In the boxcar camp the water stood in puddles, and the rain splashed in the mud. Gradually the little stream crept up the bank toward the low flat where the boxcars stood.

On the second day of the rain Al took the tarpaulin down from the middle of the car. He carried it out and spread it on the nose of the truck, and he came back into the car and sat down on his mattress. Now, without the separation, the two families in the car were one. The men sat together, and their spirits were damp. Ma kept a little fire going in the stove, kept a few twigs burning, and she conserved her wood. The rain poured down on the nearly flat roof of the boxcar.

On the third day the Wainwrights grew restless. “Maybe we better go ’long,” Mrs. Wainwright said.

And Ma tried to keep them. “Where’d you go an’ be sure of a tight roof?”

“I dunno, but I got a feelin’ we oughta go along.” They argued together, and Ma watched Al.

Ruthie and Winfield tried to play for a while, and then they too relapsed into sullen inactivity, and the rain drummed down on the roof.

On the third day the sound of the stream could be heard above the drumming rain. Pa and Uncle John stood in the open door and looked out on the rising stream. At both ends of the camp the water ran near to the highway, but at the camp it looped away so that the highway embankment surrounded the camp at the back and the stream closed it in on the front. And Pa said, “How’s it look to you, John? Seems to me if that crick comes up, she’ll flood us.”

Uncle John opened his mouth and rubbed his bristling chin. “Yeah,” he said. “Might at that.”

Rose of Sharon was down with a heavy cold, her face flushed and her eyes shining with fever. Ma sat beside her with a cup of hot milk. “Here,” she said. “Take this here. Got bacon grease in it for strength. Here, drink it!”

Rose of Sharon shook her head weakly. “I ain’t hungry.”

Pa drew a curved line in the air with his finger. “If we was all to get our shovels an’ throw up a bank, I bet we could keep her out. On’y have to go from up there down to there.”

“Yeah,” Uncle John agreed. “Might. Dunno if them other fellas’d wanta. They’d maybe ruther move somewheres else.”

“But these here cars is dry,” Pa insisted. “Couldn’ find no dry place as good as this. You wait.” From the pile of brush in the car he picked a twig. He ran down the cat-walk, splashed through the mud to the stream and he set his twig upright on the edge of the swirling water. In a moment he was back in the car. “Jesus, ya get wet through,” he said.

Both men kept their eyes on the little twig on the water’s edge. They saw the water move slowly up around it and creep up the bank. Pa squatted down in the doorway. “Comin’ up fast,” he said. “I think we oughta go talk to the other fellas. See if they’ll help ditch up. Got to git outa here if they won’t.” Pa looked down the long car to the Wainwright end. Al was with them, sitting beside Aggie. Pa walked into their precinct. “Water’s risin’,” he said. “How about if we throwed up a bank? We could do her if ever’body helped.”

Wainwright said, “We was jes’ talkin’. Seems like we oughta be gettin’ outa here.”

Pa said, “You been aroun’. You know what chancet we got a gettin’ a dry place to stay.”

“I know. But jes’ the same——”

Al said, “Pa, if they go, I’m a-goin’ too.”

Pa looked startled. “You can’t, Al. The truck— We ain’t fit to drive that truck.”

“I don’ care. Me an’ Aggie got to stick together.”

“Now you wait,” Pa said. “Come on over here.” Wainwright and Al got to their feet and approached the door. “See?” Pa said, pointing. “Jus’ a bank from there an’ down to there.” He looked at his stick. The water swirled about it now, and crept up the bank.

“Be a lot a work, an’ then she might come over anyways,” Wainwright protested.

“Well, we ain’t doin’ nothin’, might’s well be workin’. We ain’t gonna find us no nice place to live like this. Come on, now. Le’s go talk to the other fellas. We can do her if ever’body helps.”

Al said, “If Aggie goes, I’m a-goin’ too.”

Pa said, “Look, Al, if them fellas won’t dig, then we’ll all hafta go. Come on, le’s go talk to ’em.” They hunched their shoulders and ran down the cat-walk to the next car and up the walk into its open door.



Ma was at the stove, feeding a few sticks to the feeble flame. Ruthie crowded close beside her. “I’m hungry,” Ruthie whined.

“No, you ain’t,” Ma said. “You had good mush.”

“Wisht I had a box a Cracker Jack. There ain’t nothin’ to do. Ain’t no fun.”

“They’ll be fun,” Ma said. “You jus’ wait. Be fun purty soon. Git a house an’ a place, purty soon.”

“Wisht we had a dog,” Ruthie said.

“We’ll have a dog; have a cat, too.”

“Yella cat?”

