John Steinbeck - The Grapes of Wrath

“Gonna dance tonight?” he asked. The girl looked away and did not answer. “Can’t a fella pass a word with you? How ’bout you an’ me dancin’?” And he said nonchalantly, “I can waltz.” The girl raised her eyes shyly, and she said, “That ain’t nothin’—anybody can waltz.”

“Not like me,” said Al. The music surged, and he tapped one foot in time. “Come on,” he said.

A very fat woman poked her head out of the tent and scowled at him. “You git along,” she said fiercely. “This here girl’s spoke for. She’s a-gonna be married, an’ her man’s a-comin’ for her.”

Al winked rakishly at the girl, and he tripped on, striking his feet to the music and swaying his shoulders and swinging his arms. And the girl looked after him intently.

Pa put down his plate and stood up. “Come on, John,” he said; and he explained to Ma, “We’re a-gonna talk to some fellas about gettin’ work.” And Pa and Uncle John walked toward the manager’s house.

Tom worked a piece of store bread into the stew gravy on his plate and ate the bread. He handed his plate to Ma, and she put it in the bucket of hot water and washed it, and handed it to Rose of Sharon to wipe. “Ain’t you goin’ to the dance?” Ma asked.

“Sure,” said Tom. “I’m on a committee. We’re gonna entertain some fellas.”

“Already on a committee?” Ma said. “I guess it’s ’cause you got work.” Rose of Sharon turned to put the dish away. Tom pointed at her. “My God, she’s a-gettin’ big,” he said. Rose of Sharon blushed and took another dish from Ma. “Sure she is,” Ma said.

“An’ she’s gettin’ prettier,” said Tom. The girl blushed more deeply and hung her head. “You stop it,” she said softly. “’Course she is,” said Ma. “Girl with a baby always gets prettier.” Tom laughed. “If she keeps a-swellin’ like this, she gonna need a wheelbarra to carry it.”

“Now you stop,” Rose of Sharon said, and she went inside the tent, out of sight. Ma chuckled, “You shouldn’ ought to worry her.”

“She likes it,” said Tom.

“I know she likes it, but it worries her, too. And she’s a-mournin’ for Connie.”

“Well, she might’s well give him up. He’s prob’ly studyin’ to be President of the United States by now.”

“Don’t worry her,” Ma said. “She ain’t got no easy row to hoe.” Willie Eaton moved near, and he grinned and said, “You Tom Joad?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m Chairman the Entertainment Committee. We gonna need you. Fella tol’ me ’bout you.”

“Sure, I’ll play with you,” said Tom. “This here’s Ma.”

“Howdy,” said Willie. “Glad to meet ya.” Willie said, “Gonna put you on the gate to start, an’ then on the floor. Want ya to look over the guys when they come in, an’ try to spot ’em. You’ll be with another fella. Then later I want ya to dance an’ watch.”

“Yeah! I can do that awright,” said Tom. Ma said apprehensively, “They ain’t no trouble?”

“No, ma’am,” Willie said. “They ain’t gonna be no trouble.”

“None at all,” said Tom. “Well, I’ll come ’long. See you at the dance, Ma.” The two young men walked quickly away toward the main gate. Ma piled the washed dishes on a box. “Come on out,” she called, and when there was no answer, “Rosasharn, you come out.” The girl stepped from the tent, and she went on with the dish-wiping. “Tom was on’y jollyin’ ya.”

“I know. I didn’t mind; on’y I hate to have folks look at me.”

“Ain’t no way to he’p that. Folks gonna look. But it makes folks happy to see a girl in a fambly way—makes folks sort of giggly an’ happy. Ain’t you a-goin’ to the dance?”

“I was—but I don’ know. I wisht Connie was here.” Her voice rose. “Ma, I wisht he was here. I can’t hardly stan’ it.” Ma looked closely at her. “I know,” she said. “But, Rosasharn don’ shame your folks.”

“I don’ aim to, Ma.”

“Well, don’ you shame us. We got too much on us now, without no shame.” The girl’s lip quivered. “I—I ain’ goin’ to the dance. I couldn’Mahe’p me!” She sat down and buried her head in her hands.

Ma wiped her hands on the dish towel and she squatted down in front of her daughter, and she put her two hands on Rose of Sharon’s hair. “You’re a good girl,” she said. “You always was a good girl. I’ll take care a you. Don’t you fret.” She put an interest in her tone. “Know what you an’ me’s gonna do? We’re a-goin’ to that dance, an’ we’re a-gonna set there an watch. If anybody says to come dancewhy, I’ll say you ain’t strong enough. I’ll say you’re poorly. An’ you can hear the music an’ all like that.”

Rose of Sharon raised her head. “You won’t let me dance?”

“No, I won’t.”

“An’ don’ let nobody touch me.”

“No, I won’t.” The girl sighed. She said desperately, “I don’ know what I’m a-gonna do, Ma. I jus’ don’ know. I don’ know.”

Ma patted her knee. “Look,” she said. “Look here at me. I’m a-gonna tell ya. In a little while it ain’t gonna be so bad. In a little while. An’ that’s true. Now come on. We’ll go get washed up, an’ we’ll put on our nice dress an’ we’ll set by the dance.” She led Rose of Sharon toward the sanitary unit.

Pa and Uncle John squatted with a group of men by the porch of the office. “We nearly got work today,” Pa said. “We was jus’ a few minutes late. They awready got two fellas. An’, well, sir, it was a funny thing. They’s a straw boss there, an’ he says, ’We jus’ got some two-bit men. ’Course we could use twenty-cent men. We can use a lot of twenty-cent men. You go to your camp an’ say we’ll put a lot a fellas on for twenty cents.’”

The squatting men moved nervously. A broad-shouldered man, his face completely in the shadow of a black hat, spatted his knee with his palm. “I know it, goddamn it!” he cried. “An’ they’ll git men. They’ll git hungry men. You can’t feed your fam’ly on twenty cents an hour, but you’ll take anything. They got you goin’ an’ comin’. They jes’ auction a job off. Jesus Christ, pretty soon they’re gonna make us pay to work.”

“We would of took her,” Pa said. “We ain’t had no job. We sure would a took her, but they was them guys in there, an’ the way they looked, we was scairt to take her.”

Black Hat said, “Get crazy thinkin’! I been workin’ for a fella, an’ he can’t pick his crop. Cost more jes’ to pick her than he can git for her, an’ he don’ know what to do.”

“Seems to me—” Pa stopped. The circle was silent for him. “Well—I jus’ thought, if a fella had an acre. Well, my woman she could raise a little truck an’ a couple pigs an’ some chickens. An’ us men could get out an’ find work, an’ then go back. Kids could maybe go to school. Never seen sech schools as out here.”

“Our kids ain’t happy in them schools,” Black Hat said. “Why not? They’re pretty nice, them schools.”

“Well, a raggedy kid with no shoes, an’ them other kids with socks on, an’ nice pants, an’ them a-yellin’ ’Okie.’ My boy went to school. Had a fight ever’ day. Done good, too. Tough little bastard. Ever’ day he got to fight. Come home with his clothes tore an’ his nose bloody. An’ his ma’d whale him. Made her stop that. No need ever’body beatin’ the hell outa him, poor little fella. Jesus! He give some a them kids a goin’-over, though—them nice-pants sons-a-bitches. I dunno. I dunno.”

Pa demanded, “Well, what the hell am I gonna do? We’re outa money. One of my boys got a short job, but that won’t feed us. I’m a-gonna go an’ take twenty cents. I got to.”