John Steinbeck - The Grapes of Wrath

“No, Ma.”

“You sure? You won’t go?”

“No, Ma. I’ll be here.”

“Awright. ’Member, Rosasharn.” She went out and closed the door firmly behind her. Tom lay still—and then a wave of sleep lifted him to the edge of unconsciousness and dropped him slowly back and lifted him again. “You—Tom!”

“Huh? Yeah!” He started awake. He looked over at Rose of Sharon. Her eyes were blazing with resentment. “What you want?”

“You killed a fella!”

“Yeah. Not so loud! You wanta rouse somebody?”

“What da I care?” she cried. “That lady tol’ me. She says what sin’s gonna do. She tol’ me. What chance I got to have a nice baby? Connie’s gone, an’ I ain’t gettin’ good food. I ain’t gettin’ milk.” Her voice rose hysterically. “An’ now you kill a fella. What chance that baby got to get bore right? I know—gonna be a freak—a freak! I never done no dancin’.”

Tom got up. “Sh!” he said. “You’re gonna get folks in here.”

“I don’ care. I’ll have a freak! I didn’ dance no hug-dance.” He went near to her. “Be quiet.”

“You get away from me. It ain’t the first fella you killed, neither.” Her face was growing red with hysteria. Her words blurred.

“I don’ wanta look at you.” She covered her head with her blanket.

Tom heard the choked, smothered cries. He bit his lower lip and studied the floor. And then he went to Pa’s bed. Under the edge of the mattress the rifle lay, a lever-action Winchester . 38, long and heavy. Tom picked it up and dropped the lever to see that a cartridge was in the chamber. He tested the hammer on half-cock. And then he went back to his mattress. He laid the rifle on the floor beside him, stock up and barrel pointing down. Rose of Sharon’s voice thinned to a whimper. Tom lay down again and covered himself, covered his bruised cheek with the blanket and made a little tunnel to breathe through. He sighed, “Jesus, oh, Jesus!”

Outside a group of cars went by, and voices sounded. “How many men?”

“Jes’ us—three. Whatcha payin’?”

“You go to house twenty-five. Number’s right on the door.”

“O.K., mister. Whatcha payin’?”

“Two and a half cents.”

“Why, goddamn it, a man can’t make his dinner!”

“That’s what we’re payin’. There’s two hundred men coming from the South that’ll be glad to get it.”

“But, Jesus, mister!”

“Go on now. Either take it or go on along. I got no time to argue.”

“But—”

“Look. I didn’ set the price. I’m just checking you in. If you want it, take it. If you don’t, turn right around and go along.”

“Twenty-five, you say?”

“Yes, twenty-five.”

TOM DOZED ON HIS MATTRESS. A stealthy sound in the room awakened him. His hand crept to the rifle and tightened on the grip. He drew back the covers from his face. Rose of Sharon was standing beside his mattress.

“What you want?” Tom demanded.

“You sleep,” she said. “You jus’ sleep off. I’ll watch the door. They won’t nobody get in.”

He studied her face for a moment. “O.K.,” he said, and he covered his face with the blanket again.

IN THE BEGINNING dusk Ma came back to the house. She paused on the doorstep and knocked and said, “It’s me,” so that Tom would not be worried. She opened the door and entered, carrying a bag. Tom awakened and sat up on his mattress. His wound had dried and tightened so that the unbroken skin was shiny. His left eye was drawn nearly shut. “Anybody come while we was gone?” Ma asked.

“No,” he said. “Nobody. I see they dropped the price.”

“How’d you know?”

“I heard folks talkin’ outside.” Rose of Sharon looked dully up at Ma. Tom pointed at her with his thumb. “She raised hell, Ma. Thinks all the trouble is aimed right smack at her. If I’m gonna get her upset like that I oughta go ’long.” Ma turned on Rose of Sharon. “What you doin’?” The girl said resentfully, “How’m I gonna have a nice baby with stuff like this?” Ma said, “Hush! You hush now. I know how you’re a-feelin’, an’ I know you can’t he’p it, but jus’ keep your mouth shut.”

She turned back to Tom. “Don’t pay her no mind, Tom. It’s awful hard, an’ I ’member how it is. Ever’thing is a-shootin’ right at you when you’re gonna have a baby, an’ ever’thing anybody says is a insult, an’ ever’thing against you. Don’t pay no mind. She can’t he’p it. It’s jus’ the way she feels.”

“I don’ wanta hurt her.”

“Hush! Jus’ don’ talk.” She set her bag down on the cold stove. “Didn’ hardly make nothin’,” she said. “I tol’ you, we’re gonna get outa here. Tom, try an’ wrassle me some wood. No—you can’t. Here, we got on’y this one box lef’. Break it up. I tol’ the other fellas to pick up some sticks on the way out. Gonna have mush an’ a little sugar on.”

Tom got up and stamped the last box to small pieces. Ma carefully built her fire in one end of the stove, conserving the flame under one stove hole. She filled a kettle with water and put it over the flame. The kettle rattled over the direct fire, rattled and wheezed.

“How was it pickin’ today?” Tom asked.

Ma dipped a cup into her bag of cornmeal. “I don’ wanta talk about it. I was thinkin’ today how they use’ to be jokes. I don’ like it, Tom. We don’ joke no more. When they’s a joke, it’s a mean bitter joke, an’ they ain’t no fun in it. Fella says today, ’Depression is over. I seen a jackrabbit, an’ they wasn’t nobody after him.’ An’ another fella says, ’That ain’t the reason. Can’t afford to kill jackrabbits no more. Catch ’em and milk ’em an’ turn ’em loose. One you seen prob’ly gone dry.’ That’s how I mean. Ain’t really funny, not funny like that time Uncle John converted an Injun an’ brang him home, an’ that Injun et his way clean to the bottom of the bean bin, an’ then backslid with Uncle John’s whisky. Tom, put a rag with col’ water on your face.”

The dusk deepened. Ma lighted the lantern and hung it on a nail. She fed the fire and poured cornmeal gradually into the hot water. “Rosasharn,” she said, “can you stir the mush?”

Outside there was a patter of running feet. The door burst open and banged against the wall. Ruthie rushed in. “Ma!” she cried. “Ma. Winfiel’ got a fit!”

“Where? Tell me!” Ruthie panted, “Go white an’ fell down. Et so many peaches he skittered hisself all day. Jus’ fell down. White!”

“Take me!” Ma demanded. “Rosasharn, you watch that mush.” She went out with Ruthie. She ran heavily up the street behind the little girl. Three men walked toward her in the dusk, and the center man carried Winfield in his arms. Ma ran up to them. “He’s mine,” she cried. “Give ’im to me.”

“I’ll carry ’im for you, ma’am.”

“No, here, give ’im to me.” She hoisted the little boy and turned back; and then she remembered herself. “I sure thank ya,” she said to the men.

“Welcome, ma’am. The little fella’s purty weak. Looks like he got worms.”

Ma hurried back, and Winfield was limp and relaxed in her arms. Ma carried him into the house and knelt down and laid him on a mattress. “Tell me. What’s the matter?” she demanded. He opened his eyes dizzily and shook his head and closed his eyes again.

Ruthie said, “I tol’ ya, Ma. He skittered all day. Ever’ little while. Et too many peaches.”

Ma felt his head. “He ain’t fevered. But he’s white and drawed out.”

Tom came near and held the lantern down. “I know,” he said. “He’s hungered. Got no strength. Get him a can a milk an’ make him drink it. Make ’im take milk on his mush.”