The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [82]
Al, his eyes darting from road to panel board, said, “That fella, he ain’t a local fella. Didn’ talk like a local fella. Clothes was different, too.’’
And Pa explained, “When I was in the hardware store I talked to some men I know. They say there’s fellas comin’ in jus’ to buy up the stuff us fellas got to sell when we get out. They say these new fellas is cleaning up. But there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. Maybe Tommy should of went. Maybe he could of did better.’’
John said, “But the fella wasn’t gonna take it at all. We couldn’ haul it back.’’
“These men I know told about that,’’ said Pa. “Said the buyer fellas always done that. Scairt folks that way. We jus’ don’ know how to go about stuff like that. Ma’s gonna be disappointed. She’ll be mad an’ disappointed. ’’
Al said, “When ya think we’re gonna go, Pa?’’
“I dunno. We’ll talk her over tonight an’ decide. I’m sure glad Tom’s back. That makes me feel good. Tom’s a good boy.’’
Al said, “Pa, some fellas was talkin’ about Tom, an’ they says he’s parole’. An’ they says that means he can’t go outside the State, or if he goes, an’ they catch him, they send ’im back for three years.’’
Pa looked startled. “They said that? Seem like fellas that knowed? Not jus’ blowin’ off?”
“I don’ know,’’ said Al. “They was just a-talkin’ there, an’ I didn’ let on he’s my brother. I jus’ stood an’ took it in.’’
Pa said, “Jesus Christ, I hope that ain’t true! We need Tom. I’ll ask ’im about that. We got trouble enough without they chase the hell out of us. I hope it ain’t true. We got to talk that out in the open.’’
Uncle John said, “Tom, he’ll know.’’
They fell silent while the truck battered along. The engine was noisy, full of little clashings, and the brake rods banged. There was a wooden creaking from the wheels, and a thin jet of steam escaped through a hole in the top of the radiator cap. The truck pulled a high whirling column of red dust behind it. They rumbled up the last little rise while the sun was still half-face above the horizon, and they bore down on the house as it disappeared. The brakes squealed when they stopped, and the sound printed in Al’s head—no lining left.
Ruthie and Winfield climbed yelling over the side walls and dropped to the ground. They shouted, “Where is he? Where’s Tom?’’ And then they saw him standing beside the door, and they stopped, embarrassed, and walked slowly toward him and looked shyly at him.
And when he said, “Hello, how you kids doin’?’’ they replied softly, “Hello! All right.’’ And they stood apart and watched him secretly, the great brother who had killed a man and been in prison. They remembered how they had played prison in the chicken coop and fought for the right to be prisoner.
Connie Rivers lifted the high tail-gate out of the truck and got down and helped Rose of Sharon to the ground; and she accepted it nobly, smiling her wise, self-satisfied smile, mouth tipped at the corners a little fatuously.
Tom said, “Why, it’s Rosasharn. I didn’ know you was comin’ with them.’’
“We was walkin’,’’ she said. “The truck come by an’ picked us up.’’ And then she said, “This is Connie, my husband.’’ And she was grand, saying it.
The two shook hands, sizing each other up, looking deeply into each other; and in a moment each was satisfied, and Tom said, “Well, I see you been busy.’’
She looked down. “You do not see, not yet.’’
“Ma tol’ me. When’s it gonna be?’’
“Oh, not for a long time! Not till nex’ winter.’’
Tom laughed. “Gonna get ’im bore in a orange ranch, huh? In one a them white houses with orange trees all aroun’.’’
Rose of Sharon felt her stomach with both her hands. “You do not