“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.