The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

  Frantic men pounded on the doors of the doctors; and the doctors were busy. And sad men left word at country stores for the coroner to send a car. The coroners were not too busy. The coroners’ wagons backed up through the mud and took out the dead.

  And the rain pattered relentlessly down, and the streams broke their banks and spread out over the country.

  Huddled under sheds, lying in wet hay, the hunger and the fear bred anger. Then boys went out, not to beg, but to steal; and men went out weakly, to try to steal.

  The sheriffs swore in new deputies and ordered new rifles; and the comfortable people in tight houses felt pity at first, and then distaste, and finally hatred for the migrant people.

  In the wet hay of leaking barns babies were born to women who panted with pneumonia. And old people curled up in corners and died that way, so that the coroners could not straighten them. At night the frantic men walked boldly to hen roosts and carried off the squawking chickens. If they were shot at, they did not run, but splashed sullenly away; and if they were hit, they sank tiredly in the mud.

  The rain stopped. On the fields the water stood, reflecting the gray sky, and the land whispered with moving water. And the men came out of the barns, out of the sheds. They squatted on their hams and looked out over the flooded land. And they were silent. And sometimes they talked very quietly.

  No work till spring. No work.

  And if no work—no money, no food.

  Fella had a team of horses, had to use ’em to plow an’ cultivate an’ mow, wouldn’ think a turnin’ ’em out to starve when they wasn’t workin’.

  Them’s horses—we’re men.

  The women watched the men, watched to see whether the break had come at last. The women stood silently and watched. And where a number of men gathered together, the fear went from their faces, and anger took its place. And the women sighed with relief, for they knew it was all right—the break had not come; and the break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath.

  Tiny points of grass came through the earth, and in a few days the hills were pale green with the beginning year.

  Chapter 30

  In the boxcar camp the water stood in puddles, and the rain splashed in the mud. Gradually the little stream crept up the bank toward the low flat where the boxcars stood.

  On the second day of the rain Al took the tarpaulin down from the middle of the car. He carried it out and spread it on the nose of the truck, and he came back into the car and sat down on his mattress. Now, without the separation, the two families in the car were one. The men sat together, and their spirits were damp. Ma kept a little fire going in the stove, kept a few twigs burning, and she conserved her wood. The rain poured down on the nearly flat roof of the boxcar.

  On the third day the Wainwrights grew restless. “Maybe we better go ’long,” Mrs. Wainwright said.

  And Ma tried to keep them. “Where’d you go an’ be sure of a tight roof ?”

  “I dunno, but I got a feelin’ we oughta go along.” They argued together, and Ma watched Al.

  Ruthie and Winfield tried to play for a while, and then they too relapsed into sullen inactivity, and the rain drummed down on the roof.

  On the third day the sound of the stream could be heard above the drumming rain. Pa and Uncle John stood in the open door and looked out on the rising stream. At both ends of the camp the water ran near to the highway, but at the camp it looped away so that the highway embankment surrounded the camp at the back and the stream closed it in on the front. And Pa said, “How’s it look to you, John? Seems to me if that crick comes up, she’ll flood us.”

  Uncle John opened his mouth and rubbed his bristling chin. “Yeah,” he said. “Might at that.”

  Rose of Sharon was down with a heavy cold, her face flushed and her eyes shining with fever. Ma sat beside her with a cup of hot milk. “Here,” she said. “Take this here. Got bacon grease in it for strength. Here, drink it!”

  Rose of Sharon shook her head weakly. “I ain’t hungry.”

  Pa drew a curved line in the air with his finger. “If we was all to get our shovels an’ throw up a bank, I bet we could keep her out. On’y have to go from up there down to there.”

  “Yeah,” Uncle John agreed. “Might. Dunno if them other fellas’d wanta. They’d maybe ruther move somewheres else.”

  “But these here cars is dry,” Pa insisted. “Couldn’find no dry place as good as this. You wait.” From the pile of brush in the car he picked a twig. He ran down the cat-walk, splashed through the mud to the stream and he set his twig upright on the edge of the swirling water. In a moment he was back in the car. “Jesus, ya get wet through,” he said.

