The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Two deputies sat on either side of Casy. The leader sounded his horn. There was no movement in the camp. The flaps were down tight, and the people in their tents. The engine started and the car swung around and pulled out of the camp. Between his guards Casy sat proudly, his head up and the stringy muscles of his neck prominent. On his lips there was a faint smile and on his face a curious look of conquest.

  When the deputies had gone, the people came out of the tents. The sun was down now, and the gentle blue evening light was in the camp. To the east the mountains were still yellow with sunlight. The women went back to the fires that had died. The men collected to squat together and to talk softly.

  Al crawled from under the Joad tarpaulin and walked toward the willows to whistle for Tom. Ma came out and built her little fire of twigs.

  “Pa,” she said, “we ain’t goin’ to have much. We et so late.”

  Pa and Uncle John stuck close to the camp, watching Ma peeling potatoes and slicing them raw into a frying pan of deep grease. Pa said, “Now what the hell made the preacher do that?”

  Ruthie and Winfield crept close and crouched down to hear the talk.

  Uncle John scratched the earth deeply with a long rusty nail. “He knowed about sin. I ast him about sin, an’ he tol’ me; but I don’ know if he’s right. He says a fella’s sinned if he thinks he’s sinned.” Uncle John’s eyes were tired and sad. “I been secret all my days,” he said. “I done things I never tol’ about.”

  Ma turned from the fire. “Don’ go tellin’, John,” she said. “Tell ’em to God. Don’ go burdenin’ other people with your sins. That ain’t decent.”

  “They’re a-eatin’ on me,” said John.

  “Well, don’ tell ’em. Go down the river an’ stick your head under an’ whisper ’em in the stream.”

  Pa nodded his head slowly at Ma’s words. “She’s right,” he said. “It gives a fella relief to tell, but it jus’ spreads out his sin.”

  Uncle John looked up to the sun-gold mountains, and the mountains were reflected in his eyes. “I wisht I could run it down,” he said. “But I can’t. She’s a-bitin’ in my guts.”

  Behind him Rose of Sharon moved dizzily out of the tent. “Where’s Connie?” she asked irritably. “I ain’t seen Connie for a long time. Where’d he go?”

  “I ain’t seen him,” said Ma. “If I see ’im, I’ll tell ’im you want ’im.”

  “I ain’t feelin’ good,” said Rose of Sharon. “Connie shouldn’ of left me.”

  Ma looked up to the girl’s swollen face. “You been a-cryin’,” she said.

  The tears started freshly in Rose of Sharon’s eyes.

  Ma went on firmly, “You git aholt on yaself. They’s a lot of us here. You git aholt on yaself. Come here now an’ peel some potatoes. You’re feelin’ sorry for yaself.”

  The girl started to go back in the tent. She tried to avoid Ma’s stern eyes, but they compelled her and she came slowly toward the fire. “He shouldn’ of went away,” she said, but the tears were gone.

  “You got to work,” Ma said. “Set in the tent an’ you’ll get feelin’ sorry about yaself. I ain’t had time to take you in han’. I will now. You take this here knife an’ get to them potatoes.”

  The girl knelt down and obeyed. She said fiercely, “Wait’ll I see ’im. I’ll tell ’im.”

  Ma smiled slowly. “He might smack you. You got it comin’ with whinin’ aroun’ an’ candyin’ yaself. If he smacks some sense in you I’ll bless ’im.” The girl’s eyes blazed with resentment, but she was silent.

  Uncle John pushed his rusty nail deep into the ground with his broad thumb. “I got to tell,” he said.

  Pa said, “Well, tell then, goddamn it! Who’d ya kill?”

  Uncle John dug with his thumb into the watch pocket of his blue jeans and scooped out a folded dirty bill. He spread it out and showed it. “Fi’ dollars,” he said.

  “Steal her?” Pa asked.

  “No, I had her. Kept her out.”

  “She was yourn, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t have no right to keep her out.”

  “I don’t see much sin in that,” Ma said. “It’s yourn.”

  Uncle John said slowly, “It ain’t only the keepin’ her out. I kep’ her out to get drunk. I knowed they was gonna come a time when I got to get drunk, when I’d get to hurtin’ inside so I got to get drunk. Figgered time wasn’ yet, an’ then—the preacher went an’ give ’imself up to save Tom.”

