Noah Joad (The Grapes of Wrath)
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Behind them, moving slowly and evenly, but keeping up, came Pa and Noah—Noah
the first-born, tall and strange, walking always with a wondering look on his
face, calm and puzzled. He had never been angry in his life. He looked in
wonder at angry people, wonder and uneasiness, as normal people look at the
insane. Noah moved slowly, spoke seldom, and then so slowly that people who did
not know him often thought him stupid. He was not stupid, but he was strange.
He had little pride, no sexual urges. He worked and slept in a curious rhythm
that nevertheless sufficed him. He was fond of his folks, but never showed it
in any way. Although an observer could not have told why, Noah left the
impression of being misshapen, his head or his body or his legs or his mind;
but no misshapen member could be recalled. Pa thought he knew why Noah was
strange, but Pa was ashamed, and never told. For on the night when Noah was
born, Pa, frightened at the spreading thighs, alone in the house, and horrified
at the screaming wretch his wife had become, went mad with apprehension. Using
his hands, his strong fingers for forceps, he had pulled and twisted the baby.
The midwife, arriving late, had found the baby’s head pulled out of shape, its
neck stretched, its body warped; and she had pushed the head back and molded
the body with her hands. But Pa always remembered, and was ashamed. And he was
kinder to Noah than to the others. In Noah’s broad face, eyes too far apart,
and long fragile jaw, Pa thought he saw the twisted, warped skull of the baby.
Noah could do all that was required of him, could read and write, could work
and figure, but he didn’t seem to care; there was a listlessness in him toward
things people wanted and needed. He lived in a strange silent house and looked
out of it through calm eyes. He was a stranger to all the world, but he was
not lonely.

~

Tom walked in among the willows, and he crawled into a cave of shade to lie
down. And Noah followed him.
“Gonna sleep here,” Tom said.
“Tom!”
“Yeah?”
“Tom, I ain’t a-goin’ on.”
Tom sat up. “What you mean?”
“Tom, I ain’t a-gonna leave this here water. I’m a-gonna walk on down this
here river.”
“You’re crazy,” Tom said.
“Get myself a piece a line. I’ll catch fish. Fella can’t starve beside a nice
river.”
Tom said, “How ’bout the fam’ly? How ’bout Ma?”
“I can’t he’p it. I can’t leave this here water.” Noah’s wide-set eyes were
half closed.
“You know how it is, Tom. You know how the folks are nice to me. But they don’t
really care for me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, I ain’t. I know how I am. I know they’re sorry. But—Well, I ain’t a-goin’.
You tell Ma—Tom.”
“Now you look-a-here,” Tom began.
“No. It ain’t no use. I was in that there water. An’ I ain’t a-gonna leave her.
I’m a-gonna go now, Tom—down the river. I’ll catch fish an’ stuff, but I
can’t leave her. I can’t.” He crawled back out of the willow cave. “You tell
Ma, Tom.” He walked away.
Tom followed him to the river bank. “Listen, you goddamn fool—”
“It ain’t no use,” Noah said. “I’m sad, but I can’t he’p it. I got to go.” He
turned abruptly and walked downstream along the shore. Tom started to follow,
and then he stopped. He saw Noah disappear into the brush, and then appear
again, following the edge of the river. And he watched Noah growing smaller on
the edge of the river, until he disappeared into the willows at last. And Tom
took off his cap and scratched his head. He went back to his willow cave and
lay down to sleep.

~

Tom said uneasily, “Ma, I got somepin to tell ya. Noah—he went on down the
river. He ain’t a-goin’ on.”
It took a moment for Ma to understand. “Why?” she asked softly.
“I don’ know. Says he got to. Says he got to stay. Says for me to tell you.”
“How’ll he eat?” she demanded.
“I don’ know. Says he’ll catch fish.”
Ma was silent a long time. “Family’s fallin’ apart,” she said. “I don’ know.
Seems like I can’t think no more. I jus’ can’t think. They’s too much.”
Tom said lamely, “He’ll be awright, Ma. He’s a funny kind a fella.”
Ma turned stunned eyes toward the river. “I jus’ can’t seem to think no more.”

~

Pa said, “I thought we was gonna get a rest.”
“Well, we ain’t. We got to go. Pa,” Tom said, “Noah, ain’t a-goin’. He walked
on down the river.”
“Ain’t goin’? What the hell’s the matter with him?” And then Pa caught himself.
“My fault,” he said miserably. “That boy’s all my fault.”
“No.”
“I don’t wanta talk about it no more,” said Pa. “I can’t—my fault.”