That night they ate nothing but pan biscuits, cold and hard, held over from breakfast.
They flopped down on the mattresses and slept in their clothes.
The Wilsons didn’t even put up their tent.
Joads and Wilsons were in flight across the Panhandle, the rolling gray country, lined and cut with old flood scars.
They were in flight out of Oklahoma and across Texas.
The land turtles crawled through the dust and the sun whipped the earth, and in the evening the heat went out of the sky and the earth sent up a wave of heat from itself.
Two days the families were in flight, but on the third the land was too huge for them and they settled into a new technique of living; the highway became their home and movement their medium of expression.
Little by little they settled into the new life.
Ruthie and Winfield first, then Al, then Connie and Rose of Sharon, and, last, the older ones.
The land rolled like great stationary ground swells.
Wildorado and Vega and Boise and Glenrio.
That’s the end of Texas.
New Mexico and the mountains.
In the far distance, waved up against the sky, the mountains stood.
And the wheels of the cars creaked around, and the engines were hot, and the steam spurted around the radiator caps.
They crawled to the Pecos river, and crossed at Santa Rosa.
And they went on for twenty miles.
Al Joad drove the touring car, and his mother sat beside him, and Rose of Sharon beside her.
Ahead the truck crawled.
The hot air folded in waves over the land, and the mountains shivered in the heat.
Al drove listlessly, hunched back in the seat, his hand hooked easily over the cross-bar of the steering wheel; his gray hat, peaked and pulled to an incredibly cocky shape, was low over one eye; and as he drove, he turned and spat out the side now and then.
Ma, beside him, had folded her hands in her lap, had retired into a resistance against weariness.
She sat loosely, letting the movement of the car sway her body and her head.
She squinted her eyes ahead at the mountains.
Rose of Sharon was braced against the movement of the car, her feet pushed tight against the floor, and her right elbow hooked over the door.
And her plump face was tight against the movement, and her head jiggled sharply because her neck muscles were tight.
She tried to arch her whole body as a rigid container to preserve her fetus from shock.
She turned her head toward her mother.
“Ma,” she said.
Ma’s eyes lighted up and she drew her attention toward Rose of Sharon.
Her eyes went over the tight, tired, plump face, and she smiled.
“Ma,” the girl said, “when we get there, all you gonna pick fruit an’ kinda live in the country, ain’t you?”
Ma smiled a little satirically.
“We ain’t there yet,” she said. “We don’t know what it’s like.
We got to see.”
“Me an’ Connie don’t want to live in the country no more,” the girl said. “We got it all planned up what we gonna do.”
For a moment a little worry came on Ma’s face.
“Ain’t you gonna stay with us—with the family?” she asked.
“Well, we talked all about it, me an’ Connie.
Ma, we wanna live in a town.” She went on excitedly, “Connie gonna get a job in a store or maybe a fact’ry.
An’ he’s gonna study at home, maybe radio, so he can git to be a expert an’ maybe later have his own store.
An’ we’ll go to pitchers whenever.
An’ Connie says I’m gonna have a doctor when the baby’s born; an’ he says we’ll see how times is, an’ maybe I’ll go to a hospiddle.
An’ we’ll have a car, little car.
An’ after he studies at night, why—it’ll be nice, an’ he tore a page outa Western Love Stories, an’ he’s gonna send off for a course, ’cause it don’t cost nothin’ to send off.
Says right on that clipping.
I seen it.
An’, why—they even get you a job when you take that course—radios, it is—nice clean work, and a future.
An’ we’ll live in town an’ go to pitchers whenever, an’—well, I’m gonna have a ’lectric iron, an’ the baby’ll have all new stuff.
Connie says all new stuff—white an’—Well, you seen in the catalogue all the stuff they got for a baby.