Гроздья гнева

           Awindmillflashedinthesun,anditsturningbladeswerelikealittleheliograph,faraway.RuthieandWinfieldlookedatit,andRuthiewhispered,"It’sCalifornia."

           Winfieldmovedhislipssilentlyoverthesyllables."There’sfruit,"hesaidaloud.

           CasyandUncleJohn,ConnieandRoseofSharonclimbeddown.Andtheystoodsilently.RoseofSharonhadstartedtobrushherhairback,whenshecaughtsightofthevalleyandherhanddroppedslowlytoherside.

           Tomsaid,"Where’sMa?IwantMatoseeit.Look,Ma!Comehere,Ma."Mawasclimbingslowly,stiffly,downthebackboard.Tomlookedather."MyGod,Ma,yousick?"Herfacewasstiffandputty-like,andhereyesseemedtohavesunkdeepintoherhead,andtherimswereredwithweariness.Herfeettouchedthegroundandshebracedherselfbyholdingthetruck-side.

           Hervoicewasacroak."Yasaywe’reacrost?"

           Tompointedtothegreatvalley."Look!"

           Sheturnedherhead,andhermouthopenedalittle.Herfingerswenttoherthroatandgatheredalittlepinchofskinandtwistedgently."ThankGod!"shesaid."Thefambly’shere."Herkneesbuckledandshesatdownontherunningboard.

           "Yousick,Ma?"

           "No,jus’tar’d."

           "Didn’yougetnosleep?"

           "No."

           "WasGranmabad?"

           Malookeddownatherhands,lyingtogetherliketiredloversinherlap."IwishtIcouldwaitan’nottellyou.Iwishtitcouldbeall—nice."

           Pasaid,"ThenGranma’sbad."

           Maraisedhereyesandlookedoverthevalley."Granma’sdead."