The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Tom said slowly, “When you’re in jail—you get to kinda—sensin’ stuff. Guys ain’t let to talk a hell of a lot together—two maybe, but not a crowd. An’ so you get kinda sensy. If somepin’s gonna bust—if say a fella’s goin’ stir-bugs an’ take a crack at a guard with a mop handle—why, you know it ’fore it happens. An’ if they’s gonna be a break or a riot, nobody don’t have to tell ya. You’re sensy about it. You know.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stick aroun’,” said Tom. “Stick aroun’ till tomorra anyways. Somepin’s gonna come up. I was talkin’ to a kid up the road. An’ he’s bein’ jus’ as sneaky an’ wise as a dog coyote, but he’s too wise. Dog coyote a-mindin’ his own business an’ innocent an’ sweet, jus’ havin’ fun an’ no harm—well, they’s a hen roost clost by.”

  Casy watched him intently, started to ask a question, and then shut his mouth tightly. He waggled his toes slowly and, releasing his knees, pushed out his foot so he could see it. “Yeah,” he said, “I won’t go right yet.”

  Tom said, “When a bunch a folks, nice quiet folks, don’t know nothin’ about nothin’—somepin’s goin’ on.”

  “I’ll stay,” said Casy.

  “An’ tomorra we’ll go out in the truck an’ look for work.”

  “Yeah!” said Casy, and he waved his toes up and down and studied them gravely. Tom settled back on his elbow and closed his eyes. Inside the tent he could hear the murmur of Rose of Sharon’s voice and Connie’s answering.

  The tarpaulin made a dark shadow and the wedge-shaped light at each end was hard and sharp. Rose of Sharon lay on a mattress and Connie squatted beside her. “I oughta help Ma,” Rose of Sharon said. “I tried, but ever’ time I stirred about I throwed up.”

  Connie’s eyes were sullen. “If I’d of knowed it would be like this I wouldn’ of came. I’d a studied nights ’bout tractors back home an’ got me a three-dollar job. Fella can live awful nice on three dollars a day, an’ go to the pitcher show ever’ night, too.”

  Rose of Sharon looked apprehensive. “You’re gonna study nights ’bout radios,” she said. He was long in answering. “Ain’t you?” she demanded.

  “Yeah, sure. Soon’s I get on my feet. Get a little money.”

  She rolled up on her elbow. “You ain’t givin’ it up!”

  “No—no—’course not. But—I didn’ know they was places like this we got to live in.”

  The girl’s eyes hardened. “You got to,” she said quietly.

  “Sure. Sure, I know. Got to get on my feet. Get a little money. Would a been better maybe to stay home an’ study ’bout tractors. Three dollars a day they get, an’ pick up extra money, too.” Rose of Sharon’s eyes were calculating. When he looked down at her he saw in her eyes a measuring of him, a calculation of him. “But I’m gonna study,” he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.”

  She said fiercely, “We got to have a house ’fore the baby comes. We ain’t gonna have this baby in no tent.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.” He went out of the tent and looked down at Ma, crouched over the brush fire. Rose of Sharon rolled on her back and stared at the top of the tent. And then she put her thumb in her mouth for a gag and she cried silently.

  Ma knelt beside the fire, breaking twigs to keep the flame up under the stew kettle. The fire flared and dropped and flared and dropped. The children, fifteen of them, stood silently and watched. And when the smell of the cooking stew came to their noses, their noses crinkled slightly. The sunlight glistened on hair tawny with dust. The children were embarrassed to be there, but they did not go. Ma talked quietly to a little girl who stood inside the lusting circle. She was older than the rest. She stood on one foot, caressing the back of her leg with a bare instep. Her arms were clasped behind her. She watched Ma with steady small gray eyes. She suggested, “I could break up some bresh if you want me, ma’am.”

  Ma looked up from her work. “You want ta get ast to eat, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the girl said steadily.

  Ma slipped the twigs under the pot and the flame made a puttering sound. “Didn’ you have no breakfast?”

  “No, ma’am. They ain’t no work hereabouts. Pa’s in tryin’ to sell some stuff to git gas so’s we can git ’long.”

  Ma looked up. “Didn’ none of these here have no breakfast?”

  The circle of children shifted nervously and looked away from the boiling kettle. One small boy said boastfully, “I did—me an’ my brother did—an’ them two did, ’cause I seen ’em. We et good. We’re a-goin’ south tonight.”

