1The ancient overloaded Hudson creaked and grunted to the highway at Sallisaw and turned west, and the sun was blinding. But on the concrete road Al built up his speed because the flattened springs were not in danger any more. From Sallisaw to Gore is twenty-one miles and the Hudson was doing thirty-five miles an hour. From Gore to Warner thirteen miles; Warner to Checotah fourteen miles; Checotah a long jump to Henrietta—thirty-four miles, but a real town at the end of it. Henrietta to Castle nineteen miles, and the sun was overhead, and the red fields, heated by the high sun, vibrated the air.

2Al, at the wheel, his face purposeful, his whole body listening to the car, his restless eyes jumping from the road to the instrument panel. Al was one with his engine, every nerve listening for weaknesses, for the thumps or squeals, hums and chattering that indicate a change that may cause a breakdown. He had become the soul of the car.

3Granma, beside him on the seat, half slept, and whimpered in her sleep, opened her eyes to peer ahead, and then dozed again. And Ma sat beside Granma, one elbow out the window, and the skin reddening under the fierce sun. Ma looked ahead too, but her eyes were flat and did not see the road or the fields, the gas stations, the little eating sheds. She did not glance at them as the Hudson went by.

4Al shifted himself on the broken seat and changed his grip on the steering wheel. And he sighed, “Makes a racket, but I think she’s awright. God knows what she’ll do if we got to climb a hill with the load we got. Got any hills ’tween here an’ California, Ma?”

5Ma turned her head slowly and her eyes came to life. “Seems to me they’s hills,” she said. “ ’Course I dunno. But seems to me I heard they’s hills an’ even mountains. Big ones.”

6Granma drew a long whining sigh in her sleep.

7Al said, “We’ll burn right up if we got climbin’ to do. Have to throw out some a’ this stuff. Maybe we shouldn’ a brang that preacher.”

8“You’ll be glad a that preacher ’fore we’re through,” said Ma. “That preacher’ll help us.” She looked ahead at the gleaming road again.

9Al steered with one hand and put the other on the vibrating gear-shift lever. He had difficulty in speaking. His mouth formed the words silently before he said them aloud. “Ma—” She looked slowly around at him, her head swaying a little with the car’s motion. “Ma, you scared a goin’? You scared a goin’ to a new place?”

10Her eyes grew thoughtful and soft. “A little,” she said. “Only it ain’t like scared so much. I’m jus’ a settin’ here waitin’. When somepin happens that I got to do somepin—I’ll do it.”

11“Ain’t you thinkin’ what’s it gonna be like when we get there? Ain’t you scared it won’t be nice like we thought?”

12“No,” she said quickly. “No, I ain’t. You can’t do that. I can’t do that. It’s too much—livin’ too many lives. Up ahead they’s a thousan’ lives we might live, but when it comes, it’ll on’y be one. If I go ahead on all of ’em, it’s too much. You got to live ahead ’cause you’re so young, but—it’s jus’ the road goin’ by for me. An’ it’s jus’ how soon they gonna wanta eat some more pork bones.” Her face tightened. “That’s all I can do. I can’t do no more. All the rest’d get upset if I done any more’n that. They all depen’ on me jus’ thinkin’ about that.”

13Granma yawned shrilly and opened her eyes. She looked wildly about. “I got to get out, praise Gawd,” she said.

14“First clump a brush,” said Al. “They’s one up ahead.”

15“Brush or no brush, I got to git out, I tell ya.” And she began to whine, “I got to git out. I got to git out.”

16Al speeded up, and when he came to the low brush he pulled up short. Ma threw the door open and half pulled the struggling old lady out beside the road and into the bushes. And Ma held her so Granma would not fall when she squatted.

17On top of the truck the others stirred to life. Their faces were shining with sunburn they could not escape. Tom and Casy and Noah and Uncle John let themselves wearily down. Ruthie and Winfield swarmed down the side-boards and went off into the bushes. Connie helped Rose of Sharon gently down. Under the canvas, Grampa was awake, his head sticking out, but his eyes were drugged and watery and still senseless. He watched the others, but there was little recognition in his watching.

18Tom called to him, “Want to come down, Grampa?”

19The old eyes turned listlessly to him. “No,” said Grampa. For a moment the fierceness came into his eyes. “I ain’t a-goin’, I tell you. Gonna stay like Muley.” And then he lost interest again. Ma came back, helping Granma up the bank to the highway.

20“Tom,” she said. “Get that pan a bones, under the canvas in back. We got to eat somepin.” Tom got the pan and passed it around, and the family stood by the roadside, gnawing the crisp particles from the pork bones.

