“Say he’s scairt to die?” Casy asked.
“That’s what I heard.”
“Scairt God’ll get him?”
“I dunno. Jus’ scairt.”
“What’s he care?” Pa said. “Don’t seem like he’s havin’ no fun.”
“Grampa wasn’t scairt,” Tom said. “When Grampa was havin’ the most fun, he comes clostest to gettin’ kil’t. Time Grampa an’ another fella whanged into a bunch a Navajo in the night. They was havin’ the time a their life, an’ same time you wouldn’ give a gopher for their chance.”
Casy said, “Seems like that’s the way. Fella havin’ fun, he don’t give a damn; but a fella mean an’ lonely an’ old an’ disappointed- he’s scared of dyin’!”
Pa asked, “What’s he disappointed about if he got a million acres?”
The preacher smiled, and he looked puzzled. He splashed a floating water bug away with his hand. “If he needs a million acres to make him feel rich, seems to me he needs it ’cause he feels awful poor inside hisself, and if he’s poor in hisself, there ain’t no million acres gonna make him feel rich, an’ maybe he’s disappointed that nothin’ he can do’ll make him feel rich- not rich like Mis’ Wilson was when she give her tent when Grampa died. I ain’t tryin’ to preach no sermon, but I never seen nobody that’s busy as a prairie dog collectin’ stuff that wasn’t disappointed.” He grinned. “Does kinda soun’ like a sermon, don’t it?”
The sun was flaming fiercely now. Pa said, “Better scrunch down under water. She’ll burn the living Jesus outa you.” And he reclined and let the gently moving water flow around his neck. “If a fella’s willin’ to work hard, can’t he cut her?” Pa asked.
The man sat up and faced him. “Look, mister. I don’ know ever’thing. You might go out there an’ fall into a steady job, an’ I’d be a liar. An’ then, you might never get no work, an’ I didn’ warn ya. I can tell ya mos’ of the folks is purty mis’able.” He lay back in the water. “A fella don’ know ever’thing,” he said.
Pa turned his head and looked at Uncle John. “You never was a fella to say much,” Pa said. “But I’ll be goddamned if you opened your mouth twicet sence we lef’ home. What you think ’bout this here?”
Uncle John scowled. “I don’t think nothin’ about it. We’re a-goin’ there, ain’t we? None of this here talk gonna keep us from goin’ there. When we get there, we’ll get there. When we get a job we’ll work, an’ when we don’t get a job we’ll set on our tail. This here talk ain’t gonna do no good no way.”
Tom lay back and filled his mouth with water, and he spurted it into the air and he laughed. “Uncle John don’t talk much, but he talks sense. Yes, by God! He talks sense. We goin’ on tonight, Pa?”
“Might’s well. Might’s well get her over.”
“Well, I’m goin’ up in the brush an’ get some sleep then.” Tom stood up and waded to the sandy shore. He slipped his clothes on his wet body and winced under the heat of the cloth. The others followed him.
In the water, the man and his boy watched the Joads disappear. And the boy said, “Like to see ’em in six months. Jesus!”
The man wiped his eye corners with his forefinger. “I shouldn’ of did that,” he said. “Fella always wants to be a wise guy, wants to tell folks stuff.”
“Well, Jesus, Pa! They asked for it.”
“Yeah, I know. But like that fella says, they’re a-goin’ anyways. Nothin’ won’t be changed from what I tol’ ’em, ‘cept they’ll be mis’able ‘fore they hafta.”
TOM WALKED in among the willows, and he crawled into a cave of shade to lie down. And Noah followed him.
“Gonna sleep here,” Tom said.
“Tom!”
“Yeah?”
“Tom, I ain’t a-goin’ on.”
Tom sat up. “What you mean?”
“Tom, I ain’t a-gonna leave this here water. I’m a-gonna walk on down this here river.”
“You’re crazy,” Tom said.
“Get myself a piece a line. I’ll catch fish. Fella can’t starve beside a nice river.”
Tom said, “How ’bout the fam’ly? How ’bout Ma?”
“I can’t he’p it. I can’t leave this here water.” Noah’s wide-set eyes were half closed. “You know how it is, Tom. You know how the folks are nice to me. But they don’t really care for me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I ain’t. I know how I am. I know they’re sorry. But- Well, I ain’t a-goin’. You tell Ma- Tom.”
