The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck [257]
Ma looked down at her feet. The water was half an inch deep on the car floor by now. “You, Ruthie—Winfiel’!’’ she called distractedly. “Come get on top of the pile. You’ll get cold.’’ She saw them safely up, sitting awkwardly beside Rose of Sharon. Ma said suddenly, “We got to git out.’’
“We can’t,’’ Pa said. “Like Al says, all our stuff’s here. We’ll pull off the boxcar door an’ make more room to set on.’’
The family huddled on the platforms, silent and fretful. The water was six inches deep in the car before the flood spread evenly over the embankment and moved into the cotton field on the other side. During that day and night the men slept soddenly, side by side on the boxcar door. And Ma lay close to Rose of Sharon. Sometimes Ma whispered to her and sometimes sat up quietly, her face brooding. Under the blanket she hoarded the remains of the store bread.
The rain had become intermittent now—little wet squalls and quiet times. On the morning of the second day Pa splashed through the camp and came back with ten potatoes in his pockets. Ma watched him sullenly while he chopped out part of the inner wall of the car, built a fire, and scooped water into a pan. The family ate the steaming boiled potatoes with their fingers. And when this last food was gone, they stared at the gray water; and in the night they did not lie down for a long time.
When the morning came they awakened nervously. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma.
Ma nodded her head. “Yes,’’ she said. “It’s time for it.’’ And then she turned to the car door, where the men lay. “We’re a-gettin’ outa here,’’ she said savagely, “gettin’ to higher groun’. An’ you’re comin’ or you ain’t comin’, but I’m takin’ Rosasharn an’ the little fellas outa here.’’
“We can’t!’’ Pa said weakly.
“Awright, then. Maybe you’ll pack Rosasharn to the highway, anyways, an’ then come back. It ain’t rainin’ now, an’ we’re a-goin’.’’
“Awright, we’ll go,’’ Pa said.
Al said, “Ma, I ain’t goin’.’’
“Why not?’’
“Well—Aggie—why, her an’ me——’’
Ma smiled. “ ’Course,’’ she said. “You stay here, Al. Take care of the stuff. When the water goes down—why, we’ll come back. Come quick, ’fore it rains again,’’ she told Pa. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re goin’ to a dry place.’’
“I can walk.’’
“Maybe a little, on the road. Git your back bent, Pa.’’
Pa slipped into the water and stood waiting. Ma helped Rose of Sharon down from the platform and steadied her across the car. Pa took her in his arms, held her as high as he could, and pushed his way carefully through the deep water, around the car, and to the highway. He set her down on her feet and held onto her. Uncle John carried Ruthie and followed. Ma slid down into the water, and for a moment her skirts billowed out around her.
“Winfiel’, set on my shoulder. Al—we’ll come back soon’s the water’s down. Al—’’ She paused. “If—if Tom comes—tell him we’ll be back. Tell him be careful. Winfiel’! Climb on my shoulder—there! Now, keep your feet still.’’ She staggered off through the breast-high water. At the highway embankment they helped her up and lifted Winfield from her shoulder.
They stood on the highway and looked back over the sheet of water, the dark red blocks of the cars, the trucks and automobiles deep in the slowly moving water. And as they stood, a little misting rain began to fall.
“We got to git along,’’ Ma said. “Rosasharn, you feel like you could walk?’’
“Kinda dizzy,’’ the girl said. “Feel like I been beat.’’
Pa complained, “Now we’re a-goin’, where we goin’?’’
“I dunno. Come on, give your han’ to Rosasharn.’’ Ma took the girl’s right arm to steady her, and Pa her left. “Goin’ someplace where it’s dry. Got to. You fellas ain’t had dry clothes on for two days.’’ They moved slowly along the highway. They could hear the rushing of the water in the stream beside the road. Ruthie and Winfield marched together, splashing their feet against the road. They went slowly along the road. The sky grew darker and the rain thickened. No traffic moved along the highway.
“We got to hurry,’’ Ma said. “If this here girl gits good an’ wet—I don’t know what