The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [254]
“How—is she?’’ Pa asked.
Ma did not look up at him again. “Awright, I think. Sleepin’.’’
The air was fetid and close with the smell of the birth. Uncle John clambered in and held himself upright against the side of the car. Mrs. Wainwright left her work and came to Pa. She pulled him by the elbow toward the corner of the car. She picked up a lantern and held it over an apple box in the corner. On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy.
“Never breathed,’’ said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.’’
Uncle John turned and shuffled tiredly down the car to the dark end. The rain whished softly on the roof now, so softly that they could hear Uncle John’s tired sniffling from the dark.
Pa looked up at Mrs. Wainwright. He took the lantern from her hand and put it on the floor. Ruthie and Winfield were asleep on their own mattress, their arms over their eyes to cut out the light.
Pa walked slowly to Rose of Sharon’s mattress. He tried to squat down, but his legs were too tired. He knelt instead. Ma fanned her square of cardboard back and forth. She looked at Pa for a moment, and her eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s eyes.
Pa said, “We—done—what we could.’’
“I know.’’
“We worked all night. An’ a tree cut out the bank.’’
“I know.’’
“You can hear it under the car.’’
“I know. I heard it.’’
“Think she’s gonna be all right?’’
“I dunno.’’
“Well—couldn’ we—of did nothin’?’’
Ma’s lips were stiff and white. “No. They was on’y one thing to do— ever—an’ we done it.’’
“We worked till we dropped, an’ a tree— Rain’s lettin’ up some.’’ Ma looked at the ceiling, and then down again. Pa went on, compelled to talk. “I dunno how high she’ll rise. Might flood the car.’’
“I know.’’
“You know ever’thing.’’
She was silent, and the cardboard moved slowly back and forth.
“Did we slip up?’’ he pleaded. “Is they anything we could of did?’’
Ma looked at him strangely. Her white lips smiled in a dreaming compassion. “Don’t take no blame. Hush! It’ll be awright. They’s changes—all over.’’
“Maybe the water—maybe we’ll have to go.’’
“When it’s time to go—we’ll go. We’ll do what we got to do. Now hush. You might wake her.’’
Mrs. Wainwright broke twigs and poked them in the sodden, smoking fire.
From outside came the sound of an angry voice. “I’m goin’ in an’ see the son-of-a-bitch myself.’’
And then, just outside the door, Al’s voice, “Where you think you’re goin’?’’
“Goin’ in to see that bastard Joad.’’
“No, you ain’t. What’s the matter’th you?’’
“If he didn’t have that fool idear about the bank, we’d a got out. Now our car is dead.’’
“You think ours is burnin’ up the road?’’
“I’m a-goin’ in.’’
Al’s voice was cold. “You’re gonna fight your way in.’’
Pa got slowly to his feet and went to the door. “Awright, Al. I’m comin’ out. It’s awright, Al.’’ Pa slid down the cat-walk. Ma heard him say, “We got sickness. Come on down here.’’
The rain scattered lightly on the roof now, and a new-risen breeze blew it along in sweeps. Mrs. Wainwright came from the stove and looked down at Rose of Sharon. “Dawn’s a-comin’ soon, ma’am. Whyn’t you git some sleep? I’ll set with her.’’
“No,’’ Ma said. “I ain’t tar’d.’’
“In a pig’s eye,’’ said Mrs. Wainwright. “Come on, you lay down awhile.’’
Ma fanned the air slowly with her cardboard. “You been frien’ly,’’ she said. “We thank you.’’
The stout woman smiled. “No need to thank. Ever’body’s in the same wagon. S’pose we was down. You’d a give us a han’.’’
“Yes,’’ Ma said, “we would.’’
“Or anybody.’’
“Or anybody. Use’ ta be the fambly was fust. It ain’t so now. It’s anybody. Worse off we get, the more we got to do.’’
“We couldn’ a saved it.’’
“I know,’’ said Ma.
Ruthie sighed deeply and took her arm from over her eyes. She looked blindly at the lamp for a moment, and then turned her head and looked at Ma. “Is it bore?’’ she demanded. “Is the baby out?’’
Mrs. Wainwright picked up a sack and spread it over the apple box in the corner.
“Where’s the baby?’’ Ruthie demanded.
Ma wet her lips. “They ain’t no baby. They never was no baby. We was wrong.’’
“Shucks!’’ Ruthie yawned.