Chapter Sixteen
Joads and Wilsons crawled westward as a unit: El Reno and Bridgeport, Clinton, Elk City, Sayre, and Texola. There’s the border, and Oklahoma was behind. And this day the cars crawled on and on, through the Panhandle of Texas. Shamrock and Alanreed, Groom and Yarnell. Then went through Amarillo in the evening, drove too long, and camped when it was dusk. They were tired and dusty and hot. Granma had convulsions from the heat, and she was weak when they stopped.
That night Al stole a fence rail and made a ridge pole on the truck, braced at both ends. That night they ate nothing but pan biscuits, cold and hard, held over from breakfast. They flopped down on the mattresses and slept in their clothes. The Wilsons didn’t even put up their tent.
Joads and Wilsons were in flight across the Panhandle, the rolling gray country, lined and cut with old flood scars. They were in flight out of Oklahoma and across Texas. The land turtles crawled through the dust and the sun whipped the earth, and in the evening the heat went out of the sky and the earth sent up a wave of heat from itself.
Two days the families were in flight, but on the third the land was too huge for them and they settled into a new technique of living; the highway became their home and movement their medium of expression. Little by little they settled into the new life.
Ruthie and Winfield first, then Al, then Connie and Rose of Sharon, and, last, the older ones. The land rolled like great stationary ground swells. Wildorado and Vega and Boise and Glenrio. That’s the end of Texas. New Mexico and the mountains. In the far distance, waved up against the sky, the mountains stood. And the wheels of the cars creaked around, and the engines were hot, and the steam spurted around the radiator caps. They crawled to the Pecos river, and crossed at Santa Rosa. And they went on for twenty miles.
A
l Joad drove the touring car, and his mother sat beside him, and Rose of
Sharon beside her. Ahead the truck crawled. The hot air folded in waves over
the land, and the mountains shivered in the heat. Al drove listlessly, hunched
back in the seat, his hand hooked easily over the cross-bar of the steering wheel; his gray hat, peaked and pulled to an incredibly cocky shape, was low over one eye; and as he drove, he turned and spat out the side now and then.
Ma, beside him, had folded her hands in her lap, had retired into a resistance against weariness. She sat loosely, letting the movement of the car sway her body and her head.
She squinted her eyes ahead at the mountains. Rose of Sharon was braced against the movement of the car, her feet pushed tight against the floor, and her right elbow hooked over the door. And her plump face was tight against the movement, and her head jiggled
sharply because her neck muscles were tight. She tried to arch her whole body as a rigid container to preserve her fetus from shock. She turned her head toward her mother.
“Ma,” she said. Ma’s eyes lighted up and she drew her attention toward Rose of Sharon. Her eyes went over the tight, tired, plump face, and she smiled. “Ma,” the girl said, “when we get there, all you gonna pick fruit an’ kinda live in the country, ain’t you?”
Ma smiled a little satirically. “We ain’t there yet,” she said. “We don’t know what it’s like. We got to see.”
“Me an’ Connie don’t want to live in the country no more,” the girl said. “We got it all planned up what we gonna do.”
For a moment a little worry came on Ma’s face. “Ain’t you gonna stay with us—with the family?” she asked.
“Well, we talked all about it, me an’ Connie. Ma, we wanna live in a town.” She went on excitedly, “Connie gonna get a job in a store or maybe a fact’ry. An’ he’s gonna study at home, maybe radio, so he can git to be a expert an’ maybe later have his own store.
An’ we’ll go to pitchers whenever. An’ Connie says I’m gonna have a doctor when the baby’s born; an’ he says we’ll see how times is, an’ maybe I’ll go to a hospiddle. An’ we’ll have a car, little car. An’ after he studies at night, why—it’ll be nice, an’ he tore a page outa Western Love Stories, an’ he’s gonna send off for a course, ’cause it don’t cost nothin’ to send off. Says right on that clipping. I seen it. An’, why—they even get you a job when you take that course—radios, it is—nice clean work, and a future. An’ we’ll live in town an’ go to pitchers whenever, an’—well, I’m gonna have a ’lectric iron, an’ the baby’ll have all new stuff. Connie says all new stuff—white an’— Well, you seen in the catalogue all the stuff they got for a baby. Maybe right at first while Connie’s studyin’ at home it won’t be so easy, but—well, when the baby comes, maybe he’ll be all done studyin’ an’ we’ll have a place, little bit of a place. We don’t want nothin’ fancy, but we want it nice for the baby—” Her face glowed with excitement. “An’ I thought— well, I thought maybe we could all go in town, an’ when Connie gets his store—maybe Al could work for him.”
Ma’s eyes had never left the flushing face. Ma watched the structure grow and followed it. “We don’ want you to go ’way from us,” she said. “It ain’t good for folks to break up.”
Al snorted, “Me work for Connie? How about Connie comes a-workin’ for me? He thinks he’s the on’y son-of-a-bitch can study at night?”
Ma suddenly seemed to know it was all a dream. She turned her head forward again and her body relaxed, but the little smile stayed around her eyes. “I wonder how Granma feels today,” she said.
Al grew tense over the wheel. A little rattle had developed in the engine. He speeded up and the rattle increased. He retarded his spark and listened, and then he speeded up for a moment and listened. The rattle increased to a metallic pounding. Al blew his horn and pulled the car to the side of the road. Ahead the truck pulled up and then backed slowly.
Three cars raced by, westward, and each one blew its horn and the last driver leaned out and yelled, “Where the hell ya think you’re stoppin’?”
Tom backed the truck close, and then he got out and walked to the touring car. From the back of the loaded truck heads looked down. Al retarded his spark and listened to his idling motor. Tom asked, “What’s a matter, Al?”
Al speeded the motor. “Listen to her.” The rattling pound was louder now.
Tom listened. “Put up your spark an’ idle,” he said. He opened the hood and put his head inside. “Now speed her.” He listened for a moment and then closed the hood. “Well,
I guess you’re right, Al,” he said.
“Con-rod bearing, ain’t it?”
“Sounds like it,” said Tom.
“I kep’ plenty oil in,” Al complained.
“Well, it jus’ didn’ get to her. Drier’n a bitch monkey now. Well, there ain’t nothin’ to do but tear her out. Look, I’ll pull ahead an’ find a flat place to stop. You come ahead
slow. Don’t knock the pan out of her.”
Wilson asked, “Is it bad?”
“Purty bad,” said Tom, and walked back to the truck and moved slowly ahead.
Al explained, “I don’ know what made her go out. I give her plenty of oil.” Al knew the blame was on him. He felt his failure.
Ma said, “It ain’t your fault. You done ever’thing right.” And then she asked a little timidly, “Is it terrible bad?”
“Well, it’s hard to get at, an’ we got to get a new con-rod or else some babbitt in this one.” He sighed deeply. “I sure am glad Tom’s here. I never fitted no bearing. Hope to Jesus Tom did.”
A huge red billboard stood beside the road ahead, and it threw a great oblong shadow.
Tom edged the truck off the road and across the shallow roadside ditch, and he pulled up in the shadow. He got out and waited until Al came up.
“Now go easy,” he called. “Take her slow or you’ll break a spring too.”
Al’s face went red with anger. He throttled down his motor. “Goddamn it,” he yelled, “I didn’t burn that bearin’ out! What d’ya mean, I’ll bust a spring too?”
Tom grinned. “Keep all four feet on the groun’,” he said. “I didn’ mean nothin’. Jus’ take her easy over this ditch.”
Al grumbled as he inched the touring car down, and up the other side. “Don’t you go givin’ nobody no idear I burned out that bearin’.” The engine clattered loudly now. Al pulled into the shade and shut down the motor.
Tom lifted the hood and braced it. “Can’t even start on her before she cools off,” he said. The family piled down from the cars and clustered about the touring car.
Pa asked, “How bad?” And he squatted on his hams.
Tom turned to Al. “Ever fitted one?”
“No,” said Al, “I never. ’Course I had pans off.”
Tom said, “Well, we got to tear the pan off an’ get the rod out, an’ we got to get a new part an’ hone her an’ shim her an’ fit her. Good day’s job. Got to go back to that las’ place for a part, Santa Rosa. Albuquerque’s about seventy-five miles on— Oh, Jesus, tomorra’s Sunday! We can’t get nothin’ tomorra.” The family stood silently. Ruthie crept close and peered into the open hood, hoping to see the broken part. Tom went on softly, “Tomorra’s Sunday. Monday we’ll get the thing an’ prob’ly won’t get her fitted ’fore Tuesday. We ain’t got the tools to make it easy. Gonna be a job.” The shadow of a buzzard slid across the earth, and the family all looked up at the sailing black bird.