  Pa nodded his head up and down and cocked his head to hear. Ruthie moved closer, like a puppy, crawling on her elbows, and Winfield followed her. Rose of Sharon dug at a deep eye in a potato with the point of her knife. The evening light deepened and became more blue.

  Ma said, in a sharp matter-of-fact tone, “I don’ see why him savin’ Tom got to get you drunk.”

  John said sadly, “Can’t say her. I feel awful. He done her so easy. Jus’ stepped up there an’ says, ‘I done her.’ An’ they took ’im away. An’ I’m a-gonna get drunk.”

  Pa still nodded his head. “I don’t see why you got to tell,” he said. “If it was me, I’d jus’ go off an’ get drunk if I had to.”

  “Come a time when I could a did somepin an’ took the big sin off my soul,” Uncle John said sadly. “An’ I slipped up. I didn’ jump on her, an’—an’ she got away. Lookie!” he said. “You got the money. Gimme two dollars.”

  Pa reached reluctantly into his pocket and brought out the leather pouch. “You ain’t gonna need no seven dollars to get drunk. You don’t need to drink champagny water.”

  Uncle John held out his bill. “You take this here an’ gimme two dollars. I can get good an’ drunk for two dollars. I don’ want no sin of waste on me. I’ll spend whatever I got. Always do.”

  Pa took the dirty bill and gave Uncle John two silver dollars. “There ya are,” he said. “A fella got to do what he got to do. Nobody don’ know enough to tell ’im.”

  Uncle John took the coins. “You ain’t gonna be mad? You know I got to?”

  “Christ, yes,” said Pa. “You know what you got to do.”

  “I wouldn’ be able to get through this night no other way,” he said. He turned to Ma. “You ain’t gonna hold her over me?”

  Ma didn’t look up. “No,” she said softly. “No—you go ’long.”

  He stood up and walked forlornly away in the evening. He walked up to the concrete highway and across the pavement to the grocery store. In front of the screen door he took off his hat, dropped it into the dust, and ground it with his heel in self-abasement. And he left his black hat there, broken and dirty. He entered the store and walked to the shelves where the whisky bottles stood behind wire netting.

  Pa and Ma and the children watched Uncle John move away. Rose of Sharon kept her eyes resentfully on the potatoes.

  “Poor John,” Ma said. “I wondered if it would a done any good if—no—I guess not. I never seen a man so drove.”

  Ruthie turned on her side in the dust. She put her head close to Winfield’s head and pulled his ear against her mouth. She whispered, “I’m gonna get drunk.” Winfield snorted and pinched his mouth tight. The two children crawled away, holding their breath, their faces purple with the pressure of their giggles. They crawled around the tent and leaped up and ran squealing away from the tent. They ran to the willows, and once concealed, they shrieked with laughter. Ruthie crossed her eyes and loosened her joints; she staggered about, tripping loosely, with her tongue hanging out. “I’m drunk,” she said.

  “Look,” Winfield cried. “Looka me, here’s me, an’ I’m Uncle John.” He flapped his arms and puffed, he whirled until he was dizzy.

  “No,” said Ruthie. “Here’s the way. Here’s the way. I’m Uncle John. I’m awful drunk.”

  Al and Tom walked quietly through the willows, and they came on the children staggering crazily about. The dusk was thick now. Tom stopped and peered. “Ain’t that Ruthie an’ Winfiel’? What the hell’s the matter with ’em?�
�� They walked nearer. “You crazy?” Tom asked.

  The children stopped, embarrassed. “We was—jus’ playin’,” Ruthie said.

  “It’s a crazy way to play,” said Al.

  Ruthie said pertly, “It ain’t no crazier’n a lot of things.”

  Al walked on. He said to Tom, “Ruthie’s workin’ up a kick in the pants. She been workin’ it up a long time. ’Bout due for it.”

  Ruthie mushed her face at his back, pulled out her mouth with her forefingers, slobbered her tongue at him, outraged him in every way she knew, but Al did not turn back to look at her. She looked at Winfield again to start the game, but it had been spoiled. They both knew it.

  “Le’s go down the water an’ duck our heads,” Winfield suggested. They walked down through the willows, and they were angry at Al.

  Al and Tom went quietly in the dusk. Tom said, “Casy shouldn’ of did it. I might of knew, though. He was talkin’ how he ain’t done nothin’ for us. He’s a funny fella, Al. All the time thinkin’.”

