Rose of Sharon peered down the road. “That lady that says I’ll lose the baby-” she began.
“Now you stop that,” Ma warned her.
Rose of Sharon said softly, “I seen her. She’s a-comin’ here, I think. Yeah! Here she comes. Ma, don’t let her-”
Ma turned and looked at the approaching figure.
“Howdy,” the woman said. “I’m Mis’ Sandry- Lisbeth Sandry. I seen your girl this mornin’.”
“Howdy do,” said Ma.
“Are you happy in the Lord?”
“Pretty happy,” said Ma.
“Are you saved?”
“I been saved.” Ma’s face was closed and waiting.
“Well, I’m glad,” Lisbeth said. “The sinners is awful strong aroun’ here. You come to an awful place. They’s wicketness all around about. Wicket people, wicket goin’s-on that a lamb’-blood Christian jes’ can’t hardly stan’. They’s sinners all around us.”
Ma colored a little, and shut her mouth tightly. “Seems to me they’s nice people here,” she said shortly.
Mrs. Sandry’s eyes stared. “Nice!” she cried. “You think they’re nice when they’s dancin’ an’ huggin’? I tell ya, ya eternal soul ain’t got a chancet in this here camp. Went out to a meetin’ in Weedpatch las’ night. Know what the preacher says? He says, ‘They’s wicketness in that camp.’ He says, ‘The poor is tryin’ to be rich.’ He says, ‘They’s dancin’ an’ huggin’ when they should be wailin’ an’ moanin’ in sin.’ That’s what he says. ‘Ever’body that ain’t here is a black sinner,’ he says. I tell you it made a person feel purty good to hear ‘im. An’ we knowed we was safe. We ain’t danced.”
Ma’s face was red. She stood up slowly and faced Mrs. Sandry. “Git!” she said. “Git out now, ‘fore I git to be a sinner a-tellin’ you where to go. Git to your wailin’ an’ moanin’.”
Mrs. Sandry’s mouth dropped open. She stepped back. And then she became fierce. “I thought you was Christians.”
“So we are,” Ma said.
“No, you ain’t. You’re hell-burnin’ sinners, all of you! An’ I’ll mention it in meetin’ too. I can see your black soul a-burnin’. I can see that innocent child in that there girl’s belly a-burnin’.”
A low wailing cry escaped from Rose of Sharon’s lips. Ma stooped down and picked up a stick of wood.
“Git!” she said coldly. “Don’ you never come back. I seen your kind before. You’d take the little pleasure, wouldn’ you?” Ma advanced on Mrs. Sandry.
For a moment the woman backed away and then suddenly she threw back her head and howled. Her eyes rolled up, her shoulders and arms flopped loosely at her side, and a string of thick ropy saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. She howled again and again, long deep animal howls. Men and women ran up from the other tents, and they stood near- frightened and quiet. Slowly the woman sank to her knees and the howls sank to a shuddering, bubbling moan. She fell sideways and her arms and legs twitched. The white eyeballs showed under the open eyelids.
A man said softly, “The sperit. She got the sperit.” Ma stood looking down at the twitching form.
The little manager strolled up casually. “Trouble?” he asked. The crowd parted to let him through. He looked down at the woman. “Too bad,” he said. “Will some of you help get her back to her tent?” The silent people shuffled their feet. Two men bent over and lifted the woman, one held her under the arms and the other took her feet. They carried her away, and the people moved slowly after them. Rose of Sharon went under the tarpaulin and lay down and covered her face with a blanket.
The manager looked at Ma, looked down at the stick in her hand. He smiled tiredly. “Did you clout her?” he asked.
Ma continued to stare after the retreating people. She shook her head slowly. “No- but I would a. Twicet today she worked my girl up.”
The manager said, “Try not to hit her. She isn’t well. She just isn’t well.” And he added softly, “I wish she’d go away, and all her family. She brings more trouble on the camp than all the rest together.”
Ma got herself in hand again. “If she comes back, I might hit her. I ain’t sure. I won’t let her worry my girl no more.”
“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Joad,” he said. “You won’t ever see her again. She works over the newcomers. She won’t ever come back. She thinks you’re a sinner.”