  Ma smiled. “Then you ain’t hungry. They ain’t enough here to go around.”

  The small boy’s lip stuck out. “We et good,” he said, and he turned and ran and dived into a tent. Ma looked after him so long that the oldest girl reminded her.

  “The fire’s down, ma’am. I can keep it up if you want.”

  Ruthie and Winfield stood inside the circle, comporting themselves with proper frigidity and dignity. They were aloof, and at the same time possessive. Ruthie turned cold and angry eyes on the little girl. Ruthie squatted down to break up the twigs for Ma.

  Ma lifted the kettle lid and stirred the stew with a stick. “I’m sure glad some of you ain’t hungry. That little fella ain’t, anyways.”

  The girl sneered. “Oh, him! He was a-braggin’. High an’ mighty. If he don’t have no supper—know what he done? Las’ night, come out an’ say they got chicken to eat. Well, sir, I looked in whilst they was a-eatin’ an’ it was fried dough jus’ like ever’body else.”

  “Oh!” And Ma looked down toward the tent where the small boy had gone. She looked back at the little girl. “How long you been in California?” she asked.

  “Oh, ’bout six months. We lived in a gov’ment camp a while, an’ then we went north, an’ when we come back it was full up. That’s a nice place to live, you bet.”

  “Where’s that?” Ma asked. And she took the sticks from Ruthie’s hand and fed the fire. Ruthie glared with hatred at the older girl.

  “Over by Weedpatch. Got nice toilets an’ baths, an’ you kin wash clothes in a tub, an’ they’s water right handy, good drinkin’ water; an’ nights the folks plays music an’ Sat’dy night they give a dance. Oh, you never seen anything so nice. Got a place for kids to play, an’ them toilets with paper. Pull down a little jigger an’ the water comes right in the toilet, an’ they ain’t no cops let to come look in your tent any time they want, an’ the fella runs the camp is so polite, comes a-visitin’ an’ talks an’ ain’t high an’ mighty. I wisht we could go live there again.”

  Ma said, “I never heard about it. I sure could use a wash tub, I tell you.”

  The girl went on excitedly, “Why, God Awmighty, they got hot water right in pipes, an’ you get in under a shower bath an’ it’s warm. You never seen such a place.”

  Ma said, “All full now, ya say?”

  “Yeah. Las’ time we ast it was.”

  “Mus’ cost a lot,” said Ma.

  “Well, it costs, but if you ain’t got the money, they let you work it out—couple hours a week, cleanin’ up, an’ garbage cans. Stuff like that. An’ nights they’s music an’ folks talks together an’ hot water right in the pipes. You never seen nothin’ so nice.”

  Ma said, “I sure wisht we could go there.”

  Ruthie had stood all she could. She blurted fiercely, “Granma died right on top a the truck.” The girl looked questioningly at her. “Well, she did,” Ruthie said. “An’ the cor’ner got her.” She closed her lips tightly and broke up a little pile of sticks.

  Winfield blinked at the boldness of the attack. “Right on the truck,” he echoed. “Cor’ner stuck her in a big basket.”

  Ma said, “You shush now, both of you, or you got to go away.” And she fed twigs into the fire.

  Down the line Al had strolled to watch the valve-grinding job. “Looks like you’re ’bout through,” he said.

  “Two more.”

 
“Is they any girls in this here camp?”

  “I got a wife,” said the young man. “I got no time for girls.”

  “I always got time for girls,” said Al. “I got no time for nothin’ else.”

  “You get a little hungry an’ you’ll change.”

  Al laughed. “Maybe. But I ain’t never changed that notion yet.”

  “Fella I talked to while ago, he’s with you, ain’t he?”

  “Yeah! My brother Tom. Better not fool with him. He killed a fella.”

  “Did? What for?”

  “Fight. Fella got a knife in Tom. Tom busted ’im with a shovel.”

  “Did, huh? What’d the law do?”

  “Let ’im off ’cause it was a fight,” said Al.

  “He don’t look like a quarreler.”

  “Oh, he ain’t. But Tom don’t take nothin’ from nobody.” Al’s voice was very proud. “Tom, he’s quiet. But—look out!”

  “Well—I talked to ’im. He didn’ soun’ mean.”

  “He ain’t. Jus’ as nice as pie till he’s roused, an’ then—look out.” The young man ground at the last valve. “Like me to he’p you get them valves set an’ the head on?”

  “Sure, if you got nothin’ else to do.”

