Гроздья гнева

           Justsingyourselftosleepwithasong—’Whatwecomin’to?’"Helookedatthegaspump,rustedandold,andattheshackbehindit,builtofoldlumber,thenailholesofitsfirstusestillshowingthroughthepaintthathadbeenbrave,thebraveyellowpaintthathadtriedtoimitatethebigcompanystationsintown.Butthepaintcouldn’tcovertheoldnailholesandtheoldcracksinthelumber,andthepaintcouldnotberenewed.Theimitationwasafailureandtheownerhadknownitwasafailure.AndinsidetheopendooroftheshackTomsawtheoilbarrels,onlytwoofthem,andthecandycounterwithstalecandiesandlicoricewhipsturningbrownwithage,andcigarettes.Hesawthebrokenchairandtheflyscreenwitharustedholeinit.Andthelitteredyardthatshouldhavebeengraveled,andbehind,thecornfielddryinganddyinginthesun.Besidethehousethelittlestockofusedtiresandretreadedtires.Andhesawforthefirsttimethefatman’scheapwashedpantsandhischeappoloshirtandhispaperhat.Hesaid,"Ididn’meantosoundoffatya,mister.It’stheheat.Youain’tgotnothin’.Prettysoonyou’llbeontheroadyourse’f.Anditain’ttractors’llputyouthere.It’sthemprettyyellastationsintown.Folksismovin’,"hesaidashamedly."An’you’llbemovin’,mister."

           Thefatman’shandslowedonthepumpandstoppedwhileTomspoke.HelookedworriedlyatTom."How’dyouknow?"heaskedhelplessly.