The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [141]
“No.’’
“I don’t wanta talk about it no more,’’ said Pa. “I can’t—my fault.’’
“Well, we got to go,’’ said Tom.
Wilson walked near for the last words. “We can’t go, folks,’’ he said. “Sairy’s done up. She got to res’. She ain’t gonna git acrost that desert alive.’’
They were silent at his words; then Tom said, “Cop says he’ll run us in if we’re here tomorra.’’
Wilson shook his head. His eyes were glazed with worry, and a paleness showed through his dark skin. “Jus’ hafta do ’er, then. Sairy can’t go. If they jail us, why, they’ll hafta jail us. She got to res’ an’ get strong.’’
Pa said, “Maybe we better wait an’ all go together.’’
“No,’’ Wilson said. “You been nice to us; you been kin’, but you can’t stay here. You got to get on an’ get jobs and work. We ain’t gonna let you stay.”
Pa said excitedly, “But you ain’t got nothing.’’
Wilson smiled. “Never had nothin’ when you took us up. This ain’t none of your business. Don’t you make me git mean. You got to go, or I’ll get mean an’ mad.’’
Ma beckoned Pa into the cover of the tarpaulin and spoke softly to him.
Wilson turned to Casy. “Sairy wants you should go see her.’’
“Sure,’’ said the preacher. He walked to the Wilson tent, tiny and gray, and he slipped the flaps aside and entered. It was dusky and hot inside. The mattress lay on the ground, and the equipment was scattered about, as it had been unloaded in the morning. Sairy lay on the mattress, her eyes wide and bright. He stood and looked down at her, his large head bent and the stringy muscles of his neck tight along the sides. And he took off his hat and held it in his hand.
She said, “Did my man tell ya we couldn’ go on?’’
“Tha’s what he said.’’
Her low, beautiful voice went on, “I wanted us to go. I knowed I wouldn’ live to the other side, but he’d be acrost anyways. But he won’t go. He don’ know. He thinks it’s gonna be all right. He don’ know.’’
“He says he won’t go.’’
“I know,’’ she said. “An’ he’s stubborn. I ast you to come to say a prayer.’’
“I ain’t a preacher,’’ he said softly. “My prayers ain’t no good.’’
She moistened her lips. “I was there when the ol’ man died. You said one then.’’
“It wasn’t no prayer.’’
“It was a prayer,’’ she said.
“It wasn’t no preacher’s prayer.’’
“It was a good prayer. I want you should say one for me.’’
“I don’ know what to say.’’
She closed her eyes for a minute and then opened them again. “Then say one to yourself. Don’t use no words to it. That’d be awright.’’
“I got no God,’’ he said.
“You got a God. Don’t make no difference if you don’ know what he looks like.’’ The preacher bowed his head. She watched him apprehensively. And when he raised his head again she looked relieved. “That’s good,’’ she said. “That’s what I needed. Somebody close enough—to pray.’’
He shook his head as though to awaken himself. “I don’ understan’ this here,’’ he said.
And she replied, “Yes—you know, don’t you?’’
“I know,’’ he said, “I know, but I don’t understan’. Maybe you’ll res’ a few days an’ then come on.’’
She shook her head slowly from side to side. “I’m jus’ pain covered with skin. I know what it is, but I won’t tell him. He’d be too sad. He wouldn’ know what to do anyways. Maybe in the night, when he’s a-sleepin’—when he waked up, it won’t be so bad.’’
“You want I should stay with you an’ not go on?’’
“No,’’ she said. “No. When I was a little girl I use’ ta sing. Folks roun’ about use’ ta say I sung as nice as Jenny Lind.2 Folks use’ ta come an’ listen when I sung. An’—when they stood—an’ me a-singin’, why, me an’ them was together more’n you could ever know. I was thankful. There ain’t so many folks can feel so full up, so close, an’ them folks standin’ there an’ me a-singin’. Thought maybe I’d sing in theaters, but I never done it. An’ I’m glad. They wasn’t nothin’ got in between me an’ them. An’—that’s why I wanted you to pray. I wanted to feel that clost-ness, oncet more. It’s the same thing, singin’ an’ prayin’, jus’ the same thing. I wisht you could a-heerd me sing.’