Pa said, “What I’m scairt of is we’ll run outa money so we can’t git there ’t all.
Here’s all us eatin’, an’ got to buy gas an’ oil. ’F we run outa money, I don’ know what we gonna do.”
Wilson said, “Seems like it’s my fault. This here goddamn wreck’s give me trouble right along. You folks been nice to us. Now you jus’ pack up an’ get along. Me an’ Sairy’ll stay, an’ we’ll figger some way. We don’t aim to put you folks out none.”
Pa said slowly, “We ain’t a-gonna do it. We got almost a kin bond. Grampa, he died in your tent.”
Sairy said tiredly, “We been nothin’ but trouble, nothin’ but trouble.”
Tom slowly made a cigarette, and inspected it and lighted it. He took off his ruined cap and wiped his forehead. “I got an idear,” he said. “Maybe nobody gonna like it, but here she is: The nearer to California our folks get, the quicker they’s gonna be money rollin’ in. Now this here car’ll go twicet as fast as that truck. Now here’s my idea. You take out some a that stuff in the truck, an’ then all you folks but me an’ the preacher get in an’ move on. Me an’ Casy’ll stop here an’ fix this here car an’ then we drive on, day an’ night, an’ we’ll catch up, or if we don’t meet on the road, you’ll be a-workin’ anyways. An’ if you break down, why, jus’ camp ’longside the road till we come. You can’t be no worse off, an’ if you get through, why, you’ll be a-workin’, an’ stuff’ll be easy. Casy can give me a lif’ with this here car, an’ we’ll come a-sailin’.”
The gathered family considered it. Uncle John dropped to his hams beside Pa.
Al said, “Won’t ya need me to give ya a han’ with that con-rod?”
“You said your own se’f you never fixed one.”
“That’s right,” Al agreed. “All ya got to have is a strong back. Maybe the preacher
don’ wanta stay.”
“Well—whoever—I don’ care,” said Tom.
Pa scratched the dry earth with his forefinger. “I kind a got a notion Tom’s right,” he said. “It ain’t goin’ ta do no good all of us stayin’ here. We can get fifty, a hunderd miles on ’fore dark.”
Ma said worriedly, “How you gonna find us?”
“We’ll be on the same road,” said Tom. “Sixty-six right on through. Come to a place name’ Bakersfiel’. Seen it on the map I got. You go straight on there.”
“Yeah, but when we get to California an’ spread out sideways off this road—?”
“Don’t you worry,” Tom reassured her. “We’re gonna find ya. California ain’t the whole world.”
“Looks like an awful big place on the map,” said Ma.
Pa appealed for advice. “John, you see any reason why not?”
“No,” said John.
“Mr. Wilson, it’s your car. You got any objections if my boy fixes her an’ brings her on?”
“I don’ see none,” said Wilson. “Seems like you folks done ever’thing for us awready. Don’ see why I cain’t give your boy a han’.”
“You can be workin’, layin’ in a little money, if we don’ ketch up with ya,” said Tom.
“An’ suppose we all jus’ lay aroun’ here. There ain’t no water here, an’ we can’t move this here car. But s’pose you all git out there an’ git to work. Why, you’d have money, an’ maybe a house to live in. How about it, Casy? Wanna stay with me an’ gimme a lif’?”
“I wanna do what’s bes’ for you folks,” said Casy. “You took me in, carried me along. I’ll do whatever.”
“Well, you’ll lay on your back an’ get grease in your face if you stay here,” Tom said.
“Suits me awright.”
Pa said, “Well, if that’s the way she’s gonna go, we better get a-shovin’. We can maybe squeeze in a hunderd miles ’fore we stop.”
Ma stepped in front of him. “I ain’t a-gonna go.”
“What you mean, you ain’t gonna go? You got to go. You got to look after the family.” Pa was amazed at the revolt.
Ma stepped to the touring car and reached in on the floor of the back seat. She brought out a jack handle and balanced it in her hand easily. “I ain’t a-gonna go,” she said.
“I tell you, you got to go. We made up our mind.”
And now Ma’s mouth set hard. She said softly, “On’y way you gonna get me to go is whup me.” She moved the jack handle gently again. “An’ I’ll shame you, Pa. I won’t take no whuppin’, cryin’ an’ a-beggin’. I’ll light into you. An’ you ain’t so sure you can whup me anyways. An’ if ya do get me, I swear to God I’ll wait till you got your back turned, or you’re settin’ down, an’ I’ll knock you belly-up with a bucket. I swear to Holy Jesus’ sake I will.”
Pa looked helplessly about the group. “She sassy,” he said. “I never seen her so sassy.” Ruthie giggled shrilly.
The jack handle flicked hungrily back and forth in Ma’s hand. “Come on,” said Ma.
“You made up your mind. Come on an’ whup me. Jus’ try it. But I ain’t a-goin’; or if I do, you ain’t never gonna get no sleep, ’cause I’ll wait an’ I’ll wait, an’ jus’ the minute you take sleep in your eyes, I’ll slap ya with a stick a stove wood.”
“So goddamn sassy,” Pa murmured. “An’ she ain’t young, neither.”
The whole group watched the revolt. They watched Pa, waiting for him to break into fury. They watched his lax hands to see the fists form. And Pa’s anger did not rise, and his hands hung limply at his sides. And in a moment the group knew that Ma had won.
And Ma knew it too.
Tom said, “Ma, what’s eatin’ on you? What ya wanna do this-a-way for? What’s the matter’th you anyways? You gone johnrabbit on us?”
Ma’s face softened, but her eyes were still fierce. “You done this ’thout thinkin’ much,” Ma said. “What we got lef’ in the worl’? Nothin’ but us. Nothin’ but the folks.
We come out an’ Grampa, he reached for the shovel-shelf right off. An’ now, right off, you wanna bust up the folks——”
Tom cried, “Ma, we was gonna catch up with ya. We wasn’t gonna be gone long.”
Ma waved the jack handle. “S’pose we was camped, and you went on by. S’pose we got on through, how’d we know where to leave the word, an’ how’d you know where to ask?” She said, “We got a bitter road. Granma’s sick. She’s up there on the truck a- pawin’ for a shovel herself. She’s jus’ tar’d out. We got a long bitter road ahead.”
Uncle John said, “But we could be makin’ some money. We could have a little bit saved up, come time the other folks got there.”
The eyes of the whole family shifted back to Ma. She was the power. She had taken control. “The money we’d make wouldn’t do no good,” she said. “All we got is the family unbroke. Like a bunch a cows, when the lobos are ranging, stick all together. I ain’t scared while we’re all here, all that’s alive, but I ain’t gonna see us bust up. The Wilsons here is with us, an’ the preacher is with us. I can’t say nothin’ if they want to go, but I’m’ a-goin’ cat-wild with this here piece a bar-arn if my own folks busts up.” Her tone was cold and final.
Tom said soothingly, “Ma, we can’t all camp here. Ain’t no water here. Ain’t even much shade here. Granma, she needs shade.”
“All right,” said Ma. “We’ll go along. We’ll stop first place they’s water an’ shade.
An’—the truck’ll come back an’ take you in town to get your part, an’ it’ll bring you back. You ain’t goin’ walkin’ along in the sun, an’ I ain’t havin’ you out all alone, so if you get picked up there ain’t nobody of your folks to he’p ya.”
Tom drew his lips over his teeth and then snapped them open. He spread his hands helplessly and let them flop against his sides. “Pa,” he said, “if you was to rush her one side an’ me the other an’ then the res’ pile on, an’ Granma jump down on top, maybe we can get Ma ’thout more’n two-three of us gets killed with that there jack handle. But if you ain’t willin’ to get your head smashed, I guess Ma’s went an’ filled her flush. Jesus Christ, one person with their mind made up can shove a lot of folks aroun’! You win, Ma.
Put away that jack handle ’fore you hurt somebody.”
