None of this here talk gonna keep us from goin’ there.
When we get there, we’ll get there.
When we get a job we’ll work, an’ when we don’t get a job we’ll set on our tail.
This here talk ain’t gonna do no good no way.”
Tom lay back and filled his mouth with water, and he spurted it into the air and he laughed.
“Uncle John don’t talk much, but he talks sense.
Yes, by God! He talks sense.
We goin’ on tonight, Pa?”
“Might’s well.
Might’s well get her over.”
“Well, I’m goin’ up in the brush an’ get some sleep then.” Tom stood up and waded to the sandy shore.
He slipped his clothes on his wet body and winced under the heat of the cloth.
The others followed him.
In the water, the man and his boy watched the Joads disappear.
And the boy said,
“Like to see ’em in six months. Jesus!”
The man wiped his eye corners with his forefinger.
“I shouldn’ of did that,” he said. “Fella always wants to be a wise guy, wants to tell folks stuff.”
“Well, Jesus, Pa!
They asked for it.”
“Yeah, I know.
But like that fella says, they’re a-goin’ anyways.
Nothin’ won’t be changed from what I tol’ ’em, ’cept they’ll be mis’able ’fore they hafta.”
Tom walked in among the willows, and he crawled into a cave of shade to lie down.
And Noah followed him.
“Gonna sleep here,” Tom said.
“Tom!”
“Yeah?”
“Tom, I ain’t a-goin’ on.”
Tom sat up.
“What you mean?”
“Tom, I ain’t a-gonna leave this here water.
I’m a-gonna walk on down this here river.”
“You’re crazy,” Tom said.
“Get myself a piece a line.
I’ll catch fish.
Fella can’t starve beside a nice river.”
Tom said,
“How ’bout the fam’ly?
How ’bout Ma?”
“I can’t he’p it.
I can’t leave this here water.” Noah’s wideset eyes were half closed. “You know how it is, Tom.
You know how the folks are nice to me.
But they don’t really care for me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I ain’t.
I know how I am.
I know they’re sorry.
But—Well, I ain’t a-goin’.
You tell Ma—Tom.”