The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [136]
They spoke of their tragedies: Had a brother Charley, hair as yella as corn, an’ him a growed man. Played the ’cordeen nice too. He was harrowin’ one day an’ he went up to clear his lines. Well, a rattlesnake buzzed an’ them horses bolted an’ the harrow went over Charley, an’ the points dug into his guts an’ his stomach, an’ they pulled his face off an’— God Almighty!
They spoke of the future: Wonder what it’s like out there?
Well, the pitchers sure do look nice. I seen one where it’s hot an’ fine, an’ walnut trees an’ berries; an’ right behind, close as a mule’s ass to his withers, they’s a tall up mountain covered with snow. That was a pretty thing to see.
If we can get work it’ll be fine. Won’t have no cold in the winter. Kids won’t freeze on the way to school. I’m gonna take care my kids don’t miss no more school. I can read good, but it ain’t no pleasure to me like with a fella that’s used to it.
And perhaps a man brought out his guitar to the front of his tent. And he sat on a box to play, and everyone in the camp moved slowly in toward him, drawn in toward him. Many men can chord a guitar, but perhaps this man was a picker. There you have something—the deep chords beating, beating, while the melody runs on the strings like little footsteps. Heavy hard fingers marching on the frets. The man played and the people moved slowly in on him until the circle was closed and tight, and then he sang “Ten-Cent Cotton and Forty-Cent Meat.’’ And the circle sang softly with him. And he sang “Why Do You Cut Your Hair, Girls?’’ And the circle sang. He wailed the song, “I’m Leaving Old Texas,’’ that eerie song that was sung before the Spaniards came, only the words were Indian then.
And now the group was welded to one thing, one unit, so that in the dark the eyes of the people were inward, and their minds played in other times, and their sadness was like rest, like sleep. He sang the “McAlester Blues’’ and then, to make up for it to the older people, he sang “Jesus Calls Me to His Side.’’ The children drowsed with the music and went into the tents to sleep, and the singing came into their dreams.
And after a while the man with the guitar stood up and yawned. Good night, folks, he said.
And they murmured, Good night to you.
And each wished he could pick a guitar, because it is a gracious thing. Then the people went to their beds, and the camp was quiet. And the owls coasted overhead, and the coyotes gabbled in the distance, and into the camp skunks walked, looking for bits of food—waddling, arrogant skunks, afraid of nothing.
The night passed, and with the first streak of dawn the women came out of the tents, built up the fires, and put the coffee to boil. And the men came out and talked softly in the dawn.
When you cross the Colorado river, there’s the desert, they say. Look out for the desert. See you don’t get hung up. Take plenty water, case you get hung up.
I’m gonna take her at night.
Me too. She’ll cut the living Jesus outa you.
The families ate quickly, and the dishes were dipped and wiped. The tents came down. There was a rush to go. And when the sun arose, the camping place was vacant, only a little litter left by the people. And the camping place was ready for a new world in a new night.
But along the highway the cars of the migrant people crawled out like bugs, and the narrow concrete miles stretched ahead.
Chapter 18
THE JOAD FAMILY moved slowly westward, up into the mountains of New Mexico, past the pinnacles and pyramids of the upland. They climbed into the high country of Arizona, and through a gap they looked down on the Painted Desert. A border guard stopped them.
“Where you going?’’
“To California,’’ said Tom.
“How long you plan to be in Arizona?’’