The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

“Well, when the cops come in, an’ they come in all a time, that’s how you wanta be. Dumb—don’t know nothin’. Don’t understan’ nothin’. That’s how the cops like us. Don’t hit no cops. That’s jus’ suicide. Be bull-simple.’’

“Don’ you worry. We’re doin’ somepin, on’y we ain’t stickin’ our necks out. A kid starves quick. Two-three days for a kid.’’ He went back to his job, spread the compound on a valve seat, and his hand jerked rapidly back and forth on the brace, and his face was dull and dumb.

Tom said, “Prayer never brought in no side-meat. Takes a shoat to bring in pork.’’ “Yeah,’’ Casy said. “An’ Almighty God never raised no wages. These here folks want to live decent and bring up their kids decent. An’ when they’re old they wanta set in the door an’ watch the downing sun. An’ when they’re young they wanta dance an’ sing an’ lay together. They wanta eat an’ get drunk and work. An’ that’s it—they wanta jus’ fling their goddamn muscles aroun’ an’ get tired. Christ! What’m I talkin’ about?’’

lean brown mongrel dog came sniffing around the side of the tent. He was nervous and flexed to run. He sniffed close before he was aware of the two men, and then looking up he saw them, leaped sideways, and fled, ears back, bony tail clamped protectively. Casy watched him go, dodging around a tent to get out of sight. Casy sighed. “I ain’t doin’ nobody no good,’’ he said. “Me or nobody else. I was thinkin’ I’d go off alone by myself. I’m a-eatin’ your food an’ a-takin’ up room. An’ I ain’t give you nothin’. Maybe I could get a steady job an’ maybe pay back some a the stuff you’ve give me.’’

“Look,’’ he said, “this ain’t no lan’ of milk an’ honey like the preachers say. They’s a mean thing here. The folks here is scared of us people comin’ west; an’ so they got cops out tryin’ to scare us back.’’

Connie’s eyes were sullen. “If I’d of knowed it would be like this I wouldn’ of came. I’d a studied nights ’bout tractors back home an’ got me a three-dollar job. Fella can live awful nice on three dollars a day, an’ go to the pitcher show ever’ night, too.’’ Rose of Sharon looked apprehensive. “You’re gonna study nights ’bout radios,’’ she said. He was long in answering. “Ain’t you?’’ she demanded.

She said fiercely, “We got to have a house ’fore the baby comes. We ain’t gonna have this baby in no tent.’’

The circle of children shifted nervously and looked away from the boiling kettle. One small boy said boastfully, “I did—me an’ my brother did—an’ them two did, ’cause I seen ’em. We et good. We’re a-goin’ south tonight.’’ Ma smiled. “Then you ain’t hungry. They ain’t enough here to go around.’’ The small boy’s lip stuck out. “We et good,’’ he said, and he turned and ran and dived into a tent. Ma looked after him so long that the oldest girl reminded her.

Ruthie had stood all she could. She blurted fiercely, “Granma died right on top a the truck.’’ The girl looked questioningly at her. “Well, she did,’’ Ruthie said. “An’ the cor’ner got her.’’ She closed her lips tightly and broke up a little pile of sticks. Winfield blinked at the boldness of the attack. “Right on the truck,’’ he echoed. “Cor’ner stuck her in a big basket.’’

Floyd scraped harder with the chisel. “I been here six months,’’ he said. “I been scrabblin’ over this here State tryin’ to work hard enough and move fast enough to get meat an’ potatoes for me an’ my wife an’ my kids. I’ve run myself like a jackrabbit an’—I can’t quite make her. There just ain’t quite enough to eat no matter what I do. I’m gettin’ tired, that’s all. I’m gettin’ tired way past where sleep rests me. An’ I jus’ don’ know what to do.’’

Ma said helplessly, “I dunno what to do. I got to feed the fambly. What’m I gonna do with these here?’’ The children stood stiffly and looked at her. Their faces were blank, rigid, and their eyes went mechanically from the pot to the tin plate she held. Their eyes followed the spoon from pot to plate, and when she passed the steaming plate up to Uncle John, their eyes followed it up. Uncle John dug his spoon into the stew, and the banked eyes rose up with the spoon. A piece of potato went into John’s mouth and the banked eyes were on his face, watching to see how he would react. Would it be good? Would he like it?

“I can’t send ’em away,’’ she said. “I don’ know what to do. Take your plates an’ go inside. I’ll let ’em have what’s lef’. Here, take a plate in to Rosasharn.’’ She smiled up at the children. “Look,’’ she said, “you little fellas go an’ get you each a flat stick an’ I’ll put what’s lef’ for you. But they ain’t to be no fightin’.” The group broke up with a deadly, silent swiftness. Children ran to find sticks, they ran to their own tents and brought spoons. Before Ma had finished with the plates they were back, silent and wolfish. Ma shook her head. “I dunno what to do. I can’t rob the fambly. I got to feed the fambly. Ruthie, Winfiel’, Al,’’ she cried fiercely. “Take your plates. Hurry up. Git in the tent quick.’’ She looked apologetically at the waiting children. “There ain’t enough,’’ she said humbly.