  Both men kept their eyes on the little twig on the water’s edge. They saw the water move slowly up around it and creep up the bank. Pa squatted down in the doorway. “Comin’ up fast,” he said. “I think we oughta go talk to the other fellas. See if they’ll help ditch up. Got to git outa here if they won’t.” Pa looked down the long car to the Wainwright end. Al was with them, sitting beside Aggie. Pa walked into their precinct. “Water’s risin’,” he said. “How about if we throwed up a bank? We could do her if ever’body helped.”

  Wainwright said, “We was jes’ talkin’. Seems like we oughta be gettin’ outa here.”

  Pa said, “You been aroun’. You know what chancet we got a gettin’ a dry place to stay.”

  “I know. But jes’ the same——”

  Al said, “Pa, if they go, I’m a-goin’ too.”

  Pa looked startled. “You can’t, Al. The truck—We ain’t fit to drive that truck.”

  “I don’ care. Me an’ Aggie got to stick together.”

  “Now you wait,” Pa said. “Come on over here.” Wainwright and Al got to their feet and approached the door. “See?” Pa said, pointing. “Jus’ a bank from there an’ down to there.” He looked at his stick. The water swirled about it now, and crept up the bank.

  “Be a lot a work, an’ then she might come over anyways,” Wainwright protested.

  “Well, we ain’t doin’ nothin’, might’s well be workin’. We ain’t gonna find us no nice place to live like this. Come on, now. Le’s go talk to the other fellas. We can do her if ever’body helps.”

  Al said, “If Aggie goes, I’m a-goin’ too.”

  Pa said, “Look, Al, if them fellas won’t dig, then we’ll all hafta go. Come on, le’s go talk to ’em.” They hunched their shoulders and ran down the cat-walk to the next car and up the walk into its open door.

  Ma was at the stove, feeding a few sticks to the feeble flame. Ruthie crowded close beside her. “I’m hungry,” Ruthie whined.

  “No, you ain’t,” Ma said. “You had good mush.”

  “Wisht I had a box a Cracker Jack. There ain’t nothin’ to do. Ain’t no fun.”

  “They’ll be fun,” Ma said. “You jus’ wait. Be fun purty soon. Git a house an’ a place, purty soon.”

  “Wisht we had a dog,” Ruthie said.

  “We’ll have a dog; have a cat, too.”

  “Yella cat?”

  “Don’t bother me,” Ma begged. “Don’t go plaguin’ me now, Ruthie. Rosasharn’s sick. Jus’ you be a good girl a little while. They’ll be fun.” Ruthie wandered, complaining, away.

  From the mattress where Rose of Sharon lay covered up there came a quick sharp cry, cut off in the middle. Ma whirled and went to her. Rose of Sharon was holding her breath and her eyes were filled with terror.

  “What is it?” Ma cried. The girl expelled her breath and caught it again. Suddenly Ma put her hand under the covers. Then she stood up. “Mis’ Wainwright,” she called. “Oh, Mis’ Wainwright!”

  The fat little woman came down the car. “Want me?”

  “Look!” Ma pointed at Rose of Sharon’s face. Her teeth were clamped on her lower lip and her forehead was wet with perspiration, and the shining terror was in her eyes.

  “I think it’s come,” Ma said. “It’s early.”

  The girl heaved a gr
eat sigh and relaxed. She released her lip and closed her eyes. Mrs. Wainwright bent over her.

  “Did it kinda grab you all over—quick? Open up an’ answer me.” Rose of Sharon nodded weakly. Mrs. Wainwright turned to Ma. “Yep,” she said. “It’s come. Early, ya say?”

  “Maybe the fever brang it.”

  “Well, she oughta be up on her feet. Oughta be walkin’ aroun’.”

  “She can’t,” Ma said. “She ain’t got the strength.”

  “Well, she oughta.” Mrs. Wainwright grew quiet and stern with efficiency. “I he’ped with lots,” she said. “Come on, le’s close that door, nearly. Keep out the draf’” The two women pushed on the heavy sliding door, boosted it along until only a foot was open. “I’ll git our lamp, too,” Mrs. Wainwright said. Her face was purple with excitement. “Aggie,” she called. “You take care of these here little fellas.”

  Ma nodded, “Tha’s right. Ruthie! You an’ Winfiel’ go down with Aggie. Go on now.”

  “Why?” they demanded.

  “’Cause you got to. Rosasharn gonna have her baby.”

  “I wanta watch, Ma. Please let me.”

