The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [177]
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 big 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?’’
“I’m a-prayin’. You got to keep clear, Tom. The fambly’s breakin’ up. You got to keep clear.’’
“I’ll try, Ma. But when one a them fat asses gets to workin’ me over, I got a big job tryin’. If it was the law, it’d be different. But burnin’ the camp ain’t the law.’’
The car jolted along. Ahead, a little row of red lanterns stretched across the highway.
“Detour, I guess,’’ Tom said. He slowed the car and stopped it, and immediately a crowd of men swarmed about the truck. They were armed with pick handles and shotguns. They wore trench helmets and some American Legion caps. One man leaned in the window, and the warm smell of whisky preceded him.
“Where you think you’re goin’?’’ He thrust a red face near to Tom’s face.
Tom stiffened. His hand crept down to the floor and felt for the jack handle. Ma caught his arm and held it powerfully. Tom said, “Well—’’ and then his voice took on a servile whine. “We’re strangers here,’’ he said. “We heard about they’s work in a place called Tulare.’’
“Well,