When supper was over and the dishes dipped and wiped, the dark had come, and then the men squatted down to talk.
And they talked of the land behind them. I don’t know what it’s coming to, they said. The country’s spoilt.
It’ll come back though, on’y we won’t be there.
Maybe, they thought, maybe we sinned some way we didn’t know about.
Fella says to me, gov’ment fella, an’ he says, she’s gullied up on ya. Gov’ment fella. He says, if ya plowed ‘cross the contour, she won’t gully. Never did have no chance to try her. An’ the new super’ ain’t plowin’ ‘cross the contour. Runnin’ a furrow four miles long that ain’t stoppin’ or goin’ aroun’ Jesus Christ Hisself.
And they spoke softly of their homes: They was a little cool-house under the win’mill. Use’ ta keep milk in there ta cream up, an’ watermelons. Go in there midday when she was hotter’n a heifer, an’ she’d be jus’ as cool, as cool as you’d want. Cut open a melon in there an’ she’d hurt your mouth, she was so cool. Water drippin’ down from the tank.
They spoke of their tragedies: Had a brother Charley, hair as yella as corn, an’ him a growed man. Played the ‘cordeen nice too. He was harrowin’ one day an’ he went up to clear his lines. Well, a rattlesnake buzzed an’ them horses bolted an’ the harrow went over Charley, an’ the points dug into his guts an’ his stomach, an’ they pulled his face off an’- God Almighty!
They spoke of the future: Wonder what it’s like out there?
Well, the pitchers sure do look nice. I seen one where it’s hot an’ fine, an’ walnut trees an’ berries; an’ right behind, close as a mule’s ass to his withers, they’s a tall up mountain covered with snow. That was a pretty thing to see.
If we can get work it’ll be fine. Won’t have no cold in the winter. Kids won’t freeze on the way to school. I’m gonna take care my kids don’t miss no more school. I can read good, but it ain’t no pleasure to me like with a fella that’s used to it.
And perhaps a man brought out his guitar to the front of his tent. And he sat on a box to play, and everyone in the camp moved slowly in toward him, drawn in toward him. Many men can chord a guitar, but perhaps this man was a picker. There you have something- the deep chords beating, beating, while the melody runs on the strings like little footsteps. Heavy hard fingers marching on the frets. The man played and the people moved slowly in on him until the circle was closed and tight, and then he sang “Ten-Cent Cotton and Forty-Cent Meat.” And the circle sang softly with him. And he sang “Why Do You Cut Your Hair, Girls?” And the circle sang. He wailed the song, “I’m Leaving Old Texas,” that eerie song that was sung before the Spaniards came, only the words were Indian then.
And now the group was welded to one thing, one unit, so that in the dark the eyes of the people were inward, and their minds played in other times, and their sadness was like rest, like sleep. He sang the “McAlester Blues” and then, to make up for it to the older people, he sang “Jesus Calls Me to His Side.” The children drowsed with the music and went into the tents to sleep, and the singing came into their dreams.
And after a while the man with the guitar stood up and yawned. Good night, folks, he said.
And they murmured, Good night to you.
And each wished he could pick a guitar, because it is a gracious thing. Then the people went to their beds, and the camp was quiet. And the owls coasted overhead, and the coyotes gabbled in the distance, and into the camp skunks walked, looking for bits of food- waddling, arrogant skunks, afraid of nothing.
The night passed, and with the first streak of dawn the women came out of the tents, built up the fires, and put the coffee to boil. And the men came out and talked softly in the dawn.
When you cross the Colorado river, there’s the desert, they say. Look out for the desert. See you don’t get hung up. Take plenty water, case you get hung up.
I’m gonna take her at night.
Me too: She’ll cut the living Jesus outa you.
The families ate quickly, and the dishes were dipped and wiped. The tents came down. There was a rush to go. And when the sun arose, the camping place was vacant, only a little litter left by the people. And the camping place was ready for a new world in a new night.
But along the highway the cars of the migrant people crawled out like bugs, and the narrow concrete miles stretched ahead.
CHAPTER 18
THE JOAD FAMILY MOVED slowly westward, up into the mountains of New Mexico, past the pinnacles and pyramids of the upland. They climbed into the high country of Arizona, and through a gap they looked down on the Painted Desert. A border guard stopped them.
“Where you going?”
“To California,” said Tom.
“How long you plan to be in Arizona?”
“No longer’n we can get acrost her.”
“Got any plants?”
“No plants.”
“I ought to look your stuff over.”
“I tell you we ain’t got no plants.”
The guard put a little sticker on the windshield.
“O.K. Go ahead, but you better keep movin’.”
“Sure. We aim to.”
They crawled up the slopes, and the low twisted trees covered the slopes. Holbrook, Joseph City, Winslow. And then the tall trees began, and the cars spouted steam and labored up the slopes. And there was Flagstaff, and that was the top of it all. Down from Flagstaff over the great plateaus, and the road disappeared in the distance ahead. The water grew scarce, water was to be bought, five cents, ten cents, fifteen cents a gallon. The sun drained the dry rocky country, and ahead were jagged broken peaks, the western wall of Arizona. And now they were in flight from the sun and the drought. They drove all night, and came to the mountains in the night. And they crawled the jagged ramparts in the night, and their dim lights flickered on the pale stone walls of the road. They passed the summit in the dark and came slowly down in the late night, through the shattered stone debris of Oatman; and when the daylight came they saw the Colorado river below them. They drove to Topock, pulled up at the bridge while a guard washed off the windshield sticker. Then across the bridge and into the broken rock wilderness. And although they were dead weary and the morning heat was growing, they stopped.
Pa called, “We’re there- we’re in California!” They looked dully at the broken rock glaring under the sun, and across the river the terrible ramparts of Arizona.
“We got the desert,” said Tom. “We got to get to the water and rest.”
The road runs parallel to the river, and it was well into the morning when the burning motors came to Needles, where the river runs swiftly among the reeds.
The Joads and Wilsons drove to the river, and they sat in the cars looking at the lovely water flowing by, and the green reeds jerking slowly in the current. There was a little encampment by the river, eleven tents near the water, and the swamp grass on the ground. And Tom leaned out of the truck window. “Mind if we stop here a piece?”
A stout woman, scrubbing clothes in a bucket, looked up. “We don’t own it, mister. Stop if you want. They’ll be a cop down to look you over.” And she went back to her scrubbing in the sun.
The two cars pulled to a clear place on the swamp grass. The tents were passed down, the Wilson tent set up, the Joad tarpaulin stretched over its rope.
Winfield and Ruthie walked slowly down through the willows to the reedy place. Ruthie said, with soft vehemence, “California. This here’s California an’ we’re right in it!”
Winfield broke a tule and twisted it free, and he put the white pulp in his mouth and chewed it. They walked into the water and stood quietly, the water about the calves of their legs.
“We got the desert yet,” Ruthie said.
“What’s the desert like?”
“I don’t know. I seen pitchers once says a desert. They was bones ever’place.”
“Man bones?”
“Some, I guess, but mos’ly cow bones.”
“We gonna get to see them bones?”
“Maybe, I don’ know. Gonna go ‘crost her at night. That’s what Tom said. Tom says we get the livin’ Jesus burned outa us if we go in daylight.”
“Feels nicet an’ cool,” said Winfield, and he squidged his toes in the sand of the bottom.