“Oh, boy,” Ant called out. “A movie!”
Tony led the family to a row in the back, where they sat with the other Italians who were left in town.
A few more folks filed in, no one saying much. A couple of the older folks coughed constantly, a reminder of the dust storms that had ravaged the land this fall.
The door banged shut and the lights went out.
There was a whir and clatter of sound; a black-and-white image appeared on the white screen: it was a howling windstorm blowing through a farm. Tumbleweeds cartwheeled past a boarded-up house.
The caption read: 30% of all the farmers on the Great Plains face foreclosure.
The next image was of a Red Cross hospital, beds full, gray-uniformed nurses tending to coughing babies and old people. Dust pneumonia takes a terrible toll.
In the next image, farmers poured milk into the streets, where it disappeared instantly in the arid dirt.
Milk sells for below production costs …
Haggard, ragged men, women, and children drifted across a gray screen, looking ghostlike. A Hooverville encampment. Thousands living in cardboard boxes or broken-down cars or shacks cobbled together from cans and sheet metal. Folks standing in soup lines …
The movie snapped off. The lights came back on.
Elsa heard footsteps, boot heels clacking confidently on the hardwood floor. Like everyone else, Elsa turned.
Here was a man with presence, dressed better than anyone in town. He moved the makeshift movie screen out of the way, stepped over to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, wrote Farming methods, and underlined the words.
He turned to face the crowd. “I’m Hugh Bennett. The President of the United States has appointed me to his new Conservation Corps. I’ve spent months touring the farmland of the Great Plains. Oklahoma, Kansas, Texas. I got to say, folks, this summer it was as dire in Lonesome Tree as anywhere I’ve seen. And who knows how long the drought will go on? I hear only a few of you even bothered to plant a crop this year.”
“Don’t you reckon we know it?” someone yelled, coughing.
“You know there’s been no rain, friend. I’m here to tell you it’s more than that. What’s happening to your land is a dire ecological disaster, maybe the worst in our country’s history, and you have to change your farming methods to stop it from getting worse.”
“You sayin’ it’s our fault?” Tony said.
“I’m saying you contributed,” Bennett said. “Oklahoma has lost almost four hundred and fifty million tons of topsoil. Truth is that you farmers have to see your part in it or this great land will die.”
The Carrington family got up and walked out, slamming the door behind them. The Renke family followed.
“So, what do we do?” Tony asked.
“The way y’all farm the land is destroying it. You dug up the grasses which held the topsoil in place. The plow broke the prairie. When the rain died and the wind came up, there was nothing to stop your land from blowing away. This here is a man-made disaster, so we got to fix it. We need the grasses back. We need soil-conservation methods in place.”
“It’s the weather and the damn greedy banksters on Wall Street, closing their banks, taking our money, that’s what’s ruining us,” Mr. Carrio said.
“FDR wants to pay y’all not to plant next year. We’ve got a conservation plan. You’ve got to rest some of this land, plant grass. But it isn’t enough for one or two of you to do it. Y’all have to do it. You have to protect the Great Plains, not just your own acreage.”
“That’s it?” Mr. Pavlov said, standing up in a huff. “You’re telling ’em not to plant next year? Grow grass? Why don’t you just light a match on what’s left? The farmers need help.”
“FDR cares about the farmers. He knows you’ve been forgotten. He has a plan. To start with, the government will buy your livestock for sixteen bucks a head. If possible, we’ll use your cattle to feed the poor. If not, if they’re full of dirt, which I’ve seen out here, we’ll pay you and bury them.”
“That’s it?” Tony said. “You brung us all the way down here to tell us the disaster is our fault, we need to plant grass, which ain’t a crop that makes money, in land too dry to grow anything, in a drought—seeds we can’t afford—and oh, yeah, kill your last living farm animal for sixteen lousy bucks.”
“There’s a plan for relief. We want to pay you not to grow crops. Might even get the banks to forgive mortgage payments.”
