“You see she don’t get so goddamn clean a fella can’t live in her,” Pa said jealously. “Hurry up, Al.
We’re goin’ out lookin’ for a job.”
Al wiped his mouth with his hand.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Pa turned to Uncle John.
“You a-comin’?”
“Yes, I’m a-comin’.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“I ain’t so good, but I’m comin’.”
Al got in the truck.
“Have to get gas,” he said. He started the engine.
Pa and Uncle John climbed in beside him and the truck moved away down the street.
Ma watched them go. And then she took a bucket and went to the wash trays under the open part of the sanitary unit.
She filled her bucket with hot water and carried it back to her camp.
And she was washing the dishes in the bucket when Rose of Sharon came back.
“I put your stuff on a plate,” Ma said. And then she looked closely at the girl.
Her hair was dripping and combed, and her skin was bright and pink.
She had put on the blue dress printed with little white flowers.
On her feet she wore the heeled slippers of her wedding.
She blushed under Ma’s gaze.
“You had a bath,” Ma said.
Rose of Sharon spoke huskily.
“I was in there when a lady come in an’ done it.
Know what you do?
You get in a little stall-like, an’ you turn handles, an’ water comes a-floodin’ down on you—hot water or col’ water, jus’ like you want it—an’ I done it!”
“I’m a-goin’ to myself,” Ma cried. “Jus’ soon as I get finish’ here.
You show me how.”
“I’m a-gonna do it ever’ day,” the girl said. “An’ that lady—she seen me, an’ she seen about the baby, an’—know what she said?
Said they’s a nurse comes ever’ week.
An’ I’m to go see that nurse an’ she’ll tell me jus’ what to do so’s the baby’ll be strong.
Says all the ladies here do that.
An’ I’m a-gonna do it.” The words bubbled out. “An’—know what—?
Las’ week they was a baby borned an’ the whole camp give a party, an’ they give clothes, an’ they give stuff for the baby—even give a baby buggy—wicker one.
Wasn’t new, but they give it a coat a pink paint, an’ it was jus’ like new.
An’ they give the baby a name, an’ had a cake.
Oh, Lord!” She subsided, breathing heavily.
Ma said,
“Praise God, we come home to our own people.
I’m a-gonna have a bath.”
“Oh, it’s nice,” the girl said.
Ma wiped the tin dishes and stacked them. She said,
“We’re Joads.
We don’t look up to nobody.
Grampa’s grampa, he fit in the Revolution.
We was farm people till the debt.
And then—them people. They done somepin to us.
Ever’ time they come seemed like they was a-whippin’ me—all of us.
An’ in Needles, that police. He done somepin to me, made me feel mean.
Made me feel ashamed.
An’ now I ain’t ashamed. These folks is our folks—is our folks.