“Don’t bother me,” Ma begged. “Don’t go plaguin’ me now, Ruthie. Rosasharn’s sick. Jus’ you be a good girl a little while. They’ll be fun.” Ruthie wandered, complaining, away.

From the mattress where Rose of Sharon lay covered up there came a quick sharp cry, cut off in the middle. Ma whirled and went to her. Rose of Sharon was holding her breath and her eyes were filled with terror.

“What is it?” Ma cried. The girl expelled her breath and caught it again. Suddenly Ma put her hand under the covers. Then she stood up. “Mis’ Wainwright,” she called. “Oh, Mis’ Wainwright!”

The fat little woman came down the car. “Want me?”

“Look!” Ma pointed at Rose of Sharon’s face. Her teeth were clamped on her lower lip and her forehead was wet with perspiration, and the shining terror was in her eyes.

“I think it’s come,” Ma said. “It’s early.”

The girl heaved a great sigh and relaxed. She released her lip and closed her eyes. Mrs. Wainwright bent over her.

“Did it kinda grab you all over—quick? Open up an’ answer me.” Rose of Sharon nodded weakly. Mrs. Wainwright turned to Ma. “Yep,” she said. “It’s come. Early, ya say?”

“Maybe the fever brang it.”

“Well, she oughta be up on her feet. Oughta be walkin’ aroun’.”

“She can’t,” Ma said. “She ain’t got the strength.”

“Well, she oughta.” Mrs. Wainwright grew quiet and stern with efficiency. “I he’ped with lots,” she said. “Come on, le’s close that door, nearly. Keep out the draf’.” The two women pushed on the heavy sliding door, boosted it along until only a foot was open. “I’ll git our lamp, too,” Mrs. Wainwright said. Her face was purple with excitement. “Aggie,” she called. “You take care of these here little fellas.”

Ma nodded, “Tha’s right. Ruthie! You an’ Winfiel’ go down with Aggie. Go on now.”

“Why?” they demanded.

“ ’Cause you got to. Rosasharn gonna have her baby.”

“I wanta watch, Ma. Please let me.”

“Ruthie! You git now. You git quick.” There was no argument against such a tone. Ruthie and Winfield went reluctantly down the car. Ma lighted the lantern. Mrs. Wainwright brought her Rochester lamp down and set it on the floor, and its big circular flame lighted the boxcar brightly.

Ruthie and Winfield stood behind the brush pile and peered over. “Gonna have a baby, an’ we’re a-gonna see,” Ruthie said softly. “Don’t you make no noise now. Ma won’t let us watch. If she looks this-a-way, you scrunch down behin’ the brush. Then we’ll see.”

“There ain’t many kids seen it,” Winfield said.

“There ain’t no kids seen it,” Ruthie insisted proudly. “On’y us.”

Down by the mattress, in the bright light of the lamp, Ma and Mrs. Wainwright held conference. Their voices were raised a little over the hollow beating of the rain. Mrs. Wainwright took a paring knife from her apron pocket and slipped it under the mattress. “Maybe it don’t do no good,” she said apologetically. “Our folks always done it. Don’t do no harm, anyways.”

Ma nodded. “We used a plow point. I guess anything sharp’ll work, long as it can cut birth pains. I hope it ain’t gonna be a long one.”

“You feelin’ awright now?”

Rose of Sharon nodded nervously. “Is it a-comin’?”

“Sure,” Ma said. “Gonna have a nice baby. You jus’ got to help us. Feel like you could get up an’ walk?”

“I can try.”

“That’s a good girl,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “That is a good girl. We’ll he’p you, honey. We’ll walk with ya.” They helped her to her feet and pinned a blanket over her shoulders. Then Ma held her arm from one side, and Mrs. Wainwright from the other. They walked her to the brush pile and turned slowly and walked her back, over and over; and the rain drummed deeply on the roof.

Ruthie and Winfield watched anxiously. “When’s she goin’ to have it?” he demanded.

“Sh! Don’t draw ’em. We won’t be let to look.”

Aggie joined them behind the brush pile. Aggie’s lean face and yellow hair showed in the lamplight, and her nose was long and sharp in the shadow of her head on the wall.

Ruthie whispered, “You ever saw a baby bore?”

“Sure,” said Aggie.

“Well, when’s she gonna have it?”

“Oh, not for a long, long time.”

“Well, how long?”

“Maybe not ’fore tomorrow mornin’.”

“Shucks!” said Ruthie. “Ain’t no good watchin’ now, then. Oh! Look!”

