Ma. “Jehovites is good people. They’re howlers an’ jumpers. I dunno. Somepin jus’ come over me. I didn’ think I could stan’ it. I’d jus’fly all apart.”
From some little distance there came the sound of the beginning meeting, a sing-song chant of exhortation. The words were not clear, only the tone. The voice rose and fell, and went higher at each rise. Now a response filled in the pause, and the exhortation went up with a tone of triumph, and a growl of power came into the voice. It swelled and paused, and a growl came into the response. And now gradually the sentences of exhortation shortened, grew sharper, like commands; and into the responses came a complaining note. The rhythm quickened. Male and female voices had been one tone, but now in the middle of a response one woman’s voice went up and up in a wailing cry, wild and fierce, like the cry of a beast; and a deeper woman’s voice rose up beside it, a baying voice, and a man’s voice traveled up the scale in the howl of a wolf. The exhortation stopped, and only the feral howling came from the tent, and with it a thudding sound on the earth. Ma shivered. Rose of Sharon’s breath was panting and short, and the chorus of howls went on so long it seemed that lungs must burst.
Ma said, “Makes me nervous. Somepin happened to me.”
Now the high voice broke into hysteria, the gabbling screams of a hyena, the thudding became louder. Voices cracked and broke, and then the whole chorus fell to a sobbing, grunting undertone, and the slap of flesh and the thuddings on the earth; and the sobbing changed to a little whining, like that of a litter of puppies at a food dish.
Rose of Sharon cried softly with nervousness. Granma kicked the curtain off her legs, which lay like gray, knotted sticks. And Granma whined with the whining in the distance. Ma pulled the curtain back in place. And then Granma sighed deeply and her breathing grew steady and easy, and her closed eyelids ceased their flicking. She slept deeply, and snored through her half-open mouth. The whining from the distance was softer and softer until it could not be heard at all any more.
Rose of Sharon looked at Ma, and her eyes were blank with tears. “It done good,” said Rose of Sharon. “It done Granma good. She’s a-sleepin’.”
Ma’s head was down, and she was ashamed. “Maybe I done them good people wrong. Granma is asleep.”
“Whyn’t you ast our preacher if you done a sin?” the girl asked.
“I will—but he’s a queer man. Maybe it’s him made me tell them people they couldn’t come here. That preacher, he’s gettin’ roun’ to thinkin’ that what people does is right to do.” Ma looked at her hands, and then she said, “Rosasharn, we got to sleep. ’F we’re gonna go tonight, we got to sleep.” She stretched out on the ground beside the mattress.
Rose of Sharon asked, “How about fannin’ Granma?”
“She’s asleep now. You lay down an’ rest.”
“I wonder where at Connie is?” the girl complained. “I ain’t seen him around for a long time.”
Ma said, “Sh! Get some rest.”
“Ma, Connie gonna study nights an’ get to be somepin.”
“Yeah. You tol’ me about that. Get some rest.”
The girl lay down on the edge of Granma’s mattress. “Connie’s got a new plan. He’s thinkin’ all a time. When he gets all up on ’lectricity he gonna have his own store, an’ then guess what we gonna have?”
“What?”
“Ice—all the ice you want. Gonna have a ice box. Keep it full. Stuff don’t spoil if you got ice.”
“Connie’s thinkin’ all a time,” Ma chuckled. “Better get some rest now.”
Rose of Sharon closed her eyes. Ma turned over on her back and crossed her hands under her head. She listened to Granma’s breathing and to the girl’s breathing. She moved a hand to start a fly from her forehead. The camp was quiet in the blinding heat, but the noises of hot grass—of crickets, the hum of flies—were a tone that was close to silence. Ma sighed deeply and then yawned and closed her eyes. In her half-sleep she heard footsteps approaching, but it was a man’s voice that started her awake.
“Who’s in here?”
Ma sat up quickly. A brown-faced man bent over and looked in. He wore boots and khaki pants and a khaki shirt with epaulets. On a Sam Browne belt a pistol holster hung,
and a big silver star was pinned to his shirt at the left breast. A loose-crowned military cap was on the back of his head. He beat on the tarpaulin with his hand, and the tight canvas vibrated like a drum.
“Who’s in here?” he demanded again.
Ma asked, “What is it you want, mister?”
“What you think I want? I want to know who’s in here.”
“Why, they’s jus’ us three in here. Me an’ Granma an’ my girl.”
“Where’s your men?”
“Why, they went down to clean up. We was drivin’ all night.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.”
“Well, you can’t stay here.”