21“Sure lucky we brang these along,” said Pa. “Git so stiff up there can’t hardly move. Where’s the water?”

22“Ain’t it up with you?” Ma asked. “I set out that gallon jug.”

23Pa climbed the sides and looked under the canvas. “It ain’t here. We must a forgot it.”

24Thirst set in instantly. Winfield moaned, “I wanta drink. I wanta drink.” The men licked their lips, suddenly conscious of their thirst. And a little panic started.

25Al felt the fear growing. “We’ll get water first service station we come to. We need some gas too.” The family swarmed up the truck sides; Ma helped Granma in and got in beside her. Al started the motor and they moved on.

26Castle to Paden twenty-five miles and the sun passed the zenith and started down. And the radiator cap began to jiggle up and down and steam started to whish out. Near Paden there was a shack beside the road and two gas pumps in front of it; and beside a fence, a water faucet and a hose. Al drove in and nosed the Hudson up to the hose. As they pulled in, a stout man, red of face and arms, got up from a chair behind the gas pumps and moved toward them. He wore brown corduroys, and suspenders and a polo shirt; and he had a cardboard sun helmet, painted silver, on his head. The sweat beaded on his nose and under his eyes and formed streams in the wrinkles of his neck. He strolled toward the truck, looking truculent and stern.

27“You folks aim to buy anything? Gasoline or stuff?” he asked.

28Al was out already, unscrewing the steaming radiator cap with the tips of his fingers, jerking his hand away to escape the spurt when the cap should come loose. “Need some gas, mister.”

29“Got any money?”

30“Sure. Think we’re beggin’?”

31The truculence left the fat man’s face. “Well, that’s all right, folks. He’p yourself to water.” And he hastened to explain. “Road is full a people, come in, use water, dirty up the toilet, an’ then, by God, they’ll steal stuff an’ don’t buy nothin’. Got no money to buy with. Come beggin’ a gallon gas to move on.”

32Tom dropped angrily to the ground and moved toward the fat man. “We’re payin’ our way,” he said fiercely. “You got no call to give us a goin’-over. We ain’t asked you for nothin’.”

33“I ain’t,” the fat man said quickly. The sweat began to soak through his short-sleeved polo shirt. “Jus’ he’p yourself to water, and go use the toilet if you want.”

34Winfield had got the hose. He drank from the end and then turned the stream over his head and face, and emerged dripping. “It ain’t cool,” he said.

35“I don’ know what the country’s comin’ to,” the fat man continued. His complaint had shifted now and he was no longer talking to or about the Joads. “Fifty-sixty cars a folks go by ever’ day, folks all movin’ west with kids an’ househol’ stuff. Where they goin’? What they gonna do?”

36“Doin’ the same as us,” said Tom. “Goin’ someplace to live. Tryin’ to get along. That’s all.”

37“Well, I don’ know what the country’s comin’ to. I jus’ don’ know. Here’s me tryin’ to get along, too. Think any them big new cars stops here? No, sir! They go on to them yella-painted company stations in town. They don’t stop no place like this. Most folks stops here ain’t got nothin’.”

38Al flipped the radiator cap and it jumped into the air with a head of steam behind it, and a hollow bubbling sound came out of the radiator. On top of the truck, the suffering hound dog crawled timidly to the edge of the load and looked over, whimpering, toward the water. Uncle John climbed up and lifted him down by the scruff of the neck. For a moment the dog staggered on stiff legs, and then he went to lap the mud under the faucet. In the highway the cars whizzed by, glistening in the heat, and the hot wind of their going fanned into the service-station yard. Al filled the radiator with the hose.

39“It ain’t that I’m tryin’ to git trade outa rich folks,” the fat man went on. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to git trade. Why, the folks that stops here begs gasoline an’ they trades for gasoline. I could show you in my back room the stuff they’ll trade for gas an’ oil: beds an’ baby buggies an’ pots an’ pans. One family traded a doll their kid had for a gallon. An’ what’m I gonna do with the stuff, open a junk shop? Why, one fella wanted to gimme his shoes for a gallon. An’ if I was that kinda fella I bet I could git—” He glanced at Ma and stopped.

40Jim Casy had wet his head, and the drops still coursed down his high forehead, and his muscled neck was wet, and his shirt was wet. He moved over beside Tom. “It ain’t the people’s fault,” he said. “How’d you like to sell the bed you sleep on for a tankful a gas?”

