The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [159]
“Sure. Sure, I know. Got to get on my feet. Get a little money. Would a been better maybe to stay home an’ study ’bout tractors. Three dollars a day they get, an’ pick up extra money, too.’’ Rose of Sharon’s eyes were calculating. When he looked down at her he saw in her eyes a measuring of him, a calculation of him. “But I’m gonna study,’’ he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.’’
She said fiercely, “We got to have a house ’fore the baby comes. We ain’t gonna have this baby in no tent.’’
“Sure,’’ he said. “Soon’s I get on my feet.’’ He went out of the tent and looked down at Ma, crouched over the brush fire. Rose of Sharon rolled on her back and stared at the top of the tent. And then she put her thumb in her mouth for a gag and she cried silently.
Ma knelt beside the fire, breaking twigs to keep the flame up under the stew kettle. The fire flared and dropped and flared and dropped. The children, fifteen of them, stood silently and watched. And when the smell of the cooking stew came to their noses, their noses crinkled slightly. The sunlight glistened on hair tawny with dust. The children were embarrassed to be there, but they did not go. Ma talked quietly to a little girl who stood inside the lusting circle. She was older than the rest. She stood on one foot, caressing the back of her leg with a bare instep. Her arms were clasped behind her. She watched Ma with steady small gray eyes. She suggested, “I could break up some bresh if you want me, ma’am.’’
Ma looked up from her work. “You wanta get ast to eat, huh?’’
“Yes, ma’am,’’ the girl said steadily.
Ma slipped the twigs under the pot and the flame made a puttering sound. “Didn’ you have no breakfast?’’
“No, ma’am. They ain’t no work hereabouts. Pa’s in tryin’ to sell some stuff to git gas so’s we can git ’long.’’
Ma looked up. “Didn’ none of these here have no breakfast?’’
The circle of children shifted nervously and looked away from the boiling kettle. One small boy said boastfully, “I did—me an’ my brother did—an’ them two did, ’cause I seen ’em. We et good. We’re a-goin’ south tonight.’’
Ma smiled. “Then you ain’t hungry. They ain’t enough here to go around.’’
The small boy’s lip stuck out. “We et good,’’ he said, and he turned and ran and dived into a tent. Ma looked after him so long that the oldest girl reminded her.
“The fire’s down, ma’am. I can keep it up if you want.’’
Ruthie and Winfield stood inside the circle, comporting themselves with proper frigidity and dignity. They were aloof, and at the same time possessive. Ruthie turned cold and angry eyes on the little girl. Ruthie squatted down to break up the twigs for Ma.
Ma lifted the kettle lid and stirred the stew with a stick. “I’m sure glad some of you ain’t hungry. That little fella ain’t, anyways.’’
The girl sneered. “Oh, him! He was a-braggin’. High an’ mighty. If he don’t have no supper—know what he done? Las’ night, come out an’ says they got chicken to eat. Well, sir, I looked in whilst they was a-eatin’ an’ it was fried dough jus’ like ever’body else.’’
“Oh!’’ And Ma looked down toward the tent where the small boy had gone. She looked back at the little girl. “How long you been in California? ’’ she asked.
“Oh, ’bout six months. We lived in a gov’ment camp a while, an’ then we went north, an’ when we come back it was full up. That’s a nice place to live, you bet.’’
“Where’s that?’’ Ma asked. And she took the sticks from Ruthie’s hand and fed the fire. Ruthie glared with hatred at the older girl.
“Over by Weedpatch. Got nice toilets an’ baths, an’ you kin wash clothes in a tub, an’ they’s water right handy, good drinkin’ water; an’ nights the folks plays music an’ Sat’dy night they give a dance. Oh, you never seen anything so nice. Got a place for kids to play, an’ them toilets with paper. Pull down a little jigger an’ the water comes right in the toilet, an’ they ain’t no cops let to come look in your tent any time they want, an’ the fella runs the camp is so polite, comes a-visitin’ an’ talks an’ ain’t high an’ mighty. I wisht we could go live there again.