“I know,” Pa said. “But jus’ take it easy.”
Uncle John blubbered, “I’ll run away. By God, I got to work or I’ll run away.”
Pa turned from him. “How’s she stan’ on the last marker?”
The man with the flashlight threw the beam on the stick. The rain cut whitely through the light. “Comin’ up.”
“She’ll come up slower now,” Pa said. “Got to flood purty far on the other side.”
“She’s comin’ up, though.”
The women filled the coffee pots and set them out again. And as the night went on, the men moved slower and slower, and they lifted their heavy feet like draft horses. More mud on the levee, more willows interlaced. The rain fell steadily. When the flashlight turned on faces, the eyes showed staring, and the muscles on the cheeks were welted out.
For a long time the screams continued from the car, and at last they were still.
Pa said, “Ma’d call me if it was bore.” He went on shoveling the mud sullenly.
The stream eddied and boiled against the bank. Then, from up the stream there came a ripping crash. The beam of the flashlight showed a great cottonwood toppling. The men stopped to watch. The branches of the tree sank into the water and edged around with the current while the stream dug out the little roots. Slowly the tree was freed, and slowly it edged down the stream. The weary men watched, their mouths hanging open. The tree moved slowly down. Then a branch caught on a stump, snagged and held. And very slowly the roots swung around and hooked themselves on the new embankment. The water piled up behind. The tree moved and tore the bank. A little stream slipped through. Pa threw himself forward and jammed mud in the break. The water piled against the tree. And then the bank washed quickly down, washed around ankles, around knees. The men broke and ran, and the current worked smoothly into the flat, under the cars, under the automobiles.
Uncle John saw the water break through. In the murk he could see it. Uncontrollably his weight pulled him down. He went to his knees, and the tugging water swirled about his chest.
Pa saw him go. “Hey! What’s the matter?” He lifted him to his feet. “You sick? Come on, the cars is high.”
Uncle John gathered his strength. “I dunno,” he said apologetically. “Legs give out. Jus’ give out.” Pa helped him along toward the cars.
When the dike swept over, Al turned and ran. His feet moved heavily. The water was about his calves when he reached the truck. He flung the tarpaulin off the nose and jumped into the car. He stepped on the starter, The engine turned over and over, and there was no bark of the motor. He choked the engine deeply. The battery turned the sodden motor more and more slowly, and there was no cough. Over and over, slower and slower. Al set the spark high. He felt under the seat for the crank and jumped out. The water was higher than the running board. He ran to the front end. Crank case was under water now. Frantically he fitted the crank and twisted around and around, and his clenched hand on the crank splashed in the slowly flowing water at each turn. At last his frenzy gave out. The motor was full of water, the battery fouled by now. On slightly higher ground two cars were started and their lights on. They floundered in the mud and dug their wheels down until finally the drivers cut off the motors and sat still, looking into the headlight beams. And the rain whipped white streaks through the lights. Al went slowly around the truck, reached in, and turned off the ignition.
When Pa reached the cat-walk, he found the lower end floating. He stepped it down into the mud, under water. “Think ya can make it awright, John?” he asked.
“I’ll be awright. Jus’ go on.”
Pa cautiously climbed the cat-walk and squeezed himself in the narrow opening. The two lamps were turned low. Ma sat on the mattress beside Rose of Sharon, and Ma fanned her still face with a piece of cardboard. Mrs. Wainwright poked dry brush into the stove, and a dank smoke edged out around the lids and filled the car with a smell of burning tissue. Ma looked up at Pa when he entered, and then quickly down.
“How- is she?” Pa asked.
Ma did not look up at him again. “Awright, I think. Sleepin’.”
The air was fetid and close with the smell of the birth. Uncle John clambered in and held himself upright against the side of the car. Mrs. Wainwright left her work and came to Pa. She pulled him by the elbow toward the corner of the car. She picked up a lantern and held it over an apple box in the corner. On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy.
“Never breathed,” said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.”
Uncle John turned and shuffled tiredly down the car to the dark end. The rain whished softly on the roof now, so softly that they could hear Uncle John’s tired sniffling from the dark.
Pa looked up at Mrs. Wainwright. He took the lantern from her hand and put it on the floor. Ruthie and Winfield were asleep on their own mattress, their arms over their eyes to cut out the light.
Pa walked slowly to Rose of Sharon’s mattress. He tried to squat down, but his legs were too tired. He knelt instead. Ma fanned her square of cardboard back and forth. She looked at Pa for a moment, and her eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s eyes.
Pa said, “We- done- what we could.”
“I know.”
“We worked all night. An’ a tree cut out the bank.”
“I know.”
“You can hear it under the car.”
“I know. I heard it.”
“Think she’s gonna be all right?”
“I dunno.”
“Well- couldn’ we- of did nothin’?”
Ma’s lips were stiff and white. “No. They was on’y one thing to do- ever- an’ we done it.”
“We worked till we dropped, an’ a tree- Rain’s lettin’ up some.” Ma looked at the ceiling, and then down again. Pa went on, compelled to talk. “I dunno how high she’ll rise. Might flood the car.”
“I know.”
“You know ever’thing.”
She was silent, and the cardboard moved slowly back and forth.
“Did we slip up?” he pleaded. “Is they anything we could of did?”
Ma looked at him strangely. Her white lips smiled in a dreaming compassion. “Don’t take no blame. Hush! It’ll be awright. They’s changes- all over.”
“Maybe the water- maybe we’ll have to go.”
“When it’s time to go- we’ll go. We’ll do what we got to do. Now hush. You might wake her.”
Mrs. Wainwright broke twigs and poked them in the sodden, smoking fire.
From outside came the sound of an angry voice. “I’m goin’ in an’ see the son-of-a-bitch myself.”
And then, just outside the door, Al’s voice, “Where you think you’re goin’?”
“Goin’ in to see that bastard Joad.”
“No, you ain’t. What’s the matter’th you?”
“If he didn’t have that fool idear about the bank, we’d a got out. Now our car is dead.”
“You think ours is burnin’ up the road?”
“I’m a-goin’ in.”
Al’s voice was cold. “You’re gonna fight your way in.”
Pa got slowly to his feet and went to the door. “Awright, Al, I’m comin’ out. It’s awright, Al.” Pa slid down the cat-walk. Ma heard him say, “We got sickness. Come on down here.”
The rain scattered lightly on the roof now, and a new-risen breeze blew it along in sweeps. Mrs. Wainwright came from the stove and looked down at Rose of Sharon. “Dawn’s a-comin’ soon, ma’am. Whyn’t you git some sleep? I’ll set with her.”
“No,” Ma said. “I ain’t tar’d.”
“In a pig’s eye,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Come on, you lay down awhile.”
Ma fanned the air slowly with her cardboard. “You been frien’ly,” she said. “We thank you.”
The stout woman smiled. “No need to thank. Ever’body’s in the same wagon. S’pose we was down. You’d a give us a han’.”
“Yes,” Ma said, “we would.”
“Or anybody.”
“Or anybody. Use’ ta be the fambly was fust. It ain’t so now. It’s anybody. Worse off we get, the more we got to do.”
“We couldn’ a saved it.”
“I know,” said Ma.
Ruthie sighed deeply and took her arm from over her eyes. She looked blindly at the lamp for a moment, and then turned her head and looked at Ma. “Is it bore?” she demanded. “Is the baby out?”
Mrs. Wainwright picked up a sack and spread it over the apple box in the corner.
“Where’s the baby?” Ruthie demanded.
Ma wet her lips. “There ain’t no baby. They never was no baby. We was wrong.”