41“I know it ain’t their fault. Ever’ person I talked to is on the move for a damn good reason. But what’s the country comin’ to? That’s what I wanta know. What’s it comin’ to? Fella can’t make a livin’ no more. Folks can’t make a livin’ farmin’. I ask you, what’s it comin’ to? I can’t figure her out. Ever’body I ask, they can’t figure her out. Fella wants to trade his shoes so he can git a hunderd miles on. I can’t figure her out.” He took off his silver hat and wiped his forehead with his palm. And Tom took off his cap and wiped his forehead with it. He went to the hose and wet the cap through and squeezed it and put it on again. Ma worked a tin cup out through the side bars of the truck, and she took water to Granma and to Grampa on top of the load. She stood on the bars and handed the cup to Grampa, and he wet his lips, and then shook his head and refused more. The old eyes looked up at Ma in pain and bewilderment for a moment before the awareness receded again.

42Al started the motor and backed the truck to the gas pump. “Fill her up. She’ll take about seven,” said Al. “We’ll give her six so she don’t spill none.”

43The fat man put the hose in the tank. “No, sir,” he said. “I jus’ don’t know what the country’s comin’ to. Relief an’ all.”

44Casy said, “I been walkin’ aroun’ in the country. Ever’body’s askin’ that. What we comin’ to? Seems to me we don’t never come to nothin’. Always on the way. Always goin’ and goin’. Why don’t folks think about that? They’s movement now. People moving. We know why, an’ we know how. Movin’ ’cause they got to. That’s why folks always move. Movin’ ’cause they want somepin better’n what they got. An’ that’s the on’y way they’ll ever git it. Wantin’ it an’ needin’ it, they’ll go out an’ git it. It’s bein’ hurt that makes folks mad to fightin’. I been walkin’ aroun’ the country, an’ hearin’ folks talk like you.”

45The fat man pumped the gasoline and the needle turned on the pump dial, recording the amount. “Yeah, but what’s it comin’ to? That’s what I want ta know.”

46Tom broke in irritably, “Well, you ain’t never gonna know. Casy tries to tell ya an’ you jest ast the same thing over. I seen fellas like you before. You ain’t askin’ nothin’; you’re jus’ singin’ a kinda song. ‘What we comin’ to?’ You don’ wanta know. Country’s movin’ aroun’, goin’ places. They’s folks dyin’ all aroun’. Maybe you’ll die pretty soon, but you won’t know nothin’. I seen too many fellas like you. You don’t want to know nothin’. Just sing yourself to sleep with a song— ‘What we comin’ to?’ ” He looked at the gas pump, rusted and old, and at the shack behind it, built of old lumber, the nail holes of its first use still showing through the paint that had been brave, the brave yellow paint that had tried to imitate the big company stations in town. But the paint couldn’t cover the old nail holes and the old cracks in the lumber, and the paint could not be renewed. The imitation was a failure and the owner had known it was a failure. And inside the open door of the shack Tom saw the oil barrels, only two of them, and the candy counter with stale candies and licorice whips turning brown with age, and cigarettes. He saw the broken chair and the fly screen with a rusted hole in it. And the littered yard that should have been graveled, and behind, the corn field drying and dying in the sun. Beside the house the little stock of used tires and retreaded tires. And he saw for the first time the fat man’s cheap washed pants and his cheap polo shirt and his paper hat. He said, “I didn’ mean to sound off at ya, mister. It’s the heat. You ain’t got nothin’. Pretty soon you’ll be on the road yourse’f. And it ain’t tractors’ll put you there. It’s them pretty yella stations in town. Folks is movin’,” he said ashamedly. “An’ you’ll be movin’, mister.”

47The fat man’s hand slowed on the pump and stopped while Tom spoke. He looked worriedly at Tom. “How’d you know?” he asked helplessly. “How’d you know we was already talkin’ about packin’ up an’ movin’ west?”

48Casy answered him. “It’s ever’body,” he said. “Here’s me that used to give all my fight against the devil ’cause I figgered the devil was the enemy. But they’s somepin worse’n the devil got hold a the country, an’ it ain’t gonna let go till it’s chopped loose. Ever see one a them Gila monsters take hold, mister? Grabs hold, an’ you chop him in two an’ his head hangs on. Chop him at the neck an’ his head hangs on. Got to take a screw-driver an’ pry his head apart to git him loose. An’ while he’s layin’ there, poison is drippin’ an’ drippin’ into the hole he’s made with his teeth.” He stopped and looked sideways at Tom.