  “Oughta get some sleep,” said Al. “But, hell, I can’t keep my han’s out of a tore-down car. Jus’ got to git in.”

  “Well, I’d admire to git a hand,” said the young man. “My name’s Floyd Knowles.”

  “I’m Al Joad.”

  “Proud to meet ya.”

  “Me too,” said Al. “Gonna use the same gasket?”

  “Got to,” said Floyd.

  Al took out his pocket knife and scraped at the block. “Jesus!” he said. “They ain’t nothin’ I love like the guts of a engine.”

  “How ’bout girls?”

  “Yeah, girls too! Wisht I could tear down a Rolls an’ put her back. I looked under the hood of a Cad’ 16 one time an’, God Awmighty, you never seen nothin’ so sweet in your life! In Sallisaw—an’ here’s this 16 a-standin’ in front of a restaurant, so I lifts the hood. An’ a guy comes out an’ says, ‘What the hell you doin’?’ I says, ‘Jus’ lookin’. Ain’t she swell?’ An’ he jus’ stands there. I don’t think he ever looked in her before. Jus’ stands there. Rich fella in a straw hat. Got a stripe’ shirt on, an’ eye glasses. We don’ say nothin’. Jus’ look. An’ purty soon he says, ‘How’d you like to drive her?”’

  Floyd said, “The hell!”

  “Sure—‘How’d you like to drive her?’ Well, hell, I got on jeans—all dirty. I says, ‘I’d get her dirty.’ ‘Come on!’ he says. ‘Jus’ take her roun’ the block.’ Well, sir, I set in that seat an’ I took her roun’ the block eight times, an’, oh, my God Almighty!”

  “Nice?” Floyd asked.

  “Oh, Jesus!” said Al. “If I could of tore her down why—I’d a give—anythin’.”

  Floyd slowed his jerking arm. He lifted the last valve from its seat and looked at it. “You better git use’ ta a jalopy,” he said, “’cause you ain’t goin’ a drive no 16.” He put his brace down on the running board and took up a chisel to scrape the crust from the block. Two stocky women, bare-headed and bare-footed, went by carrying a bucket of milky water between them. They limped against the weight of the bucket, and neither one looked up from the ground. The sun was half down in afternoon.

  Al said, “You don’t like nothin’ much.”

  Floyd scraped harder with the chisel. “I been here six months,” he said. “I been scrabblin’ over this here State tryin’ to work hard enough and move fast enough to get meat an’ potatoes for me an’ my wife an’ my kids. I’ve run myself like a jackrabbit an’—I can’t quite make her. There just ain’t quite enough to eat no matter what I do. I’m gettin’ tired, that’s all. I’m gettin’ tired way past where sleep rests me. An’ I jus’ don’ know what to do.”

  “Ain’t there no steady work for a fella?” Al asked.

  “No, they ain’t no steady work.” With his chisel he pushed the crust off the block, and he wiped the dull metal with a greasy rag.

  A rusty touring car drove down into the camp and there were four men in it, men with brown hard faces. The car drove slowly through the camp. Floyd called to them, “Any luck?”

  The car stopped. The driver said, “We covered a hell of a lot a ground. They ain’t a hand’s work in this here country. We gotta move.”

  “Where to?” Al called.

  “God knows. We worked this here place over.” He let in his clutch and moved slowly down the camp.

  Al looked after them. “Wouldn’ it be better if one fella went alone? Then if they was one piece a work, a fella’d get it.”

  Floyd put down the chisel and smiled sourly. “You ain’t learned,” he said. “Takes gas to get roun’ the country. Gas costs fifteen cents a gallon. Them four fellas can’t take four cars. So each of ’em puts in a dime an’ they get gas. You got to learn.”

  “Al!”

  Al looked down at Winfield standing importantly beside him. “Al, Ma’s dishin’ up stew. She says come git it.”

  Al wiped his hands on his trousers. “We ain’t et today,” he said to Floyd. “I’ll come give you a han’ when I eat.”

  “No need ’less you want ta.”

  “Sure, I’ll do it.” He followed Winfield toward the Joad camp.

  It was crowded now. The strange children stood close to the stew pot, so close that Ma brushed them with her elbows as she worked. Tom and Uncle John stood beside her.

