The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [242]
“Tom,’’ she said. “What you aimin’ to do?’’
He was quiet for a long time. “I been thinkin’ how it was in that gov’ment camp, how our folks took care a theirselves, an’ if they was a fight they fixed it theirself; an’ they wasn’t no cops wagglin’ their guns, but they was better order than them cops ever give. I been a-wonderin’ why we can’t do that all over. Throw out the cops that ain’t our people. All work together for our own thing—all farm our own lan’.’’
“Tom,’’ Ma repeated, “what you gonna do?’’
“What Casy done,’’ he said.
“But they killed him.’’
“Yeah,’’ said Tom. “He didn’ duck quick enough. He wasn’ doing nothin’ against the law, Ma. I been thinkin’ a hell of a lot, thinkin’ about our people livin’ like pigs, an’ the good rich lan’ layin’ fallow, or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hunderd thousan’ good farmers is starvin’. An’ I been wonderin’ if all our folks got together an’ yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of ’em at the Hooper ranch——’’
Ma said, “Tom, they’ll drive you, an’ cut you down like they done to young Floyd.’’
“They gonna drive me anyways. They drivin’ all our people.’’
“You don’t aim to kill nobody, Tom?’’
“No. I been thinkin’, long as I’m a outlaw anyways, maybe I could— Hell, I ain’t thought it out clear, Ma. Don’ worry me now. Don’ worry me.’’
They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, “How’m I gonna know ’bout you? They might kill ya an’ I wouldn’ know. They might hurt ya. How’m I gonna know?’’
Tom laughed uneasily, “Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one—an’ then——’’
“Then what, Tom?’’
“Then it don’ matter. Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where—wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’—I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build—why, I’ll be there. See? God, I’m talkin’ like Casy. Comes of thinkin’ about him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes. ’’
“I don’ un’erstan’,’’ Ma said. “I don’ really know.’’
“Me neither,’’ said Tom. “It’s jus’ stuff I been thinkin’ about. Get thinkin’ a lot when you ain’t movin’ aroun’. You got to get back, Ma.’’
“You take the money then.’’
He was silent for a moment. “Awright,’’ he said.
“An’, Tom, later—when it’s blowed over, you’ll come back. You’ll find us?’’
“Sure,’’ he said. “Now you better go. Here, gimme your han’.’’ He guided her toward the entrance. Her fingers clutched his wrist. He swept the vines aside and followed her out. “Go up to the field till you come to a sycamore on the edge, an’ then cut acrost the stream. Good-by.’’
“Good-by,’’ she said, and she walked quickly away. Her eyes were wet and burning, but she did not cry. Her footsteps were loud and careless on the leaves as she went through the brush. And as she went, out of the dim sky the rain began to fall, big drops and few, splashing on the dry leaves heavily. Ma stopped and stood still in the dripping thicket. She turned about—took three steps back toward the mound of vines; and then she turned quickly and went back toward the boxcar camp. She went straight out to the culvert and climbed up on the road. The rain had passed now, but the sky was overcast. Behind her on the road she heard footsteps, and she turned nervously. The blinking of a dim flashlight played on the road. Ma turned back and started for home. In a moment a man caught up with her. Politely, he kept his light on the ground and did not play it in her face.
“Evenin’,’’ he said.
Ma said, “Howdy.’’
“Looks like we might have a little rain.