49The fat man stared hopelessly straight ahead. His hand started turning the crank slowly. “I dunno what we’re comin’ to,” he said softly.

50Over by the water hose, Connie and Rose of Sharon stood together, talking secretly. Connie washed the tin cup and felt the water with his finger before he filled the cup again. Rose of Sharon watched the cars go by on the highway. Connie held out the cup to her. “This water ain’t cool, but it’s wet,” he said.

51She looked at him and smiled secretly. She was all secrets now she was pregnant, secrets and little silences that seemed to have meanings. She was pleased with herself, and she complained about things that didn’t really matter. And she demanded services of Connie that were silly, and both of them knew they were silly. Connie was pleased with her too, and filled with wonder that she was pregnant. He liked to think he was in on the secrets she had. When she smiled slyly, he smiled slyly too, and they exchanged confidences in whispers. The world had drawn close around them, and they were in the center of it, or rather Rose of Sharon was in the center of it with Connie making a small orbit about her. Everything they said was a kind of secret.

52She drew her eyes from the highway. “I ain’t very thirsty,” she said daintily. “But maybe I ought to drink.”

53And he nodded, for he knew well what she meant. She took the cup and rinsed her mouth and spat and then drank the cupful of tepid water. “Want another?” he asked.

54“Jus’ a half.” And so he filled the cup just half, and gave it to her. A Lincoln Zephyr, silvery and low, whisked by. She turned to see where the others were and saw them clustered about the truck. Reassured, she said, “How’d you like to be goin’ along in that?”

55Connie sighed, “Maybe—after.” They both knew what he meant. “An’ if they’s plenty work in California, we’ll git our own car. But them”—he indicated the disappearing Zephyr—“them kind costs as much as a good size house. I ruther have the house.”

56“I like to have the house an’ one a them,” she said. “But ’course the house would be first because—” And they both knew what she meant. They were terribly excited about the pregnancy.

57“You feel awright?” he asked.

58“Tar’d. Jus’ tar’d ridin’ in the sun.”

59“We got to do that or we won’t never get to California.”

60“I know,” she said.

61The dog wandered, sniffing, past the truck, trotted to the puddle under the hose again and lapped at the muddy water. And then he moved away, nose down and ears hanging. He sniffed his way among the dusty weeds beside the road, to the edge of the pavement. He raised his head and looked across, and then started over. Rose of Sharon screamed shrilly. A big swift car whisked near, tires squealed. The dog dodged helplessly, and with a shriek, cut off in the middle, went under the wheels. The big car slowed for a moment and faces looked back, and then it gathered greater speed and disappeared. And the dog, a blot of blood and tangled, burst intestines, kicked slowly in the road.

62Rose of Sharon’s eyes were wide. “D’you think it’ll hurt?” she begged. “Think it’ll hurt?”

63Connie put his arm around her. “Come set down,” he said. “It wasn’t nothin’.”

64“But I felt it hurt. I felt it kinda jar when I yelled.”

65“Come set down. It wasn’t nothin’. It won’t hurt.” He led her to the side of the truck away from the dying dog and sat her down on the running board.

66Tom and Uncle John walked out to the mess. The last quiver was going out of the crushed body. Tom took it by the legs and dragged it to the side of the road. Uncle John look embarrassed, as though it were his fault. “I ought ta tied him up,” he said.

67Pa looked down at the dog for a moment and then he turned away. “Le’s get outa here,” he said. “I don’ know how we was gonna feed ’im anyways. Just as well, maybe.”

68The fat man came from behind the truck. “I’m sorry, folks,” he said. “A dog jus’ don’ last no time near a highway. I had three dogs run over in a year. Don’t keep none, no more.” And he said, “Don’t you folks worry none about it. I’ll take care of ’im. Bury ’im out in the corn field.”

69Ma walked over to Rose of Sharon, where she sat, still shuddering, on the running board. “You all right, Rosasharn?” she asked. “You feelin’ poorly?”

70“I seen that. Give me a start.”

71“I heard ya yip,” said Ma. “Git yourself laced up, now.”

72“You suppose it might of hurt?”

73“No,” said Ma. “ ’F you go to greasin’ yourself an’ feelin’ sorry, an’ tuckin’ yourself in a swalla’s nest, it might. Rise up now, an’ he’p me get Granma comf’table. Forget that baby for a minute. He’ll take care a hisself.”

74“Where is Granma?” Rose of Sharon asked.

75“I dunno. She’s aroun’ here somewheres. Maybe in the outhouse.”