  “Ruthie! You git now. You git quick.” There was no argument against such a tone. Ruthie and Winfield went reluctantly down the car. Ma lighted the lantern. Mrs. Wainwright brought her Rochester lamp down and set it on the floor, and its big circular flame lighted the boxcar brightly.

  Ruthie and Winfield stood behind the brush pile and peered over. “Gonna have a baby, an’ we’re a-gonna see,” Ruthie said softly. “Don’t you make no noise now. Ma won’t let us watch. If she looks this-a-way, you scrunch down behin’ the brush. Then we’ll see.”

  “There ain’t many kids seen it,” Winfield said.

  “There ain’t no kids seen it,” Ruthie insisted proudly. “On’y us.”

  Down by the mattress, in the bright light of the lamp, Ma and Mrs. Wainwright held conference. Their voices were raised a little over the hollow beating of the rain. Mrs. Wainwright took a paring knife from her apron pocket and slipped it under the mattress. “Maybe it don’t do no good,” she said apologetically. “Our folks always done it. Don’t do no harm, anyways.”

  Ma nodded. “We used a plow point. I guess anything sharp’ll work, long as it can cut birth pains. I hope it ain’t gonna be a long one.”

  “You feelin’ awright now?”

  Rose of Sharon nodded nervously. “Is it a-comin’?”

  “Sure,” Ma said. “Gonna have a nice baby. You jus’ got to help us. Feel like you could get up an’ walk?”

  “I can try.”

  “That’s a good girl,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “That is a good girl. We’ll he’p you, honey. We’ll walk with ya.” They helped her to her feet and pinned a blanket over her shoulders. Then Ma held her arm from one side, and Mrs. Wainwright from the other. They walked her to the brush pile and turned slowly and walked her back, over and over; and the rain drummed deeply on the roof.

  Ruthie and Winfield watched anxiously. “When’s she goin’ to have it?” he demanded.

  “Sh! Don’t draw ’em. We won’t be let to look.”

  Aggie joined them behind the brush pile. Aggie’s lean face and yellow hair showed in the lamplight, and her nose was long and sharp in the shadow of her head on the wall.

  Ruthie whispered, “You ever saw a baby bore?”

  “Sure,” said Aggie.

  “Well, when’s she gonna have it?”

  “Oh, not for a long, long time.”

  “Well, how long?”

  “Maybe not ’fore tomorrow mornin’.”

  “Shucks!” said Ruthie. “Ain’t no good watchin’ now, then. Oh! Look!”

  The walking women had stopped. Rose of Sharon had stiffened, and she whined with pain. They laid her down on the mattress and wiped her forehead while she grunted and clenched her fists. And Ma talked softly to her. “Easy,” Ma said. “Gonna be all right—all right. Jus’ grip ya han’s. Now, then, take your lip inta your teeth. Tha’s good—tha’s good.” The pain passed on. They let her rest awhile, and then helped her up again, and the three walked back and forth, back and forth between the pains.

  Pa stuck his head in through the narrow opening. His hat dripped with water. “What ya shut the door for?” he asked. And then he saw the walking women.

  Ma said, “Her time’s come.”

  “Then—then we couldn’ go ’f we wanted to.”

  “No.”

  “Then we got to buil’ that bank.”

  “You got to.”

  Pa sloshed through the mud to the stream. His marking stick was four inches down. Twenty men stood in the rain. Pa cried, “We got to build her. My girl got her pains.” The men gathered about him.

  “Baby?”

  “Yeah. We can’t go now.”

  A tall man said, “It ain’t our baby. We kin go.”

  “Sure,” Pa said. “You can go. Go on. Nobody’s stoppin’ you. They’s only eight shovels.” He hurried to the lowest part of the bank and drove his shovel into the mud. The shovelful lifted with a sucking sound. He drove it again, and threw the mud into the low place on the stream bank. And beside him the other men ranged themselves. They heaped the mud up in a long embankment, and those who had no shovels cut live willow whips and wove them in a mat and kicked them into the bank. Over the men came a fury of work, a fury of battle. When one man dropped his shovel, another took it up. They had shed their coats and hats. Their shirts and trousers clung tightly to their bodies, their shoes were shapeless blobs of mud. A shrill scream came from the Joad car. The men stopped, listened uneasily, and then plunged to work again. And the little levee of earth extended until it connected with the highway embankment on either end. They were tired now, and the shovels moved more slowly. And the stream rose slowly. It edged above the place where the first dirt had been thrown.

