The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [251]
In the lightless car, Ma stirred, and then she pushed the blanket back and got up. At the open door of the car the gray starlight penetrated a little. Ma walked to the door and stood looking out. The stars were paling in the east. The wind blew softly over the willow thickets, and from the little stream came the quiet talking of the water. Most of the camp was still asleep, but in front of one tent a little fire burned, and people were standing about it, warming themselves. Ma could see them in the light of the new dancing fire as they stood facing the flames, rubbing their hands; and then they turned their backs and held their hands behind them. For a long moment Ma looked out, and she held her hands clasped in front of her. The uneven wind whisked up and passed, and a bite of frost was in the air. Ma shivered and rubbed her hands together. She crept back and fumbled for the matches, beside the lantern. The shade screeched up. She lighted the wick, watched it burn blue for a moment and then put up its yellow, delicately curved ring of light. She carried the lantern to the stove and set it down while she broke the brittle dry willow twigs into the fire box. In a moment the fire was roaring up the chimney.
Rose of Sharon rolled heavily over and sat up. “I’ll git right up,’’ she said.
“Whyn’t you lay a minute till it warms?’’ Ma asked.
“No, I’ll git.’’
Ma filled the coffee pot from the bucket and set it on the stove, and she put on the frying pan, deep with fat, to get hot for the pones. “What’s over you?’’ she said softly.
“I’m a-goin’ out,’’ Rose of Sharon said.
“Out where?’’
“Goin’ out to pick cotton.’’
“You can’t,’’ Ma said. “You’re too far along.’’
“No, I ain’t. An’ I’m a-goin’.’’
Ma measured coffee into the water. “Rosasharn, you wasn’t to the pancakes las’ night.’’ The girl didn’t answer. “What you wanta pick cotton for?’’ Still no answer. “Is it ’cause of Al an’ Aggie?’’ This time Ma looked closely at her daughter. “Oh. Well, you don’ need to pick.’’
“I’m goin’.’’
“Awright, but don’ you strain yourself.’’
“Git up, Pa! Wake up, git up!’’
Pa blinked and yawned. “Ain’t slep’ out,’’ he moaned. “Musta been on to eleven o’clock when we went down.’’
“Come on, git up, all a you, an’ wash.’’
The inhabitants of the car came slowly to life, squirmed up out of the blankets, writhed into their clothes. Ma sliced salt pork into her second frying pan. “Git out an’ wash,’’ she commanded.
A light sprang up in the other end of the car. And there came the sound of the breaking of twigs from the Wainwright end. “Mis’ Joad,’’ came the call. “We’re gettin’ ready. We’ll be ready.’’
Al grumbled, “What we got to be up so early for?’’
“It’s on’y twenty acres,’’ Ma said. “Got to get there. Ain’t much cotton lef’. Got to be there ’fore she’s picked.’’ Ma rushed them dressed, rushed the breakfast into them. “Come on, drink your coffee,’’ she said. “Got to start.’’
“We can’t pick no cotton in the dark, Ma.’’
“We can be there when it gets light.’’
“Maybe it’s wet.’’
“Didn’ rain enough. Come on now, drink your coffee. Al, soon’s you’re through, better get the engine runnin’.’’
She called, “You near ready, Mis’ Wainwright?’’
“Jus’ eatin’. Be ready in a minute.’’
Outside, the camp had come to life. Fires burned in front of the tents. The stovepipes from the boxcars spurted smoke.
Al tipped up his coffee and got a mouthful of grounds. He went down the cat-walk spitting them out.
“We’re awready, Mis’ Wainwright,’’ Ma called. She turned to Rose of Sharon. She said, “You got to stay.”
The girl set her jaw. “I’m a-goin’,’’ she said. “Ma, I got to go.’’
“Well, you got no cotton sack. You can’t pull no sack.’’
“I’ll pick into your sack.’’
“I wisht you wouldn’.’’
“I’m a-goin’.’’
Ma sighed. “I’ll keep my eye on you. Wisht we could have a doctor.’’ Rose of Sharon