76The girl went toward the toilet, and in a moment she came out, helping Granma along. “She went to sleep in there,” said Rose of Sharon.

77Granma grinned. “It’s nice in there,” she said. “They got a patent toilet in there an’ the water comes down. I like it in there,” she said contentedly. “Would of took a good nap if I wasn’t woke up.”

78“It ain’t a nice place to sleep,” said Rose of Sharon, and she helped Granma into the car. Granma settled herself happily. “Maybe it ain’t nice for purty, but it’s nice for nice,” she said.

79Tom said, “Le’s go. We got to make miles.”

80Pa whistled shrilly. “Now where’d them kids go?” He whistled again, putting his fingers in his mouth.

81In a moment they broke from the corn field, Ruthie ahead and Winfield trailing her. “Eggs!” Ruthie cried. “I got sof’ eggs.” She rushed close, with Winfield close behind. “Look!” A dozen soft, grayish-white eggs were in her grubby hand. And as she held up her hand, her eyes fell upon the dead dog beside the road. “Oh!” she said. Ruthie and Winfield walked slowly toward the dog. They inspected him.

82Pa called to them, “Come on, you, ’less you want to git left.”

83They turned solemnly and walked to the truck. Ruthie looked once more at the gray reptile eggs in her hand, and then she threw them away. They climbed up the side of the truck. “His eyes was still open,” said Ruthie in a hushed tone.

84But Winfield gloried in the scene. He said boldly, “His guts was just strowed all over—all over”—he was silent for a moment—“strowed—all—over,” he said, and then he rolled over quickly and vomited down the side of the truck. When he sat up again his eyes were watery and his nose running. “It ain’t like killin’ pigs,” he said in explanation.

85Al had the hood of the Hudson up, and he checked the oil level. He brought a gallon can from the floor of the front seat and poured a quantity of cheap black oil into the pipe and checked the level again.

86Tom came beside him. “Want I should take her a piece?” he asked.

87“I ain’t tired,” said Al.

88“Well, you didn’ get no sleep las’ night. I took a snooze this morning. Get up there on top. I’ll take her.”

89“Awright,” Al said reluctantly. “But watch the oil gauge pretty close. Take her slow. An’ I been watchin’ for a short. Take a look a the needle now an’ then. ’F she jumps to discharge it’s a short. An’ take her slow, Tom. She’s overloaded.”

90Tom laughed. “I’ll watch her,” he said. “You can res’ easy.”

91The family piled on top of the truck again. Ma settled herself beside Granma in the seat, and Tom took his place and started the motor. “Sure is loose,” he said, and he put it in gear and pulled away down the highway.

92The motor droned along steadily and the sun receded down the sky in front of them. Granma slept steadily, and even Ma dropped her head forward and dozed. Tom pulled his cap over his eyes to shut out the blinding sun.

93Paden to Meeker is thirteen miles; Meeker to Harrah is fourteen miles; and then Oklahoma City—the big city. Tom drove straight on. Ma waked up and looked at the streets as they went through the city. And the family, on top of the truck, stared about at the stores, at the big houses, at the office buildings. And then the buildings grew smaller and the stores smaller. The wrecking yards and hot-dog stands, the out-city dance halls.

94Ruthie and Winfield saw it all, and it embarrassed them with its bigness and its strangeness, and it frightened them with the fine-clothed people they saw. They did not speak of it to each other. Later—they would, but not now. They saw the oil derricks in the town, on the edge of the town; oil derricks black, and the smell of oil and gas in the air. But they didn’t exclaim. It was so big and so strange it frightened them.

95In the street Rose of Sharon saw a man in a light suit. He wore white shoes and a flat straw hat. She touched Connie and indicated the man with her eyes, and then Connie and Rose of Sharon giggled softly to themselves, and the giggles got the best of them. They covered their mouths. And it felt so good that they looked for other people to giggle at. Ruthie and Winfield saw them giggling and it looked such fun that they tried to do it too—but they couldn’t. The giggles wouldn’t come. But Connie and Rose of Sharon were breathless and red with stifling laughter before they could stop. It got so bad that they had only to look at each other to start over again.

96The outskirts were wide spread. Tom drove slowly and carefully in the traffic, and then they were on 66—the great western road, and the sun was sinking on the line of the road. The windshield was bright with dust. Tom pulled his cap lower over his eyes, so low that he had to tilt his head back to see out at all. Granma slept on, the sun on her closed eyelids, and the veins on her temples were blue, and the little bright veins on her cheeks were wine-colored, and the old brown marks on her face turned darker.

