“Fella says it’s nice,” Al said.
“Sure, she’s nice. Treat ya like a man ‘stead of a dog. Ain’t no cops there. But she’s full up.”
Tom said, “What I can’t understan’s why that cop was so mean. Seemed like he was aimin’ for trouble; seemed like he’s pokin’ a fella to make trouble.”
Floyd said, “I don’ know about here, but up north I knowed one a them fellas, an’ he was a nice fella. He tol’ me up there the deputies got to take guys in. Sheriff gets seventy-five cents a day for each prisoner, an’ he feeds ’em for a quarter. If he ain’t got prisoners, he don’ make no profit. This fella says he didn’ pick up nobody for a week, an’ the sheriff tol’ ‘im he better bring in guys or give up his button. This fella today sure looks like he’s out to make a pinch one way or another.”
“We got to get on,” said Tom. “So long, Floyd.”
“So long. Prob’ly see you. Hope so.”
“Good-by,” said Al. They walked through the dark gray camp to the Joad tent.
The frying pan of potatoes was hissing and spitting over the fire. Ma moved the thick slices about with a spoon. Pa sat near by, hugging his knees. Rose of Sharon was sitting under the tarpaulin.
“It’s Tom!” Ma cried. “Thank God.”
“We got to get outa here,” said Tom.
“What’s the matter now?”
“Well, Floyd says they’ll burn the camp tonight.”
“What the hell for?” Pa asked. “We ain’t done nothin’.”
“Nothin’ ‘cept beat up a cop,” said Tom.
“Well, we never done it.”
“From what that cop said, they wanta push us along.”
Rose of Sharon demanded, “You seen Connie?”
“Yeah,” said Al. “Way to hell an’ gone up the river. He’s goin’ south.”
“Was- was he goin’ away?”
“I don’ know.”
Ma turned on the girl. “Rosasharn, you been talkin’ an’ actin’ funny. What’d Connie say to you?”
Rose of Sharon said sullenly, “Said it would a been a good thing if he stayed home an’ studied up tractors.”
They were very quiet. Rose of Sharon looked at the fire and her eyes glistened in the firelight. The potatoes hissed sharply in the frying pan. The girl sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
Pa said, “Connie wasn’ no good. I seen that a long time. Didn’ have no guts, jus’ too big for his overalls.”
Rose of Sharon got up and went into the tent. She lay down on the mattress and rolled over on her stomach and buried her head in her crossed arms.
“Wouldn’ do no good to catch ‘im, I guess,” Al said.
Pa replied, “No. If he ain’t no good, we don’ want him.”
Ma looked into the tent, where Rose of Sharon lay on her mattress. Ma said, “Sh. Don’ say that.”
“Well, he ain’t no good,” Pa insisted. “All the time a-sayin’ what he’s a-gonna do. Never doin’ nothin’. I didn’ want ta say nothin’ while he’s here. But now he’s run out-”
“Sh!” Ma said softly.
“Why, for Christ’s sake? Why do I got to shh? He run out, didn’ he?”
Ma turned over the potatoes with her spoon, and the grease boiled and spat. She fed twigs to the fire, and the flames laced up and lighted the tent. Ma said, “Rosasharn gonna have a little fella an’ that baby is half Connie. It ain’t good for a baby to grow up with folks a-sayin’ his pa ain’t no good.”
“Better’n lyin’ about it,” said Pa.
“No, it ain’t,” Ma interrupted. “Make out like he’s dead. You wouldn’ say no bad things about Connie if he’s dead.”
Tom broke in, “Hey, what is this? We ain’t sure Connie’s gone for good. We got no time for talkin’. We got to eat an’ get on our way.”
“On our way? We jus’ come here.” Ma peered at him through the firelighted darkness.
He explained carefully, “They gonna burn the camp tonight, Ma. Now you know I ain’t got it in me to stan’ by an’ see our stuff burn up, nor Pa ain’t got it in him, nor Uncle John. We’d come up a-fightin’, an’ I jus’ can’t afford to be took in an’ mugged. I nearly got it today, if the preacher hadn’ jumped in.”