  Ma said helplessly, “I dunno what to do. I got to feed the fambly. What’m I gonna do with these here?” The children stood stiffly and looked at her. Their faces were blank, rigid, and their eyes went mechanically from the pot to the tin plate she held. Their eyes followed the spoon from pot to plate, and when she passed the steaming plate up to Uncle John, their eyes followed it up. Uncle John dug his spoon into the stew, and the banked eyes rose up with the spoon. A piece of potato went into John’s mouth and the banked eyes were on his face, watching to see how he would react. Would it be good? Would he like it?

  And then Uncle John seemed to see them for the first time. He chewed slowly. “You take this here,” he said to Tom. “I ain’t hungry.”

  “You ain’t et today,” Tom said.

  “I know, but I got a stomickache. I ain’t hungry.”

  Tom said quietly, “You take that plate inside the tent an’ you eat it.”

  “I ain’t hungry,” John insisted. “I’d still see ’em inside the tent.”

  Tom turned on the children. “You git,” he said. “Go on now, git.” The bank of eyes left the stew and rested wondering on his face. “Go on now, git. You ain’t doin’ no good. There ain’t enough for you.”

  Ma ladled stew into the tin plates, very little stew, and she laid the plates on the ground. “I can’t send ’em away,” she said. “I don’ know what to do. Take your plates an’ go inside. I’ll let ’em have what’s lef’. Here, take a plate in to Rosasharn.” She smiled up at the children. “Look,” she said, “you little fellas go an’ get you each a flat stick an’ I’ll put what’s lef’ for you. But they ain’t to be no fightin’.” The group broke up with a deadly, silent swiftness. Children ran to find sticks, they ran to their own tents and brought spoons. Before Ma had finished with the plates they were back, silent and wolfish. Ma shook her head. “I dunno what to do. I can’t rob the fambly. I got to feed the fambly. Ruthie, Winfiel’, Al,” she cried fiercely. “Take your plates. Hurry up. Git in the tent quick.” She looked apologetically at the waiting children. “There ain’t enough,” she said humbly. “I’m a-gonna set this here kettle out, an’ you’ll all get a little tas’, but it ain’t gonna do you no good.” She faltered, “I can’t he’p it. Can’t keep it from you.” She lifted the pot and set it down on the ground. “Now wait. It’s too hot,” she said, and she went into the tent quickly so she would not see. Her family sat on the ground, each with his plate; and outside
they could hear the children digging into the pot with their sticks and their spoons and their pieces of rusty tin. A mound of children smothered the pot from sight. They did not talk, did not fight or argue; but there was a quiet intentness in all of them, a wooden fierceness. Ma turned her back so she couldn’t see. “We can’t do that no more,” she said. “We got to eat alone.” There was the sound of scraping at the kettle, and then the mound of children broke and the children walked away and left the scraped kettle on the ground. Ma looked at the empty plates. “Didn’ none of you get nowhere near enough.”

  Pa got up and left the tent without answering. The preacher smiled to himself and lay back on the ground, hands clasped behind his head. Al got to his feet. “Got to help a fella with a car.”

  Ma gathered the plates and took them outside to wash. “Ruthie,” she called, “Winfiel’. Go get me a bucket a water right off.” She handed them the bucket and they trudged off toward the river.

  A strong broad woman walked near. Her dress was streaked with dust and splotched with car oil. Her chin was held high with pride. She stood a short distance away and regarded Ma belligerently. At last she approached. “Afternoon,” she said coldly.

  “Afternoon,” said Ma, and she got up from her knees and pushed a box forward. “Won’t you set down?”

  The woman walked near. “No, I won’t set down.”

  Ma looked questioningly at her. “Can I he’p you in any way?”

  The woman set her hands on her hips. “You kin he’p me by mindin’ your own childern an’ lettin’ mine alone.”

  Ma’s eyes opened wide. “I ain’t done nothin’—” she began.

  The woman scowled at her. “My little fella come back smellin’ of stew. You give it to ’im. He tol’ me. Don’ you go a-boastin’ an’ a-braggin’ ’bout havin’ stew. Don’ you do it. I got ’nuf troubles ’thout that. Come in ta me, he did, an’ says, ‘Whyn’t we have stew?”’ Her voice shook with fury.

  Ma moved close. “Set down,” she said. “Set down an’ talk a piece.”

  “No, I ain’t gonna set down. I’m tryin’ to feed my folks, an’ you come along with your stew.”

  “Set down,” Ma said. “That was ’bout the las’ stew we’re gonna have till we get work. S’pose you was cookin’ a stew an’ a bunch a little fellas stood aroun’ moonin’, what’d you do? We didn’t have enough, but you can’t keep it when they look at ya like that.”