The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [143]
Ma’s head was down, and she was ashamed. “Maybe I done them good people wrong. Granma is asleep.’’
“Whyn’t you ast our preacher if you done a sin?’’ the girl asked.
“I will—but he’s a queer man. Maybe it’s him made me tell them people they couldn’ come here. That preacher, he’s gettin’ roun’ to thinkin’ that what people does is right to do.’’ Ma looked at her hands, and then she said, “Rosasharn, we got to sleep. ’F we’re gonna go tonight, we got to sleep.’’ She stretched out on the ground beside the mattress.
Rose of Sharon asked, “How about fannin’ Granma?’’
“She’s asleep now. You lay down an’ rest.’’
“I wonder where at Connie is?’’ the girl complained. “I ain’t seen him around for a long time.’’
Ma said, “Sh! Get some rest.’’
“Ma, Connie gonna study nights an’ get to be somepin.’’
“Yeah. You tol’ me about that. Get some rest.’’
The girl lay down on the edge of Granma’s mattress. “Connie’s got a new plan. He’s thinkin’ all a time. When he gets all up on ’lectricity he gonna have his own store, an’ then guess what we gonna have?’’
“What?’’
“Ice—all the ice you want. Gonna have a ice box. Keep it full. Stuff don’t spoil if you got ice.’’
“Connie’s thinkin’ all a time,’’ Ma chuckled. “Better get some rest now.’’
Rose of Sharon closed her eyes. Ma turned over on her back and crossed her hands under her head. She listened to Granma’s breathing and to the girl’s breathing. She moved a hand to start a fly from her forehead. The camp was quiet in the blinding heat, but the noises of hot grass—of crickets, the hum of flies—were a tone that was close to silence. Ma sighed deeply and then yawned and closed her eyes. In her half-sleep she heard footsteps approaching, but it was a man’s voice that started her awake.
“Who’s in here?’’
Ma sat up quickly. A brown-faced man bent over and looked in. He wore boots and khaki pants and a khaki shirt with epaulets. On a Sam Browne belt a pistol holster hung, and a big silver star was pinned to his shirt at the left breast. A loose-crowned military cap was on the back of his head. He beat on the tarpaulin with his hand, and the tight canvas vibrated like a drum.
“Who’s in here?’’ he demanded again.
Ma asked, “What is it you want, mister?’’
“What you think I want? I want to know who’s in here.’’
“Why, they’s jus’ us three in here. Me an’ Granma an’ my girl.’’
“Where’s your men?’’
“Why, they went down to clean up. We was drivin’ all night.’’
“Where’d you come from?’’
“Right near Sallisaw, Oklahoma.’’
“Well, you can’t stay here.’’
“We aim to get out tonight an’ cross the desert, mister.’’
“Well, you better. If you’re here tomorra this time I’ll run you in. We don’t want none of you settlin’ down here.’’
Ma’s face blackened with anger. She got slowly to her feet. She stooped to the utensil box and picked out the iron skillet. “Mister,’’ she said, “you got a tin button an’ a gun. Where I come from, you keep your voice down.’’ She advanced on him with the skillet. He loosened the gun in the holster. “Go ahead,’’ said Ma. “Scarin’ women. I’m thankful the men folks ain’t here. They’d tear ya to pieces. In my country you watch your tongue.’’
The man took two steps backward. “Well, you ain’t in your country now. You’re in California, an’ we don’t want you goddamn Okies settlin’ down.’’
Ma’s advance stopped. She looked puzzled. “Okies?’’ she said softly. “Okies.’’
“Yeah, Okies! An’ if you’re here when I come tomorra, I’ll run ya in.’’ He turned and walked to the next tent and banged on the canvas with his hand. “Who’s in here?’’ he said.
Ma went slowly back under the tarpaulin. She put the skillet in the utensil box. She sat down slowly. Rose of Sharon watched her secretly. And when she saw Ma fighting with her face, Rose of Sharon closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
The sun sank low in the afternoon, but the heat did not seem to decrease. Tom awakened under his willow, and his mouth was parched and his body was wet with sweat, and his head was dissatisfied with his rest. He staggered to his feet and walked toward the water. He peeled off his