"How's it go, Tom?"
"Goes, 'Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lif' up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.' That's part of her."
"Go on," Ma said. "Go on, Tom."
"Jus' a little bit more. 'Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a three-fold cord is not quickly broken."'
"An' that's Scripture?"
"Casy said it was. Called it the Preacher."
"Hush--listen."
"On'y the wind, Ma. I know the wind. An' I got to thinkin', Ma--most of the preachin' is about the poor we shall have always with us, an' if you got nothin', why, jus' fol' your hands an' to hell with it, you gonna git ice cream on gol' plates when you're dead. An' then this here Preacher says two get a better reward for their work."
"Tom," she said. "What you aimin' to do?"
He was quiet for a long time. "I been thinkin' how it was in that gov'ment camp, how our folks took care a theirselves, an' if they was a fight they fixed it theirself; an' they wasn't no cops wagglin' their guns, but they was better order than them cops ever give. I been a-wonderin' why we can't do that all over. Throw out the cops that ain't our people. All work together for our own thing--all farm our own lan'."
"Tom," Ma repeated, "what you gonna do?"
"What Casy done," he said.
"But they killed him."
"Yeah," said Tom. "He didn' duck quick enough. He wasn' doing nothin' against the law, Ma. I been thinkin' a hell of a lot, thinkin' about our people livin' like pigs, an' the good rich lan' layin' fallow, or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hunderd thousan' good farmers is starvin'. An' I been wonderin' if all our folks got together an' yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of 'em at the Hooper ranch----"
Ma said, "Tom, they'll drive you, an' cut you down like they done to young Floyd."
"They gonna drive me anyways. They drivin' all our people."
"You don't aim to kill nobody, Tom?"
"No. I been thinkin', long as I'm a outlaw anyways, maybe I could--Hell, I ain't thought it out clear, Ma. Don' worry me now. Don' worry me."
They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, "How'm I gonna know 'bout you? They might kill ya an' I wouldn' know. They might hurt ya. How'm I gonna know?"
Tom laughed uneasily, "Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain't got a soul of his own, but on'y a piece of a big one--an' then----"
"Then what, Tom?"
"Then it don' matter. Then I'll be all aroun' in the dark. I'll be ever'where--wherever you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'--I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build--why, I'll be there. See? God, I'm talkin' like Casy. Comes of thinkin' about him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes."
"I don' un'erstan'," Ma said. "I don' really know."
"Me neither," said Tom. "It's jus' stuff I been thinkin' about. Get thinkin' a lot when you ain't movin' aroun'. You got to get back, Ma."
"You take the money then."
He was silent for a moment. "Awright," he said.
"An', Tom, later--when it's blowed over, you'll come back. You'll find us?"
"Sure," he said. "Now you better go. Here, gimme your han'." He guided her toward the entrance. Her fingers clutched his wrist. He swept the vines aside and followed her out. "Go up to the field till you come to a sycamore on the edge, an' then cut acrost the stream. Good-by."
"Good-by," she said, and she walked quickly away. Her eyes were wet and burning, but she did not cry. Her footsteps were loud and careless on the leaves as she went through the brush. And as she went, out of the dim sky the rain began to fall, big drops and few, splashing on the dry leaves heavily. Ma stopped and stood still in the dripping thicket. She turned about--took three steps back toward the mound of vines; and then she turned quickly and went back toward the boxcar camp. She went straight out to the culvert and climbed up on the road. The rain had passed now, but the sky was overcast. Behind her on the road she heard footsteps, and she turned nervously. The blinking of a dim flashlight played on the road. Ma turned back and started for home. In a moment a man caught up with her. Politely, he kept his light on the ground and did not play it in her face.
"Evenin'," he said.
Ma said, "Howdy."
"Looks like we might have a little rain."
"I hope not. Stop the pickin'. We need the pickin'."
"I need the pickin' too. You live at the camp there?"
"Yes, sir." Their footsteps beat on the road together.
"I got twenty acres of cotton. Little late, but it's ready now. Thought I'd go down and try to get some pickers."
"You'll get 'em awright. Season's near over."
"Hope so. My place is only a mile up that way."
"Six of us," said Ma. "Three men an' me an' two little fellas."
"I'll put out a sign. Two miles--this road."
"We'll be there in the mornin'."
"I hope it don't rain."
"Me too," said Ma. "Twenty acres won' las' long."
"The less it lasts the gladder I'll be. My cotton's late. Didn' get it in till late."
"What you payin', mister?"
