John Steinbeck Fullscreen Grapes of Wrath (1939)

Sairy ain’t well,” he added.

The tent flaps opened and a wizened woman came out—a face wrinkled as a dried leaf and eyes that seemed to flame in her face, black eyes that seemed to look out of a well of horror.

She was small and shuddering.

She held herself upright by a tent flap, and the hand holding onto the canvas was a skeleton covered with wrinkled skin.

When she spoke her voice had a beautiful low timbre, soft and modulated, and yet with ringing overtones.

“Tell ’em welcome,” she said.

“Tell ’em good an’ welcome.”

Tom drove off the road and brought his truck into the field and lined it up with the touring car.

And people boiled down from the truck; Ruthie and Winfield too quickly, so that their legs gave way and they shrieked at the pins and needles that ran through their limbs.

Ma went quickly to work.

She untied the three-gallon bucket from the back of the truck and approached the squealing children.

“Now you go git water—right down there.

Ask nice.

Say, ‘Please, kin we git a bucket a water?’ and say, ‘Thank you.’

An’ carry it back together helpin’, an’ don’t spill none.

An’ if you see stick wood to burn, bring it on.”

The children stamped away toward the shack.

By the tent a little embarrassment had set in, and social intercourse had paused before it started.

Pa said,

“You ain’t Oklahomy folks?”

And Al, who stood near the car, looked at the license plates.

“Kansas,” he said.

The lean man said,

“Galena, or right about there.

Wilson, Ivy Wilson.”

“We’re Joads,” said Pa. “We come from right near Sallisaw.”

“Well, we’re proud to meet you folks,” said Ivy Wilson. “Sairy, these is Joads.”

“I knowed you wasn’t Oklahomy folks.

You talk queer, kinda—that ain’t no blame, you understan’.”

“Ever’body says words different,” said Ivy. “Arkansas folks says ’em different, and Oklahomy folks says ’em different.

And we seen a lady from Massachusetts, an’ she said ’em differentest of all.

Couldn’ hardly make out what she was sayin’.”

Noah and Uncle John and the preacher began to unload the truck.

They helped Grampa down and sat him on the ground and he sat limply, staring ahead of him.

“You sick, Grampa?” Noah asked.

“You goddamn right,” said Grampa weakly. “Sicker’n hell.”

Sairy Wilson walked slowly and carefully toward him.

“How’d you like ta come in our tent?” she asked. “You kin lay down on our mattress an’ rest.”

He looked up at her, drawn by her soft voice.

“Come on now,” she said. “You’ll git some rest.

We’ll he’p you over.”

Without warning Grampa began to cry.

His chin wavered and his old lips tightened over his mouth and he sobbed hoarsely.

Ma rushed over to him and put her arms around him.

She lifted him to his feet, her broad back straining, and she half lifted, half helped him into the tent.

Uncle John said,

“He must be good an’ sick.

He ain’t never done that before.

Never seen him blubberin’ in my life.” He jumped up on the truck and tossed a mattress down.

Ma came out of the tent and went to Casy.