The Grapes of Wrath(196)
Ma sighed. “Give me two pounds hamburg.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He scooped the pale meat on a piece of waxed paper. “An’ what else?”
“Well, some bread.”
“Right here. Fine big loaf, fifteen cents.”
“That there’s a twelve-cent loaf.”
“Sure, it is. Go right in town an’ get her for twelve cents. Gallon a gas. What else can I sell you, potatoes?”
“Yes, potatoes.”
“Five pounds for a quarter.”
Ma moved menacingly toward him. “I heard enough from you. I know what they cost in town.”
The little man clamped his mouth tight. “Then go git ’em in town.”
Ma looked at her knuckles. “What is this?” she asked softly. “You own this here store?”
“No. I jus’ work here.”
“Any reason you got to make fun? That help you any?” She regarded her shiny wrinkled hands. The little man was silent. “Who owns this here store?”
“Hooper Ranches, Incorporated, ma’am.”
“An’ they set the prices?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked up, smiling a little. “Ever’body comes in talks like me, is mad?”
He hesitated for a moment. “Yes, ma’am.”
“An’ that’s why you make fun?”
“What cha mean?”
“Doin’ a dirty thing like this. Shames ya, don’t it? Got to act flip, huh?” Her voice was gentle. The clerk watched her, fascinated. He didn’t answer. “That’s how it is,” Ma said finally. “Forty cents for meat, fifteen for bread, quarter for potatoes. That’s eighty cents. Coffee?”
“Twenty cents the cheapest, ma’am.”
“An’ that’s the dollar. Seven of us workin’, an’ that’s supper.” She studied her hand. “Wrap ’em up,” she said quickly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thanks.” He put the potatoes in a bag and folded the top carefully down. His eyes slipped to Ma, and then hid in his work again. She watched him, and she smiled a little.
“How’d you get a job like this?” she asked.
“A fella got to eat,” he began; and then, belligerently, “A fella got a right to eat.”
“What fella?” Ma asked.
He placed the four packages on the counter. “Meat,” he said. “Potatoes, bread, coffee. One dollar, even.” She handed him her slip of paper and watched while he entered the name and the amount in a ledger. “There,” he said. “Now we’re all even.”
Ma picked up her bags. “Say,” she said. “We got no sugar for the coffee. My boy Tom, he wants sugar. Look!” she said. “They’re a-workin’ out there. You let me have some sugar an’ I’ll bring the slip in later.”
The little man looked away—took his eyes as far from Ma as he could. “I can’t do it,” he said softly. “That’s the rule. I can’t. I’d get in trouble. I’d get canned.”
“But they’re a-workin’ out in the field now. They got more’n a dime comin’. Gimme ten cents’ of sugar. Tom, he wanted sugar in his coffee. Spoke about it.”
“I can’t do it, ma’am. That’s the rule. No slip, no groceries. The manager, he talks about that all the time. No, I can’t do it. No, I can’t. They’d catch me. They always catch fellas. Always. I can’t.”
“For a dime?”
“For anything, ma’am.” He looked pleadingly at her. And then his face lost its fear. He took ten cents from his pocket and rang it up in the cash register. “There,” he said with relief. He pulled a little bag from under the counter, whipped it open and scooped some sugar into it, weighed the bag, and added a little more sugar. “There you are,” he said. “Now it’s all right. You bring in your slip an’ I’ll get my dime back.”
Ma studied him. Her hand went blindly out and put the little bag of sugar on the pile in her arm. “Thanks to you,” she said quietly. She started for the door, and when she reached it, she turned about. “I’m learnin’ one thing good,” she said. “Learnin’ it all a time, ever’ day. If you’re in trouble or hurt or need—go to poor people. They’re the only ones that’ll help—the only ones.” The screen door slammed behind her.
The little man leaned his elbows on the counter and looked after her with his surprised eyes. A plump tortoise-shell cat leaped up on the counter and stalked lazily near to him. It rubbed sideways against his arms, and he reached out with his hand and pulled it against his cheek. The cat purred loudly, and the tip of its tail jerked back and forth.