“Well, I am,” said Ma.
“Sure. Everybody is, but not the way she means. She isn’t well, Mrs. Joad.”
Ma looked at him gratefully, and she called, “You hear that, Rosasharn? She ain’t well. She’s crazy.” But the girl did not raise her head. Ma said, “I’m warnin’ you, mister. If she comes back, I ain’t to be trusted. I’ll hit her.”
He smiled wryly. “I know how you feel,” he said. “But just try not to. That’s all I ask- just try not to.” He walked slowly away toward the tent where Mrs. Sandry had been carried.
Ma went into the tent and sat down beside Rose of Sharon. “Look up,” she said. The girl lay still. Ma gently lifted the blanket from her daughter’s face. “That woman’s kinda crazy,” she said. “Don’t you believe none of them things.”
Rose of Sharon whispered in terror, “When she said about burnin’, I- felt burnin’.”
“That ain’t true,” said Ma.
“I’m tar’d out,” the girl whispered. “I’m tar’d a things happenin’. I wanta sleep. I wanta sleep.”
“Well, you sleep, then. This here’s a nice place. You can sleep.”
“But she might come back.”
“She won’t,” said Ma, “I’m a-gonna set right outside, an’ I won’t let her come back. Res’ up now, ’cause you got to get to work in the nu’sery purty soon.”
Ma struggled to her feet and went to sit in the entrance to the tent. She sat on a box and put her elbows on her knees and her chin in her cupped hands. She saw the movement in the camp, heard the voices of the children, the hammering of an iron rim; but her eyes were staring ahead of her.
Pa, coming back along the road, found her there, and he squatted near her. She looked slowly over at him. “Git work?” she asked.
“No,” he said, ashamed. “We looked.”
“Where’s Al and John and the truck?”
“Al’s fixin’ somepin. Had ta borry some tools. Fella says Al got to fix her there.”
Ma said sadly, “This here’s a nice place. We could be happy here awhile.”
“If we could get work.”
“Yeah! If you could get work.”
He felt her sadness, and studied her face. “What you a-mopin’ about? If it’s sech a nice place why have you got to mope?”
She gazed at him, and she closed her eyes slowly. “Funny, ain’t it. All the time we was a-movin’ an’ shovin’, I never thought none. An’ now these here folks been nice to me, been awful nice; an’ what’s the first thing I do? I go right back over the sad things- that night Grampa died an’ we buried him. I was all full up of the road, and bumpin’ and movin’, an’ it wasn’t so bad. But now I come out here, an’ it’s worse now. An’ Granma- an’ Noah walkin’ away like that! Walkin’ away jus’ down the river. Them things was part of all, an’ now they come a-flockin’ back. Granma a pauper, an’ buried a pauper. That’s sharp now. That’s awful sharp. An’ Noah walkin’ away down the river. He don’ know what’s there. He jus’ don’ know. An’ we don’ know. We ain’t never gonna know if he’s alive or dead. Never gonna know. An’ Connie sneakin’ away. I didn’ give ’em brain room before, but now they’re a-flockin’ back. An’ I oughta be glad ’cause we’re in a nice place.” Pa watched her mouth while she talked. Her eyes were closed. “I can remember how them mountains was, sharp as ol’ teeth beside the river where Noah walked. I can remember how the stubble was on the groun’ where Grampa lie. I can remember the choppin’ block back home with a feather caught on it, all criss-crossed with cuts, an’ black with chicken blood.”
Pa’s voice took on her tone. “I seen the ducks today,” he said. “Wedgin’ south- high up. Seems like they’re awful dinky. An’ I seen the blackbirds a-settin’ on the wires, an’ the doves was on the fences.” Ma opened her eyes and looked at him. He went on, “I seen a little whirlwin’, like a man a-spinnin’ acrost a fiel’. An’ the ducks drivin’ on down, wedgin’ on down to the southward.”
Ma smiled. “Remember?” she said. “Remember what we’d always say at home? ‘Winter’s a-comin’ early,’ we said, when the ducks flew. Always said that, an’ winter come when it was ready to come. But we always said, ‘She’s a-comin’ early.’ I wonder what we meant.”