“We aim to get out tonight an’ cross the desert, mister.”
“Well, you better. If you’re here tomorra this time I’ll run you in. We don’t want none of you settlin’ down here.”
Ma’s face blackened with anger. She got slowly to her feet. She stooped to the utensil box and picked out the iron skillet. “Mister,” she said, “you got a tin button an’ a gun. Where I come from, you keep your voice down.” She advanced on him with the skillet. He loosened the gun in the holster. “Go ahead,” said Ma. “Scarin’ women. I’m thankful the men folks ain’t here. They’d tear ya to pieces. In my country you watch your tongue.”
The man took two steps backward. “Well, you ain’t in your country now. You’re in California, an’ we don’t want you goddamn Okies settlin’ down.”
Ma’s advance stopped. She looked puzzled. “Okies?” she said softly. “Okies.”
“Yeah, Okies! An’ if you’re here when I come tomorra, I’ll run ya in.” He turned and walked to the next tent and banged on the canvas with his hand. “Who’s in here?” he said.
Ma went slowly back under the tarpaulin. She put the skillet in the utensil box. She sat down slowly. Rose of Sharon watched her secretly. And when she saw Ma fighting with her face, Rose of Sharon closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
The sun sank low in the afternoon, but the heat did not seem to decrease. Tom awakened under his willow, and his mouth was parched and his body was wet with sweat, and his head was dissatisfied with his rest. He staggered to his feet and walked toward the water. He peeled off his clothes and waded into the stream. And the moment the water was about him, his thirst was gone. He lay back in the shallows and his body floated. He held himself in place with his elbows in the sand, and looked at his toes, which bobbed above the surface.
A pale skinny little boy crept like an animal through the reeds and slipped off his clothes. And he squirmed into the water like a muskrat, and pulled himself along like a muskrat, only his eyes and nose above the surface. Then suddenly he saw Tom’s head and saw that Tom was watching him. He stopped his game and sat up.
Tom said, “Hello.”
“’Lo!”
“Looks like you was playin’ mushrat.”
“Well, I was.” He edged gradually away toward the bank; he moved casually, and then he leaped out, gathered his clothes with a sweep of his arms, and was gone among the willows.
Tom laughed quietly. And then he heard his name called shrilly. “Tom, oh, Tom!” He sat up in the water and whistled through his teeth, a piercing whistle with a loop on the end. The willows shook, and Ruthie stood looking at him.
“Ma wants you,” she said. “Ma wants you right away.”
“Awright.” He stood up and strode through the water to the shore; and Ruthie looked with interest and amazement at his naked body.
Tom seeing the direction of her eyes, said, “Run on now. Git!” And Ruthie ran. Tom heard her calling excitedly for Winfield as she went. He put the hot clothes on his cool, wet body and he walked slowly up through the willows toward the tent.
Ma had started a fire of dry willow twigs, and she had a pan of water heating. She looked relieved when she saw him.
“What’s a matter, Ma?” he asked.
“I was scairt,” she said. “They was a policeman here. He says we can’t stay here. I was scairt he talked to you. I was scairt you’d hit him if he talked to you.”
Tom said, “What’d I go an’ hit a policeman for?”
Ma smiled. “Well—he talked so bad—I nearly hit him myself.”
Tom grabbed her arm and shook her roughly and loosely, and he laughed. He sat down on the ground, still laughing. “My God, Ma. I knowed you when you was gentle. What’s come over you?”
She looked serious. “I don’ know, Tom.”
“Fust you stan’ us off with a jack handle, and now you try to hit a cop.” He laughed softly, and he reached out and patted her bare foot tenderly. “A ol’ hell-cat,” he said.
“Tom.”
“Yeah?”
She hesitated a long time. “Tom, this here policeman—he called us—Okies. He says, ‘We don’ want you goddamn Okies settlin’ down.”’
Tom studied her, and his hand still rested gently on her bare foot. “Fella tol’ about that,” he said. “Fella tol’ how they say it.” He considered, “Ma, would you say I was a bad fella? Oughta be locked up—like that?”
“No,” she said. “You been tried—No. What you ast me for?”
“Well, I dunno. I’d a took a sock at that cop.”
Ma smiled with amusement. “Maybe I oughta ast you that, ’cause I nearly hit ’im with a skillet.”
“Ma, why’d he say we couldn’ stop here?”
“Jus’ says they don’ want no damn Okies settlin’ down. Says he’s gonna run us in if we’re here tomorra.”
“But we ain’t use’ ta gettin’ shoved aroun’ by no cops.”