97Tom said, “We stay on this road right straight through.”

98Ma had been silent for a long time. “Maybe we better fin’ a place to stop ’fore sunset,” she said. “I got to get some pork a-boilin’ an’ some bread made. That takes time.”

99“Sure,” Tom agreed. “We ain’t gonna make this trip in one jump. Might’s well stretch ourselves.”

100Oklahoma City to Bethany is fourteen miles.

101Tom said, “I think we better stop ’fore the sun goes down. Al got to build that thing on the top. Sun’ll kill the folks up there.”

102Ma had been dozing again. Her head jerked upright. “Got to get some supper a-cookin’,” she said. And she said, “Tom, your pa tol’ me about you crossin’ the State line——”

103He was a long time answering. “Yeah? What about it, Ma?”

104“Well, I’m scairt about it. It’ll make you kinda runnin’ away. Maybe they’ll catch ya.”

105Tom held his hand over his eyes to protect himself from the lowering sun. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “I figgered her out. They’s lots a fellas out on parole an’ they’s more goin’ in all the time. If I get caught for anything else out west, well, then they got my pitcher an’ my prints in Washington. They’ll sen’ me back. But if I don’t do no crimes, they won’t give a damn.”

106“Well, I’m a-scairt about it. Sometimes you do a crime, an’ you don’t even know it’s bad. Maybe they got crimes in California we don’t even know about. Maybe you gonna do somepin an’ it’s all right, an’ in California it ain’t all right.”

107“Be jus’ the same if I wasn’t on parole,” he said. “On’y if I get caught I get a bigger jolt’n other folks. Now you quit a-worryin’,” he said. “We got plenty to worry about ’thout you figgerin’ out things to worry about.”

108“I can’t he’p it,” she said. “Minute you cross the line you done a crime.”

109“Well, tha’s better’n stickin’ aroun’ Sallisaw an’ starvin’ to death,” he said. “We better look out for a place to stop.”

110They went through Bethany and out on the other side. In a ditch, where a culvert went under the road, an old touring car was pulled off the highway and a little tent was pitched beside it, and smoke came out of a stove pipe through the tent. Tom pointed ahead. “There’s some folks campin’. Looks like as good a place as we seen.” He slowed his motor and pulled to a stop beside the road. The hood of the old touring car was up, and a middle-aged man stood looking down at the motor. He wore a cheap straw sombrero, a blue shirt, and a black, spotted vest, and his jeans were stiff and shiny with dirt. His face was lean, the deep cheek-lines great furrows down his face so that his cheek bones and chin stood out sharply. He looked up at the Joad truck and his eyes were puzzled and angry.

111Tom leaned out of the window. “Any law ’gainst folks stoppin’ here for the night?”

112The man had seen only the truck. His eyes focused down on Tom. “I dunno,” he said. “We on’y stopped here ’cause we couldn’ git no further.”

113“Any water here?”

114The man pointed to a service-station shack about a quarter of a mile ahead. “They’s water there they’ll let ya take a bucket of.”

115Tom hesitated. “Well, ya ’spose we could camp down ’longside?”

116The lean man looked puzzled. “We don’t own it,” he said. “We on’y stopped here ’cause this goddamn ol’ trap wouldn’ go no further.”

117Tom insisted. “Anyways you’re here an’ we ain’t. You got a right to say if you wan’ neighbors or not.”

118The appeal to hospitality had an instant effect. The lean face broke into a smile. “Why, sure, come on off the road. Proud to have ya.” And he called, “Sairy, there’s some folks goin’ ta stay with us. Come on out an’ say how d’ya do. Sairy ain’t well,” he added. The tent flaps opened and a wizened woman came out—a face wrinkled as a dried leaf and eyes that seemed to flame in her face, black eyes that seemed to look out of a well of horror. She was small and shuddering. She held herself upright by a tent flap, and the hand holding onto the canvas was a skeleton covered with wrinkled skin.

119When she spoke her voice had a beautiful low timbre, soft and modulated, and yet with ringing overtones. “Tell ’em welcome,” she said. “Tell ’em good an’ welcome.”

120Tom drove off the road and brought his truck into the field and lined it up with the touring car. And people boiled down from the truck; Ruthie and Winfield too quickly, so that their legs gave way and they shrieked at the pins and needles that ran through their limbs. Ma went quickly to work. She untied the three-gallon bucket from the back of the truck and approached the squealing children. “Now you go git water—right down there. Ask nice. Say, ‘Please, kin we git a bucket a water?’ and say, ‘Thank you.’ An’ carry it back together helpin’, an’ don’t spill none. An’ if you see stick wood to burn, bring it on.” The children stamped away toward the shack.