The walking women had stopped. Rose of Sharon had stiffened, and she whined with pain. They laid her down on the mattress and wiped her forehead while she grunted and clenched her fists. And Ma talked softly to her. “Easy,” Ma said. “Gonna be all right—all right. Jus’ grip ya han’s. Now, then, take your lip inta your teeth. Tha’s good—tha’s good.” The pain passed on. They let her rest awhile, and then helped her up again, and the three walked back and forth, back and forth between the pains.

Pa stuck his head in through the narrow opening. His hat dripped with water. “What ya shut the door for?” he asked. And then he saw the walking women.

Ma said, “Her time’s come.”

“Then—then we couldn’ go ’f we wanted to.”

“No.”

“Then we got to buil’ that bank.”

“You got to.”

Pa sloshed through the mud to the stream. His marking stick was four inches down. Twenty men stood in the rain. Pa cried, “We got to build her. My girl got her pains.” The men gathered about him.

“Baby?”

“Yeah. We can’t go now.”

A tall man said, “It ain’t our baby. We kin go.”

“Sure,” Pa said. “You can go. Go on. Nobody’s stoppin’ you. They’s only eight shovels.” He hurried to the lowest part of the bank and drove his shovel into the mud. The shovelful lifted with a sucking sound. He drove it again, and threw the mud into the low place on the stream bank. And beside him the other men ranged themselves. They heaped the mud up in a long embankment, and those who had no shovels cut live willow whips and wove them in a mat and kicked them into the bank. Over the men came a fury of work, a fury of battle. When one man dropped his shovel, another took it up. They had shed their coats and hats. Their shirts and trousers clung tightly to their bodies, their shoes were shapeless blobs of mud. A shrill scream came from the Joad car. The men stopped, listened uneasily, and then plunged to work again. And the little levee of earth extended until it connected with the highway embankment on either end. They were tired now, and the shovels moved more slowly. And the stream rose slowly. It edged above the place where the first dirt had been thrown.

Pa laughed in triumph. “She’d come over if we hadn’ a built up!” he cried.

The stream rose slowly up the side of the new wall, and tore at the willow mat. “Higher!” Pa cried. “We got to git her higher!”

The evening came, and the work went on. And now the men were beyond weariness. Their faces were set and dead. They worked jerkily, like machines. When it was dark the women set lanterns in the car doors, and kept pots of coffee handy. And the women ran one by one to the Joad car and wedged themselves inside.

The pains were coming close now, twenty minutes apart. And Rose of Sharon had lost her restraint. She screamed fiercely under the fierce pains. And the neighbor women looked at her and patted her gently and went back to their own cars.

Ma had a good fire going now, and all her utensils, filled with water, sat on the stove to heat. Every little while Pa looked in the car door. “All right?” he asked.

“Yeah! I think so,” Ma assured him.

As it grew dark, someone brought out a flashlight to work by. Uncle John plunged on, throwing mud on top of the wall.

“You take it easy,” Pa said. “You’ll kill yaself.”

“I can’t he’p it. I can’t stan’ that yellin’. It’s like—it’s like when——”

“I know,” Pa said. “But jus’ take it easy.”

Uncle John blubbered, “I’ll run away. By God, I got to work or I’ll run away.”

Pa turned from him. “How’s she stan’ on the last marker?”

The man with the flashlight threw the beam on the stick. The rain cut whitely through the light. “Comin’ up.”

“She’ll come up slower now,” Pa said. “Got to flood purty far on the other side.”

“She’s comin’ up, though.”

The women filled the coffee pots and set them out again. And as the night went on, the men moved slower and slower, and they lifted their heavy feet like draft horses. More mud on the levee, more willows interlaced. The rain fell steadily. When the flashlight turned on faces, the eyes showed staring, and the muscles on the cheeks were welted out.

For a long time the screams continued from the car, and at last they were still.

Pa said, “Ma’d call me if it was bore.” He went on shoveling the mud sullenly.

The stream eddied and boiled against the bank. Then, from up the stream there came a ripping crash. The beam of the flashlight showed a great cottonwood toppling. The men stopped to watch. The branches of the tree sank into the water and edged around with the current while the stream dug out the little roots. Slowly the tree was freed, and slowly it edged down the stream. The weary men watched, their mouths hanging open. The tree moved slowly down. Then a branch caught on a stump, snagged and held. And very slowly the roots swung around and hooked themselves on the new embankment. The water piled up behind. The tree moved and tore the bank. A little stream slipped through. Pa threw himself forward and jammed mud in the break. The water piled against the tree. And then the bank washed quickly down, washed around ankles, around knees. The men broke and ran, and the current worked smoothly into the flat, under the cars, under the automobiles.