  “Comes from bein’ a preacher,” Al said. “They get all messed up with stuff.”

  “Where ya s’pose Connie was a-goin’?”

  “Goin’ to take a crap, I guess.”

  “Well, he was goin’ a hell of a long way.”

  They walked among the tents, keeping close to the walls. At Floyd’s tent a soft hail stopped them. They came near to the tent flap and squatted down. Floyd raised the canvas a little. “You gettin’ out?”

  Tom said, “I don’ know. Think we better?”

  Floyd laughed sourly. “You heard what that bull said. They’ll burn ya out if ya don’t. ’F you think that guy’s gonna take a beat in’ ’thout gettin’ back, you’re nuts. The pool-room boys’ll be down here tonight to burn us out.”

  “Guess we better git, then,” Tom said. “Where you a-goin’?”

  “Why, up north, like I said.”

  Al said, “Look, a fella tol’ me ’bout a gov’ment camp near here. Where’s it at?”

  “Oh, I think that’s full up.”

  “Well, where’s it at?”

  “Go south on 99’bout twelve-fourteen miles, an’ turn east to Weed-patch. It’s right near there. But I think she’s full up.”

  “Fella says it’s nice,” Al said.

  “Sure, she’s nice. Treat ya like a man ’stead of a dog. Ain’t no cops there. But she’s full up.”

  Tom said, “What I can’t understan’s why that cop was so mean. Seemed like he was aimin’ for trouble; seemed like he’s pokin’ a fella to make trouble.”

  Floyd said, “I don’ know about here, but up north I knowed one a them fellas, an’ he was a nice fella. He tol’ me up there the deputies got to take guys in. Sheriff gets seventy-five cents a day for each prisoner, an’ he feeds ’em for a quarter. If he ain’t got prisoners, he don’t make no profit. This fella says he didn’ pick up nobody for a week, an’ the sheriff tol’ ’im he better bring in guys or give up his button. This fella today sure looks like he’s out to make a pinch one way or another.”

  “We got to get on,” said Tom. “So long, Floyd.”

  “So long. Prob’ly see you. Hope so.”

  “Good-by,” said Al. They walked through the dark gray camp to the Joad tent.

  The frying pan of potatoes was hissing and spitting over the fire. Ma moved the thick slices about with a spoon. Pa sat near by, hugging his knees. Rose of Sharon was sitting under the tarpaulin.

  “It’s Tom!” Ma cried. “Thank God.”

  “We got to get outa here,” said Tom.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “Well, Floyd says they’ll burn the camp tonight.”

  “What the hell for?” Pa asked. “We ain’t done nothin’.”

  “Nothin’ ’cept beat up a cop,” said Tom.

  “Well, we never done it.”

  “From what that cop said, they wanta push us along.”

  Rose of Sharon demanded, “You seen Connie?”

  “Yeah,” said Al. “Way to hell an’ gone up the river. He’s goin’ south.”

  “Was—was he goin’ away?”

  “I don’ know.”

  Ma turned on the girl. “Rosasharn, you been talkin’ an’ actin’ funny. What’d Connie say to you?”

  Rose of Sharon said sullenly, “Said it would a been a good thing if he stayed home an’ studied up tractors.”

  They were very quiet. Rose of Sharon looked at the fire and her eyes glistened in the firelight. The potatoes hissed sharply in the frying pan. The girl sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  Pa said, “Connie wasn’ no good. I seen that a long time. Didn’ have no guts, jus’ too big for his overhalls.”

  Rose of Sharon got up and went into the tent. She lay down on the mattress and rolled over on her stomach and buried her head in her crossed arms.

  “Wouldn’ do no good to catch ’im, I guess,” Al said.

  Pa replied, “No. If he ain’t no good, we don’ want him.”

  Ma looked into the tent, where Rose of Sharon lay on her mattress. Ma said, “Sh. Don’ say that.”

  “Well, he ain’t no good,” Pa insisted. “All the time a-sayin’ what he’s a-gonna do. Never doin’ nothin’. I didn’ want ta say nothin’ while he’s here. But now he’s run out——”

  “Sh!” Ma said softly.

  “Why, for Christ’s sake? Why do I got to shh? He run out, didn’ he?”

