John Steinbeck - The Grapes of Wrath

OUT IN THE DARK YARD, working in the lantern light, Pa and Al loaded the truck. Tools on the bottom, but handy to reach in case of a breakdown. Boxes of clothes next, and kitchen utensils in a gunny sack; cutlery and dishes in their box. Then the gallon bucket tied on behind. They made the bottom of the load as even as possible, and filled the spaces between boxes with rolled blankets. Then over the top they laid the mattresses, filling the truck in level. And last they spread the big tarpaulin over the load and Al made holes in the edge, two feet apart, and inserted little ropes, and tied it down to the side-bars of the truck.

“Now, if it rains,” he said, “we’ll tie it to the bar above, an’ the folks can get underneath, out of the wet. Up front we’ll be dry enough.”

And Pa applauded. “That’s a good idear.”

“That ain’t all,” Al said. “First chance I git I’m gonna fin’ a long plank an’ make a ridge pole, an’ put the tarp over that. An’ then it’ll be covered in, an’ the folks’ll be outa the sun, too.”

And Pa agreed, “That’s a good idear. Whyn’t you think a that before?”

“I ain’t had time,” said Al.

“Ain’t had time? Why, Al, you had time to coyote all over the country. God knows where you been this las’ two weeks.”

“Stuff a fella got to do when he’s leavin’ the country,” said Al. And then he lost some of his assurance. “Pa,” he asked. “You glad to be goin’, Pa?”

“Huh? Well—sure. Leastwise yeah. We had hard times here. ’Course it’ll be all different out there—plenty work, an’ ever’thing nice an’ green, an’ little white houses an’ oranges growin’ aroun’.”

“Is it all oranges ever’where?”

“Well, maybe not ever’where, but plenty places.”

The first gray of daylight began in the sky. And the work was done—the kegs of pork ready, the chicken coop ready to go on top. Ma opened the oven and took out the pile of roasted bones, crisp and brown, with plenty of gnawing meat left. Ruthie half awakened, and slipped down from the box, and slept again. But the adults stood around the door, shivering a little and gnawing at the crisp pork.

“Guess we oughta wake up Granma an’ Grampa,” Tom said. “Gettin’ along on toward day.” Ma said, “Kinda hate to, till the las’ minute. They need the sleep. Ruthie an’ Winfield ain’t hardly got no real rest neither.”

“Well, they kin all sleep on top a the load,” said Pa. “It’ll be nice an’ comf’table there.”

Suddenly the dogs started up from the dust and listened. And then, with a roar, went barking off into the darkness. “Now what in hell is that?” Pa demanded. In a moment they heard a voice speaking reassuringly to the barking dogs and the barking lost its fierceness. Then footsteps, and a man approached. It was Muley Graves, his hat pulled low.

He came near timidly. “Morning, folks,” he said.

“Why, Muley.” Pa waved the ham bone he held. “Step in an’ get some pork for yourself, Muley.”

“Well, no,” said Muley. “I ain’t hungry, exactly.”

“Oh, get it, Muley, get it. Here!” And Pa stepped into the house and brought out a hand of spareribs.

“I wasn’t aiming to eat none a your stuff,” he said. “I was jus’ walkin’ aroun’, an’ I thought how you’d be goin’, an’ I’d maybe say good-by.”

“Goin’ in a little while now,” said Pa. “You’d a missed us if you’d come an hour later. All packed up—see?”

“All packed up.” Muley looked at the loaded truck. “Sometimes I wisht I’d go an’ fin’ my folks.”

Ma asked, “Did you hear from ’em out in California?”

“No,” said Muley, “I ain’t heard. But I ain’t been to look in the post office. I oughta go in sometimes.”

Pa said, “Al, go down, wake up Granma, Grampa. Tell ’em to come an’ eat. We’re goin’ before long.” And as Al sauntered toward the barn, “Muley, ya wanta squeeze in with us an’ go? We’d try to make room for ya.”

Muley took a bite of meat from the edge of a rib bone and chewed it.

“Sometimes I think I might. But I know I won’t,” he said. “I know perfectly well the las’ minute I’d run an’ hide like a damn ol’ graveyard ghos’.”

Noah said, “You gonna die out in the fiel’ some day, Muley.”

“I know. I thought about that. Sometimes it seems pretty lonely, an’ sometimes it seems all right, an’ sometimes it seems good. It don’t make no difference. But if ya come acrost my folks—that’s really what I come to say—if ya come on any my folks in California, tell ’em I’m well. Tell ’em I’m doin’ all right. Don’t let on I’m livin’ this way. Tell ’em I’ll come to ’em soon’s I git the money.”

Ma asked, “An’ will ya?”

“No,” Muley said softly. “No, I won’t. I can’t go away. I got to stay now. Time back I might of went. But not now. Fella gits to thinkin’, an’ he gits to knowin’. I ain’t never goin’.”

The light of the dawn was a little sharper now. It paled the lanterns a little. Al came back with Grampa struggling and limping by his side. “He wasn’t sleepin’,” Al said. “He was settin’ out back of the barn. They’s somepin wrong with ’im.”

Grampa’s eyes had dulled, and there was none of the old meanness in them. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with me,” he said. “I jus’ ain’t a-goin’.”

“Not goin’?” Pa demanded. “What you mean you ain’t a-goin’? Why, here we’re all packed up, ready. We got to go. We got no place to stay.”

“I ain’t sayin’ for you to stay,” said Grampa. “You go right on along. Me—I’m stayin’. I give her a goin’-over all night mos’ly. This here’s my country. I b’long here. An’ I don’t give a goddamn if they’s oranges an’ grapes crowdin’ a fella outa bed even. I ain’t a-goin’. This country ain’t no good, but it’s my country. No, you all go ahead. I’ll jus’ stay right here where I b’long.”

They crowded near to him. Pa said, “You can’t, Grampa. This here lan’ is goin’ under the tractors. Who’d cook for you? How’d you live? You can’t stay here. Why, with nobody to take care of you, you’d starve.”

Grampa cried, “Goddamn it, I’m a ol’ man, but I can still take care a myself. How’s Muley here get along? I can get along as good as him. I tell ya I ain’t goin’, an’ ya can lump it. Take Granma with ya if ya want, but ya ain’t takin’ me, an’ that’s the end of it.”

Pa said helplessly, “Now listen to me, Grampa. Jus’ listen to me, jus’ a minute.”

“Ain’t a-gonna listen. I tol’ ya what I’m a-gonna do.”

Tom touched his father on the shoulder. “Pa, come in the house. I wanta tell ya somepin.” And as they moved toward the house, he called, “Ma—come here a minute, will ya?”

In the kitchen one lantern burned and the plate of pork bones was still piled high. Tom said, “Listen, I know Grampa got the right to say he ain’t goin’, but he can’t stay. We know that.”

“Sure he can’t stay,” said Pa.

“Well, look. If we got to catch him an’ tie him down, we li’ble to hurt him, an’ he’ll git so mad he’ll hurt himself. Now we can’t argue with him. If we could get him drunk it’d be all right. You got any whisky?”

“No,” said Pa. “There ain’t a drop a’ whisky in the house. An’ John got no whisky. He never has none when he ain’t drinkin’.” Ma said, “Tom, I got a half bottle soothin’ sirup I got for Winfiel’ when he had them earaches. Think that might work? Use ta put Winfiel’ ta sleep when his earache was bad.”

“Might,” said Tom. “Get it, Ma. We’ll give her a try anyways.”

“I throwed it out on the trash pile,” said Ma. She took the lantern and went out, and in a moment she came back with a bottle half full of black medicine.