Ruthie came near, in her hands two large boxes of Cracker Jack, in her eyes a brooding question, which on a nod or a shake of Ma’s head might become tragedy or joyous excitement. “Ma?” She held up the boxes, jerked them up and down to make them attractive.
“Now you put them back——”
The tragedy began to form in Ruthie’s eyes. Pa said, “They’re on’y nickel apiece. Them little fellas worked good today.”
“Well —” The excitement began to steal into Ruthie’s eyes. “Awright.”
Ruthie turned and fled. Halfway to the door she caught Winfield and rushed him out the door, into the evening.
Uncle John fingered a pair of canvas gloves with yellow leather palms, tried them on and took them off and laid them down. He moved gradually to the liquor shelves, and he stood studying the labels on the bottles. Ma saw him. “Pa,” she said, and motioned with her head toward Uncle John.
Pa lounged over to him. “Gettin’ thirsty, John?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Jus’ wait till cotton’s done,” said Pa. “Then you can go on a hell of a drunk.”
“’Tain’t sweatin’ me none,” Uncle John said. “I’m workin’ hard an’ sleepin’ good. No dreams nor nothin’.”
“Jus’ seen you sort of droolin’ out at them bottles.”
“I didn’ hardly see ’em. Funny thing. I wanta buy stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Like to git one a them safety razors. Thought I’d like to have some a them gloves over there. Awful cheap.”
“Can’t pick no cotton with gloves,” said Pa.
“I know that. An’ I don’t need no safety razor, neither. Stuff settin’ out there, you jus’ feel like buyin’ it whether you need it or not.”
Ma called, “Come on. We got ever’thing.” She carried a bag. Uncle John and Pa each took a package. Outside Ruthie and Winfield were waiting, their eyes strained, their cheeks puffed and full of Cracker Jack.
“Won’t eat no supper, I bet,” Ma said.
People streamed toward the boxcar camp. The tents were lighted. Smoke poured from the stovepipes. The Joads climbed up their cat-walk and into their end of the boxcar. Rose of Sharon sat on a box beside the stove. She had a fire started, and the tin stove was wine-colored with heat. “Did ya get milk?” she demanded.
“Yeah. Right here.”
“Give it to me. I ain’t had any sence noon.”
“She thinks it’s like medicine.”
“That nurse-lady says so.”
“You got potatoes ready?”
“Right there—peeled.”
“We’ll fry ’em,” said Ma. “Got pork chops. Cut up them potatoes in the new fry pan. And th’ow in a onion. You fellas go out an’ wash, an’ bring in a bucket a water. Where’s Ruthie an’ Winfiel’? They oughta wash. They each got Cracker Jack,” Ma told Rose of Sharon. “Each got a whole box.”
The men went out to wash in the stream. Rose of Sharon sliced the potatoes into the frying pan and stirred them about with the knife point.
Suddenly the tarpaulin was thrust aside. A stout perspiring face looked in from the other end of the car. “How’d you all make out, Mis’ Joad?”
Ma swung around. “Why, evenin’, Mis’ Wainwright. We done good. Three an’ a half. Three fifty-seven, exact.”
“We done four dollars.”
“Well,” said Ma. “’Course they’s more of you.”
“Yeah. Jonas is growin’ up. Havin’ pork chops, I see.”
Winfield crept in through the door. “Ma!”
“Hush a minute. Yes, my men jus’ loves pork chops.”
“I’m cookin’ bacon,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Can you smell it cookin’?”
“No—can’t smell it over these here onions in the potatoes.”
“She’s burnin’!” Mrs. Wainwright cried, and her head jerked back.
“Ma,” Winfield said.
“What? You sick from Cracker Jack?”
“Ma—Ruthie tol’.”
“Tol’ what?”
“’Bout Tom.”
Ma stared. “Tol’?” Then she knelt in front of him. “Winfiel’, who’d she tell?”
Embarrassment seized Winfield. He backed away. “Well, she on’y tol’ a little bit.”
“Winfiel’! Now you tell what she said.”
“She—she didn’ eat all her Cracker Jack. She kep’ some, an’ she et jus’ one piece at a time, slow, like she always done, an’ she says, ‘Bet you wisht you had some lef’.”