“We don’t want charity,” someone called out. “We want help. We want water. What good is keeping our houses if the land is useless?”
“We’re farmers. We want to plant our crops. We want to take care of ourselves.”
“Enough,” Tony said. He shoved his seat back and stood up. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
When Elsa glanced back, she saw the disappointment on Bennett’s face as more families followed the Martinellis out of the schoolhouse.
THIRTEEN
Elsa stood in the falling snow. The sounds of the world were muffled by the airy flakes. Such a pretty, sparkling layer of white; she marveled that she could still find beauty in nature. As she headed down into the root cellar, she heard Bella’s low, mournful moan. The poor cow was as hungry and thirsty as the rest of them. Shivering with cold, Elsa stared at the empty shelves. There should be boxes of onions and potatoes, mason jars full of fruits and vegetables; instead there were bare shelves.
And now … this news from the government expert.
Elsa had thought of the plains pioneers, people like Tony and Rose, as indomitable, invincible. People who had come to this vast, unknown country with nothing but a dream and who had tamed the land with grit and determination and hard work.
But apparently they’d misjudged the land. Or, worse, misused it.
She thought about their daily chores, done this week in a bitter, skin-biting cold, and tonight there would only be a slice of bread, a few of last season’s soft potatoes, and a bit of smoked ham for supper. Not enough to fill any of their bellies. And then it would be time for bed and they would each go their own way, into their own black, frigid rooms, unwilling to waste precious fuel or money for anything as fanciful as light, and they would crawl into beds that always felt gritty no matter how often they changed the sheets, and try to fall asleep.
Now she took three shriveled potatoes from the box, trying not to notice how few were left, and walked back out into the falling snow.
“Mom?”
Elsa turned.
Loreda wore layers of ill-fitting clothes, and two pair of knee socks, which no doubt increased the discomfort of wearing outgrown shoes. In the past few months, Loreda had let her bob grow out and so her hair was almost to her shoulders. An uneven fringe of bangs hung past her nose and continually covered her eyes. She said it didn’t matter what she looked like anymore because she had no friends.
Even so, her beauty was remarkable. No bad haircut or cheap frock could dim it. She had inherited her father’s olive complexion and elegant bone structure and luxurious black hair. And those eyes, like Elsa’s and yet more intensely blue. Almost violet. Someday men would see her across a crowded street and stop in their tracks.
Loreda’s cheeks were bright pink; melted snowflakes glistened on her dark lashes and full lips. “I want to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
Loreda led the way up to the porch and sat down on the swing.
Elsa sat down beside her.
“I’ve been thinking,” Loreda said.
“Oh, no,” Elsa said quietly.
“I’ve been a crumb to you since Daddy … you know, made tracks.”
Elsa was shocked by the acknowledgment. All she could think of to say was, “I know how much he hurt you.”
“He isn’t coming back, is he?
Elsa longed to touch her daughter’s hair, brush it back from her forehead in the kind of intimate touch that had been possible years ago, back when Loreda’s body had felt like an extension of her ow
n and Elsa had thought that her daughter’s bold heart must surely strengthen Elsa’s weaker one. “I don’t think so. No.”
“I gave him the idea.”
“Oh, honey. Don’t take responsibility for his actions. He’s a grown man. He did what he wanted to do.”
Loreda was silent for a long time before she said, “That man from the government, he says this land is ruined.”
“That’s his opinion, I guess.”
“It isn’t a hard thing to believe.”
“No.”
“I should get a job,” Loreda said. “Make some money … to help out.”
“I’m proud of you for that, Loreda, but half of the country is out of work. There are no jobs. We are the lucky ones, on the farms. We still have food.”
“We are not lucky,” Loreda said.
“In the spring, when it rains—”
“We need to leave.”
“Loreda, honey, I’d do anything for you—”
“But not this.” Loreda stood up abruptly. “Not leave. You’re saying no to me, just like you said no to Daddy.”
