The Grapes of Wrath | Page 9

leaned down and untied the laces, slipped off first one shoe and then the other.
And he worked his damp feet comfortably in the hot dry dust until little spurts of it
came up between his toes, and until the skin on his feet tightened with dryness. He
took off his coat and wrapped his shoes in it and slipped the bundle under his arm. And
at last he moved up the road, shooting the dust ahead of him, making a cloud that hung
low to the ground behind him.
The right of way was fenced, two strands of barbed wire on willow poles. The poles
were crooked and badly trimme d. Whenever a crotch came to the proper height the
wire lay in it, and where there was no crotch the barbed wire was lashed to the post
with rusty baling wire. Beyond the fence, th e corn lay beaten down by wind and heat
and drought, and the cups where leaf jo ined stalk were filled with dust.
Joad plodded along, dragging his cloud of dust behind him. A little bit ahead he saw
the high-domed shell of a land turtle, crawli ng slowly along through the dust, its legs
working stiffly and jerkily. Joad stopped to watch it, and his shadow fell on the turtle.
Instantly head and legs were withdrawn and the short thick tail clamped sideways into
the shell. Joad picked it up and turned it over. The back was brown-gray, like the dust,
but the underside of the shell was creamy yellow, clean and smooth. Joad shifted his
bundle high under his arm and stroked the sm ooth undershell with his finger, and he
pressed it. It was softer than the back. The hard old head came out and tried to look at
the pressing finger, and the legs waved w ildly. The turtle wetted on Joad's hand and
struggled uselessly in the air. Joad turned it back upright and rolled it up in his coat
with his shoes. He could f eel it pressing and struggling and fussing under his arm. He
moved ahead more quickly now, dragged hi s heels a little in the fine dust.

Ahead of him, beside the road, a scrawny, dusty willow tree cast a speckled shade.
Joad could see it ahead of him, its poor br anches curving over the way, its load of
leaves tattered and scraggly as a molting chicken. Joad was sweating now. His blue
shirt darkened down his back and under his ar ms. He pulled at the visor of his cap and
creased it in the middle, breaking its cardboard lining so comp letely that it could never
look new again. And his steps took on new spee d and intent toward the shade of the
distant willow tree. At the willow he knew there would be shade, at least one hard bar
of absolute shade thrown by the trunk, si nce the sun had passed its zenith. The sun
whipped the back of his neck now and made a little humming in his head. He could not
see the base of the tree, for it grew out of a little swale that held water longer than the
level places. Joad speeded hi s pace against the sun, and he started down the declivity.
He slowed cautiously, for the bar of absolute shade was taken. A man sat on the
ground, leaning against the trunk of the tree. His legs were crossed and one bare foot
extended nearly as high as his head. He di d not hear Joad approaching, for he was
whistling solemnly the tune of "Yes, Sir, That's My Baby." His extended foot swung
slowly up and down in the tempo. It was not dance tempo. He stopped whistling and
sang in an easy thin tenor:

"Yes, sir, that's my Saviour,
Je–sus is my Saviour,
Je–sus is my Saviour now.
On the level
'S not the devil,
Jesus is my Saviour now."

Joad had moved into the imperfect shade of the molting leaves before the man heard
him coming, stopped his song, an d turned his head. It was a long head, bony; tight of
skin, and set on a neck as stringy and muscul ar as a celery stalk. His eyeballs were
heavy and protruding; the lids stretched to cover them, and the lids were raw and red.
His cheeks were brown and shiny and hair less and his mouth full—humorous or
sensual. The nose, beaked and hard, stretched the skin so tightly that the bridge showed
white. There was no perspiration on the face, not even on the tall pale forehead. It was
an abnormally high