“Swing your ladies an’ a dol ce do. Join han’s roun’ an’ away we go.” The music rose and fell, and the moving shoes beating in time on the platform sounded like drums. “Swing to the right an’ a swing to lef’; break, now—break—back to—back,” the caller sang the high vibrant monotone. Now the girls’ hair lost the careful combing. Now perspiration stood out on the foreheads of the boys. Now the experts showed the tricky inter-steps. And the old people on the edge of the floor took up the rhythm, patted their hands softly, and tapped their feet; and they smiled gently and then caught one another’s eyes and nodded.
Ma leaned her head close to Rose of Sharon’s ear. “Maybe you wouldn’ think it, but your Pa was as nice a dancer as I ever seen, when he was young.” And Ma smiled. “Makes me think of ol’ times,” she said. And on the faces of the watchers the smiles were of old times.
“Up near Muskogee twenty years ago, they was a blin’ man with a fiddle——”
“I seen a fella oncet could slap his heels four times in one jump.”
“Swedes up in Dakota—know what they do sometimes? Put pepper on the floor. Gits up the ladies’ skirts an’ makes ’em purty lively—lively as a filly in season. Swedes do that sometimes.”
In the distance, the Jesus-lovers watched their restive children. “Look on sin,” they said. “Them folks is ridin’ to hell on a poker. It’s a shame the godly got to see it.” And their children were silent and nervous.
“One more roun’ an’ then a little res’,” the caller chanted. “Hit her hard, ’cause we’re gonna stop soon.” And the girls were damp and flushed, and they danced with open mouths and serious reverent faces, and the boys flung back their long hair and pranced, pointed their toes, and clicked their heels. In and out the squares moved, crossing, backing, whirling, and the music shrilled.
Then suddenly it stopped. The dancers stood still, panting with fatigue. And the children broke from restraint, dashed on the floor, chased one another madly, ran, slid, stole caps, and pulled hair. The dancers sat down, fanning themselves with their hands. The members of the band got up and stretched themselves and sat down again. And the guitar players worked softly over their strings.
Now Willie called, “Choose again for another square, if you can.” The dancers scrambled to their feet and new dancers plunged forward for partners. Tom stood near the three young men. He saw them force their way through, out on the floor, toward one of the forming squares. He waved his hand at Willie, and Willie spoke to the fiddler. The fiddler squawked his bow across the strings. Twenty young men lounged slowly across the floor. The three reached the square. And one of them said, “I’ll dance with this here.”
A blond boy looked up in astonishment. “She’s my partner.”
“Listen, you little son-of-a-bitch——”
Off in the darkness a shrill whistle sounded. The three were walled in now. And each one felt the grip of hands. And then the wall of men moved slowly off the platform.
Willie yelped, “Le’s go!” The music shrilled out, the caller intoned the figures, the feet thudded on the platform.
A touring car drove to the entrance. The driver called, “Open up. We hear you got a riot.”
The guard kept his position. “We got no riot. Listen to that music. Who are you?”
“Deputy sheriffs.”
“Got a warrant?”
“We don’t need a warrant if there’s a riot.”
“Well, we got no riots here,” said the gate guard.
The men in the car listened to the music and the sound of the caller, and then the car pulled slowly away and parked in a crossroad and waited.
In the moving squad each of the three young men was pinioned, and a hand was over each mouth. When they reached the darkness the group opened up.
Tom said, “That sure was did nice.” He held both arms of his victim from behind.
Willie ran over to them from the dance floor. “Nice work,” he said. “On’y need six now. Huston wants to see these here fellers.”
Huston himself emerged from the darkness. “These the ones?”
“Sure,” said Jule. “Went right up an’ started it. But they didn’ even swing once.”
“Let’s look at ’em.” The prisoners were swung around to face him. Their heads were down. Huston put a flashlight beam in each sullen face. “What did you wanta do it for?” he asked. There was no answer. “Who the hell tol’ you to do it?”