Uncle John saw the water break through. In the murk he could see it. Uncontrollably his weight pulled him down. He went to his knees, and the tugging water swirled about his chest.

Pa saw him go. “Hey! What’s the matter?” He lifted him to his feet. “You sick? Come on, the cars is high.”

Uncle John gathered his strength. “I dunno,” he said apologetically. “Legs give out. Jus’ give out.” Pa helped him along toward the cars.

When the dike swept out, Al turned and ran. His feet moved heavily. The water was about his calves when he reached the truck. He flung the tarpaulin off the nose and jumped into the car. He stepped on the starter. The engine turned over and over, and there was no bark of the motor. He choked the engine deeply. The battery turned the sodden motor more and more slowly, and there was no cough. Over and over, slower and slower. Al set the spark high. He felt under the seat for the crank and jumped out. The water was higher than the running board. He ran to the front end. Crank case was under water now. Frantically he fitted the crank and twisted around and around, and his clenched hand on the crank splashed in the slowly flowing water at each turn. At last his frenzy gave out. The motor was full of water, the battery fouled by now. On slightly higher ground two cars were started and their lights on. They floundered in the mud and dug their wheels down until finally the drivers cut off the motors and sat still, looking into the headlight beams. And the rain whipped white streaks through the lights. Al went slowly around the truck, reached in, and turned off the ignition.

When Pa reached the cat-walk, he found the lower end floating. He stepped it down into the mud, under water. “Think ya can make it awright, John?” he asked.

“I’ll be awright. Jus’ go on.”

Pa cautiously climbed the cat-walk and squeezed himself in the narrow opening. The two lamps were turned low. Ma sat on the mattress beside Rose of Sharon, and Ma fanned her still face with a piece of cardboard. Mrs. Wainwright poked dry brush into the stove, and a dank smoke edged out around the lids and filled the car with a smell of burning tissue. Ma looked up at Pa when he entered, and then quickly down.

“How—is she?” Pa asked.

Ma did not look up at him again. “Awright, I think. Sleepin’.”

The air was fetid and close with the smell of the birth. Uncle John clambered in and held himself upright against the side of the car. Mrs. Wainwright left her work and came to Pa. She pulled him by the elbow toward the corner of the car. She picked up a lantern and held it over an apple box in the corner. On a newspaper lay a blue shriveled little mummy.

“Never breathed,” said Mrs. Wainwright softly. “Never was alive.”

Uncle John turned and shuffled tiredly down the car to the dark end. The rain whished softly on the roof now, so softly that they could hear Uncle John’s tired sniffling from the dark.

Pa looked up at Mrs. Wainwright. He took the lantern from her hand and put it on the floor. Ruthie and Winfield were asleep on their own mattress, their arms over their eyes to cut out the light.

Pa walked slowly to Rose of Sharon’s mattress. He tried to squat down, but his legs were too tired. He knelt instead. Ma fanned her square of cardboard back and forth. She looked at Pa for a moment, and her eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s eyes.

Pa said, “We—done—what we could.”

“I know.”

“We worked all night. An’ a tree cut out the bank.”

“I know.”

“You can hear it under the car.”

“I know. I heard it.”

“Think she’s gonna be all right?”

“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 cat-walk. 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.”

Ma fanned the air slowly with her cardboard. “You been frien’ly,” she said. “We thank you.”

The stout woman smiled. “No need to thank. Ever’body’s in the same wagon. S’pose we was down. You’d a give us a han’.”

“Yes,” Ma said, “we would.”

“Or anybody.”

“Or anybody. Use’ ta be the fambly was fust. It ain’t so now. It’s anybody. Worse off we get, the more we got to do.”

“We couldn’ a saved it.”

“I know,” said Ma.

Ruthie sighed deeply and took her arm from over her eyes. She looked blindly at the lamp for a moment, and then turned her head and looked at Ma. “Is it bore?” she demanded. “Is the baby out?”

Mrs. Wainwright picked up a sack and spread it over the apple box in the corner.

“Where’s the baby?” Ruthie demanded.

Ma wet her lips. “They ain’t no baby. They never was no baby. We was wrong.”

“Shucks!” Ruthie yawned. “I wisht it had a been a baby.”

Mrs. Wainwright sat down beside Ma and took the cardboard from her and fanned the air. Ma folded her hands in her lap, and her tired eyes never left the face of Rose of Sharon, sleeping in exhaustion. “Come on,” Mrs. Wainwright said. “Jus’ lay down. You’ll be right beside her. Why, you’d wake up if she took a deep breath, even.”

“Awright, I will.” Ma stretched out on the mattress beside the sleeping girl. And Mrs. Wainwright sat on the floor and kept watch.

