Joad was embarrassed. “Well, Pa wasn’t no hand to write for pretty, or to write for writin’. He’d sign up his name as nice as anybody, an’ lick his pencil. But Pa never did write no letters. He always says what he couldn’ tell a fella with his mouth wasn’t worth leanin’ on no pencil about.”
“Been out travelin’ around?” Casy asked. Joad regarded him suspiciously. “Didn’t you hear about me? I was in all the papers.”
“No—I never. What?” He jerked one leg over the other and settled lower against the tree. The afternoon was advancing rapidly, and a richer tone was growing on the sun.
Joad said pleasantly, “Might’s well tell you now an’ get it over with. But if you was still preachin’ I wouldn’t tell, fear you get prayin’ over me.” He drained the last of the pint and flung it from him, and the flat brown bottle skidded lightly over the dust. “I been in McAlester them four years.”
Casy swung around to him, and his brows lowered so that his tall forehead seemed even taller. “Ain’t wantin’ to talk about it, huh? I won’t ask you no questions, if you done something bad—”
“I’d do what I done—again,” said Joad. “I killed a guy in a fight. We was drunk at a dance. He got a knife in me, an’ I killed him with a shovel that was layin’ there. Knocked his head plumb to squash.”
Casy’s eyebrows resumed their normal level. “You ain’t ashamed of nothin’ then?”
“No,” said Joad, “I ain’t. I got seven years, account of he had a knife in me. Got out in four—parole.”
“Then you ain’t heard nothin’ about your folks for four years?”
“Oh, I heard. Ma sent me a card two years ago, an’ las’ Christmas.