“Goddarn it, we didn’ do nothing. We was jes’ gonna dance.”
“No, you wasn’t,” Jule said. “You was gonna sock that kid.”
Tom said, “Mr. Huston, jus’ when these here fellas moved in, somebody give a whistle.”
“Yeah, I know! The cops come right to the gate.” He turned back. “We ain’t gonna hurt you. Now who tol’ you to come bus’ up our dance?” He waited for a reply. “You’re our own folks,” Huston said sadly. “You belong with us. How’d you happen to come? We know all about it,” he added.
“Well, goddamn it, a fella got to eat.”
“Well, who sent you? Who paid you to come?”
“We ain’t been paid.”
“An’ you ain’t gonna be. No fight, no pay. Ain’t that right?”
One of the pinioned men said, “Do what you want. We ain’t gonna tell nothing.”
Huston’s head sank down for a moment, and then he said softly, “O.K. Don’t tell. But looka here. Don’t knife your own folks. We’re tryin’ to get along, havin’ fun an’ keepin’ order. Don’t tear all that down. Jes’ think about it. You’re jes’ harmin’ yourself.
“Awright, boys, put ’em over the back fence. An’ don’t hurt ’em. They don’t know what they’re doin’.”
The squad moved slowly toward the rear of the camp, and Huston looked after them.
Jule said, “Le’s jes’ take one good kick at ’em.”
“No, you don’t!” Willie cried. “I said we wouldn’.”
“Jes’ one nice little kick,” Jule pleaded. “Jes’ loft ’em over the fence.”
“No, sir,” Willie insisted.
“Listen, you,” he said, “we’re lettin’ you off this time. But you take back the word. If ’n ever this here happens again, we’ll jes’ natcherally kick the hell outa whoever comes; we’ll bust ever’ bone in their body. Now you tell your boys that. Huston says you’re our kinda folks—maybe. I’d hate to think it.”
They neared the fence. Two of the seated guards stood up and moved over. “Got some fellas goin’ home early,” said Willie. The three men climbed over the fence and disappeared into the darkness.
And the squad moved quickly back toward the dance floor. And the music of “Ol’ Dan Tucker” skirled and whined from the string band.
Over near the office the men still squatted and talked, and the shrill music came to them.
Pa said, “They’s change a-comin’. I don’ know what. Maybe we won’t live to see her. But she’s a-comin’. They’s a res’less feelin’. Fella can’t figger nothin’ out, he’s so nervous.”
And Black Hat lifted his head up again, and the light fell on his bristly whiskers. He gathered some little rocks from the ground and shot them like marbles, with his thumb. “I don’ know. She’s a-comin’ awright, like you say. Fella tol’ me what happened in Akron, Ohio. Rubber companies. They got mountain people in ’cause they’d work cheap. An’ these here mountain people up an’ joined the union. Well, sir, hell jes’ popped. All them storekeepers and legioners an’ people like that, they get drillin’ an’ yellin’, ‘Red!’ An’ they’re gonna run the union right outa Akron. Preachers git a-preachin’ about it, an’ papers a-yowlin’, an’ they’s pick handles put out by the rubber companies, an’ they’re a-buyin’ gas. Jesus, you’d think them mountain boys was reg’lar devils!” He stopped and found some more rocks to shoot. “Well, sir—it was las’ March, an’ one Sunday five thousan’ of them mountain men had a turkey shoot outside a town. Five thousan’ of ’em jes’ marched through town with thei
r rifles. An’ they had their turkey shoot, an’ then they marched back. An’ that’s all they done. Well, sir, they ain’t been no trouble sence then. These here citizens committees give back the pick handles, an’ the storekeepers keep their stores, an’ nobody been clubbed nor tarred an’ feathered, an’ nobody been killed.” There was a long silence, and then Black Hat said, “They’re gettin’ purty mean out here. Burned that camp an’ beat up folks. I been thinkin’. All our folks got guns. I been thinkin’ maybe we ought to git up a turkey shootin’ club an’ have meetin’s ever’ Sunday.”