Ma had been turning the frying potatoes in the hot grease. Now she took her decision. “Come on!” she cried. “Le’s eat this stuff. We got to go quick.” She set out the tin plates.
Pa said, “How ’bout John?”
“Where is Uncle John?” Tom asked.
Pa and Ma were silent for a moment, and then Pa said, “He went to get drunk.”
“Jesus!” Tom said. “What a time he picked out! Where’d he go?”
“I don’ know,” said Pa.
Tom stood up. “Look,” he said, “you all eat an’ get the stuff loaded. I’ll go look for Uncle John. He’d of went to the store ‘crost the road.”
Tom walked quickly away. The little cooking fires burned in front of the tents and the shacks, and the light fell on the faces of ragged men and women, on crouched children. In a few tents the light of kerosene lamps shone through the canvas and placed shadows of people hugely on the cloth.
Tom walked up the dusty road and crossed the concrete highway to the little grocery store. He stood in front of the screen door and looked in. The proprietor, a little gray man with an unkempt mustache and watery eyes, leaned on the counter reading a newspaper. His thin arms were bare and he wore a long white apron. Heaped around and in back of him were mounds, pyramids, walls of canned goods. He looked up when Tom came in, and his eyes narrowed as though he aimed a shotgun.
“Good evening,” he said. “Run out of something?”
“Run out of my uncle,” said Tom. “Or he run out, or something.”
The gray man looked puzzled and worried at the same time. He touched the tip of his nose tenderly and waggled it around to stop an itch. “Seems like you people always lost somebody,” he said. “Ten times a day or more somebody comes in here an’ says, ‘If you see a man named so an’ so, an’ looks like so an’ so, will you tell ‘im we went up north?’ Somepin like that all the time.”
Tom laughed. “Well, if you see a young snot-nose name’ Connie, looks a little bit like a coyote, tell ‘im to go to hell. We’ve went south. But he ain’t the fella I’m lookin’ for. Did a fella ’bout sixty years ol’, black pants, sort of grayish hair, come in here an’ get some whisky?”
The eyes of the gray man brightened. “Now he sure did. I never seen anything like it. He stood out front an’ he dropped his hat an’ stepped on it. Here, I got his hat here.” He brought the dusty broken hat from under the counter.
Tom took it from him. “That’s him, all right.”
“Well, sir, he got couple pints of whisky an’ he didn’ say a thing. He pulled the cork an’ tipped up the bottle. I ain’t got a license to drink here. I says, ‘Look, you can’t drink here. You got to go outside.’ Well, sir! He jes’ stepped outside the door, an’ I bet he didn’t tilt up that pint more’n four times till it was empty. He throwed it away an’ he leaned in the door. Eyes kinda dull. He says, ‘Thank you, sir,’ an’ he went on. I never seen no drinkin’ like that in my life.”
“Went on? Which way? I got to get him.”
“Well, it so happens I can tell you. I never seen such drinkin’, so I looked out after him. He went north; an’ then a car come along an’ lighted him up, an’ he went down the bank. Legs was beginnin’ to buckle a little. He got the other pint open awready. He won’t be far- not the way he was goin’.”
Tom said, “Thank ya. I got to find him.”
“You want ta take his hat?”
“Yeah! Yeah! He’ll need it. Well, thank ya.”
“What’s the matter with him?” the gray man asked. “He wasn’ takin’ pleasure in his drink.”
“Oh, he’s kinda- moody. Well, good night. An’ if you see that squirt Connie, tell ‘im we’ve went south.”
“I got so many people to look out for an’ tell stuff to, I can’t ever remember ’em all.”
“Don’t put yourself out too much,” Tom said. He went out the screen door carrying Uncle John’s dusty black hat. He crossed the concrete road and walked along the edge of it. Below him in the sunken field, the Hooverville lay; and the little fires flickered and the lanterns shone through the tents. Somewhere in the camp a guitar sounded, slow chords, struck without any sequence, practice chords. Tom stopped and listened, and then he moved slowly along the side of the road, and every few steps he stopped to listen again. He had gone a quarter of a mile before he heard what he listened for. Down below the embankment the sound of a thick, tuneless voice, singing drably. Tom cocked his head, the better to hear.