“I tol’ him that,” said Ma. “He says we ain’t home now. We’re in California, and they do what they want.”
Tom said uneasily, “Ma, I got somepin to tell ya. Noah—he went on down the river. He ain’t a-goin’ on.”
It took a moment for Ma to understand. “Why?” she asked softly.
“I don’ know. Says he got to. Says he got to stay. Says for me to tell you.”
“How’ll he eat?” she demanded.
“I don’ know. Says he’ll catch fish.”
Ma was silent a long time. “Family’s fallin’ apart,” she said. “I don’ know. Seems like I can’t think no more. I jus’ can’t think. They’s too much.”
Tom said lamely, “He’ll be awright, Ma. He’s a funny kind a fella.”
Ma turned stunned eyes toward the river. “I jus’ can’t seem to think no more.”
Tom looked down the line of tents and he saw Ruthie and Winfield standing in front of a tent in decorous conversation with someone inside. Ruthie was twisting her skirt in her hands, while Winfield dug a hole in the ground with his toe. Tom called, “You, Ruthie!” She looked up and saw him and trotted toward him, with Winfield behind her. When she came up, Tom said, “You go get our folks. They’re sleepin’ down the willows. Get ’em. An’ you, Winfiel’. You tell the Wilsons we’re gonna get rollin’ soon as we can.” The children spun around and charged off.
Tom said, “Ma, how’s Granma now?”
“Well, she got a sleep today. Maybe she’s better. She’s still a-sleepin’.”
“Tha’s good. How much pork we got?”
“Not very much. Quarter hog.”
“Well, we got to fill that other kag with water. Got to take water along.” They could hear Ruthie’s shrill cries for the men down in the willows.
Ma shoved willow sticks into the fire and made it crackle up about the black pot. She said, “I pray God we gonna get some res’. I pray Jesus we gonna lay down in a nice place.”
The sun sank toward the baked and broken hills to the west. The pot over the fire bubbled furiously. Ma went under the tarpaulin and came out with an apronful of potatoes, and she dropped them into the boiling water. “I pray God we gonna be let to wash some clothes. We ain’t never been dirty like this. Don’t even wash potatoes ’fore we boil ’em. I wonder why? Seems like the heart’s took out of us.�
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The men came trooping up from the willows, and their eyes were full of sleep, and their faces were red and puffed with daytime sleep.
Pa said, “What’s a matter?”
“We’re goin’,” said Tom. “Cop says we got to go. Might’s well get her over. Get a good start an’ maybe we’ll be through her. Near three hunderd miles where we’re goin’.”
Pa said, “I thought we was gonna get a rest.”
“Well, we ain’t. We got to go. Pa,” Tom said, “Noah ain’t a-goin’. He walked on down the river.”
“Ain’t goin’? What the hell’s the matter with him?” And then Pa caught himself. “My fault,” he said miserably. “That boy’s all my fault.”
“No.”
“I don’t wanta talk about it no more,” said Pa. “I can’t—my fault.”
“Well, we got to go,” said Tom.
Wilson walked near for the last words. “We can’t go, folks,” he said. “Sairy’s done up. She got to res’. She ain’t gonna git acrost that desert alive.”
They were silent at his words; then Tom said, “Cop says he’ll run us in if we’re here tomorra.”
Wilson shook his head. His eyes were glazed with worry, and a paleness showed through his dark skin. “Jus’ hafta do ’er, then. Sairy can’t go. If they jail us, why, they’ll hafta jail us. She got to res’ an’ get strong.”
Pa said, “Maybe we better wait an’ all go together.”
“No,” Wilson said. “You been nice to us; you been kin’, but you can’t stay here. You got to get on an’ get jobs and work. We ain’t gonna let you stay.”
Pa said excitedly, “But you ain’t got nothing.”
Wilson smiled. “Never had nothin’ when you took us up. This ain’t none of your business. Don’t you make me git mean. You got to go, or I’ll get mean an’ mad.”
Ma beckoned Pa into the cover of the tarpaulin and spoke softly to him.
Wilson turned to Casy. “Sairy wants you should go see her.”
“Sure,” said the preacher. He walked to the Wilson tent, tiny and gray, and he slipped the flaps aside and entered. It was dusky and hot inside. The mattress lay on the ground, and the equipment was scattered about, as it had been unloaded in the morning. Sairy lay on the mattress, her eyes wide and bright. He stood and looked down at her, his large head bent and the stringy muscles of his neck tight along the sides. And he took off his hat and held it in his hand.
The Grapes of Wrath Page 31