Ma looked in astonishment at the bar of iron. Her hand trembled. She dropped her weapon on the ground, and Tom, with elaborate care, picked it up and put it back in the car. He said, “Pa, you jus’ got set back on your heels. Al, you drive the folks on an’ get ’em camped, an’ then you bring the truck back here. Me an’ the preacher’ll get the pan off. Then, if we can make it, we’ll run in Santa Rosa an’ try an’ get a con-rod. Maybe we can, seein’ it’s Sat’dy night. Get jumpin’ now so we can go. Lemme have the monkey
wrench an’ pliers outa the truck.” He reached under the car and felt the greasy pan. “Oh, yeah, lemme have a can, that ol’ bucket, to catch the oil. Got to save that.” Al handed over the bucket and Tom set it under the car and loosened the oil cap with a pair of pliers.
The black oil flowed down his arm while he unscrewed the cap with his fingers, and then the black stream ran silently into the bucket. Al had loaded the family on the truck by the time the bucket was half full. Tom, his face already smudged with oil, looked out between the wheels. “Get back fast!” he called. And he was loosening the pan bolts as the truck moved gently across the shallow ditch and crawled away. Tom turned each bolt a single turn, loosening them evenly to spare the gasket.
The preacher knelt beside the wheels. “What can I do?”
“Nothin’, not right now. Soon’s the oil’s out an’ I get these here bolts loose, you can he’p me drop the pan off.” He squirmed away under the car, loosening the bolts with a wrench and turning them out with his fingers. He left the bolts on each end loosely threaded to keep the pan from dropping. “Ground’s still hot under here,” Tom said. And then, “Say, Casy, you been awful goddamn quiet the las’ few days. Why, Jesus! When I first come up with you, you was makin’ a speech ever’ half-hour or so. An’ here you ain’t said ten words the las’ couple days. What’s a matter—gettin’ sour?”
Casy was stretched out on his stomach, looking under the car. His chin, bristly with sparse whiskers, rested on the back of one hand. His hat was pushed back so that it covered the back of his neck. “I done enough talkin’ when I was a preacher to las’ the rest a my life,” he said.
“Yeah, but you done some talkin’ sence, too.”
“I’m all worried up,” Casy said. “I didn’ even know it when I was a-preachin’ aroun’, but I was doin’ consid’able tom-cattin’ aroun’. If I ain’t gonna preach no more, I got to get married. Why, Tommy, I’m a-lustin’ after the flesh.”
“Me too,” said Tom. “Say, the day I come outa McAlester I was smokin’. I run me down a girl, a hoor girl, like she was a rabbit. I won’t tell ya what happened. I wouldn’ tell nobody what happened.”
Casy laughed. “I know what happened. I went a-fastin’ into the wilderness one time, an’ when I come out the same damn thing happened to me.”
“Hell it did!” said Tom. “Well, I saved my money anyway, an’ I give that girl a run.
Thought I was nuts. I should a paid her, but I on’y got five bucks to my name. She said she didn’ want no money. Here, roll in under here an’ grab a-holt. I’ll tap her loose. Then you turn out that bolt an’ I turn out my end, an’ we let her down easy. Careful that gasket. See, she comes off in one piece. They’s on’y four cylinders to these here ol’ Dodges. I took one down one time. Got main bearings big as a cantaloupe. Now—let her down—hold it. Reach up an’ pull down that gasket where it’s stuck—easy now. There!”
The greasy pan lay on the ground between them, and a little oil still lay in the wells. Tom reached into one of the front wells and picked out some broken pieces of babbitt. “There she is,” he said. He turned the babbitt in his fingers. “Shaft’s up. Look in back an’ get the crank. Turn her over till I tell you.”
Casy got to his feet and found the crank and fitted it. “Ready?”
“Reach—now easy—little more—little more—right there.”
Casy kneeled down and looked under again. Tom rattled the connecting-rod bearing
against the shaft. “There she is.”
“What ya s’pose done it?” Casy asked.
“Oh, hell, I don’ know! This buggy been on the road thirteen years. Says sixty- thousand miles on the speedometer. That means a hunderd an’ sixty, an’ God knows how many times they turned the numbers back. Gets hot—maybe somebody let the oil get low —jus’ went out.” He pulled the cotter-pins and put his wrench on a bearing bolt. He strained and the wrench slipped. A long gash appeared on the back of his hand. Tom looked at it—the blood flowed evenly from the wound and met the oil and dripped into the pan.
“That’s too bad,” Casy said. “Want I should do that an’ you wrap up your han’?”
“Hell, no! I never fixed no car in my life ’thout cuttin’ myself. Now it’s done I don’t have to worry no more.” He fitted the wrench again. “Wisht I had a crescent wrench,” he said, and he hammered the wrench with the butt of his hand until the bolts loosened. He took them out and laid them with the pan bolts in the pan, and the cotter-pins with them.
He loosened the bearing bolts and pulled out the piston. He put piston and connecting- rod in the pan. “There, by God!” He squirmed free from under the car and pulled the pan out with him. He wiped his hand on a piece of gunny sacking and inspected the cut.
“Bleedin’ like a son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “Well, I can stop that.” He urinated on the ground, picked up a handful of the resulting mud, and plastered it over the wound. Only for a moment did the blood ooze out, and then it stopped. “Bes’ damn thing in the worl’ to stop bleedin’,” he said.
“Han’ful a spider web’ll do it too,” said Casy.
“I know, but there ain’t no spider web, an’ you can always get piss.” Tom sat on the running board and inspected the broken bearing. “Now if we can on’y find a ’25 Dodge an’ get a used con-rod an’ some shims, maybe we’ll make her all right. Al must a gone a hell of a long ways.”
The shadow of the billboard was sixty feet out by now. The afternoon lengthened away. Casy sat down on the running board and looked westward. “We gonna be in high mountains pretty soon,” he said, and he was silent for a few moments. Then, “Tom!”
“Yeah?”
“Tom, I been watchin’ the cars on the road, them we passed an’ them that passed us. I
been keepin’ track.”
“Track a what?”
“Tom, they’s hunderds a families like us all a-goin’ west. I watched. There ain’t none of ’em goin’ east—hunderds of ’em. Did you notice that?”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
“Why—it’s like—it’s like they was runnin’ away from soldiers. It’s like a whole country is movin’.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “They is a whole country movin’. We’re movin’ too.”
“Well—s’pose all these here folks an’ ever’body—s’pose they can’t get no jobs out there?”
“Goddamn it!” Tom cried. “How’d I know? I’m jus’ puttin’ one foot in front a the other. I done it at Mac for four years, jus’ marchin’ in cell an’ out cell an’ in mess an’ out mess. Jesus Christ, I thought it’d be somepin different when I come out! Couldn’t think a nothin’ in there, else you go stir happy, an’ now can’t think a nothin’.” He turned on Casy. “This here bearing went out. We didn’ know it was goin’, so we didn’ worry none.
Now she’s out an’ we’ll fix her. An’ by Christ that goes for the rest of it! I ain’t gonna worry. I can’t do it. This here little piece of iron an’ babbitt. See it? Ya see it? Well, that’s the only goddamn thing in the world I got on my mind. I wonder where the hell Al is.”
Casy said, “Now look, Tom. Oh, what the hell! So goddamn hard to say anything.”
Tom lifted the mud pack from his hand and threw it on the ground. The edge of the wound was lined with dirt. He glanced over to the preacher. “You’re fixin’ to make a speech,” Tom said. “Well, go ahead. I like speeches. Warden used to make speeches all the time. Didn’t do us no harm an’ he got a hell of a bang out of it. What you tryin’ to roll out?”
Casy picked the backs of his long knotty fingers. “They’s stuff goin’ on and they’s folks doin’ things. Them people layin’ one foot down in front of the other, like you says, they ain’t thinkin’ where they’re goin’, like you says—but they’re all layin’ ’em down the same direction, jus’ the same. An’ if ya listen, you’ll hear a movin’, an’ a sneakin’, an’ a rustlin’, an’—an’ a res’lessness. They’s stuff goin’ on that the folks doin’ it don’t know nothin’ about—yet. They’s gonna come somepin outa all these folks goin’ wes’— outa all their farms lef’ lonely. They’s gonna come a thing that’s gonna change the whole country.”
Tom said, “I’m still layin’ my dogs down one at a time.”
“Yeah, but when a fence comes up at ya, ya gonna climb that fence.”
“I climb fences when I got fences to climb,” said Tom.
