The Grapes of Wrath Page #52

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TOM:

(straightening up)

Casy, won't you say a few words?

CASY:

I ain't no more a preacher, you know.

TOM:

We know. But ain't none of our folks

ever been buried without a few words.

CASY:

(after a pause)

I'll say 'em--an' make it short.

(All bow and close

eyes)

This here ol' man jus' lived a life

an' jus' died out of it. I don't

know whether he was good or bad, an'

it don't matter much. Heard a fella

say a poem once, an' he says, "All

that lives is holy." But I wouldn't

pray for jus' a ol' man that's dead,

because he's awright. If I was to

pray I'd pray for the folks that's

alive an' don't know which way to

turn. Grampa here, he ain't got no

more trouble like that. He's got his

job all cut out for 'im--so cover

'im up and let 'im get to it.

OMNES:

Amen.

The scene fades out.

HIGHWAY 66, in daylight, fades in: an Oklahoma stretch,

revealing a number of jalopies rattling westward. The Joad

truck approaches.

In the FRONT SEAT OF THE TRUCK Tom is now driving. Granma is

dozing again, and Ma is looking thoughtfully ahead.

MA:

Tommy.

TOMMY:

What is it, Ma?

MA:

Wasn't that the state line we just

passed?

TOM:

(after a pause)

Yes'm, that was it.

MA:

Your pa tol' me you didn't ought to

cross it if you're paroled. Says

they'll send you up again.

TOM:

Forget it, Ma. I got her figgered

out. Long as I keep outa trouble,

ain't nobody gonna say a thing. All

I gotta do is keep my nose clean.

MA:

(worriedly)

Maybe they got crimes in California

we don't know about. Crimes we don't

even know *is* crimes.

TOM:

(laughing)

Forget it, Ma. Jus' think about the

nice things out there. Think about

them grapes and oranges--an' ever'body

got work--

GRANMA:

(waking suddenly)

I gotta git out!

TOM:

First gas station, Granma--

GRANMA:

I gotta git *out*, I tell ya! I gotta

git *out*!

TOM:

(foot on brakes)

Awright! Awright!

As the truck slows to a stop a motorcycle cop approaches

after them. Looking back, Tom sees him bearing toward them.

He looks grimly at Ma.

TOM:

They shore don't waste no time!

(As Granma whines)

Take her out.

COP:

(astraddle his

motorcycle)

Save your strength, lady.

(to Tom)

Get goin', buddy. No campin' here.

TOM:

(relieved)

We ain't campin'. We jus' stoppin' a

minute--

COP:

Lissen, I heard that before--

GRANMA:

I tell ya I gotta git out!

The cop looks startled, puzzled, but Tom shrugs a disclaimer

for responsibility in that quarter.

TOM:

(mildly)

She's kinda ol'--

GRANMA:

(whimpering)

I tell ya--

COP:

Okay, okay!

GRANMA:

(triumphantly)

Puh-raise the Lawd for vittory!

As Ma helps Granma out the other side, Tom and the cop

exchange a glance and snother shrug at the foibles of women

and then look studiedly into space.

The scene dissolves to a MONTAGE: superimposed on the marker

of U.S. Highway 66 an assortment of roadside signs flashes

by:
Bar-B-Q, Joe's Eats, Dr. Pepper, Gas, Coca Cola, This

Highway is Patrolled, End of 25 Mile Zone, Lucky Strikes,

Used Cars, Nutburger, Motel, Drive-Inn, Free Water, We Fix

Flats, etc.

A HAND-PAINTED SIGN reads: "CAMP 50¢." It is night. We hear

the sound of guitar music. In the CAMP GROUND a small wooden

house dominates the scene. There are no facilities; the

migrants simply pitch makeshift tents and park their jalopies

wherever there is a space. It is after supper and a dozen or

more men sit on the steps of the house listening to Connie

play a road song on a borrowed guitar. The music softens the

tired, drawn faces of the men and drives away some of their

shyness. In the dark, outside the circle of light from the

gasoline lantern on the porch, some of the women and children

sit and enjoy the luxury of this relative gaiety. The

proprietor sits tipped back in a straight chair on the porch.

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