He looked in wonder at angry people, wonder and uneasiness, as normal people look at the insane.
Noah moved slowly, spoke seldom, and then so slowly that people who did not know him often thought him stupid.
He was not stupid, but he was strange.
He had little pride, no sexual urges.
He worked and slept in a curious rhythm that nevertheless sufficed him.
He was fond of his folks, but never showed it in any way.
Although an observer could not have told why, Noah left the impression of being misshapen, his head or his body or his legs or his mind; but no misshapen member could be recalled.
Pa thought he knew why Noah was strange, but Pa was ashamed, and never told.
For on the night when Noah was born, Pa, frightened at the spreading thighs, alone in the house, and horrified at the screaming wretch his wife had become, went mad with apprehension.
Using his hands, his strong fingers for forceps, he had pulled and twisted the baby.
The midwife, arriving late, had found the baby’s head pulled out of shape, its neck stretched, its body warped; and she had pushed the head back and molded the body with her hands.
But Pa always remembered, and was ashamed.
And he was kinder to Noah than to the others.
In Noah’s broad face, eyes too far apart, and long fragile jaw, Pa thought he saw the twisted, warped skull of the baby.
Noah could do all that was required of him, could read and write, could work and figure, but he didn’t seem to care; there was a listlessness in him toward things people wanted and needed.
He lived in a strange silent house and looked out of it through calm eyes.
He was a stranger to all the world, but he was not lonely.
The four came across the yard, and Grampa demanded,
“Where is he?
Goddamn it, where is he?” And his fingers fumbled for his pants button, and forgot and strayed into his pocket.
And then he saw Tom standing in the door.
Grampa stopped and he stopped the others.
His little eyes glittered with malice. “Lookut him,” he said. “A jailbird.
Ain’t been no Joads in jail for a hell of a time.” His mind jumped. “Got no right to put ’im in jail.
He done just what I’d do.
Sons-a-bitches got no right.” His mind jumped again. “An’ ol’ Turnbull, stinkin’ skunk, braggin’ how he’ll shoot ya when ya come out.
Says he got Hatfield blood.
Well, I sent word to him. I says,
‘Don’t mess around with no Joad.
Maybe I got McCoy blood for all I know.’
I says,
‘You lay your sights anywheres near Tommy an’ I’ll take it an’ I’ll ram it up your ass,’ I says.
Scairt ’im, too.”
Granma, not following the conversation, bleated,
“Pu-raise Gawd fur vittory.”
Grampa walked up and slapped Tom on the chest, and his eyes grinned with affection and pride.
“How are ya, Tommy?”
“O.K.” said Tom. “How ya keepin’ yaself ?”
“Full a piss an’ vinegar,” said Grampa.
His mind jumped. “Jus’ like I said, they ain’t a gonna keep no Joad in jail.
I says,
‘Tommy’ll come a-bustin’ outa that jail like a bull through a corral fence.’
An’ you done it.
Get outa my way, I’m hungry.” He crowded past, sat down, loaded his plate with pork and two big biscuits and poured the thick gravy over the whole mess, and before the others could get in, Grampa’s mouth was full.
Tom grinned affectionately at him.
“Ain’t he a heller?” he said.
And Grampa’s mouth was so full that he couldn’t even splutter, but his mean little eyes smiled, and he nodded his head violently.
Granma said proudly,
“A wicketer, cussin’er man never lived.
He’s goin’ to hell on a poker, praise Gawd!