Casy sighed, “It’s the bes’ way. I gotta agree. But they’s different kinda fences.
They’s folks like me that climbs fences that ain’t even strang up yet—an’ can’t he’p it.”
“Ain’t that Al a-comin’?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. Looks like.”
Tom stood up and wrapped the connecting-rod and both halves of the bearing in the piece of sack. “Wanta make sure I get the same,” he said.
The truck pulled alongside the road and Al leaned out the window.
Tom said, “You was a hell of a long time. How far’d you go?”
Al sighed. “Got the rod out?”
“Yeah.” Tom held up the sack. “Babbitt jus’ broke down.”
“Well, it wasn’t no fault of mine,” said Al.
“No. Where’d you take the folks?”
“We had a mess,” Al said. “Granma got to bellerin’, an’ that set Rosasharn off an’ she bellered some. Got her head under a mattress an’ bellered. But Granma, she was just layin’ back her jaw an’ bayin’ like a moonlight houn’ dog. Seems like Granma ain’t got no sense no more. Like a little baby. Don’ speak to nobody, don’ seem to reco’nize nobody. Jus’ talks on like she’s talkin’ to Grampa.”
“Where’d ya leave ’em?” Tom insisted.
“Well, we come to a camp. Got shade an’ got water in pipes. Costs half a dollar a day to stay there. But ever’body’s so goddamn tired an’ wore out an’ mis’able, they stayed there. Ma says they got to ’cause Granma’s so tired an’ wore out. Got Wilson’s tent up an’ got our tarp for a tent. I think Granma gone nuts.”
Tom looked toward the lowering sun. “Casy,” he said, “somebody got to stay with this car or she’ll get stripped. You jus’ as soon?”
“Sure. I’ll stay.”
Al took a paper bag from the seat. “This here’s some bread an’ meat Ma sent, an’ I
got a jug a water here.”
“She don’t forget nobody,” said Casy.
Tom got in beside Al. “Look,” he said. “We’ll get back jus’ as soon’s we can. But we
can’t tell how long.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Awright. Don’t make no speeches to yourself. Get goin’, Al.” The truck moved off in the late afternoon. “He’s a nice fella,” Tom said. “He thinks about stuff all the time.”
“Well, hell—if you been a preacher, I guess you got to. Pa’s all mad about it costs fifty cents jus’ to camp under a tree. He can’t see that noways. Settin’ a-cussin’. Says nex’ thing they’ll sell ya a little tank a air. But Ma says they gotta be near shade an’ water ’cause a Granma.” The truck rattled along the highway, and now that it was unloaded, every part of it rattled and clashed. The side-board of the bed, the cut body. It rode hard and light. Al put it up to thirty-eight miles an hour and the engine clattered heavily and a blue smoke of burning oil drifted up through the floor boards.
“Cut her down some,” Tom said. “You gonna burn her right down to the hub caps.
What’s eatin’ on Granma?”
“I don’t know. ’Member the las’ couple days she’s been airy-nary, sayin’ nothin’ to nobody? Well, she’s yellin’ an’ talkin’ plenty now, on’y she’s talkin’ to Grampa. Yellin’ at him. Kinda scary, too. You can almos’ see ’im a-settin’ there grinnin’ at her the way he always done, a-fingerin’ hisself an’ grinnin’. Seems like she sees him a-settin’ there, too.
She’s jus’ givin’ him hell. Say, Pa, he give me twenty dollars to hand you. He don’ know how much you gonna need. Ever see Ma stand up to ’im like she done today?”
“Not I remember. I sure did pick a nice time to get paroled. I figgered I was gonna lay aroun’ an’ get up late an’ eat a lot when I come home. I was goin’ out an’ dance, an’ I was gonna go tom-cattin’—an’ here I ain’t had time to do none of them things.”
Al said, “I forgot. Ma give me a lot a stuff to tell you. She says don’t drink nothin’, an’ don’ get in no arguments, an’ don’t fight nobody. ’Cause she says she’s scairt you’ll
get sent back.”
“She got plenty to get worked up about ’thout me givin’ her no trouble,” said Tom.
“Well, we could get a couple beers, can’t we? I’m jus’ a-ravin’ for a beer.”
“I dunno,” said Tom. “Pa’d crap a litter of lizards if we buy beers.”
“Well, look, Tom. I got six dollars. You an’ me could get a couple pints an’ go down the line. Nobody don’t know I got that six bucks. Christ, we could have a hell of a time for ourselves.”
“Keep ya jack,” Tom said. “When we get out to the coast you an’ me’ll take her an’ we’ll raise hell. Maybe when we’re workin’—” He turned in the seat. “I didn’ think you was a fella to go down the line. I figgered you was talkin’ ’em out of it.”
“Well, hell, I don’t know nobody here. If I’m gonna ride aroun’ much, I’m gonna get married. I’m gonna have me a hell of a time when we get to California.”
“Hope so,” said Tom.
“You ain’t sure a nothin’ no more.”
“No, I ain’t sure a nothin’.”
“When ya killed that fella—did—did ya ever dream about it or anything? Did it
worry ya?”
“No.”
“Well, didn’ ya never think about it?”
“Sure. I was sorry ’cause he was dead.”
“Ya didn’t take no blame to yourself?”
“No. I done my time, an’ I done my own time.”
“Was it—awful bad—there?”
Tom said nervously, “Look, Al. I done my time, an’ now it’s done. I don’ wanna do it over an’ over. There’s the river up ahead, an’ there’s the town. Let’s jus’ try an’ get a con-rod an’ the hell with the res’ of it.”
“Ma’s awful partial to you,” said Al. “She mourned when you was gone. Done it all to herself. Kinda cryin’ down inside of her throat. We could tell what she was thinkin’ about, though.”
Tom pulled his cap down low over his eyes. “Now look here, Al. S’pose we talk
’bout some other stuff.”
“I was jus’ tellin’ ya what Ma done.”
“I know—I know. But—I ruther not. I ruther jus’—lay one foot down in front a the other.”
Al relapsed into an insulted silence. “I was jus’ tryin’ to tell ya,” he said, after a moment.
Tom looked at him, and Al kept his eyes straight ahead. The lightened truck bounced noisily along. Tom’s long lips drew up from his teeth and he laughed softly. “I know you was, Al. Maybe I’m kinda stir-nuts. I’ll tell ya about it sometime maybe. Ya see, it’s jus’ somepin you wanta know. Kinda interestin’. But I got a kind a funny idear the bes’ thing’d be if I forget about it for a while. Maybe in a little while it won’t be that way.
Right now when I think about it my guts gets all droopy an’ nasty feelin’. Look here, Al, I’ll tell ya one thing—the jail house is jus’ a kind a way a drivin’ a guy slowly nuts. See?
An’ they go nuts, an’ you see ’em an’ hear ’em, an’ pretty soon you don’ know if you’re nuts or not. When they get to screamin’ in the night sometimes you think it’s you doin’ the screamin’—an’ sometimes it is.”
Al said, “Oh! I won’t talk about it no more, Tom.”
“Thirty days is all right,” Tom said. “An’ a hunderd an’ eighty days is all right. But over a year—I dunno. There’s somepin about it that ain’t like nothin’ else in the worl’.
Somepin screwy about it, somepin screwy about the whole idea a lockin’ people up. Oh, the hell with it! I don’ wanna talk about it. Look a the sun a-flashin’ on them windas.”
The truck drove to the service-station belt, and there on the right-hand side of the road was a wrecking yard—an acre lot surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence, a corrugated iron shed in front with used tires piled up by the doors, and price-marked.
Behind the shed there was a little shack built of scrap, scrap lumber and pieces of tin.
The windows were windshields built into the walls. In the grassy lot the wrecks lay, cars with twisted, stove-in noses, wounded cars lying on their sides with the wheels gone.
Engines rusting on the ground and against the shed. A great pile of junk; fenders and truck sides, wheels and axles; over the whole lot a spirit of decay, of mold and rust; twisted iron, half-gutted engines, a mass of derelicts.
Al drove the truck up on the oily ground in front of the shed. Tom got out and looked into the dark doorway. “Don’t see nobody,” he said, and he called, “Anybody here?”
“Jesus, I hope they got a ’25 Dodge.”