Elsa released a heavy sigh and stood. “I’ll say to you what I should have had the courage to say to your father: I love this land. I love this family. This is home. I want you to grow up here, knowing that this is your place, your future.”
“But it’s dying, Mom. And it will kill us where we stand.”
“How do you know it’s better in California? And don’t give me that land-of-milk-and-honey nonsense. You saw the newsreel the other day. Half the country is out of work. Soup kitchens can’t keep up with the demand. At least here we have some food and water and a roof over our heads. I can hardly get a railroad job as a single mother. And your grandparents…”
“They’ll never leave,” Loreda said.
Elsa unwrapped Rafe’s shirt from around her throat. “I’d like you to have this. It’s rather old and tattered, but it was made with love.”
Loreda took Rafe’s shirt carefully, as if it were made of spun dreams, and wrapped it around her neck. “I can still smell his hair pomade.”
“Yes.”
Tears brightened Loreda’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Loreda,” Elsa said.
Loreda sighed heavily, touching the chambray at her neck as if it held magical powers. “We are going to be even sorrier. You watch.”
* * *
AT LAST, THE LONG winter ended.
In the first week of March, the sun became a bright and shining friend that lifted their spirits and renewed their hope. One blue-sky day followed the other.
Today, as Elsa stood at the kitchen table, making a batch of creamy ricotta cheese, she thought, Just a little rain, and once again she could believe in it. Salvation. She could imagine a different view from here: Wheat growing tall. A field of gold that stretched to the horizon beneath an endless blue sky.
Rose drifted into the kitchen, pinning her kerchief in place. “Ricotta? What a treat.”
“It’s not every day a girl turns thirteen. I thought I’d splurge. I can feel the rain coming, can’t you?”
Rose nodded, re-coiling her hair at the back of her neck.
Elsa brought a pot of coffee into the sitting room, along with an apronful of cups. One by one, she poured the rich, steaming brew into the speckled tin cups.
“Aw, Els, you’re a godsend,” Tony said, taking a sip.
Elsa smiled. “It’s just coffee.”
Tony reached for his fiddle and began to play.
Ant jumped up and said, “Dance with me, Lolo.”
Loreda rolled her eyes—so put out—and then leapt to her feet and started doing a crazy version of the Charleston that was completely out of step with the music.
Everyone laughed.
Elsa couldn’t remember the last time this house had filled with her children’s laughter. It was a gift from God, just like the good weather.
Things would be better now; she could feel it. A new year. A new spring.
They would have sun—but not too much—and rain—but not too little—and those tender green plants would grow tall. Golden wheat stalks would rise and stretch toward the sun.
“Dance with me,” Rose said, appearing in front of Elsa, who laughed.
“I haven’t danced in … forever.”
“None of us has.” Rose placed her left hand on the small of Elsa’s back and grasped her right hand, pulled her close.
“It was a long winter,” Rose said.
“Not as long as the summer.”
Rose smiled. “Sì, You’re right about that.”
Beside them, Ant and Loreda spun and danced and laughed.
Elsa was surprised by how comfortable she felt dancing with her mother-in-law. Almost light on her feet. She’d always felt so clumsy in Rafe’s arms. Now she moved easily, let her hips sway in time to the music.
“You are thinking about my son. I see your sadness.”
“Yes.”
“If he comes back, I will hit him with a shovel,” Rose said. “He is too stupid to be my son. And too cruel.”
“Do yah hear that?” Ant said.
Tony stopped playing.
Elsa heard the plunk-plunk-plunk of rain hitting the roof.
Ant ran for the front door and swung it open.
They all ran out to the porch. A charcoal-gray cloud hovered overhead, another muscled its way across the sky.
Raindrops fell lightly, pattering the house, leaving starburst blotches on the dry ground.
Rain.
Big, fat droplets splattered the steps, gritty with dirt. More drops fell. The patter became a roar. A downpour.
