“Yeah.”
“Well, tell ‘im we wanta see ‘im.”
The boy went out, and he returned in a moment with a stringy Texas man. Willie Eaton had a long fragile jaw and dust-colored hair. His arms and legs were long and loose, and he had the gray sunburned eyes of the Panhandle. He stood in the tent, grinning, and his hands pivoted restlessly on his wrists.
Huston said, “You heard about tonight?”
Willie grinned. “Yeah!”
“Did anything ’bout it?”
“Yeah!”
“Tell what you done.”
Willie Eaton grinned happily. “Well, sir, ordinary ent’tainment committee is five. I got twenty more- all good strong boys. They’re a-gonna be a-dancin’ an’ a-keepin’ their eyes open an’ their ears open. First sign- any talk or argament, they close in tight. Worked her out purty nice. Can’t even see nothing. Kinda move out, an’ the fella will go out with ’em.”
“Tell ’em they ain’t to hurt the fellas.”
Willie laughed gleefully. “I tol’ ’em,” he said.
“Well tell ’em so they know.”
“They know. Got five men out to the gate lookin’ over the folks that comes in. Try to spot ’em ‘fore they git started.”
Huston stood up. His steel-colored eyes were stern. “Now you look here, Willie. We don’t want them fellas hurt. They’s gonna be deputies out by the front gate. If you blood ’em up, why- them deputies’ll git you.”
“Got that there figgered out,” said Willie. “Take ’em out the back way, into the fiel’. Some a the boys’ll see they git on their way.”
“Well, it souns’ awright,” Huston said worriedly. “But don’t you let nothing happen, Willie. You’re responsible. Don’ you hurt them fellas. Don’ you use no stick nor no knife or arn, or nothing like that.”
“No, sir,” said Willie. “We won’t mark ’em.”
Huston was suspicious. “I wisht I knowed I could trus’ you, Willie. If you got to sock ’em, sock ’em where they won’t bleed.”
“Yes, sir!” said Willie.
“You sure of the fellas you picked?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Awright. An’ if she gits outa han’, I’ll be in the righthan’ corner, this way on the dance floor.”
Willie saluted in mockery and went out.
Huston said, “I dunno. I jes’ hope Willie’s boys don’t kill nobody. What the hell the deputies want to hurt the camp for? Why can’t they let us be?”
The sad boy from Unit Two said, “I lived out at Sunlan’ Lan’ an’ Cattle Company’s place. Honest to God, they got a cop for ever’ ten people. Got one water faucet for ’bout two hundred people.”
The tubby man said, “Jesus, God, Jeremy. You ain’t got to tell me. I was there. They got a block of shacks- thirty-five of ’em in a row, an’ fifteen deep. An’ they got ten crappers for the whole shebang. An’, Christ, you could smell ’em a mile. One of them deputies give me the lowdown. We was settin’ aroun’, an’ he says, ‘Them goddamn gov’ment camps,’ he says. ‘Give people hot water, an’ they gonna want hot water. Give ’em flush toilets, an’ they gonna want ’em.’ He says, ‘You give them goddamn Okies stuff like that an’ they’ll want ’em.’ An’ he says, ‘They hol’ red meetin’s in them gov’ment camps. All figgerin’ how to git on relief,’ he says.”
Huston asked. “Didn’ nobody sock him?”
“No. They was a little fella, an’ he says, ‘What you mean, relief?’
“‘I mean relief- what us taxpayers puts in an’ you goddamn Okies takes out.’
“‘We pay sales tax an’ gas tax an’ tobacco tax,’ this little guy says. An’ he say, ‘Farmers get four cents a cotton poun’ from the gov’ment- ain’t that relief?’ An’ he says, ‘Railroads an’ shippin’ companies draw subsidies- ain’t that relief?’
“‘They’re doin’ stuff got to be done,’ this deputy says.
“‘Well,’ the little guy says, ‘how’d your goddamn crops get picked if it wasn’t for us?'” The tubby man looked around.
“What’d the deputy say?” Huston asked.
“Well, the deputy got mad. An’ he says, ‘You goddamn reds is all the time stirrin’ up trouble,’ he says. ‘You better come along with me.’ So he takes this little guy in, an’ they give him sixty days in jail for vagrancy.”
