“The teachers know, Mom. The principal came out and said the boy shouldn’t have punched Ant cuz we carry disease. He said, ‘You know better than to touch ’em, Johnson.’”
“He’s eight years old,” Elsa said softly.
Loreda had no answer.
“I’ll talk to him about turning the other cheek,” Elsa said. It was all she could think of. What did she know of schoolyard fights or what it took to become a man?
Up ahead, Ant walked alone along the side of the road, looking small. Vulnerable. The few cars that passed them stirred up dust and honked at him to get out of the way.
“How about teaching him to kick a bigger boy in the privates?”
“I am not going to teach my son to kick another boy in … that area.”
“Great. Teach him how to make an ice pack, then. Let him become a punching bag. Teach him we will always live this way.”
“Oh, Loreda,” she said. “I know how bad it is…”
“Do you? They ate fried chicken and had fruit-pie slices for lunch, Mom. One of them had something called a Twinkie. It smelled so good I accidentally made a sound and some of the girls laughed at me. One said, Look at her, eating a potato. And someone else said, She probably stole it.”
“Girls like that, unkind girls who think it’s funny to laugh at another’s misfortune, are nothing. Specks on fleas on a dog’s butt.”
“It hurts.”
“Yes,” Elsa said, remembering when she’d been called Anyone Else at school. “I know.”
When they turned at last toward the camp along the ditch bank, she called out for Anthony. He stopped, waited for her. “Would Papa whup me for fighting?”
“For defending yourself? No. But let’s fight with words from now on. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. How about if I say fuck you?”
Elsa almost laughed. God help her.
“No, Ant. You will not say that.”
Ant’s shoulders slumped. “I’m gonna get punched again. I know it.”
“He is,” Loreda said with a sigh.
All Elsa could think was, We all are.
* * *
THAT NIGHT, AFTER A dinner of ham-and-potato hash, Elsa got Ant settled in bed. None of them had said much during dinner. Loreda left the tent immediately after the meal, saying she couldn’t stand the stuffiness. Elsa tucked Ant in bed and sat with him.
“It’ll get better, Mom, right?” he said when he’d finished his prayers.
“Of course it will.” Elsa stroked his head, ran her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.
She eased out of bed and looked down at him.
The bruise around his eye was more pronounced now. Someone had punched him in the face, made fun of him.… It made her want to hit something. Hard.
Had she made a mistake in bringing them here? They’d given up everything they’d known and loved to start over here, but what if there was no new beginning here? What if it was just the same hardship and hunger they’d left behind? Or worse?
She withdrew the battered metal box she’d brought with her from Texas. Opening it carefully, she stared down at the money: less than twenty-eight dollars. How long would that last if she didn’t find work soon?
She closed the box and hid it inside the box of pots and pans, and then went outside, where she found Loreda sitting on an overturned bucket.
The camp lay in darkness. Elsa heard fiddle music coming from somewhere.
Loreda looked up. “It makes me think of Grandpa.”
Elsa could only nod. A wave of homesickness threatened to topple her.
Jean approached their tent. “Come with me.”
Loreda got to her feet. She looked as battered and demoralized by this day as Elsa felt.
The three of them walked through the camp, past open tents and closed-up cars. Dogs ran around barking.
At a flat, empty place along the ditch, a crowd had gathered. There were probably fifteen people here, men and women, standing around talking. Two men sat on rocks at the bank, playing fiddles.
Jean led Elsa and Loreda to a pair of women who stood near a spindly tree. “Gals, this here’s Elsa Martinelli and her daughter, Lor-ay-da.”
The women turned, both smiled. Elsa couldn’t quite figure their ages. Late forties, maybe. Both were worn-looking, with wan smiles and kind eyes.
“Welcome, Elsa. I’m Midge,” said the thinner of the women. “From Kansas. What they’re calling the Dust Bowl, and, doll, it surely was.”
Elsa smiled and put an arm around Loreda. “We’re from the Texas Panhandle. We know dust.”
“I’m Nadine,” said the other woman in a beautiful drawling voice. She wore a pair of rimless round eyeglasses and smiled quickly. “From South Carolina. Can you believe I left a place where you could fish the waters? All those flyers about California being the land of milk and honey. Pfffst. How long y’all been here?”