They ran into the yard, all of them together, and turned their faces to the cool, sweet rain.
It doused them, drenched them, turned the ground to mud at their feet.
“We’re saved, Rosalba,” Tony said.
Elsa pulled her children into her arms and held them tightly, water running down their faces, sliding down their backs in cool, cold streaks. “We’re saved.”
* * *
THAT NIGHT, THEY SPLURGED on the evening meal, ate homemade fettuccine with bits of browned pancetta in a rich and creamy sauce. Afterward, while Tony played his fiddle in the sitting room amid the percussive beat of the rain, Elsa carried the ricotta cassata out to the family. The cake’s golden top, covered with shiny preserved peaches, held a single burning candle.
Rose reached into the velvet pouch at her neck and pulled out the American penny that she’d worn for more than three decades. Elsa knew every word of the story of this penny, the family lore. Tony had found it in the street in Sicily and picked it up and showed it to Rose. A sign, they’d agreed. The hope for their future. It was the family talisman.
This penny had made the rounds every New Year’s morning as each member of the family held it for a moment and said aloud what their hope for the new year was. They passed it around when they planted crops and on birthdays. On the back of it, curled on either side were beautiful, embossed shafts of wheat. It was little wonder Tony believed it had shown the Martinellis their destiny.
Rose handed the penny to Loreda, who stared solemnly down at it. “Make a wish, cara.”
“I don’t believe in it anymore,” Loreda said, handing the coin back to her grandmother. “It didn’t keep our family together.”
Rose looked stricken; it was a moment before she recovered and managed a smile.
Tony’s music stopped.
Loreda stared at Elsa, teary-eyed. “He promised to teach me to drive when I turned thirteen.”
“Ah…” Elsa said, feeling her daughter’s pain. “I will teach you.”
“It’s not the same,” Loreda said.
There was a short, sharp beat of awkward silence. Then Rose said, “You will believe again. And even if you do not, the coin has its power.”
“I’ll take her wish,” Ant said. “Give me the penny.”
Even Loreda laughed and dashed the tears from her eyes.
Tony played “Happy Birthday” on his fiddle and everyone sang.
* * *
IN THE DAYS AFTER the beautiful rainstorm, Elsa woke early each morning, fueled by hope, and went outside. She inhaled deeply, smelled the fecund scent of wet land, and knelt in the garden to tend her vegetables. She encouraged them to grow as she did her children: with a careful hand and a quiet voice. The ground looked alive again, not parched and dry; here and there, fragile green tips poked up from the dirt, seeking sunshine.
This morning, she saw Tony standing at the edge of the winter- wheat field. Not bothering with a sun hat—it was warm and kind, this sun, like an old friend—she walked past the chicken coop, heard them clucking. Their old rooster strutted along the wire fence, trying to hurry her past his brood. The windmill thunked in the breeze, bringing up water.
Elsa came to the edge of the field and stopped.
“Look at it,” Tony said in a rough voice.
Green.
Rows of new growth, stretching to the horizon in straight rows.
Here was the essence of hope on a farm. The color of the future. Green now, and delicate, but with sunshine and rain, the wheat would become as sturdy as the family, as strong as the land itself, and turn into a sea of waving gold that would sustain them all.
At the very least, there would be grain for the animals. After four years of drought, that alone would be a blessing.
Elsa left Tony standing at the altar of his land, and headed toward the house. She knelt at her special patch of ground, beneath the kitchen window. Her aster was green. “Hey, you,” she said. “I knew you’d come back.”
FOURTEEN
On the day it happened, Elsa told herself it was nothing. They all did.
She woke early, feeling restless. She’d slept badly and didn’t know why. She got out of bed and splashed water on her face and realized suddenly what was wrong: she was hot.
She braided her hair and covered it with a kerchief and went out into the kitchen, where she found Rose standing at the window.
The Four Winds Page 14
