“I dunno.”
“Well—couldn’ we—of did nothin’?”
Ma’s lips were stiff and white.
“No.
They was on’y one thing to do—ever—an’ we done it.”
“We worked till we dropped, an’ a tree—Rain’s lettin’ up some.” Ma looked at the ceiling, and then down again.
Pa went on, compelled to talk. “I dunno how high she’ll rise.
Might flood the car.”
“I know.”
“You know ever’thing.”
She was silent, and the cardboard moved slowly back and forth.
“Did we slip up?” he pleaded. “Is they anything we could of did?”
Ma looked at him strangely.
Her white lips smiled in a dreaming compassion.
“Don’t take no blame.
Hush!
It’ll be awright.
They’s changes—all over.”
“Maybe the water—maybe we’ll have to go.”
“When it’s time to go—we’ll go.
We’ll do what we got to do.
Now hush.
You might wake her.”
Mrs. Wainwright broke twigs and poked them in the sodden, smoking fire.
From outside came the sound of an angry voice.
“I’m goin’ in an’ see the son-of-a-bitch myself.”
And then, just outside the door, Al’s voice,
“Where you think you’re goin’?”
“Goin’ in to see that bastard Joad.”
“No, you ain’t.
What’s the matter’th you?”
“If he didn’t have that fool idear about the bank, we’d a got out.
Now our car is dead.”
“You think ours is burnin’ up the road?”
“I’m a-goin’ in.”
Al’s voice was cold.
“You’re gonna fight your way in.”
Pa got slowly to his feet and went to the door.
“Awright, Al.
I’m comin’ out.
It’s awright, Al.” Pa slid down the catwalk.
Ma heard him say, “We got sickness.
Come on down here.”
The rain scattered lightly on the roof now, and a new-risen breeze blew it along in sweeps.
Mrs. Wainwright came from the stove and looked down at Rose of Sharon.
“Dawn’s a-comin’ soon, ma’am.
Whyn’t you git some sleep?
I’ll set with her.”
“No,” Ma said. “I ain’t tar’d.”
“In a pig’s eye,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Come on, you lay down awhile.”