"Ninety cents."
"We'll pick. I hear fellas say nex' year it'll be seventy-five or even sixty."
"That's what I hear."
"They'll be trouble," said Ma.
"Sure. I know. Little fella like me can't do anything. The Association sets the rate, and we got to mind. If we don't--we ain't got a farm. Little fella gets crowded all the time."
They came to the camp. "We'll be there," Ma said. "Not much pickin' lef '." She went to the end boxcar and climbed the cleated walk. The low light of the lantern made gloomy shadows in the car. Pa and Uncle John and an elderly man squatted against the car wall.
"Hello," Ma said. "Evenin', Mr. Wainwright."
He raised a delicately chiseled face. His eyes were deep under the ridges of his brows. His hair was blue-white and fine. A patina of silver beard covered his jaws and chin. "Evenin', ma'am," he said.
"We got pickin' tomorra," Ma observed. "Mile north. Twenty acres."
"Better take the truck, I guess," Pa said. "Get in more pickin'."
Wainwright raised his head eagerly. "S'pose we can pick?"
"Why, sure. I walked a piece with the fella. He was comin' to get pickers."
"Cotton's nearly gone. Purty thin, these here seconds. Gonna be hard to make a wage on the seconds. Got her pretty clean the fust time."
"Your folks could maybe ride with us," Ma said. "Split the gas."
"Well--that's frien'ly of you, ma'am."
"Saves us both," said Ma.
Pa said, "Mr. Wainwright--he's got a worry he come to us about. We was a-talkin' her over."
"What's the matter?"
Wainwright looked down at the floor. "Our Aggie," he said. "She's a big girl--near sixteen, an' growed up."
"Aggie's a pretty girl," said Ma.
"Listen 'im out," Pa said.
"Well, her an' your boy Al, they're a-walkin' out ever' night. An' Aggie's a good healthy girl that oughta have a husban', else she might git in trouble. We never had no trouble in our family. But what with us bein' so poor off, now, Mis' Wainwright an' me, we got to worryin'. S'pose she got in trouble?"
Ma rolled down a mattress and sat on it. "They out now?" she asked.
"Always out," said Wainwright. "Ever' night."
"Hm. Well, Al's a good boy. Kinda figgers he's a dung-hill rooster these days, but he's a good steady boy. I couldn' want for a better boy."
"Oh, we ain't complainin' about Al as a f
ella! We like him. But what scares Mis' Wainwright an' me--well, she's a growed-up woman-girl. An' what if we go away, or you go away, an' we find out Aggie's in trouble? We ain't had no shame in our family."
Ma said softly, "We'll try an' see that we don't put no shame on you."
He stood up quickly. "Thank you, ma'am. Aggie's a growed-up woman-girl. She's a good girl--jes' as nice an' good. We'll sure thank you, ma'am, if you'll keep shame from us. It ain't Aggie's fault. She's growed up."
"Pa'll talk to Al," said Ma. "Or if Pa won't, I will."
Wainwright said, "Good night, then, an' we sure thank ya." He went around the end of the curtain. They could hear him talking softly in the other end of the car, explaining the result of his embassy.
Ma listened a moment, and then, "You fellas," she said. "Come over an' set here."
Pa and Uncle John got heavily up from their squats. They sat on the mattress beside Ma.
"Where's the little fellas?"
Pa pointed to a mattress in the corner. "Ruthie, she jumped Winfiel' an' bit 'im. Made 'em both lay down. Guess they're asleep. Rosasharn, she went to set with a lady she knows."
Ma sighed. "I foun' Tom," she said softly. "I--sent 'im away. Far off."
Pa nodded slowly. Uncle John dropped his chin on his chest. "Couldn' do nothin' else," Pa said. "Think he could, John?"
Uncle John looked up. "I can't think nothin' out," he said. "Don't seem like I'm hardly awake no more."
"Tom's a good boy," Ma said; and then she apologized, "I didn' mean no harm a-sayin' I'd talk to Al."
"I know," Pa said quietly. "I ain't no good any more. Spen' all my time a-thinkin' how it use' ta be. Spen' all my time thinkin' of home, an' I ain't never gonna see it no more."
"This here's purtier--better lan'," said Ma.
"I know. I never even see it, thinkin' how the willow's los' its leaves now. Sometimes figgerin' to mend that hole in the south fence. Funny! Woman takin' over the fambly. Woman sayin' we'll do this here, an' we'll go there. An' I don' even care."
