Mus’ be.
Nobody never washed it out.
An’ I put my han’ on that groun’ where my own pa’s blood is part of it.” He paused uneasily. “You fellas think I’m touched?”
Joad turned the meat, and his eyes were inward.
Casy, feet drawn up, stared into the fire.
Fifteen feet back from the men the fed cat was sitting, the long gray tail wrapped neatly around the front feet.
A big owl shrieked as it went overhead, and the firelight showed its white underside and the spread of its wings.
“No,” said Casy. “You’re lonely—but you ain’t touched.”
Muley’s tight little face was rigid.
“I put my han’ right on the groun’ where that blood is still.
An’ I seen my pa with a hole through his ches’, an’ I felt him shiver up against me like he done, an’ I seen him kind of settle back an’ reach with his han’s an’ his feet.
An’ I seen his eyes all milky with hurt, an’ then he was still an’ his eyes so clear—lookin’ up.
An’ me a little kid settin’ there, not cryin’ nor nothin’, jus’ settin’ there.” He shook his head sharply.
Joad turned the meat over and over. “An’ I went in the room where Joe was born.
Bed wasn’t there, but it was the room.
An’ all them things is true, an’ they’re right in the place they happened.
Joe come to life right there.
He give a big ol’ gasp an’ then he let out a squawk you could hear a mile, an’ his granma standin’ there says,
‘That’s a daisy, that’s a daisy,’ over an’ over.
An’ her so proud she bust three cups that night.”
Joad cleared his throat.
“Think we better eat her now.”
“Let her get good an’ done, good an’ brown, awmost black,” said Muley irritably. “I wanta talk.
I ain’t talked to nobody.
If I’m touched, I’m touched, an’ that’s the end of it.
Like a ol’ graveyard ghos’ goin’ to neighbors’ houses in the night.
Peters’, Jacobs’, Rance’s, Joad’s; an’ the houses all dark, standin’ like miser’ble ratty boxes, but they was good parties an’ dancin’.
An’ there was meetin’s and shoutin’ glory. They was weddin’s, all in them houses.
An’ then I’d want to go in town an’ kill folks. ’Cause what’d they take when they tractored the folks off the lan’?
What’d they get so their ‘margin a profit’ was safe?
They got Pa dyin’ on the groun’, an’ Joe yellin’ his first breath, an’ me jerkin’ like a billy goat under a bush in the night.
What’d they get?
God knows the lan’ ain’t no good.
Nobody been able to make a crop for years.
But them sons-a-bitches at their desks, they jus’ chopped folks in two for their margin a profit. They jus’ cut ’em in two.
Place where folks live is them folks.
They ain’t whole, out lonely on the road in a piled-up car.
They ain’t alive no more.
Them sons-a-bitches killed ’em.” And he was silent, his thin lips still moving, his chest still panting.
He sat and looked down at his hands in the firelight. “I—I ain’t talked to nobody for a long time,” he apologized softly. “I been sneakin’ aroun’ like a ol’ graveyard ghos’.”
Casy pushed the long boards into the fire and the flames licked up around them and leaped up toward the meat again.
The house cracked loudly as the cooler night air contracted the wood.
Casy said quietly,
“I gotta see them folks that’s gone out on the road.
I got a feelin’ I got to see them.
They gonna need help no preachin’ can give ’em.
Hope of heaven when their lives ain’t lived?
Holy Sperit when their own sperit is downcast an’ sad?
They gonna need help.
They got to live before they can afford to die.”