Behind the shed a door banged. A specter of a man came through the dark shed. Thin, dirty, oily skin tight against stringy muscles. One eye was gone, and the raw, uncovered socket squirmed with eye muscles when his good eye moved. His jeans and shirt were thick and shiny with old grease, and his hands cracked and lined and cut. His heavy,
pouting underlip hung out sullenly.
Tom asked, “You the boss?”
The one eye glared. “I work for the boss,” he said sullenly. “Whatcha want?”
“Got a wrecked ’25 Dodge? We need a con-rod.”
“I don’t know. If the boss was here he could tell ya—but he ain’t here. He’s went
home.”
“Can we look an’ see?”
The man blew his nose into the palm of his hand and wiped his hand on his trousers.
“You from hereabouts?”
“Come from east—goin’ west.”
“Look aroun’ then. Burn the goddamn place down, for all I care.”
“Looks like you don’t love your boss none.”
The man shambled close, his one eye flaring. “I hate ’im,” he said softly. “I hate the son-of-a-bitch! Gone home now. Gone home to his house.” The words fell stumbling out.
“He got a way—he got a way a-pickin’ a fella an’ a-tearin’ a fella. He—the son-of-a- bitch. Got a girl nineteen, purty. Says to me, ‘How’d ya like ta marry her?’ Says that right to me. An’ tonight—says, ‘They’s a dance; how’d ya like to go?’ Me, he says it to me!” Tears formed in his eyes and tears dripped from the corner of the red eye socket.
“Some day, by God—some day I’m gonna have a pipe wrench in my pocket. When he says them things he looks at my eye. An’ I’m gonna, I’m gonna jus’ take his head right down off his neck with that wrench, little piece at a time.” He panted with his fury.
“Little piece at a time, right down off’n his neck.”
The sun disappeared behind the mountains. Al looked into the lot at the wrecked cars.
“Over there, look, Tom! That there looks like a ’25 or ’26.”
Tom turned to the one-eyed man. “Mind if we look?”
“Hell, no! Take any goddamn thing you want.”
They walked, threading their way among the dead automobiles, to a rusting sedan, resting on flat tires.
“Sure it’s a ’25,” Al cried. “Can we yank off the pan, mister?”
Tom kneeled down and looked under the car. “Pan’s off awready. One rod’s been took. Looks like one gone.” He wriggled under the car. “Get a crank an’ turn her over, Al.” He worked the rod against the shaft. “Purty much froze with grease.” Al turned the crank slowly. “Easy,” Tom called. He picked a splinter of wood from the ground and scraped the cake of grease from the bearing and the bearing bolts.
“How is she for tight?” Al asked.
“Well, she’s a little loose, but not bad.”
“Well, how is she for wore?”
“Got plenty shim. Ain’t been all took up. Yeah, she’s O.K. Turn her over easy now.
Get her down, easy—there! Run over the truck an’ get some tools.”
The one-eyed man said, “I’ll get you a box a tools.” He shuffled off among the rusty cars and in a moment he came back with a tin box of tools. Tom dug out a socket wrench and handed it to Al.
“You take her off. Don’ lose no shims an’ don’ let the bolts get away, an’ keep track a the cotter-pins. Hurry up. The light’s gettin’ dim.”
Al crawled under the car. “We oughta get us a set a socket wrenches,” he called.
“Can’t get in no place with a monkey wrench.”
“Yell out if you want a hand,” Tom said.
The one-eyed man stood helplessly by. “I’ll help ya if ya want,” he said. “Know what that son-of-a-bitch done? He come by an’ he got on white pants. An’ he says, ‘Come on, le’s go out to my yacht.’ By God, I’ll whang him some day!” He breathed heavily. “I
ain’t been out with a woman sence I los’ my eye. An’ he says stuff like that.” And big tears cut channels in the dirt beside his nose.
Tom said impatiently, “Whyn’t you roll on? Got no guards to keep ya here.”
“Yeah, that’s easy to say. Ain’t so easy to get a job—not for a one-eye’ man.”
Tom turned on him. “Now look-a-here, fella. You got that eye wide open. An’ ya dirty, ya stink. Ya jus’ askin’ for it. Ya like it. Lets ya feel sorry for yaself. ’Course ya can’t get no woman with that empty eye flappin’ aroun’. Put somepin over it an’ wash ya face. You ain’t hittin’ nobody with no pipe wrench.”
“I tell ya, a one-eye’ fella got a hard row,” the man said. “Can’t see stuff the way other fellas can. Can’t see how far off a thing is. Ever’thing’s jus’ flat.”
Tom said, “Ya full a crap. Why, I knowed a one-legged whore one time. Think she was takin’ two-bits in a alley? No, by God! She’s gettin’ half a dollar extra. She says, ‘How many one-legged women you slep’ with? None!’ she says. ‘O.K.,’ she says. ‘You got somepin pretty special here, an’ it’s gonna cos’ ya half a buck extry.’ An’ by God, she was gettin’ ’em, too, an’ the fellas comin’ out thinkin’ they’re pretty lucky. She says she’s good luck. An’ I knowed a hump-back in—in a place I was. Make his whole livin’ lettin’ folks rub his hump for luck. Jesus Christ, an’ all you got is one eye gone.”
The man said stumblingly, “Well, Jesus, ya see somebody edge away from ya, an’ it gets into ya.”
“Cover it up then, goddamn it. Ya stickin’ it out like a cow’s ass. Ya like to feel sorry for yaself. There ain’t nothin’ the matter with you. Buy yaself some white pants. Ya gettin’ drunk an’ cryin’ in ya bed, I bet. Need any help, Al?”
“No,” said Al. “I got this here bearin’ loose. Jus’ tryin’ to work the piston down.”
“Don’ bang yaself,” said Tom.
The one-eyed man said softly, “Think—somebody’d like—me?”
“Why, sure,” said Tom. “Tell ’em ya dong’s growed sence you los’ your eye.”
“Where at you fellas goin’?”
“California. Whole family. Gonna get work out there.”
“Well, ya think a fella like me could get work? Black patch on my eye?”
“Why not? You ain’t no cripple.”
“Well—could I catch a ride with you fellas?”
“Christ, no. We’re so goddamn full now we can’t move. You get out some other way.
Fix up one a these here wrecks an’ go out by yaself.”
“Maybe I will, by God,” said the one-eyed man.
There was a clash of metal. “I got her,” Al called.
“Well, bring her out, let’s look at her.” Al handed him the piston and connecting-rod and the lower half of the bearing.
Tom wiped the babbitt surface and sighted along it sideways. “Looks O.K. to me,” he said. “Say, by God, if we had a light we could get this here in tonight.”
“Say, Tom,” Al said, “I been thinkin’. We got no ring clamps. Gonna be a job gettin’ them rings in, specially underneath.”
Tom said, “Ya know, a fella tol’ me one time ya wrap some fine brass wire aroun’ the ring to hol’ her.”
“Yeah, but how ya gonna get the wire off?”
“Ya don’t get her off. She melts off an’ don’t hurt nothin’.”
“Copper wire’d be better.”
“It ain’t strong enough,” said Tom. He turned to the one-eyed man. “Got any fine brass wire?”
“I dunno. I think they’s a spool somewheres. Where d’ya think a fella could get one a them patches one-eye’ fellas wear?”
“I don’ know,” said Tom. “Le’s see if you can fin’ that wire.”
In the iron shed they dug through boxes until they found the spool. Tom set the rod in a vise and carefully wrapped the wire around the piston rings, forcing them deep into their slots, and where the wire was twisted he hammered it flat; and then he turned the piston and tapped the wire all around until it cleared the piston wall. He ran his finger up and down to make sure that the rings and wire were flush with the wall. It was getting dark in the shed. The one-eyed man brought a flashlight and shone its beam on the work.
“There she is!” said Tom. “Say—what’ll ya take for that light?”
“Well, it ain’t much good. Got fifteen cents’ a new batteries. You can have her for— oh, thirty-five cents.”
“O.K. An’ what we owe ya for this here con-rod an’ piston?”
The one-eyed man rubbed his forehead with a knuckle, and a line of dirt peeled off.
“Well, sir, I jus’ dunno. If the boss was here, he’d go to a parts book an’ he’d find out how much is a new one, an’ while you was workin’, he’d be findin’ out how bad you’re hung up, an’ how much jack ya got, an’ then he’d—well, say it’s eight bucks in the part book—he’d make a price a five bucks. An’ if you put up a squawk, you’d get it for three.
