And the dull voice sang, “I’ve give my heart to Jesus, so Jesus take me home. I’ve give my soul to Jesus, so Jesus is my home.” The song trailed off to a murmur, and then stopped. Tom hurried down from the embankment, toward the song. After a while he stopped and listened again. And the voice was close this time, the same slow, tuneless singing, “Oh, the night that Maggie died, she called me to her side, an’ give to me them ol’ red flannel drawers that Maggie wore. They was baggy at the knees-”
Tom moved cautiously forward. He saw the black form sitting on the ground, and he stole near and sat down. Uncle John tilted the pint and the liquor gurgled out of the neck of the bottle.
Tom said quietly, “Hey, wait! Where do I come in?”
Uncle John turned his head. “Who you?”
“You forgot me awready? You had four drinks to my one.”
“No, Tom. Don’t try fool me. I’m all alone here. You ain’t been here.”
“Well, I’m sure here now. How ’bout givin’ me a snort?”
Uncle John raised the pint again and the whisky gurgled. He shook the bottle. It was empty. “No more,” he said. “Wanta die so bad. Wanta die awful. Die a little bit. Got to. Like sleepin’. Die a little bit. So tar’d. Tar’d. Maybe- don’ wake up no more.” His voice crooned off. “Gonna wear a crown- a golden crown.”
Tom said, “Listen here to me, Uncle John. We’re gonna move on. You come along, an’ you can go right to sleep up on the load.”
John shook his head. “No. Go on. Ain’t goin’. Gonna res’ here. No good goin’ back. No good to nobody- jus’ a-draggin’ my sins like dirty drawers ‘mongst nice folks. No. Ain’t goin’.”
“Come on. We can’t go ‘less you go.”
“Go ri’ ‘long. I ain’t no good. I ain’t no good. Jus’ a-draggin’ my sins, a-dirtyin’ ever’body.”
“You got no more sin’n anybody else.”
John put his head close, and he winked one eye wisely. Tom could see his face dimly in the starlight. “Nobody don’ know my sins, nobody but Jesus. He knows.”
Tom got down on his knees. He put his hand on Uncle John’s forehead, and it was hot and dry. John brushed his hand away clumsily.
“Come on,” Tom pleaded. “Come on now, Uncle John.”
“Ain’t goin’ go. Jus’ tar’d. Gon’ res’ ri’ here. Ri’ here.”
Tom was very close. He put his fist against the point of Uncle John’s chin. He made a small practice arc twice, for distance; and then, with his shoulder in the swing, he hit the chin a delicate perfect blow. John’s chin snapped up and he fell backwards and tried to sit up again. But Tom was kneeling over him and as John got one elbow up Tom hit him again. Uncle John lay still on the ground.
Tom stood up and, bending, he lifted the loose sagging body and boosted it over his shoulder. He staggered under the loose weight. John’s hanging hands tapped him on the back as he went, slowly, puffing up the bank to the highway. Once a car came by and lighted him with the limp man over his shoulder. The car slowed for a moment and then roared away.
Tom was panting when he came back to the Hooverville, down from the road and to the Joad truck. John was coming to; he struggled weakly. Tom set him gently down on the ground.
Camp had been broken while he was gone. Al passed the bundles up on the truck. The tarpaulin lay ready to bind over the load.
Al said, “He sure got a quick start.”
Tom apologized. “I had to hit ‘im a little to make ‘im come. Poor fella.”
“Didn’ hurt ‘im?” Ma asked.
“Don’ think so. He’s a-comin’ out of it.”
Uncle John was weakly sick on the ground. His spasms of vomiting came in little gasps.
Ma said, “I lef’ a plate a potatoes for you, Tom.”
Tom chuckled. “I ain’t just in the mood right now.”
Pa called, “Awright, Al. Sling up the tarp.”
The truck was loaded and ready. Uncle John had gone to sleep. Tom and Al boosted and pulled him up on the load while Winfield made a vomiting noise behind the truck and Ruthie plugged her mouth with her hand to keep from squealing.
“Awready,” Pa said.
Tom asked, “Where’s Rosasharn?”
