Ma looked up from her work. “You want ta get ast to eat, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said steadily.
Ma slipped the twigs under the pot and the flame made a puttering sound. “Didn’ you have no breakfast?”
“No, ma’am. They ain’t no work hereabouts. Pa’s in tryin’ to sell some stuff to git gas so’s we can get ‘long.”
Ma looked up. “Didn’ none of these here have no breakfast?”
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.
“The fire’s down, ma’am. I can keep it up if you want.”
Ruthie and Winfield stood inside the circle, comporting themselves with proper frigidity and dignity. They were aloof, and at the same time possessive. Ruthie turned cold and angry eyes on the little girl. Ruthie squatted down to break up the twigs for Ma.
Ma lifted the kettle lid and stirred the stew with a stick. “I’m sure glad some of you ain’t hungry. That little fella ain’t, anyways.”
The girl sneered. “Oh, him! He was a-braggin’. High an’ mighty. If he don’t have no supper- know what he done? Las’ night, come out an’ say they got chicken to eat. Well, sir, I looked in whilst they was a-eatin’ an’ it was fried dough jus’ like ever’body else.”
“Oh!” And Ma looked down toward the tent where the small boy had gone. She looked back at the little girl. “How long you been in California?” she asked.
“Oh, ’bout six months. We lived in a gov’ment camp a while, an’ then we went north, an’ when we come back it was full up. That’s a nice place to live, you bet.”
“Where’s that?” Ma asked. And she took the sticks from Ruthie’s hand and fed the fire. Ruthie glared with hatred at the older girl.
“Over by Weedpatch. Got nice toilets an’ baths, an’ you kin wash clothes in a tub, an’ they’s water right handy, good drinkin’ water; an’ nights the folks play music an’ Sat’dy night they give a dance. Oh, you never seen anything so nice. Got a place for kids to play, an’ them toilets with paper. Pull down a little jigger an’ the water comes right in the toilet, an’ they ain’t no cops let to come look in your tent any time they want, an’ the fella runs the camp is so polite, comes a-visitin’ an’ talks an’ ain’t high an’ mighty. I wisht we could go live there again.”
Ma said, “I never heard about it. I sure could use a wash tub, I tell you.”
The girl went on excitedly, “Why, God Awmighty, they got hot water right in pipes, an’ you get in under a shower bath an’ it’s warm. You never seen such a place.”
Ma said, “All full now, ya say?”
“Yeah. Las’ time we ast it was.”
“Mus’ cost a lot,” said Ma.
“Well, it costs, but if you ain’t got the money, they let you work it out- couple hours a week, cleanin’ up, an’ garbage cans. Stuff like that. An’ nights they’s music an’ folks talks together an’ hot water right in the pipes. You never see nothin’ so nice.”
Ma said, “I sure wisht we could go there.”
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.”
Ma said, “You shush now, both of you, or you got to go away.” And she fed twigs into the fire.
Down the line Al had strolled to watch the valve-grinding job. “Looks like you’re ’bout through,” he said.
“Two more.”
“Is they any girls in this here camp?”
“I got a wife,” said the young man. “I got no time for girls.”
“I always got time for girls,” said Al. “I got no time for nothin’ else.”
“You get a little hungry an’ you’ll change.”
Al laughed. “Maybe. But I ain’t never changed that notion yet.”
“Fella I talked to while ago, he’s with you, ain’t he?”
“Yeah! My brother Tom. Better not fool with him. He killed a fella.”
“Did? What for?”
“Fight. Fella got a knife in Tom. Tom busted ‘im with a shovel.”
“Did, huh? What’d the law do?”
“Let ‘im off ’cause it was a fight,” said Al.
“He don’t look like a quarreler.”
“Oh, he ain’t. But Tom don’t take nothin’ from nobody.” Al’s voice was very proud. “Tom, he’s quiet. But- look out!”
“Well- I talked to ‘im. He didn’ soun’ mean.”
“He ain’t. Jus’ as nice as pie till he’s roused, an’ then- look out.” The young man ground at the last valve. “Like me to he’p you get them valves set an’ the head on?”
“Sure, if you got nothin’ else to do.”
“Oughta get some sleep,” said Al. “But, hell, I can’t keep my han’s out of a tore-down car. Jus’ got to git in.”
“Well, I’d admire to git a hand,” said the young man. “My name’s Floyd Knowles.”
“I’m Al Joad.”
“Proud to meet ya.”
“Me too,” said Al. “Gonna use the same gasket?”
“Got to,” said Floyd.
Al took out his pocket knife and scraped at the block. “Jesus!” he said. “They ain’t nothin’ I love like the guts of a engine.”
“How ’bout girls?”
“Yeah, girls too! Wisht I could tear down a Rolls an’ put her back. I looked under the hood of a Cad’ 16 one time an’, God Awmighty, you never seen nothin’ so sweet in your life! In Sallisaw- an’ here’s this 16 a-standin’ in front of a restaurant, so I lifts the hood. An’ a guy comes out an’ says, ‘What the hell you doin’?’ I says, ‘Jus’ lookin’. Ain’t she swell?’ An’ he jus’ stands there. I don’t think he ever looked in her before. Jus’ stands there. Rich fella in a straw hat. Got a stripe’ shirt on, an’ eye glasses. We don’ say nothin’. Jus’ look. An’ purty soon he says, ‘How’d you like to drive her?'”
Floyd said, “The hell!”
“Sure- ‘How’d you like to drive her?’ Well, hell, I got on jeans- all dirty. I says, ‘I’d get her dirty.’ ‘Come on!’ he says. ‘Jus’ take her roun’ the block.’ Well, sir, I set in that seat an’ I took her roun’ the block eight times, an’, oh, my God Almighty!”
“Nice?” Floyd asked.
“Oh, Jesus!” said Al. “If I could of tore her down, why- I’d a give- anythin’.”
Floyd slowed his jerking arm. He lifted the last valve from its seat and looked at it. “You better git use’ ta a jalopy,” he said, “’cause you ain’t goin’ a drive no 16.” He put his brace down on the running board and took up a chisel to scrape the crust from the block. Two stocky women, bare-headed and bare-footed, went by carrying a bucket of milky water between them. They limped against the weight of the bucket, and neither one looked up from the ground. The sun was half down in afternoon.
Al said, “You don’t like nothin’ much.”
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.”
“Ain’t there no steady work for a fella?” Al asked.
“No, they ain’t no steady work.” With his chisel he pushed the crust off the block, and he wiped the dull metal with a greasy rag.
A rusty touring car drove down into the camp and there were four men in it, men with brown hard faces. The car drove slowly through the camp. Floyd called to them, “Any luck?”
The car stopped. The driver said, “We covered a hell of a lot of ground. They ain’t a hand’s work in this here country. We gotta move.”
“Where to?” Al called.
“God knows. We worked this here place over.” He let in his clutch and moved slowly down the camp.