You say it’s all me, but, by God, he’s a son-of-a-bitch. Figgers how bad ya need it. I seen him git more for a ring gear than he give for the whole car.”
“Yeah! But how much am I gonna give you for this here?”
“ ’Bout a buck, I guess.”
“Awright, an’ I’ll give ya a quarter for this here socket wrench. Make it twice as easy.” He handed over the silver. “Thank ya. An’ cover up that goddamn eye.”
Tom and Al got into the truck. It was deep dark. Al started the motor and turned on the lights. “So long,” Tom called. “See ya maybe in California.” They turned across the highway and started back.
The one-eyed man watched them go, and then he went through the iron shed to his shack behind. It was dark inside. He felt his way to the mattress on the floor, and he stretched out and cried in his bed, and the cars whizzing by on the highway only strengthened the walls of his loneliness.
Tom said, “If you’d tol’ me we’d get this here thing an’ get her in tonight, I’d a said you was nuts.”
“We’ll get her in awright,” said Al. “You got to do her, though. I’d be scared I’d get her too tight an’ she’d burn out, or too loose an’ she’d hammer out.”
“I’ll stick her in,” said Tom. “If she goes out again, she goes out. I got nothin’ to lose.”
Al peered into the dusk. The lights made no impression on the gloom; but ahead, the eyes of a hunting cat flashed green in reflection of the lights. “You sure give that fella hell,” Al said. “Sure did tell him where to lay down his dogs.”
“Well, goddamn it, he was askin’ for it! Jus’ a pattin’ hisself ’cause he got one eye, puttin’ all the blame on his eye. He’s a lazy, dirty son-of-a-bitch. Maybe he can snap out of it if he knowed people was wise to him.”
Al said, “Tom, it wasn’t nothin’ I done burned out that bearin’.”
Tom was silent for a moment, then, “I’m gonna take a fall outa you, Al. You jus’ scrabblin’ ass over tit, fear somebody gonna pin some blame on you. I know what’s a matter. Young fella, all full a piss an’ vinegar. Wanta be a hell of a guy all the time. But, goddamn it, Al, don’ keep ya guard up when nobody ain’t sparrin’ with ya. You gonna be all right.”
Al did not answer him. He looked straight ahead. The truck rattled and banged over the road. A cat whipped out from the side of the road and Al swerved to hit it, but the wheels missed and the cat leaped into the grass.
“Nearly got him,” said Al. “Say, Tom. You heard Connie talkin’ how he’s gonna study nights? I been thinkin’ maybe I’d study nights too. You know, radio or television or Diesel engines. Fella might get started that-a-way.”
“Might,” said Tom. “Find out how much they gonna sock ya for the lessons, first.
An’ figger out if you’re gonna study ’em. There was fellas takin’ them mail lessons in McAlester. I never knowed one of ’em that finished up. Got sick of it an’ left ’em slide.”
“God Awmighty, we forgot to get somepin to eat.”
“Well, Ma sent down plenty; preacher couldn’ eat it all. Be some lef’. I wonder how long it’ll take us to get to California.”
“Christ, I don’ know. Jus’ plug away at her.”
They fell into silence, and the dark came and the stars were sharp and white.
C
asy got out of the back seat of the Dodge and strolled to the side of the
road when the truck pulled up. “I never expected you so soon,” he said.
Tom gathered the parts in the piece of sacking on the floor. “We was lucky,” he said.
“Got a flashlight, too. Gonna fix her right up.”
“You forgot to take your dinner,” said Casy.
“I’ll get it when I finish. Here, Al, pull off the road a little more an’ come hol’ the light for me.” He went directly to the Dodge and crawled under on his back. Al crawled under on his belly and directed the beam of the flashlight. “Not in my eyes. There, put her up.” Tom worked the piston up into the cylinder, twisting and turning. The brass wire caught a little on the cylinder wall. With a quick push he forced it past the rings. “Lucky she’s loose or the compression’d stop her. I think she’s gonna work all right.”
“Hope that wire don’t clog the rings,” said Al.
“Well, that’s why I hammered her flat. She won’t roll off. I think she’ll jus’ melt out an’ maybe give the walls a brass plate.”
“Think she might score the walls?”
Tom laughed. “Jesus Christ, them walls can take it. She’s drinkin’ oil like a gopher hole awready. Little more ain’t gonna hurt none.” He worked the rod down over the shaft and tested the lower half. “She’ll take some shim.” He said, “Casy!”
“Yeah.”
“I’m takin’ up this here bearing now. Get out to that crank an’ turn her over slow when I tell ya.” He tightened the bolts. “Now. Over slow!” And as the angular shaft turned, he worked the bearing against it. “Too much shim,” Tom said. “Hold it, Casy.”
He took out the bolts and removed thin shims from each side and put the bolts back. “Try her again, Casy!” And he worked the rod again. “She’s a little bit loose yet. Wonder if she’d be too tight if I took out more shim. I’ll try her.” Again he removed the bolts and took out another pair of the thin strips. “Now try her, Casy.”
“That looks good,” said Al.
Tom called, “She any harder to turn, Casy?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I think she’s snug here. I hope to God she is. Can’t hone no babbitt without tools. This here socket wrench makes her a hell of a lot easier.”
Al said, “Boss a that yard gonna be purty mad when he looks for that size socket an’ she ain’t there.”
“That’s his screwin’,” said Tom. “We didn’ steal her.” He tapped the cotter-pins in and bent the ends out. “I think that’s good. Look, Casy, you hold the light while me an’ Al get this here pan up.”
Casy knelt down and took the flashlight. He kept the beam on the working hands as they patted the gasket gently in place and lined the holes with the pan bolts. The two men strained at the weight of the pan, caught the end bolts, and then set in the others; and when they were all engaged, Tom took them up little by little until the pan settled evenly in against the gasket, and he tightened hard against the nuts.
“I guess that’s her,” Tom said. He tightened the oil tap, looked carefully up at the pan, and took the light and searched the ground. “There she is. Le’s get the oil back in her.”
They crawled out and poured the bucket of oil back in the crank case. Tom inspected the gasket for leaks.
“O.K., Al. Turn her over,” he said. Al got into the car and stepped on the starter. The motor caught with a roar. Blue smoke poured from the exhaust pipe. “Throttle down!”
Tom shouted. “She’ll burn oil till that wire goes. Gettin’ thinner now.” And as the motor turned over, he listened carefully. “Put up the spark an’ let her idle.” He listened again.
“O.K., Al. Turn her off. I think we done her. Where’s that meat now?”
“You make a darn good mechanic,” Al said.
“Why not? I worked in the shop a year. We’ll take her good an’ slow for a couple hunderd miles. Give her a chance to work in.”
They wiped their grease-covered hands on bunches of weeds and finally rubbed them on their trousers. They fell hungrily on the boiled pork and swigged the water from the bottle.
“I like to starved,” said Al. “What we gonna do now, go on to the camp?”
“I dunno,” said Tom. “Maybe they’d charge us a extry half-buck. Le’s go on an’ talk to the folks—tell ’em we’re fixed. Then if they wanta sock us extry—we’ll move on. The folks’ll wanta know. Jesus, I’m glad Ma stopped us this afternoon. Look around with the light, Al. See we don’t leave nothin’. Get that socket wrench in. We may need her again.”
Al searched the ground with the flashlight. “Don’t see nothin’.”
“All right. I’ll drive her. You bring the truck, Al.” Tom started the engine. The preacher got in the car. Tom moved slowly, keeping the engine at a low speed, and Al followed in the truck. He crossed the shallow ditch, crawling in low gear. Tom said, “These here Dodges can pull a house in low gear. She’s sure ratio’d down. Good thing for us—I wanta break that bearin’ in easy.”
On the highway the Dodge moved along slowly. The 12-volt headlights threw a short blob of yellowish light on the pavement.
Casy turned to Tom. “Funny how you fellas can fix a car. Jus’ light right in an’ fix her. I couldn’t fix no car, not even now when I seen you do it.”
“Got to grow into her when you’re a little kid,” Tom said. “It ain’t jus’ knowin’. It’s more’n that. Kids now can tear down a car ’thout even thinkin’ about it.”
