The Grapes of Wrath(220)

“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.”