The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [228]
Ma looked at them, huddled against the wall. “Go wash ya face.’’
“No,’’ Tom said. “They got to hear. They got to know. They might blab if they don’ know.’’
“What the hell is this?’’ Pa demanded.
“I’m a-gonna tell. Las’ night I went out to see what all the yellin’ was about. An’ I come on Casy.’’
“The preacher?’’
“Yeah, Pa. The preacher, on’y he was a-leadin’ the strike. They come for him.’’
Pa demanded, “Who come for him?’’
“I dunno. Same kinda guys that turned us back on the road that night. Had pick handles.’’ He paused. “They killed ’im. Busted his head. I was standin’ there. I went nuts. Grabbed the pick handle.’’ He looked bleakly back at the night, the darkness, the flashlights, as he spoke. “I—I clubbed a guy.’’
Ma’s breath caught in her throat. Pa stiffened. “Kill ’im?’’ he asked softly.
“I—don’t know. I was nuts. Tried to.’’
Ma asked, “Was you saw?’’
“I dunno. I dunno. I guess so. They had the lights on us.’’
For a moment Ma stared into his eyes. “Pa,’’ she said, “break up some boxes. We got to get breakfas’. You got to go to work. Ruthie, Winfiel’. If anybody asts you—Tom is sick—you hear? If you tell—he’ll—get sent to jail. You hear?’’
“Yes, ma’am.’’
“Keep your eye on ’em, John. Don’ let ’em talk to nobody.’’ She built the fire as Pa broke the boxes that had held the goods. She made her dough, put a pot of coffee to boil. The light wood caught and roared its flame in the chimney.
Pa finished breaking the boxes. He came near to Tom. “Casy—he was a good man. What’d he wanta mess with that stuff for?’’
Tom said dully, “They come to work for fi’ cents a box.’’
“That’s what we’re a-gettin’.’’
“Yeah. What we was a-doin’ was breakin’ strike. They give them fellas two an’ a half cents.’’
“You can’t eat on that.’’
“I know,’’ Tom said wearily. “That’s why they struck. Well, I think they bust that strike las’ night. We’ll maybe be gettin’ two an’ a half cents today.’’
“Why, the sons-a-bitches——’’
“Yeah! Pa. You see? Casy was still a—good man. Goddamn it, I can’t get that pitcher outa my head. Him layin’ there—head jus’ crushed flat an’ oozin’. Jesus!’’ He covered his eyes with his hand.
“Well, what we gonna do?’’ Uncle John asked.
Al was standing up now. “Well, by God, I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get out of it.’’
“No, you ain’t, Al,’’ Tom said. “We need you now. I’m the one. I’m a danger now. Soon’s I get on my feet I got to go.’’
Ma worked at the stove. Her head was half turned to hear. She put grease in the frying pan, and when it whispered with heat, she spooned the dough into it.
Tom went on, “You got to stay, Al. You got to take care a the truck.’’
“Well, I don’ like it.’’
“Can’t help it, Al. It’s your folks. You can help ’em. I’m a danger to ’em.’’
Al grumbled angrily. “I don’ know why I ain’t let to get me a job in a garage.’’
“Later, maybe.’’ Tom looked past him, and he saw Rose of Sharon lying on the mattress. Her eyes were huge—opened wide. “Don’t worry,’’ he called to her. “Don’t you worry. Gonna get you some milk today.’’ She blinked slowly, and didn’t answer him.
Pa said, “We got to know, Tom. Think ya killed this fella?’’
“I don’ know. It was dark. An’ somebody smacked me. I don’ know. I hope so. I hope I killed the bastard.’’
“Tom!’’ Ma called. “Don’t talk like that.’’
From the street came the sound of many cars moving slowly. Pa stepped to the window and looked out. “They’s a whole slew a new people comin’ in,’’ he said.
“I guess they bust the strike, awright,’’ said Tom. “I guess you’ll start at two an’ a half cents.’’
“But a fella could work at a run, an’ still he couldn’ eat.’’
“I know,’’ said Tom. “Eat win’fall peaches. That’ll keep ya up.’’
Ma turned the dough and stirred the coffee. “Listen to me,’’ she said. “I’m gettin’ cornmeal today. We’re a-gonna eat cornmeal mush. An’ soon’s we get enough for gas, we’re movin’ away. This ain’t a good place. An’ I ain’t gonna have Tom out alone. No, sir.’’
“Ya can’t do that, Ma. I tell you I’m jus’ a danger to ya.’’
Her chin was set. “That’s what we’ll do. Here, come eat this here, an