“Now you look-a-here,” Tom began.
“No. It ain’t no use. I was in that there water. An’ I ain’t a-gonna leave her. I’m a-gonna go now, Tom- down the river. I’ll catch fish an’ stuff, but I can’t leave her. I can’t.” He crawled back out of the willow cave. “You tell Ma, Tom.” He walked away.
Tom followed him to the river bank. “Listen, you goddamn fool-”
“It ain’t no use,” Noah said. “I’m sad, but I can’t he’p it. I got to go.” He turned abruptly and walked downstream along the shore. Tom started to follow, and then he stopped. He saw Noah disappear into the brush, and then appear again, following the edge of the river. And he watched Noah growing smaller on the edge of the river, until he disappeared into the willows at last. And Tom took off his cap and scratched his head. He went back to his willow cave and lay down to sleep.
UNDER THE SPREAD tarpaulin Granma lay on a mattress, and Ma sat beside her. The air was stiflingly hot, and the flies buzzed in the shade of the canvas. Granma was naked under a long piece of pink curtain. She turned her old head restlessly from side to side, and she muttered and choked. Ma sat on the ground beside her, and with a piece of cardboard drove the flies away and fanned a stream of moving hot air over the tight old face. Rose of Sharon sat on the other side and watched her mother.
Granma called imperiously, “Will! Will! You come here, Will.” And her eyes opened and she looked fiercely about. “Tol’ him to come right here,” she said. “I’ll catch him. I’ll take the hair off’n him.” She closed her eyes and rolled her head back and forth and muttered thickly. Ma fanned with the cardboard.
Rose of Sharon looked helplessly at the old woman. She said softly, “She’s awful sick.”
Ma raised her eyes to the girl’s face. Ma’s eyes were patient, but the lines of strain were on her forehead. Ma fanned and fanned the air, and her piece of cardboard warned off the flies. “When you’re young, Rosasharn, ever’thing that happens is a thing all by itself. It’s a lonely thing. I know, I ‘member, Rosasharn.” Her mouth loved the name of her daughter. “You’re gonna have a baby, Rosasharn, and that’s somepin to you lonely and away. That’s gonna hurt you, an’ the hurt’ll be lonely hurt, an’ this here tent is alone in the worl’, Rosasharn.” She whipped the air for a moment to drive a buzzing blow fly on, and the big shining fly circled the tent twice and zoomed out into the blinding sunlight. And Ma went on, “They’s a time of change, an’ when that comes, dyin’ is a piece of all dyin’, and bearin’ is a piece of all bearin’, an bearin’ an’ dyin’ is two pieces of the same thing. An’ then things ain’t lonely any more. An’ then a hurt don’t hurt so bad, cause it ain’t a lonely hurt no more, Rosasharn. I wisht I could tell you so you’d know, but I can’t.” And her voice was so soft, so full of love, that tears crowded into Rose of Sharon’s eyes, and flowed over her eyes and blinded her.
“Take an’ fan Granma,” Ma said, and she handed the cardboard to her daughter. “That’s a good thing to do. I wisht I could tell you so you’d know.”
Granma, scowling her brows down over her closed eyes, bleated, “Will! You’re dirty! You ain’t never gonna get clean.” Her little wrinkled claws moved up and scratched her cheek. A red ant ran up the curtain cloth and scrambled over the folds of loose skin on the old lady’s neck. Ma reached quickly and picked it off, crushed it between thumb and forefinger, and brushed her fingers on her dress.
Rose of Sharon waved the cardboard fan. She looked up at Ma. “She-?” And the words parched in her throat.
“Wipe your feet, Will- you dirty pig!” Granma cried.
Ma said, “I dunno. Maybe if we can get her where it ain’t so hot, but I dunno. Don’t worry yourself, Rosasharn. Take your breath in when you need it, an’ let go when you need to.”
A large woman in a torn black dress looked into the tent. Her eyes were bleared and indefinite, and the skin sagged to her jowls and hung down in little flaps. Her lips were loose, so that the upper lip hung like a curtain over her teeth, and her lower lip, by its weight, folded outward, showing her lower gums. “Mornin’, ma’am,” she said. “Mornin’, an’ praise God for victory.”