"Woman can change better'n a man," Ma said soothingly. "Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head. Don' you mind. Maybe--well, maybe nex' year we can get a place."
"We got nothin', now," Pa said. "Comin' a long time--no work, no crops. What we gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat? An' I tell you Rosasharn ain't so far from due. Git so I hate to think. Go diggin' back to a ol' time to keep from thinkin'. Seems like our life's over an' done."
"No, it ain't," Ma smiled. "It ain't, Pa. An' that's one more thing a woman knows. I noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks--baby born an' a man dies, an' that's a jerk--gets a farm an' loses his farm, an' that's a jerk. Woman, it's all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on. Woman looks at it like that. We ain't gonna die out. People is goin' on--changin' a little, maybe, but goin' right on."
"How can you tell?" Uncle John demanded. "What's to keep ever'thing from stoppin'; all the folks from jus' gittin' tired an' layin' down?"
Ma considered. She rubbed the shiny back of one hand with the other, pushed the fingers of her right hand between the fingers of her left. "Hard to say," she said. "Ever'thing we do--seems to me is aimed right at goin' on. Seems that way to me. Even gettin' hungry--even bein' sick; some die, but the rest is tougher. Jus' try to live the day, jus' the day."
Uncle John said, "If on'y she didn' die that time----"
"Jus' live the day," Ma said. "Don' worry yaself."
"They might be a good year nex' year, back home," said Pa.
Ma said, "Listen!"
There were creeping steps on the cat-walk, and then Al came in past the curtain. "Hullo," he said. "I thought you'd be sleepin' by now."
"Al," Ma said. "We're a-talkin'. Come set here."
"Sure--O.K. I wanta talk too. I'll hafta be goin' away pretty soon now."
"You can't. We need you here. Why you got to go away?"
"Well, me an' Aggie Wainwright, we figgers to get married, an' I'm gonna git a job in a garage, an' we'll have a rent' house for a while, an'--" He looked up fiercely. "Well, we are, an' they ain't nobody can stop us!"
They were staring at him. "Al," Ma said at last, "we're glad. We're awful glad."
"You are?"
"Why, 'course we are. You're a growed man. You need a wife. But don' go right now, Al."
"I promised Aggie," he said. "We got to go. We can't stan' this no more."
"Jus' stay till spring," Ma begged. "Jus' till spring. Won't you stay till spring? Who'd drive the truck?"
"Well----"
Mrs. Wainwright put her head around the curtain. "You heard yet?" she demanded.
"Yeah! Jus' heard."
"Oh, my! I wisht--I wisht we had a cake. I wisht we had--a cake or somepin."
"I'll set on some coffee an' make up some pancakes," Ma said. "We got sirup."
"Oh, my!" Mrs. Wainwright said. "Why--well. Look, I'll bring some sugar. We'll put sugar in them pancakes."
Ma broke twigs into the stove, and the coals from the dinner cooking started them blazing. Ruthie and Winfield came out of their bed like hermit crabs from shells. For a moment they were careful; they watched to see whether they were still criminals. When no one noticed them, they grew bold. Ruthie hopped all the way to the door and back on one foot, without touching the wall.
Ma was pouring flour into a bowl when Rose of Sharon climbed the cat-walk. She steadied herself and advanced cautiously. "What's a matter?" she asked.
"Why, it's news!" Ma cried. "We're gonna have a little party 'count a Al an' Aggie Wainwright is gonna get married."
Rose of Sharon stood perfectly still. She looked slowly at Al, who stood there flustered and embarrassed.
Mrs. Wainwright shouted from the other end of the car, "I'm puttin' a fresh dress on Aggie. I'll be right over."
Rose of Sharon turned slowly. She went back to the wide door, and she crept down the cat-walk. Once on the ground, she moved slowly toward the stream and the trail that went beside it. She took the way Ma had gone earlier--into the willows. The wind blew more steadily now, and the bushes whished steadily. Rose of Sharon went down on her knees and crawled deep into the brush. The berry vines cut her face and pulled at her hair, but she didn't mind. Only when she felt the bushes touching her all over did she stop. She stretched out on her back. And she felt the weight of the baby inside of her.
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."
&
nbsp; "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 moved nervously about the car. She put on a light coat and took it off. "Take a blanket," Ma said. "Then if you wanta res', you can keep warm." They heard the truck motor roar up behind the boxcar. "We gonna be first out," Ma said exultantly. "Awright, get your sacks. Ruthie, don' you forget them shirts I fixed for you to pick in."