“Over there,” said Ma. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re a-goin’.”
The girl sat still, her chin sunk on her breast. Tom walked over to her. “Come on,” he said.
“I ain’t a-goin’.” She did not raise her head.
“You got to go.”
“I want Connie. I ain’t a-goin’ till he comes back.”
Three cars pulled out of the camp, up the road to the highway, old cars loaded with the camps and the people. They clanked up the highway and rolled away, their dim lights glancing along the road.
Tom said, “Connie’ll find us. I lef’ word up at the store where we’d be. He’ll find us.”
Ma came up and stood beside him. “Come on, Rosasharn. Come on, honey,” she said gently.
“I wanta wait.”
“We can’t wait.” Ma leaned down and took the girl by the arm and helped her to her feet.
“He’ll find us,” Tom said. “Don’ you worry. He’ll find us.” They walked on either side of the girl.
“Maybe he went to get them books to study up,” said Rose of Sharon. “Maybe he was a-gonna surprise us.”
Ma said, “Maybe that’s jus’ what he done.” They led her to the truck and helped her up on top of the load, and she crawled under the tarpaulin and disappeared into the dark cave.
Now the bearded man from the weed shack came timidly to the truck. He waited about, his hands clutched behind his back. “You gonna leave any stuff a fella could use?” he asked at last.
Pa said, “Can’t think of nothin’. We ain’t got nothin’ to leave.”
Tom asked, “Ain’t ya gettin’ out?”
For a long time the bearded man stared at him. “No,” he said at last.
“But they’ll burn ya out.”
The unsteady eyes dropped to the ground. “I know. They done it before.”
“Well, why the hell don’t ya get out?”
The bewildered eyes looked up for a moment, and then down again, and the dying firelight was reflected redly. “I don’ know. Takes so long to git stuff together.”
“You won’t have nothin’ if they burn ya out.”
“I know. You ain’t leavin’ nothin’ a fella could use?”
“Cleaned out, slick,” said Pa. The bearded man vaguely wandered away. “What’s a matter with him?” Pa demanded.
“Cop-happy,” said Tom. “Fella was sayin’- he’s bull-simple. Been beat over the head too much.”
A second little caravan drove past the camp and climbed to the road and moved away.
“Come on, Pa. Let’s go. Look here, Pa. You an’ me an’ Al ride in the seat. Ma can get on the load. No, Ma, you ride in the middle, Al”- Tom reached under the seat and brought out a monkey wrench- “Al, you get up behind. Take this here. Jus’ in case. If anybody tries to climb up- let ‘im have it.”
Al took the wrench and climbed up the back board, and he settled himself cross-legged, the wrench in his hand. Tom pulled the iron jack handle from under the seat and laid it on the floor, under the brake pedal. “Awright,” he said. “Get in the middle, Ma.”
Pa said, “I ain’t got nothin’ in my han’.”
“You can reach over an’ get the jack handle,” said Tom. “I hope to Jesus you don’ need it.” He stepped on the starter and the clanking flywheel turned over, the engine caught and died, and caught again. Tom turned on the lights and moved out of the camp in low gear. The dim lights fingered the road nervously. They climbed up to the highway and turned south. Tom said, “They comes a time when a man gets mad.”
Ma broke in, “Tom- you tol’ me- you promised me you wasn’t like that. You promised.”
“I know, Ma. I’m a-tryin’. But them deputies- Did you ever see a deputy that didn’ have a fat ass? An’ they waggle their ass an’ flop their gun aroun’. Ma,” he said, “if it was the law they was workin’ with, why, we could take it. But it ain’t the law. They’re a-workin’ away at our spirits. They’re a-tryin’ to make us cringe an’ crawl like a whipped bitch. They tryin’ to break us. Why, Jesus Christ, Ma, they comes a time when the on’y way a fella can keep his decency is by takin’ a sock at a cop. They’re workin’ on our decency.”
Ma said, “You promised, Tom. That’s how Pretty Boy Floyd done. I knowed his ma. They hurt him.”
“I’m a-tryin’, Ma. Honest to God, I am. You don’ want me to crawl like a beat bitch, with my belly on the groun’, do you?”