Гроздья гнева

           What’dtheywanttaliefor,an’costin’’emmoneytolie?"

           Tomshookhishead."Idon’tknow,Ma.It’skindahardtothinkwhytheydoneit.Maybe—"Helookedoutatthehotsun,shiningontheredearth.

           "Maybewhat?"

           "Maybeit’snice,likeyousays.Where’dGrampago?Where’dthepreachergo?"

           Mawasgoingoutofthehouse,herarmsloadedhighwiththeclothes.Tommovedasidetoletherpass."Preachersayshe’sgonnawalkaroun’.Grampa’sasleephereinthehouse.Hecomesinhereinthedayan’laysdownsometimes."Shewalkedtothelineandbegantodrapepalebluejeansandblueshirtsandlonggrayunderwearoverthewire.

           BehindhimTomheardashufflingstep,andheturnedtolookin.Grampawasemergingfromthebedroom,andasinthemorning,hefumbledwiththebuttonsofhisfly."Iheerdtalkin’,"hesaid."Sons-a-bitcheswon’tletaol’fellasleep.Whenyoubastardsgetdrybehin’theears,you’llmaybelearntoletaol’fellasleep."Hisfuriousfingersmanagedtoflipopentheonlytwobuttonsonhisflythathadbeenbuttoned.Andhishandforgotwhatithadbeentryingtodo.Hishandreachedinandcontentedlyscratchedunderthetesticles.Macameinwithwethands,andherpalmspuckeredandbloatedfromhotwaterandsoap.

           "Thoughtyouwassleepin’.Here,letmebuttonyouup."Andthoughhestruggled,sheheldhimandbuttonedhisunderwearandhisshirtandhisfly."Yougoaroun’asight,"shesaid,andlethimgo.