The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [144]
He turned his head to her ear. “Maybe in the mornin’. How’d you like to be alone now?’’ In the dusk his hand moved out and stroked her hip.
She said, “Don’t. You’ll make me crazy as a loon. Don’t do that.’’ And she turned her head to hear his response.
“Maybe—when ever’body’s asleep.’’
“Maybe,’’ she said. “But wait till they get to sleep. You’ll make me crazy, an’ maybe they won’t get to sleep.’’
“I can’t hardly stop,’’ he said.
“I know. Me neither. Le’s talk about when we get there; an’ you move away ’fore I get crazy.’’
He shifted away a little. “Well, I’ll get to studyin’ nights right off,’’ he said. She sighed deeply. “Gonna get one a them books that tells about it an’ cut the coupon, right off.’’
“How long, you think?’’ she asked.
“How long what?’’
“How long ’fore you’ll be makin’ big money an’ we got ice?’’
“Can’t tell,’’ he said importantly. “Can’t really rightly tell. Fella oughta be studied up pretty good ’fore Christmus.’’
“Soon’s you get studied up we could get ice an’ stuff, I guess.’’
He chuckled. “It’s this here heat,’’ he said. “What you gonna need ice roun’ Christmus for?’’
She giggled. “Tha’s right. But I’d like ice any time. Now don’t. You’ll get me crazy!’’
The dusk passed into dark and the desert stars came out in the soft sky, stars stabbing and sharp, with few points and rays to them, and the sky was velvet. And the heat changed. While the sun was up, it was a beating, flailing heat, but now the heat came from below, from the earth itself, and the heat was thick and muffling. The lights of the truck came on, and they illuminated a little blur of highway ahead, and a strip of desert on either side of the road. And sometimes eyes gleamed in the lights far ahead, but no animal showed in the lights. It was pitch dark under the canvas now. Uncle John and the preacher were curled in the middle of the truck, resting on their elbows, and staring out the back triangle. They could see the two bumps that were Ma and Granma against the outside. They could see Ma move occasionally, and her dark arm moving against the outside.
Uncle John talked to the preacher. “Casy,’’ he said, “you’re a fella oughta know what to do.’’
“What to do about what?’’
“I dunno,’’ said Uncle John.
Casy said, “Well, that’s gonna make it easy for me!’’
“Well, you been a preacher.’’
“Look, John, ever’body takes a crack at me ’cause I been a preacher. A preacher ain’t nothin’ but a man.’’
“Yeah, but—he’s—a kind of a man, else he wouldn’ be a preacher. I wanna ast you—well, you think a fella could bring bad luck to folks?’’
“I dunno,’’ said Casy. “I dunno.’’
“Well—see—I was married—fine, good girl. An’ one night she got a pain in her stomach. An’ she says, ‘You better get a doctor.’ An’ I says, ‘Hell, you jus’ et too much.’ ’’ Uncle John put his hand on Casy’s knee and he peered through the darkness at him. “She give me a look. An’ she groaned all night, an’ she died the next afternoon.’’ The preacher mumbled something. “You see,’’ John went on, “I kil’t her. An’ sence then I tried to make it up—mos’ly to kids. An’ I tried to be good, an’ I can’t. I get drunk, an’ I go wild.’’
“Ever’body goes wild,’’ said Casy. “I do too.’’
“Yeah, but you ain’t got a sin on your soul like me.’’
Casy said gently, “Sure I got sins. Ever’body got sins. A sin is somepin you ain’t sure about. Them people that’s sure about ever’thing an’ ain’t got no sin—well, with that kind a son-of-a-bitch, if I was God I’d kick their ass right outa heaven! I couldn’ stand ’em!’’
Uncle John said, “I got a feelin’ I’m bringin’ bad luck to my own folks. I got a feelin’ I oughta go away an’ let ’em be. I ain’t comf’table bein’ like this.’’
Casy said quickly, “I know this—a man got to do what he got to do. I can’t tell you. I don’t think they’s luck or bad luck. On’y one thing in this worl’ I’m sure of, an’ that’s I’m sure nobody got a right to mess with a fella’s life. He got to do it all hisself. Help him, maybe, but not tell him what to do.’’
Uncle John said disappointedly, “Then you don