121By the tent a little embarrassment had set in, and social intercourse had paused before it started. Pa said, “You ain’t Oklahomy folks?”

122And Al, who stood near the car, looked at the license plates. “Kansas,” he said.

123The lean man said, “Galena, or right about there. Wilson, Ivy Wilson.”

124“We’re Joads,” said Pa. “We come from right near Sallisaw.”

125“Well, we’re proud to meet you folks,” said Ivy Wilson. “Sairy, these is Joads.”

126“I knowed you wasn’t Oklahomy folks. You talk queer, kinda—that ain’t no blame, you understan’.”

127“Ever’body says words different,” said Ivy. “Arkansas folks says ’em different, and Oklahomy folks says ’em different. And we seen a lady from Massachusetts, an’ she said ’em differentest of all. Couldn’ hardly make out what she was sayin’.”

128Noah and Uncle John and the preacher began to unload the truck. They helped Grampa down and sat him on the ground and he sat limply, staring ahead of him. “You sick, Grampa?” Noah asked.

129“You goddamn right,” said Grampa weakly. “Sicker’n hell.”

130Sairy Wilson walked slowly and carefully toward him. “How’d you like ta come in our tent?” she asked. “You kin lay down on our mattress an’ rest.”

131He looked up at her, drawn by her soft voice. “Come on now,” she said. “You’ll git some rest. We’ll he’p you over.”

132Without warning Grampa began to cry. His chin wavered and his old lips tightened over his mouth and he sobbed hoarsely. Ma rushed over to him and put her arms around him. She lifted him to his feet, her broad back straining, and she half lifted, half helped him into the tent.

133Uncle John said, “He must be good an’ sick. He ain’t never done that before. Never seen him blubberin’ in my life.” He jumped up on the truck and tossed a mattress down.

134Ma came out of the tent and went to Casy. “You been aroun’ sick people,” she said. “Grampa’s sick. Won’t you go take a look at him?”

135Casy walked quickly to the tent and went inside. A double mattress was on the ground, the blankets spread neatly; and a little tin stove stood on iron legs, and the fire in it burned unevenly. A bucket of water, a wooden box of supplies, and a box for a table, that was all. The light of the setting sun came pinkly through the tent walls. Sairy Wilson knelt on the ground, beside the mattress, and Grampa lay on his back. His eyes were open, staring upward, and his cheeks were flushed. He breathed heavily.

136Casy took the skinny old wrist in his fingers. “Feeling kinda tired, Grampa?” he asked. The staring eyes moved toward his voice but did not find him. The lips practiced a speech but did not speak it. Casy felt the pulse and he dropped the wrist and put his hand on Grampa’s forehead. A struggle began in the old man’s body, his legs moved restlessly and his hands stirred. He said a whole string of blurred sounds that were not words, and his face was red under the spiky white whiskers.

137Sairy Wilson spoke softly to Casy. “Know what’s wrong?”

138He looked up at the wrinkled face and the burning eyes. “Do you?”

139“I—think so.”

140“What?” Casy asked.

141“Might be wrong. I wouldn’ like to say.”

142Casy looked back at the twitching red face. “Would you say—maybe—he’s workin’ up a stroke?”

143“I’d say that,” said Sairy. “I seen it three times before.”

144From outside came the sounds of camp-making, wood chopping, and the rattle of pans. Ma looked through the flaps. “Granma wants to come in. Would she better?”

145The preacher said, “She’ll jus’ fret if she don’t.”

146“Think he’s awright?” Ma asked.

147Casy shook his head slowly. Ma looked quickly down at the struggling old face with blood pounding through it. She drew outside and her voice came through. “He’s awright, Granma. He’s jus’ takin’ a little res’.”

148And Granma answered sulkily, “Well, I want ta see him. He’s a tricky devil. He wouldn’t never let ya know.” And she came scurrying through the flaps. She stood over the mattresses and looked down. “What’s the matter’th you?” she demanded of Grampa. And again his eyes reached toward her voice and his lips writhed. “He’s sulkin’,” said Granma. “I tol’ you he was tricky. He was gonna sneak away this mornin’ so he wouldn’t have to come. An’ then his hip got a-hurtin’,” she said disgustedly. “He’s jus’ sulkin’. I seen him when he wouldn’ talk to nobody before.”

149Casy said gently, “He ain’t sulkin’, Granma. He’s sick.”