The men looked up at him, and then down at the ground, and their feet moved restlessly and they shifted their weight from one leg to the other.
Chapter 25
The spring is beautiful in California. Valleys in which the fruit blossoms are fragrant pink and white waters in a shallow sea. Then the first tendrils of the grapes, swelling from the old gnarled vines, cascade down to cover the trunks. The full green hills are round and soft as breasts. And on the level vegetable lands are the mile-long rows of pale green lettuce and the spindly little cauliflowers, the gray-green unearthly artichoke plants.
And then the leaves break out on the trees, and the petals drop from the fruit trees and carpet the earth with pink and white. The centers of the blossoms swell and grow and color: cherries and apples, peaches and pears, figs which close the flower in the fruit. All California quickens with produce, and the fruit grows heavy, and the limbs bend gradually under the fruit so that little crutches must be placed under them to support the weight.
Behind the fruitfulness are men of understanding and knowledge and skill, men who experiment with seed, endlessly developing the techniques for greater crops of plants whose roots will resist the million enemies of the earth: the molds, the insects, the rusts, the blights. These men work carefully and endlessly to perfect the seed, the roots. And there are the men of chemistry who spray the trees against pests, who sulphur the grapes, who cut out disease and rots, mildews and sicknesses. Doctors of preventive medicine, men at the borders who look for fruit flies, for Japanese beetle, men who quarantine the sick trees and root them out and burn them, men of knowledge. The men who graft the young trees, the little vines, are the cleverest of all, for theirs is a surgeon’s job, as tender and delicate; and these men must have surgeons’ hands and surgeons’ hearts to slit the bark, to place the grafts, to bind the wounds and cover them from the air. These are great men.
Along the rows, the cultivators move, tearing the spring grass and turning it under to make a fertile earth, breaking the ground to hold the water up near the surface, ridging the ground in little pools for the irrigation, destroying the weed roots that may drink the water away from the trees.
And all the time the fruit swells and the flowers break out in long clusters on the vines. And in the growing year the warmth grows and the leaves turn dark green. The prunes lengthen like little green bird’s eggs, and the limbs sag down against the crutches under the weight. And the hard little pears take shape, and the beginning of the fuzz comes out on the peaches. Grape blossoms shed their tiny petals and the hard little beads become green buttons, and the buttons grow heavy. The men who work in the fields, the owners of the little orchards, watch and calculate. The year is heavy with produce. And men are proud, for of their knowledge they can make the year heavy. They have transformed the world with their knowledge. The short, lean wheat has been made big and productive. Little sour apples have grown large and sweet, and that old grape that grew among the trees and fed the birds its tiny fruit has mothered a thousand varieties, red and black, green and pale pink, purple and yellow; and each variety with its own flavor. The men who work in the experimental farms have made new fruits: nectarines and forty kinds of plums, walnuts with paper shells. And always they work, selecting, grafting, changing, driving themselves, driving the earth to produce.
And first the cherries ripen. Cent and a half a pound. Hell, we can’t pick ’em for that. Black cherries and red cherries, full and sweet, and the birds eat half of each cherry and the yellowjackets buzz into the holes the birds made. And on the ground the seeds drop and dry with black shreds hanging from them.
The purple prunes soften and sweeten. My God, we can’t pick them and dry and sulphur them. We can’t pay wages, no matter what wages. And the purple prunes carpet the ground. And first the skins wrinkle a little and swarms of flies come to feast, and the valley is filled with the odor of sweet decay. The meat turns dark and the crop shrivels on the ground.
And the pears grow yellow and soft. Five dollars a ton. Five dollars for forty fifty-pound boxes; trees pruned and sprayed, orchards cultivated—pick the fruit, put it in boxes, load the trucks, deliver the fruit to the cannery—forty boxes for five dollars. We can’t do it. And the yellow fruit falls heavily to the ground and splashes on the ground. The yellowjackets dig into the soft meat, and there is a smell of ferment and rot.