Pa and Al and Uncle John sat in the car doorway and watched the steely dawn come. The rain had stopped, but the sky was deep and solid with cloud. As the light came, it was reflected on the water. The men could see the current of the stream, slipping swiftly down, bearing black branches of trees, boxes, boards. The water swirled into the flat where the boxcars stood. There was no sign of the embankment left. On the flat the current stopped. The edges of the flood were lined with yellow foam. Pa leaned out the door and placed a twig on the cat-walk, just above the water line. The men watched the water slowly climb to it, lift it gently and float it away. Pa placed another twig an inch above the water and settled back to watch.

“Think it’ll come inside the car?” Al asked.

“Can’t tell. They’s a hell of a lot of water got to come down from the hills yet. Can’t tell. Might start up to rain again.”

Al said, “I been a-thinkin’. If she come in, ever’thing’ll get soaked.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she won’t come up more’n three-four feet in the car ’cause she’ll go over the highway an’ spread out first.”

“How you know?” Pa asked.

“I took a sight on her, off the end of the car.” He held his hand. “ ’Bout this far up she’ll come.”

“Awright,” Pa said. “What about it? We won’t be here.”

“We got to be here. Truck’s here. Take a week to get the water out of her when the flood goes down.”

“Well—what’s your idear?”

“We can tear out the side-boards of the truck an’ build a kinda platform in here to pile our stuff ’an to set up on.”

“Yeah? How’ll we cook—how’ll we eat?”

“Well, it’ll keep our stuff dry.”

The light grew stronger outside, a gray metallic light. The second little stick floated away from the cat-walk. Pa placed another one higher up. “Sure climbin’,” he said. “I guess we better do that.”

Ma turned restlessly in her sleep. Her eyes started wide open. She cried sharply in warning, “Tom! Oh, Tom! Tom!”

Mrs. Wainwright spoke soothingly. The eyes flicked closed again and Ma squirmed under her dream. Mrs. Wainwright got up and walked to the doorway. “Hey!” she said softly. “We ain’t gonna git out soon.” She pointed to the corner of the car where the apple box was. “That ain’t doin’ no good. Jus’ cause trouble an’ sorra. Couldn’ you fellas kinda—take it out an’ bury it?”

The men were silent. Pa said at last, “Guess you’re right. Jus’ cause sorra. ’Gainst the law to bury it.”

“They’s lots a things ’gainst the law that we can’t he’p doin’.”

“Yeah.”

Al said, “We oughta git them truck sides tore off ’fore the water comes up much more.”

Pa turned to Uncle John. “Will you take an’ bury it while Al an me git that lumber in?”

Uncle John said sullenly, “Why do I got to do it? Why don’t you fellas? I don’ like it.” And then, “Sure. I’ll do it. Sure, I will. Come on, give it to me.” His voice began to rise. “Come on! Give it to me.”

“Don’ wake ’em up,” Mrs. Wainwright said. She brought the apple box to the doorway and straightened the sack decently over it.

“Shovel’s standin’ right behin’ you,” Pa said.

Uncle John took the shovel in one hand. He slipped out the doorway into the slowly moving water, and it rose nearly to his waist before he struck bottom. He turned and settled the apple box under his other arm.

Pa said, “Come on, Al. Le’s git that lumber in.”

In the gray dawn light Uncle John waded around the end of the car, past the Joad truck; and he climbed the slippery bank to the highway. He walked down the highway, past the boxcar flat, until he came to a place where the boiling stream ran close to the road, where the willows grew along the road side. He put his shovel down, and holding the box in front of him, he edged through the brush until he came to the edge of the swift stream. For a time he stood watching it swirl by, leaving its yellow foam among the willow stems. He held the apple box against his chest. And then he leaned over and set the box in the stream and steadied it with his hand. He said fiercely, “Go down an’ tell ’em. Go down in the street an’ rot an’ tell ’em that way. That’s the way you can talk. Don’ even know if you was a boy or a girl. Ain’t gonna find out. Go on down now, an’ lay in the street. Maybe they’ll know then.” He guided the box gently out into the current and let it go. It settled low in the water, edged sideways, whirled around, and turned slowly over. The sack floated away, and the box, caught in the swift water, floated quickly away, out of sight, behind the brush. Uncle John grabbed the shovel and went rapidly back to the boxcars. He sloshed down into the water and waded to the truck, where Pa and Al were working, taking down the one-by-six planks.

Pa looked over at him. “Get it done?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, look,” Pa said. “If you’ll he’p Al, I’ll go down the store an’ get some stuff to eat.”