  Ma turned over the potatoes with her spoon, and the grease boiled and spat. She fed twigs to the fire, and the flames laced up and lighted the tent. Ma said, “Rosasharn gonna have a little fella an’ that baby is half Connie. It ain’t good for a baby to grow up with folks a-sayin’ his pa ain’t no good.”

  “Better’n lyin’ about it,” said Pa.

  “No, it ain’t,” Ma interrupted. “Make out like he’s dead. You wouldn’ say no bad things about Connie if he’s dead.”

  Tom broke in, “Hey, what is this? We ain’t sure Connie’s gone for good. We got no time for talkin’. We got to eat an’ get on our way.”

  “On our way? We jus’ come here.” Ma peered at him through the firelighted darkness.

  He explained carefully, “They gonna burn the camp tonight, Ma. Now you know I ain’t got it in me to stan’ by an’ see our stuff burn up, nor Pa ain’t got it in him, nor Uncle John. We’d come up a-fightin’, an’ I jus’ can’t afford to be took in an’ mugged. I nearly got it today, if the preacher hadn’ jumped in.”

  Ma had been turning the frying potatoes in the hot grease. Now she took her decision. “Come on!” she cried. “Le’s eat this stuff. We got to go quick.” She set out the tin plates.

  Pa said, “How ’bout John?”

  “Where is Uncle John?” Tom asked.

  Pa and Ma were silent for a moment, and then Pa said, “He went to get drunk.”

  “Jesus!” Tom said. “What a time he picked out! Where’d he go?”

  “I don’ know,” said Pa.

  Tom stood up. “Look,” he said, “you all eat an’ get the stuff loaded. I’ll go look for Uncle John. He’d of went to the store ’crost the road.”

  Tom walked quickly away. The little cooking fires burned in front of the tents and the shacks, and the light fell on the faces of ragged men and women, on crouched children. In a few tents the light of kerosene lamps shone through the canvas and placed shadows of people hugely on the cloth.

  Tom walked up the dusty road and crossed the concrete highway to the little grocery store. He stood in front of the screen door and looked in. The proprietor, a little gray man with an unkempt mustache and watery eyes, leaned on the counter reading a newspaper. His thin arms were bare and he wore a long white apron. Heaped around and in back of him were mounds, pyramids, walls of canned goods. He looked up when Tom came in, and his eyes narrowed as though he aimed a shotgun.

  “Good evening,” he said. “Run out of something?”

  “Run out of my uncle,” said Tom, “Or he run out,
or something.”

  The gray man looked puzzled and worried at the same time. He touched the tip of his nose tenderly and waggled it around to stop an itch. “Seems like you people always lost somebody,” he said. “Ten times a day or more somebody comes in here an’ says, ‘If you see a man named so an’ so, an’ looks like so an’ so, will you tell ’im we went up north?’ Somepin like that all the time.”

  Tom laughed. “Well, if you see a young snot-nose name’ Connie, looks a little bit like a coyote, tell ’im to go to hell. We’ve went south. But he ain’t the fella I’m lookin’ for. Did a fella ’bout sixty years ol’, black pants, sort of grayish hair, come in here an’ get some whisky?”

  The eyes of the gray man brightened. “Now he sure did. I never seen anything like it. He stood out front an’ he dropped his hat an’ stepped on it. Here, I got his hat here.” He brought the dusty broken hat from under the counter.

  Tom took it from him. “That’s him, all right.”

  “Well, sir, he got couple pints of whisky an’ he didn’ say a thing. He pulled the cork an’ tipped up the bottle. I ain’t got a license to drink here. I says, ‘Look, you can’t drink here. You got to go outside.’ Well, sir! He jus’ stepped outside the door, an’ I bet he didn’t tilt up that pint more’n four times till it was empty. He throwed it away an’ he leaned in the door. Eyes kinda dull. He says, ‘Thank you, sir,’ an’ he went on. I never seen no drinkin’ like that in my life.”

  “Went on? Which way? I got to get him.”

  “Well, it so happens I can tell you. I never seen such drinkin’, so I looked out after him. He went north; an’ then a car come along an’ lighted him up, an’ he went down the bank. Legs was beginnin’ to buckle a little. He got the other pint open awready. He won’t be far—not the way he was goin’.”

  Tom said, “Thank ya. I got to find him.”

  “You want ta take his hat?”

  “Yeah! Yeah! He’ll need it. Well, thank ya.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” the gray man asked. “He wasn’t takin’ pleasure in his drink.”