“How’d they do that if he had a job?” asked Timothy Wallace.
The tubby man laughed. “You know better’n that,” he said. “You know a vagrant is anybody a cop don’t like. An’ that’s why they hate this here camp. No cops can get in. This here’s United States, not California.”
Huston sighed. “Wisht we could stay here. Got to be goin’ ‘fore long. I like this here. Folks gits along nice; an’, God Awmighty, why can’t they let us do it ‘stead of keepin’ us miserable an’ puttin’ us in jail? I swear to God they gonna push us into fightin’ if they don’t quit a-worryin’ us.” Then he calmed his voice. “We jes’ got to keep peaceful,” he reminded himself. “The committee got no right to fly off’n the handle.”
The tubby man from Unit Three said, “Anybody that thinks this committee got all cheese an’ crackers ought to jes’ try her. They was a fight in my unit today- women. Got to callin’ names, an’ then got to throwin’ garbage. Ladies’ Committee couldn’ handle it, an’ they come to me. Want me to bring the fight in this here committee. I tol’ ’em they got to handle women trouble theirselves. This here committee ain’t gonna mess with no garbage fights.”
Huston nodded. “You done good,” he said.
And now the dusk was falling, and as the darkness deepened the practicing of the string band seemed to grow louder. The lights flashed on and two men inspected the patched wire to the dance floor. The children crowded thickly about the musicians. A boy with a guitar sang the “Down Home Blues,” chording delicately for himself, and on his second chorus three harmonicas and a fiddle joined him. From the tents the people streamed toward the platform, men in their clean blue denim and women in their ginghams. They came near to the platform and then stood quietly waiting, their faces bright and intent under the light.
Around the reservation there was a high wire fence, and along the fence, at intervals of fifty feet, the guards sat in the grass and waited.
Now the cars of the guests began to arrive, small farmers and their families, migrants from other camps. And as each guest came through the gate he mentioned the name of the camper who had invited him.
The string band took a reel tune up and played loudly, for they were not practicing any more. In front of their tents the Jesus-lovers sat and watched, their faces hard and contemptuous. They did not speak to one another, they watched for sin, and their faces condemned the whole proceeding.
At the Joad tent Ruthie and Winfield had bolted what little dinner they had, and then they started for the platform. Ma called them back, held up their faces with a hand under each chin, and looked into their nostrils, pulled their ears and looked inside, and sent them to the sanitary unit to wash their hands once more. They dodged around the back of the building and bolted for the platform, to stand among the children, close-packed about the band.
Al finished his dinner and spent half an hour shaving with Tom’s razor. Al had a tight-fitting wool suit and a striped shirt, and he bathed and washed and combed his straight hair back. And when the washroom was vacant for a moment, he smiled engagingly at himself in the mirror, and he turned and tried to see himself in profile when he smiled. He slipped his purple arm-bands on and put on his tight coat. And he rubbed up his yellow shoes with a piece of toilet paper. A late bather came in, and Al hurried out and walked recklessly toward the platform, his eye peeled for girls. Near the dance floor he saw a pretty blond girl sitting in front of a tent. He sidled near and threw open his coat to show his shirt.
“Gonna dance tonight?” he asked.
The girl looked away and did not answer.
“Can’t a fella pass a word with you? How ’bout you an’ me dancin’?” And he said nonchalantly, “I can waltz.”
The girl raised her eyes shyly, and she said, “That ain’t nothin’- anybody can waltz.”
“Not like me,” said Al. The music surged, and he tapped one foot in time. “Come on,” he said.
A very fat woman poked her head out of the tent and scowled at him. “You git along,” she said fiercely. “This here girl’s spoke for. She’s a-gonna be married, an’ her man’s a-comin’ for her.”
Al winked rakishly at the girl, and he tripped on, striking his feet to the music and swaying his shoulders and swinging his arms. And the girl looked after him intently.
Pa put down his plate and stood up. “Come on, John,” he said; and he explained to Ma, “We’re a-gonna talk to some fellas about gettin’ work.” And Pa and Uncle John walked toward the manager’s house.