“Get some bacon,” Al said. “I need some meat.”

“I will,” Pa said. He jumped down from the truck and Uncle John took his place.

When they pushed the planks into the car door, Ma awakened and sat up. “What you doin’?”

“Gonna build up a place to keep outa the wet.”

“Why?” Ma asked. “It’s dry in here.”

“Ain’t gonna be. Water’s comin’ up.”

Ma struggled up to her feet and went to the door. “We got to git outa here.”

“Can’t,” Al said. “All our stuff’s here. Truck’s here. Ever’thing we got.”

“Where’s Pa?”

“Gone to get stuff for breakfas’.”

Ma looked down at the water. It was only six inches down from the floor by now. She went back to the mattress and looked at Rose of Sharon. The girl stared back at her.

“How you feel?” Ma asked.

“Tar’d. Jus’ tar’d out.”

“Gonna get some breakfas’ into you.”

“I ain’t hungry.”

Mrs. Wainwright moved beside Ma. “She looks all right. Come through it fine.”

Rose of Sharon’s eyes questioned Ma, and Ma tried to avoid the question. Mrs. Wainwright walked to the stove.

“Ma.”

“Yeah? What you want?”

“Is—it—all right?”

Ma gave up the attempt. She kneeled down on the mattress. “You can have more,” she said. “We done ever’thing we knowed.”

Rose of Sharon struggled and pushed herself up. “Ma!”

“You couldn’ he’p it.”

The girl lay back again, and covered her eyes with her arms. Ruthie crept close and looked down in awe. She whispered harshly, “She sick, Ma? She gonna die?”

“ ’Course not. She’s gonna be awright. Awright.”

Pa came in with his armload of packages. “How is she?”

“Awright,” Ma said. “She’s gonna be awright.”

Ruthie reported to Winfield. “She ain’t gonna die. Ma says so.”

And Winfield, picking his teeth with a splinter in a very adult manner, said, “I knowed it all the time.”

“How’d you know?”

“I won’t tell,” said Winfield, and he spat out a piece of the splinter.

Ma built the fire up with the last twigs and cooked the bacon and made gravy. Pa had brought store bread. Ma scowled when she saw it. “We got any money lef’?”

“Nope,” said Pa. “But we was so hungry.”

“An’ you got store bread,” Ma said accusingly.

“Well, we was awful hungry. Worked all night long.”

Ma sighed. “Now what we gonna do?”

As they ate, the water crept up and up. Al gulped his food and he and Pa built the platform. Five feet wide, six feet long, four feet above the floor. And the water crept to the edge of the doorway, seemed to hesitate a long time, and then moved slowly inward over the floor. And outside, the rain began again, as it had before, big heavy drops splashing on the water, pounding hollowly on the roof.

Al said, “Come on now, let’s get the mattresses up. Let’s put the blankets up, so they don’t git wet.” They piled their possessions up on the platform, and the water crept over the floor. Pa and Ma, Al and Uncle John, each at a corner, lifted Rose of Sharon’s mattress, with the girl on it, and put it on top of the pile.

And the girl protested, “I can walk. I’m awright.” And the water crept over the floor, a thin film of it. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma, and Ma put her hand under the blanket and felt her breast and nodded.

In the other end of the boxcar, the Wainwrights were pounding, building a platform for themselves. The rain thickened, and then passed away.

Ma looked down at her feet. The water was half an inch deep on the car floor by now. “You, Ruthie—Winfiel’!” she called distractedly. “Come get on top of the pile. You’ll get cold.” She saw them safely up, sitting awkwardly beside Rose of Sharon. Ma said suddenly, “We got to git out.”

“We can’t,” Pa said. “Like Al says, all our stuff’s here. We’ll pull off the boxcar door an’ make more room to set on.”



The family huddled on the platforms, silent and fretful. The water was six inches deep in the car before the flood spread evenly over the embankment and moved into the cotton field on the other side. During that day and night the men slept soddenly, side by side on the boxcar door. And Ma lay close to Rose of Sharon. Sometimes Ma whispered to her and sometimes sat up quietly, her face brooding. Under the blanket she hoarded the remains of the store bread.

The rain had become intermittent now—little wet squalls and quiet times. On the morning of the second day Pa splashed through the camp and came back with ten potatoes in his pockets. Ma watched him sullenly while he chopped out part of the inner wall of the car, built a fire, and scooped water into a pan. The family ate the steaming boiled potatoes with their fingers. And when this last food was gone, they stared at the gray water; and in the night they did not lie down for a long time.

When the morning came they awakened nervously. Rose of Sharon whispered to Ma.