Then the grapes—we can’t make good wine. People can’t buy good wine. Rip the grapes from the vines, good grapes, rotten grapes, wasp-stung grapes. Press stems, press dirt and rot.
But there’s mildew and formic acid in the vats.
Add sulphur and tannic acid.
The smell from the ferment is not the rich odor of wine, but the smell of decay and chemicals.
Oh, well. It has alcohol in it, anyway. They can get drunk.
The little farmers watched debt creep up on them like the tide. They sprayed the trees and sold no crop, they pruned and grafted and could not pick the crop. And the men of knowledge have worked, have considered, and the fruit is rotting on the ground, and the decaying mash in the wine vats is poisoning the air. And taste the wine—no grape flavor at all, just sulphur and tannic acid and alcohol.
This little orchard will be a part of a great holding next year, for the debt will have choked the owner.
This vineyard will belong to the bank. Only the great owners can survive, for they own the canneries too. And four pears peeled and cut in half, cooked and canned, still cost fifteen cents. And the canned pears do not spoil. They will last for years.
The decay spreads over the State, and the sweet smell is a great sorrow on the land. Men who can graft the trees and make the seed fertile and big can find no way to let the hungry people eat their produce. Men who have created new fruits in the world cannot create a system whereby their fruits may be eaten. And the failure hangs over the State like a great sorrow.
The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. A million people hungry, needing the fruit—and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains.
And the smell of rot fills the country.
Burn coffee for fuel in the ships. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth.
There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a failure here that topples all our success. The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. And children dying of pellagra must die because a profit cannot be taken from an orange. And coroners must fill in the certificates—died of malnutrition—because the food must rot, must be forced to rot.
The people come with nets to fish for potatoes in the river, and the guards hold them back; they come in rattling cars to get the dumped oranges, but the kerosene is sprayed. And they stand still and watch the potatoes float by, listen to the screaming pigs being killed in a ditch and covered with quicklime, watch
the mountains of oranges slop down to a putrefying ooze; and in the eyes of the people there is the failure; and in the eyes of the hungry there is a growing wrath. In the souls of the people the grapes of wrath are filling and growing heavy, growing heavy for the vintage.
Chapter 26
In the Weedpatch camp, on an evening when the long, barred clouds hung over the set sun and inflamed their edges, the Joad family lingered after their supper. Ma hesitated before she started to do the dishes.
“We got to do somepin,” she said. And she pointed at Winfield. “Look at ’im,” she said. And when they stared at the little boy, “He’s a-jerkin’ an’ a-twistin’ in his sleep. Lookut his color.” The members of the family looked at the earth again in shame. “Fried dough,” Ma said. “One month we been here. An’ Tom had five days’ work. An’ the rest of you scrabblin’ out ever’ day, an’ no work. An’ scairt to talk. An’ the money gone. You’re scairt to talk it out. Ever’ night you jus’ eat, an’ then you get wanderin’ away. Can’t bear to talk it out. Well, you got to. Rosasharn ain’t far from due, an’ lookut her color. You got to talk it out. Now don’t none of you get up till we figger somepin out. One day’ more grease an’ two days’flour, an’ ten potatoes. You set here an’ get busy!”
They looked at the ground. Pa cleaned his thick nails with his pocket knife. Uncle John picked at a splinter on the box he sat on. Tom pinched his lower lip and pulled it away from his teeth.
He released his lip and said softly, “We been a-lookin’, Ma. Been walkin’ out sence we can’t use the gas no more. Been goin’ in ever’ gate, walkin’ up to ever’ house, even when we knowed they wasn’t gonna be nothin’. Puts a weight on ya. Goin’ out lookin’ for somepin you know you ain’t gonna find.”
The Grapes of Wrath Page 47