A jackrabbit got caught in the lights and he bounced along ahead, cruising easily, his great ears flopping with every jump. Now and then he tried to break off the road, but the wall of darkness thrust him back. Far ahead bright headlights appeared and bore down on them. The rabbit hesitated, faltered, then turned and bolted toward the lesser lights of the Dodge. There was a small soft jolt as he went under the wheels. The oncoming car
swished by.
“We sure squashed him,” said Casy.
Tom said, “Some fellas like to hit ’em. Gives me a little shakes ever’ time. Car sounds O.K. Them rings must a broke loose by now. She ain’t smokin’ so bad.”
“You done a nice job,” said Casy.
A
small wooden house dominated the camp ground, and on the porch of the
house a gasoline lantern hissed and threw its white glare in a great circle.
Half a dozen tents were pitched near the house, and cars stood beside the
tents. Cooking for the night was over, but the coals of the campfires still glowed on the ground by the camping places. A group of men had gathered to the porch where the lantern burned, and their faces were strong and muscled under the harsh white light, light that threw black shadows of their hats over their foreheads and eyes and made their chins seem to jut out. They sat on the steps, and some stood on the ground, resting their elbows on the porch floor. The proprietor, a sullen lanky man, sat in a chair on the porch. He leaned back against the wall, and he drummed his fingers on his knee. Inside the house a kerosene lamp burned, but its thin light was blasted by the hissing glare of the gasoline lantern. The gathering of men surrounded the proprietor.
Tom drove the Dodge to the side of the road and parked. Al drove through the gate in the truck. “No need to take her in,” Tom said. He got out and walked through the gate to the white glare of the lantern.
The proprietor dropped his front chair legs to the floor and leaned forward. “You men wanta camp here?”
“No,” said Tom. “We got folks here. Hi, Pa.”
Pa, seated on the bottom step, said, “Thought you was gonna be all week. Get her fixed?”
“We was pig lucky,” said Tom. “Got a part ’fore dark. We can get goin’ fust thing in the mornin’.”
“That’s a pretty nice thing,” said Pa. “Ma’s worried. Ya Granma’s off her chump.”
“Yeah, Al tol’ me. She any better now?”
“Well, anyways she’s a-sleepin’.”
The proprietor said, “If you wanta pull in here an’ camp it’ll cost you four bits. Get a place to camp an’ water an’ wood. An’ nobody won’t bother you.”
“What the hell,” said Tom. “We can sleep in the ditch right beside the road, an’ it won’t cost nothin’.”
The owner drummed his knee with his fingers. “Deputy sheriff comes on by in the night. Might make it tough for ya. Got a law against sleepin’ out in this State. Got a law about vagrants.”
“If I pay you a half a dollar I ain’t a vagrant, huh?”
“That’s right.”
Tom’s eyes glowed angrily. “Deputy sheriff ain’t your brother-’n-law by any chance?”
The owner leaned forward. “No, he ain’t. An’ the time ain’t come yet when us local folks got to take no talk from you goddamn bums, neither.”
“It don’t trouble you none to take our four bits. An’ when’d we get to be bums? We ain’t asked ya for nothin’. All of us bums, huh? Well, we ain’t askin’ no nickels from you for the chance to lay down an’ rest.”
The men on the porch were rigid, motionless, quiet. Expression was gone from their faces; and their eyes, in the shadows under their hats, moved secretly up to the face of the
proprietor.
Pa growled, “Come off it, Tom.”
“Sure, I’ll come off it.”
The circle of men were quiet, sitting on the steps, leaning on the high porch. Their eyes glittered under the harsh light of the gas lantern. Their faces were hard in the hard light, and they were very still. Only their eyes moved from speaker to speaker, and their faces were expressionless and quiet. A lamp bug slammed into the lantern and broke itself, and fell into the darkness.
In one of the tents a child wailed in complaint, and a woman’s soft voice soothed it and then broke into a low song, “Jesus loves you in the night. Sleep good, sleep good.
Jesus watches in the night. Sleep, oh, sleep, oh.”
The lantern hissed on the porch. The owner scratched in the V of his open shirt, where a tangle of white chest hair showed. He was watchful and ringed with trouble. He watched the men in the circle, watched for some expression. And they made no move.
Tom was silent for a long time. His dark eyes looked slowly up at the proprietor. “I don’t wanta make no trouble,” he said. “It’s a hard thing to be named a bum. I ain’t afraid,” he said softly. “I’ll go for you an’ your deputy with my mitts—here now, or jump Jesus. But there ain’t no good in it.”
The men stirred, changed positions, and their glittering eyes moved slowly upward to the mouth of the proprietor, and their eyes watched for his lips to move. He was reassured. He felt that he had won, but not decisively enough to charge in. “Ain’t you got half a buck?” he asked.
“Yeah, I got it. But I’m gonna need it. I can’t set it out jus’ for sleepin’.”
“Well, we all got to make a livin’.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “On’y I wisht they was some way to make her ’thout takin’ her away from somebody else.”
The men shifted again. And Pa said, “We’ll get movin’ smart early. Look, mister. We paid. This here fella is part a our folks. Can’t he stay? We paid.”
“Half a dollar a car,” said the proprietor.
“Well, he ain’t got no car. Car’s out in the road.”
“He came in a car,” said the proprietor. “Ever’body’d leave their car out there an’ come in an’ use my place for nothin’.”
Tom said, “We’ll drive along the road. Meet ya in the morning. We’ll watch for ya.
Al can stay an’ Uncle John can come with us—” He looked at the proprietor. “That awright with you?”
He made a quick decision, with a concession in it. “If the same number stays that come an’ paid—that’s awright.”
Tom brought out his bag of tobacco, a limp gray rag by now, with a little damp tobacco dust in the bottom of it. He made a lean cigarette and tossed the bag away.
“We’ll go along pretty soon,” he said.
Pa spoke generally to the circle. “It’s dirt hard for folks to tear up an’ go. Folks like us that had our place. We ain’t shif’less. Till we got tractored off, we was people with a farm.”
A young thin man, with eyebrows sunburned yellow, turned his head slowly.
“Croppin’?” he asked.
“Sure we was sharecroppin’. Use’ ta own the place.”
The young man faced forward again. “Same as us,” he said.
“Lucky for us it ain’t gonna las’ long,” said Pa. “We’ll get out west an’ we’ll get work an’ we’ll get a piece a growin’ land with water.”
Near the edge of the porch a ragged man stood. His black coat dripped torn streamers. The knees were gone from his dungarees. His face was black with dust, and lined where sweat had washed through. He swung his head toward Pa. “You folks must have a nice little pot a money.”
“No, we ain’t got no money,” Pa said. “But they’s plenty of us to work, an’ we’re all good men. Get good wages out there an’ we’ll put ’em together. We’ll make out.”
The ragged man stared while Pa spoke, and then he laughed, and his laughter turned to a high whinnying giggle. The circle of faces turned to him. The giggling got out of control and turned into coughing. His eyes were red and watering when he finally controlled the spasms. “You goin’ out there—oh, Christ!” The giggling started again.
“You goin’ out an’ get—good wages—oh, Christ!” He stopped and said slyly, “Pickin’ oranges maybe? Gonna pick peaches?”
Pa’s tone was dignified. “We gonna take what they got. They got lots a stuff to work in.” The ragged man giggled under his breath.
Tom turned irritably. “What’s so goddamn funny about that?”
The ragged man shut his mouth and looked sullenly at the porch boards. “You folks all goin’ to California, I bet.”
“I tol’ you that,” said Pa. “You didn’ guess nothin’.”
The ragged man said slowly, “Me—I’m comin’ back. I been there.”
The faces turned quickly toward him. The men were rigid. The hiss of the lantern dropped to a sigh and the proprietor lowered the front chair legs to the porch, stood up, and pumped the lantern until the hiss was sharp and high again. He went back to his
chair, but he did not tilt back again. The ragged man turned toward the faces. “I’m goin’ back to starve. I ruther starve all over at oncet.”
Pa said, “What the hell you talkin’ about? I got a han’bill says they got good wages, an’ little while ago I seen a thing in the paper says they need folks to pick fruit.”
The ragged man turned to Pa. “You got any place to go, back home?”
“No,” said Pa. “We’re out. They put a tractor past the house.”
“You wouldn’ go back then?”
“ ’Course not.”
“Then I ain’t gonna fret you,” said the ragged man.