Ma nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “It’s time for it.” And then she turned to the car door, where the men lay. “We’re a-gettin’ outa here,” she said savagely, “gettin’ to higher groun’. An’ you’re comin’ or you ain’t comin’, but I’m takin’ Rosasharn an’ the little fellas outa here.”

“We can’t!” Pa said weakly.

“Awright, then. Maybe you’ll pack Rosasharn to the highway, anyways, an’ then come back. It ain’t rainin’ now, an’ we’re a-goin’.”

“Awright, we’ll go,” Pa said.

Al said, “Ma, I ain’t goin’.”

“Why not?”

“Well—Aggie—why, her an’ me——”

Ma smiled. “ ’Course,” she said. “You stay here, Al. Take care of the stuff. When the water goes down—why, we’ll come back. Come quick, ’fore it rains again,” she told Pa. “Come on, Rosasharn. We’re goin’ to a dry place.”

“I can walk.”

“Maybe a little, on the road. Git your back bent, Pa.”

Pa slipped into the water and stood waiting. Ma helped Rose of Sharon down from the platform and steadied her across the car. Pa took her in his arms, held her as high as he could, and pushed his way carefully through the deep water, around the car, and to the highway. He set her down on her feet and held onto her. Uncle John carried Ruthie and followed. Ma slid down into the water, and for a moment her skirts billowed out around her.

“Winfiel’, set on my shoulder. Al—we’ll come back soon’s the water’s down. Al—” She paused. “If—if Tom comes—tell him we’ll be back. Tell him be careful. Winfiel’! Climb on my shoulder—there! Now, keep your feet still.” She staggered off through the breast-high water. At the highway embankment they helped her up and lifted Winfield from her shoulder.

They stood on the highway and looked back over the sheet of water, the dark red blocks of the cars, the trucks and automobiles deep in the slowly moving water. And as they stood, a little misting rain began to fall.

“We got to git along,” Ma said. “Rosasharn, you feel like you could walk?”

“Kinda dizzy,” the girl said. “Feel like I been beat.”

Pa complained, “Now we’re a-goin’, where’ we goin’?”

“I dunno. Come on, give your han’ to Rosasharn.” Ma took the girl’s right arm to steady her, and Pa her left. “Goin’ someplace where it’s dry. Got to. You fellas ain’t had dry clothes on for two days.” They moved slowly along the highway. They could hear the rushing of the water in the stream beside the road. Ruthie and Winfield marched together, splashing their feet against the road. They went slowly along the road. The sky grew darker and the rain thickened. No traffic moved along the highway.

“We got to hurry,” Ma said. “If this here girl gits good an’ wet—I don’t know what’ll happen to her.”

“You ain’t said where-at we’re a-hurryin’ to,” Pa reminded her sarcastically.

The road curved along beside the stream. Ma searched the land and the flooded fields. Far off the road, on the left, on a slight rolling hill a rain-blackened barn stood. “Look!” Ma said. “Look there! I bet it’s dry in that barn. Le’s go there till the rain stops.”

Pa sighed. “Prob’ly get run out by the fella owns it.”

Ahead, beside the road, Ruthie saw a spot of red. She raced to it. A scraggly geranium gone wild, and there was one rain-beaten blossom on it. She picked the flower. She took a petal carefully off and stuck it on her nose. Winfield ran up to see.

“Lemme have one?” he said.

“No, sir! It’s all mine. I foun’ it.” She stuck another red petal on her forehead, a little bright-red heart.

“Come on, Ruthie! Lemme have one. Come on, now.” He grabbed at the flower in her hand and missed it, and Ruthie banged him in the face with her open hand. He stood for a moment, surprised, and then his lips shook and his eyes welled.

The others caught up. “Now what you done?” Ma asked. “Now what you done?”

“He tried to grab my fl’ar.”

Winfield sobbed, “I—on’y wanted one—to—stick on my nose.”

“Give him one, Ruthie.”

“Leave him find his own. This here’s mine.”

“Ruthie! You give him one.”

Ruthie heard the threat in Ma’s tone, and changed her tactics. “Here,” she said with elaborate kindness. “I’ll stick on one for you.” The older people walked on. Winfield held his nose near to her. She wet a petal with her tongue and jabbed it cruelly on his nose. “You little son-of-a-bitch,” she said softly. Winfield felt for the petal with his fingers, and pressed it down on his nose. They walked quickly after the others. Ruthie felt how the fun was gone. “Here,” she said. “Here’s some more. Stick some on your forehead.”

