John Steinbeck - The Grapes of Wrath

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 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’t 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’. Just 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.”