Weddin’ come due, or overdue, an’ there’s your preacher.
Baby come, an’ you got a christener right under the roof.
Me, I always said they was preachers an’ preachers.
Got to pick ’em.
I kinda like this fella.
He ain’t stiff.”
Pa dug his stick into the dust and rolled it between his fingers so that it bored a little hole.
“They’s more to this than is he lucky, or is he a nice fella,” Pa said.
“We got to figger close.
It’s a sad thing to figger close.
Le’s see, now.
There’s Grampa an’ Granma—that’s two.
An’ me an’ John an’ Ma—that’s five.
An’ Noah an’ Tommy an’ Al—that’s eight.
Rosasharn an’ Connie is ten, an’ Ruthie an’ Winfiel’ is twelve.
We got to take the dogs ’cause what’ll we do else?
Can’t shoot a good dog, an’ there ain’t nobody to give ’em to.
An’ that’s fourteen.”
“Not countin’ what chickens is left, an’ two pigs,” said Noah.
Pa said,
“I aim to get those pigs salted down to eat on the way.
We gonna need meat.
Carry the salt kegs right with us.
But I’m wonderin’ if we can all ride, an’ the preacher too.
An’ kin we feed a extra mouth?” Without turning his head he asked, “Kin we, Ma?”
Ma cleared her throat.
“It ain’t kin we?
It’s will we?” she said firmly. “As far as ‘kin,’ we can’t do nothin’, not go to California or nothin’; but as far as ‘will,’ why, we’ll do what we will.
An’ as far as ‘will’—it’s a long time our folks been here and east before, an’ I never heerd tell of no Joads or no Hazletts, neither, ever refusin’ food an’ shelter or a lift on the road to anybody that asked.
They’s been mean Joads, but never that mean.”
Pa broke in,
“But s’pose there just ain’t room?” He had twisted his neck to look up at her, and he was ashamed. Her tone had made him ashamed. “S’pose we jus’ can’t all get in the truck?”
“There ain’t room now,” she said. “There ain’t room for more’n six, an’ twelve is goin’ sure.
One more ain’t gonna hurt; an’ a man, strong an’ healthy, ain’t never no burden.
An’ any time when we got two pigs an’ over a hunderd dollars, an’ we wonderin’ if we kin feed a fella —” She stopped, and Pa turned back, and his spirit was raw from the whipping.
Granma said,
“A preacher is a nice thing to be with us.
He give a nice grace this morning.”
Pa looked at the face of each one for dissent, and then he said,
“Want to call ’im over, Tommy?
If he’s goin’, he ought ta be here.”
Tom got up from his hams and went toward the house, calling,
“Casy—oh, Casy!”
A muffled voice replied from behind the house.
Tom walked to the corner and saw the preacher sitting back against the wall, looking at the flashing evening star in the light sky.
“Calling me?” Casy asked.
“Yeah.
We think long as you’re goin’ with us, you ought to be over with us, helpin’ to figger things out.”
Casy got to his feet.
He knew the government of families, and he knew he had been taken into the family.