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Show -2- round-bottoraed cooking pots. Seeing the ollas made her remember. Today the saguaro harvest would begin. With a groan, she twisted onto her stomach, reached over and clicked on her transistor radio. Music from the best rock station in Tucson blared into the room, shattering the quiet and making Matias twitch. The cactus-rib door of the hut swung open at once and Granny *s bulky form blotted out the morning light. She scowled in the direction of the radio, fat old cheeks hanging down on either side of her mouth like the jowls of a bulldog. "Not today!" she grunted in Papago. Rosa turned off the radio with a grumpy sigh. Granny could not read. She could not speak more than a few words of English, and even her Spanish was poor. She was fat and sloppy, and, worse, she sraelled funny. But here in this little house, Granny's word was law; and Rosa knew better than to argue. Granny bustled about in the dimness, blowing the dust from the pots, talcing down the battered baskets that hung from the roof-beams. "Hurry, Rosa! The truck will be here soon! Wake your brother!" Rosa wriggled out from under the blanket and swiftly pulled her jeans over her wiry legs. She turned her back to Granny, put on her bra and fastened it under her nightgown. Then she tossed off the nightgown, grabbed her T-shirt and slipped it over her head. "I told you to wake your brother," the old woman grumbled. "When I'm dressed! There's no privacy in here!" She walked over to where Matias lay, still bottoms-up, and nudged him with her foot. He was awake instantly. "Is the truck here?" |