“ ’Course you ain’t gonna fret me. I got a han’bill says they need men. Don’t make no sense if they don’t need men. Costs money for them bills. They wouldn’ put ’em out
if they didn’ need men.”
“I don’ wanna fret you.”
Pa said angrily, “You done some jackassin’. You ain’t gonna shut up now. My han’bill says they need men. You laugh an’ say they don’t. Now, which one’s a liar?”
The ragged man looked down into Pa’s angry eyes. He looked sorry. “Han’bill’s right,” he said. “They need men.”
“Then why the hell you stirrin’ us up laughin’?”
“ ’Cause you don’t know what kind a men they need.”
“What you talkin’ about?”
The ragged man reached a decision. “Look,” he said. “How many men they say they want on your han’bill?”
“Eight hunderd, an’ that’s in one little place.”
“Orange color han’bill?”
“Why—yes.”
“Give the name a the fella—says so and so, labor contractor?”
Pa reached in his pocket and brought out the folded handbill. “That’s right. How’d you know?”
“Look,” said the man. “It don’t make no sense. This fella wants eight hunderd men.
So he prints up five thousand of them things an’ maybe twenty thousan’ people sees ’em.
An’ maybe two-three thousan’ folks gets movin’ account a this here han’bill. Folks that’s
crazy with worry.”
“But it don’t make no sense!” Pa cried.
“Not till you see the fella that put out this here bill. You’ll see him, or somebody that’s workin’ for him. You’ll be a-campin’ by a ditch, you an’ fifty other famblies. An’ he’ll look in your tent an’ see if you got anything lef’ to eat. An’ if you got nothin’, he says, ‘Wanna job?’ An’ you’ll say, ‘I sure do, mister. I’ll sure thank you for a chance to
do some work.’ An’ he’ll say, ‘I can use you.’ An’ you’ll say, ‘When do I start?’ An’ he’ll tell you where to go, an’ what time, an’ then he’ll go on. Maybe he needs two hunderd men, so he talks to five hunderd, an’ they tell other folks, an’ when you get to the place, they’s a thousan’ men. This here fella says, ‘I’m payin’ twenty cents an hour.’ An’ maybe half a the men walk off. But they’s still five hunderd that’s so goddamn hungry they’ll work for nothin’ but biscuits. Well, this here fella’s got a contract to pick them peaches or—chop that cotton. You see now? The more fellas he can get, an’ the hungrier, less he’s gonna pay. An’ he’ll get a fella with kids if he can, ’cause—hell, I says I wasn’t gonna fret ya.” The circle of faces looked coldly at him. The eyes tested his words. The ragged man grew self-conscious. “I says I wasn’t gonna fret ya, an’ here I’m a-doin’ it. You gonna go on. You ain’t goin’ back.” The silence hung on the porch. And the light hissed, and a halo of moths swung around and around the lantern. The ragged man went on nervously, “Lemme tell ya what to do when ya meet that fella says he got work. Lemme tell ya. Ast him what he’s gonna pay. Ast him to write down what he’s gonna pay. Ast him that. I tell you men you’re gonna get fooled if you don’t.”
The proprietor leaned forward in his chair, the better to see the ragged dirty man. He scratched among the gray hairs on his chest. He said coldly, “You sure you ain’t one of these here troublemakers? You sure you ain’t a labor faker?”
And the ragged man cried, “I swear to God I ain’t!”
“They’s plenty of ’em,” the proprietor said. “Goin’ aroun’ stirrin’ up trouble. Gettin’ folks mad. Chiselin’ in. They’s plenty of ’em. Time’s gonna come when we string ’em all up, all them troublemakers. We gonna run ’em outa the country. Man wants to work, O.K. If he don’t—the hell with him. We ain’t gonna let him stir up trouble.”
The ragged man drew himself up. “I tried to tell you folks,” he said. “Somepin it took me a year to find out. Took two kids dead, took my wife dead to show me. But I can’t tell you. I should of knew that. Nobody couldn’t tell me, neither. I can’t tell ya about them little fellas layin’ in the tent with their bellies puffed out an’ jus’ skin on their bones, an’ shiverin’ an’ whinin’ like pups, an’ me runnin’ aroun’ tryin’ to get work—not for money, not for wages!” he shouted. “Jesus Christ, jus’ for a cup a flour an’ a spoon a lard. An’ then the coroner come. ‘Them children died a heart failure,’ he said. Put it on his paper.
Shiverin’, they was, an’ their bellies stuck out like a pig bladder.”
The circle was quiet, and mouths were open a little. The men breathed shallowly, and watched.
The ragged man looked around at the circle, and then he turned and walked quickly away into the darkness. The dark swallowed him, but his dragging footsteps could be heard a long time after he had gone, footsteps along the road; and a car came by on the highway, and its lights showed the ragged man shuffling along the road, his head hanging down and his hands in the black coat pockets.
The men were uneasy. One said, “Well—gettin’ late. Got to get to sleep.”
The proprietor said, “Prob’ly shif’less. They’s so goddamn many shif’less fellas on the road now.” And then he was quiet. And he tipped his chair back against the wall again and fingered his throat.
Tom said, “Guess I’ll go see Ma for a minute, an’ then we’ll shove along a piece.”
The Joad men moved away.
Pa said, “S’pose he’s tellin’ the truth—that fella?”
The preacher answered, “He’s tellin’ the truth, awright. The truth for him. He wasn’t makin’ nothin’ up.”
“How about us?” Tom demanded. “Is that the truth for us?”
“I don’ know,” said Casy.
“I don’ know,” said Pa.
They walked to the tent, tarpaulin spread over a rope. And it was dark inside, and quiet. When they came near, a grayish mass stirred near the door and arose to person height. Ma came out to meet them.
“All sleepin’,” she said. “Granma finally dozed off.” Then she saw it was Tom.
“How’d you get here?” she demanded anxiously. “You ain’t had no trouble?”
“Got her fixed,” said Tom. “We’re ready to go when the rest is.”
“Thank the dear God for that,” Ma said. “I’m just a-twitterin’ to go on. Wanta get where it’s rich an’ green. Wanta get there quick.”
Pa cleared his throat. “Fella was jus’ sayin’——”
Tom grabbed his arm and yanked it. “Funny what he says,” Tom said. “Says they’s lots a folks on the way.”
Ma peered through the darkness at them. Inside the tent Ruthie coughed and snorted in her sleep. “I washed ’em up,” Ma said. “Fust water we got enough of to give ’em a goin’-over. Lef’ the buckets out for you fellas to wash too. Can’t keep nothin’ clean on
the road.”
“Ever’body in?” Pa asked.
“All but Connie an’ Rosasharn. They went off to sleep in the open. Says it’s too warm in under cover.”
Pa observed querulously, “That Rosasharn is gettin’ awful scary an’ nimsy-mimsy.”
“It’s her first,” said Ma. “Her an’ Connie sets a lot a store by it. You done the same thing.”
“We’ll go now,” Tom said. “Pull off the road a little piece ahead. Watch out for us ef we don’t see you. Be off right-han’ side.”
“Al’s stayin’?”
“Yeah. Leave Uncle John come with us. ’Night, Ma.”
They walked away through the sleeping camp. In front of one tent a low fitful fire burned, and a woman watched a kettle that cooked early breakfast. The smell of the cooking beans was strong and fine.
“Like to have a plate a them,” Tom said politely as they went by.
The woman smiled. “They ain’t done or you’d be welcome,” she said. “Come aroun’ in the daybreak.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tom said. He and Casy and Uncle John walked by the porch.
The proprietor still sat in his chair, and the lantern hissed and flared. He turned his head as the three went by. “Ya runnin’ outa gas,” Tom said.
“Well, time to close up anyways.”
“No more half-bucks rollin’ down the road, I guess,” Tom said.
The chair legs hit the floor. “Don’t you go a-sassin’ me. I ’member you. You’re one of these here troublemakers.”
“Damn right,” said Tom. “I’m bolshevisky.”
“They’s too damn many of you kinda guys aroun’.”
Tom laughed as they went out the gate and climbed into the Dodge. He picked up a clod and threw it at the light. They heard it hit the house and saw the proprietor spring to his feet and peer into the darkness. Tom started the car and pulled into the road. And he listened closely to the motor as it turned over, listened for knocks. The road spread dimly under the weak lights of the car.