From the right of the road there came a sharp swishing. Ma cried, “Hurry up. They’s a big rain. Le’s go through the fence here. It’s shorter. Come on, now! Bear on, Rosasharn.” They half dragged the girl across the ditch, helped her through the fence. And then the storm struck them. Sheets of rain fell on them. They plowed through the mud and up the little incline. The black barn was nearly obscured by the rain. It hissed and splashed, and the growing wind drove it along. Rose of Sharon’s feet slipped and she dragged between her supporters.

“Pa! Can you carry her?”

Pa leaned over and picked her up. “We’re wet through anyways,” he said. “Hurry up. Winfiel’—Ruthie! Run on ahead.”

They came panting up to the rain-soaked barn and staggered into the open end. There was no door in this end. A few rusty farm tools lay about, a disk plow and a broken cultivator, an iron wheel. The rain hammered on the roof and curtained the entrance. Pa gently set Rose of Sharon down on an oily box. “God Awmighty!” he said.

Ma said, “Maybe they’s hay inside. Look, there’s a door.” She swung the door on its rusty hinges. “They is hay,” she cried. “Come on in, you.”

It was dark inside. A little light came in through the cracks between the boards.

“Lay down, Rosasharn,” Ma said. “Lay down an’ res’. I’ll try to figger some way to dry you off.”

Winfield said, “Ma!” and the rain roaring on the roof drowned his voice. “ Ma! ”

“What is it? What you want?”

“Look! In the corner.”

Ma looked. There were two figures in the gloom; a man who lay on his back, and a boy sitting beside him, his eyes wide, staring at the newcomers. As she looked, the boy got slowly up to his feet and came toward her. His voice croaked. “You own this here?”

“No,” Ma said. “Jus’ come in outa the wet. We got a sick girl. You got a dry blanket we could use an’ get her wet clothes off?”

The boy went back to the corner and brought a dirty comfort and held it out to Ma.

“Thank ya,” she said. “What’s the matter’th that fella?”

The boy spoke in a croaking monotone. “Fust he was sick—but now he’s starvin’.”

“What?”

“Starvin’. Got sick in the cotton. He ain’t et for six days.”

Ma walked to the corner and looked down at the man. He was about fifty, his whiskery face gaunt, and his open eyes were vague and staring. The boy stood beside her. “Your pa?” Ma asked.

“Yeah! Says he wasn’ hungry, or he jus’ et. Give me the food. Now he’s too weak. Can’t hardly move.”

The pounding of the rain decreased to a soothing swish on the roof. The gaunt man moved his lips. Ma knelt beside him and put her ear close. His lips moved again.

“Sure,” Ma said. “You jus’ be easy. He’ll be awright. You jus’ wait’ll I get them wet clo’es off’n my girl.”

Ma went back to the girl. “Now slip ’em off,” she said. She held the comfort up to screen her from view. And when she was naked, Ma folded the comfort about her.

The boy was at her side again explaining, “I didn’ know. He said he et, or he wasn’ hungry. Las’ night I went an’ bust a winda an’ stoled some bread. Made ’im chew ’er down. But he puked it all up, an’ then he was weaker. Got to have soup or milk. You folks got money to git milk?”

Ma said, “Hush. Don’ worry. We’ll figger somepin out.”

Suddenly the boy cried, “He’s dyin’, I tell you! He’s starvin’ to death, I tell you.”

“Hush,” said Ma. She looked at Pa and Uncle John standing helplessly gazing at the sick man. She looked at Rose of Sharon huddled in the comfort. Ma’s eyes passed Rose of Sharon’s eyes, and then came back to them. And the two women looked deep into each other. The girl’s breath came short and gasping.

She said “Yes.”

Ma smiled. “I knowed you would. I knowed!” She looked down at her hands, tight-locked in her lap.

Rose of Sharon whispered, “Will—will you all—go out?” The rain whisked lightly on the roof.

Ma leaned forward and with her palm she brushed the tousled hair back from her daughter’s forehead, and she kissed her on the forehead. Ma got up quickly. “Come on, you fellas,” she called. “You come out in the tool shed.”

Ruthie opened her mouth to speak. “Hush,” Ma said. “Hush and git.” She herded them through the door, drew the boy with her; and she closed the squeaking door.

For a minute Rose of Sharon sat still in the whispering barn. Then she hoisted her tired body up and drew the comfort about her. She moved slowly to the corner and stood looking down at the wasted face, into the wide, frightened eyes. Then slowly she lay down beside him. He shook his head slowly from side to side. Rose of Sharon loosened one side of the blanket and bared her breast. “You got to,” she said. She squirmed closer and pulled his head close. “There!” she said. “There.” Her hand moved behind his head and supported it. Her fingers moved gently in his hair. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.