  Pa laughed in triumph. “She’d come over if we hadn’ a built up!” he cried.

  The stream rose slowly up the side of the new wall, and tore at the willow mat. “Higher!” Pa cried. “We got to git her higher!”

  The evening came, and the work went on. And now the men were beyond weariness. Their faces were set and dead. They worked jerkily, like machines. When it was dark the women set lanterns in the car doors, and kept pots of coffee handy. And the women ran one by one to the Joad car and wedged themselves inside.

  The pains were coming close now, twenty minutes apart. And Rose of Sharon had lost her restraint. She screamed fiercely under the fierce pains. And the neighbor women looked at her and patted her gently and went back to their own cars.

  Ma had a good fire going now, and all her utensils, filled with water, sat on the stove to heat. Every little while Pa looked in the car door. “All right?” he asked.

  “Yeah! I think so,” Ma assured him.

  As it grew dark, someone brought out a flashlight to work by. Uncle John plunged on, throwing mud on top of the wall.

  “You take it easy,” Pa said. “You’ll kill yaself.”

  “I can’the’p it. I can’t stan’ that yellin’. It’s like—it’s like when——”

  “I know,” Pa said. “But jus’ take it easy.”

  Uncle John blubbered, “I’ll run away. By God, I got to work or I’ll run away.”

  Pa turned from him. “How’s she stan’ on the last marker?”

  The man with the flashlight threw the beam on the stick. The rain cut whitely through the light. “Comin’ up.”

  “She’ll come up slower now,” Pa said. “Got to flood purty far on the other side.”

  “She’s comin’ up, though.”

  The women filled the coffee pots and set them out again. And as the night went on, the men moved slower and slower, and they lifted their heavy feet like draft horses. More mud on the levee, more willows interlaced. The rain fell steadily. When the flashlight turned on faces, the eyes showed staring, and the muscles on the cheeks were welted out.

  For a long time the screams continued from
the car, and at last they were still.

  Pa said, “Ma’d call me if it was bore.” He went on shoveling the mud sullenly.

  The stream eddied and boiled against the bank. Then, from up the stream there came a ripping crash. The beam of the flashlight showed a great cottonwood toppling. The men stopped to watch. The branches of the tree sank into the water and edged around with the current while the stream dug out the little roots. Slowly the tree was freed, and slowly it edged down the stream. The weary men watched, their mouths hanging open. The tree moved slowly down. Then a branch caught on a stump, snagged and held. And very slowly the roots swung around and hooked themselves on the new embankment. The water piled up behind. The tree moved and tore the bank. A little stream slipped through. Pa threw himself forward and jammed mud in the break. The water piled against the tree. And then the bank washed quickly down, washed around ankles, around knees. The men broke and ran, and the current worked smoothly into the flat, under the cars, under the automobiles.

  Uncle John saw the water break through. In the murk he could see it. Uncontrollably his weight pulled him down. He went to his knees, and the tugging water swirled about his chest.

  Pa saw him go. “Hey! What’s the matter?” He lifted him to his feet. “You sick? Come on, the cars is high.”

  Uncle John gathered his strength. “I dunno,” he said apologetically. “Legs give out. Jus’ give out.” Pa helped him along toward the cars.

  When the dike swept out, Al turned and ran. His feet moved heavily. The water was about his calves when he reached the truck. He flung the tarpaulin off the nose and jumped into the car. He stepped on the starter. The engine turned over and over, and there was no bark of the motor. He choked the engine deeply. The battery turned the sodden motor more and more slowly, and there was no cough. Over and over, slower and slower. Al set the spark high. He felt under the seat for the crank and jumped out. The water was higher than the running board. He ran to the front end. Crank case was under water now. Frantically he fitted the crank and twisted around and around, and his clenched hand on the crank splashed in the slowly flowing water at each turn. At last his frenzy gave out. The motor was full of water, the battery fouled by now. On slightly higher ground two cars were started and their lights on. They floundered in the mud and dug their wheels down until finally the drivers cut off the motors and sat still, looking into the headlight beams. And the rain whipped white streaks through the lights. Al went slowly around the truck, reached in, and turned off the ignition.