150“Oh!” She looked down at the old man again. “Sick bad, you think?”

151“Purty bad, Granma.”

152For a moment she hesitated uncertainly. “Well,” she said quickly, “why ain’t you prayin’? You’re a preacher, ain’t you?”

153Casy’s strong fingers blundered over to Grampa’s wrist and clasped around it. “I tol’ you, Granma. I ain’t a preacher no more.”

154“Pray anyway,” she ordered. “You know all the stuff by heart.”

155“I can’t,” said Casy. “I don’ know what to pray for or who to pray to.”

156Granma’s eyes wandered away and came to rest on Sairy. “He won’t pray,” she said. “D’I ever tell ya how Ruthie prayed when she was a little skinner? Says, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. An’ when she got there the cupboard was bare, an’ so the poor dog got none. Amen.’ That’s jus’ what she done.” The shadow of someone walking between the tent and the sun crossed the canvas.

157Grampa seemed to be struggling; all his muscles twitched. And suddenly he jarred as though under a heavy blow. He lay still and his breath was stopped. Casy looked down at the old man’s face and saw that it was turning a blackish purple. Sairy touched Casy’s shoulder. She whispered, “His tongue, his tongue, his tongue.”

158Casy nodded. “Get in front a Granma.” He pried the tight jaws apart and reached into the old man’s throat for the tongue. And as he lifted it clear, a rattling breath came out, and a sobbing breath was indrawn. Casy found a stick on the ground and held down the tongue with it, and the uneven breath rattled in and out.

159Granma hopped about like a chicken. “Pray,” she said. “Pray, you. Pray, I tell ya.” Sairy tried to hold her back. “Pray, goddamn you!” Granma cried.

160Casy looked up at her for a moment. The rasping breath came louder and more unevenly. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name—”

161“Glory!” shouted Granma.

162“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done—on earth—as it is in Heaven.”

163“Amen.”

164A long gasping sigh came from the open mouth, and then a crying release of air.

165“Give us this day—our daily bread—and forgive us—” The breathing had stopped. Casy looked down into Grampa’s eyes and they were clear and deep and penetrating, and there was a knowing serene look in them.

166“Hallelujah!” said Granma. “Go on.”

167“Amen,” said Casy.

168Granma was still then. And outside the tent all the noise had stopped. A car whished by on the highway. Casy still knelt on the floor beside the mattress. The people outside were listening, standing quietly intent on the sounds of dying. Sairy took Granma by the arm and led her outside, and Granma moved with dignity and held her head high. She walked for the family and held her head straight for the family. Sairy took her to a mattress lying on the ground and sat her down on it. And Granma looked straight ahead, proudly, for she was on show now. The tent was still, and at last Casy spread the tent flaps with his hands and stepped out.

169Pa asked softly, “What was it?”

170“Stroke,” said Casy. “A good quick stroke.”

171Life began to move again. The sun touched the horizon and flattened over it. And along the highway there came a long line of huge freight trucks with red sides. They rumbled along, putting a little earthquake in the ground, and the standing exhaust pipes sputtered blue smoke from the Diesel oil. One man drove each truck, and his relief man slept in a bunk high up against the ceiling. But the trucks never stopped; they thundered day and night and the ground shook under their heavy march.

172The family became a unit. Pa squatted down on the ground, and Uncle John beside him. Pa was the head of the family now. Ma stood behind him. Noah and Tom and Al squatted, and the preacher sat down, and then reclined on his elbow. Connie and Rose of Sharon walked at a distance. Now Ruthie and Winfield, clattering up with a bucket of water held between them, felt the change, and they slowed up and set down the bucket and moved quietly to stand with Ma.

173Granma sat proudly, coldly, until the group was formed, until no one looked at her, and then she lay down and covered her face with her arm. The red sun set and left a shining twilight on the land, so that faces were bright in the evening and eyes shone in reflection of the sky. The evening picked up light where it could.

174Pa said, “It was in Mr. Wilson’s tent.”

175Uncle John nodded. “He loaned his tent.”

176“Fine friendly folks,” Pa said softly.

177Wilson stood by his broken car, and Sairy had gone to the mattress to sit beside Granma, but Sairy was careful not to touch her.

178Pa called, “Mr. Wilson!” The man scuffed near and squatted down, and Sairy came and stood beside him. Pa said, “We’re thankful to you folks.”

179“We’re proud to help,” said Wilson.

180“We’re beholden to you,” said Pa.

181“There’s no beholden in a time of dying,” said Wilson, and Sairy echoed him, “Never no beholden.”