“Just a few days,” Loreda said. “But it seems longer.”
Nadine laughed, adjusted her glasses. “Yeah. Time is odd here.”
“You signed up for relief?” Midge asked.
Elsa nodded. “I did, but … well, I don’t need relief just yet.”
Midge and Nadine and Jean exchanged a knowing look.
They didn’t say, You will, but they might as well have. That terrible sinking feeling came back into Elsa’s stomach.
“You stick with us, doll,” Nadine said. “We get each other through the days.”
* * *
AFTER NEARLY FOUR WEEKS in California, they had settled into a routine; while Loreda and Ant went to school, Elsa looked for work. Any work. For any pay. She left earlier each morning, and walked up the road, sometimes going north, sometimes south, always hoping against hope to find a job weeding in the fields or doing laundry. More often than not she came up empty. Every time she bought food, her meager savings were being depleted. When she ran out of beans, she had to buy more. Ant had to have canned milk. He was a growing boy.
Now, after a long day looking for work and finding none, Elsa sat at the ditch bank, on an apple crate she’d found by the side of the road. It was nearing nightfall and there were about thirty people here: women washing clothes, men smoking pipes and talking, children playing tag and laughing. The heat of the day remained, giving a hint of what was to come in the next few months.
Someone played a harmonica; a dog howled in accompaniment. Ant had made friends with Mary and Lucy Dewey and the three of them ran around playing hide-and-seek. Loreda talked to no one, sat by herself, reading. Elsa knew she was determined not to make a friend here.
Jean hauled a metal bucket to the ditch bank and sat beside Elsa. “It’s starting to get warm already,” Jean said. “Lord, these tents are uncomfortable in the summer.”
“Maybe we’ll all be working by then and be able to move.”
Jean said, “Maybe,” in a way that conveyed no hope at all. “How are the kids doing in school?”
“Not great, honestly. But I won’t let them quit.”
“Stay strong,” Jean said, looking out at the people gathered along the ditch.
Elsa looked at her friend. “Do you ever get tired of being strong?”
“Oh, honey, of course.”
* * *
FIVE WEEKS AFTER THEY arrived in California, they got their first letter from Tony and Rose. It bolstered everyone’s spirits.
Dearest ones,
The dust storms haven’t given up, I’m sorry to say. Even so, there was another meeting this week. The government is offering us farmers ten cents per acre if we agree to contour the land. The work is slow going, but Tony is back to spending long hours on the tractor, and you know he’d rather be on his tractor than anywhere else. The Works Progress Administration is paying out-of-work men to help us. Now we just hope for these awful dust storms to stop. And if it rains, all this hard work might mean something.
Yesterday, a man came through town and promised to bring rain, called himself a rainmaker. It wa
s something to see, I’ll say that. He shot something up in the sky. We’re all waiting now to see if it works. I reckon you can’t prompt God that way, but who knows?
We miss you all and hope you are well.
Hopefully Elsa’s birthday was a grand event. Happiest of days!
With love,
Rose and Tony
* * *
ON THE LAST DAY of May, Elsa herded her children off to school and remained behind. Just this once, she was not looking for work. She had something else to do.
Without a husband to help out, Elsa felt the heavy burden of both working and caring for the children. So many chores and too few hours in which to do them. It was no surprise there were few single women out here. Loreda did more than her share; heck, these days everyone in the camp did more than their share of everything. Even Ant pulled his weight without complaint. He was responsible for making sure there was always plenty of firewood, kindling, and paper. He spent a lot of time rummaging through the camp and along the main road for whatever he could find; he also brought newspapers home from school. Yesterday he’d found a broken apple crate—a treasure.
It took Elsa two hours to carry enough water back to wash all of their clothes. By the time she boiled and strained the water and poured it into the copper tub they’d brought with them from Texas, she was sweating and exhausted. Once the clothes were washed, she hung them from the interior metal tent frame. They would take longer to dry inside, but at least they wouldn’t be stolen. Then she put some lentils on to soak.
When those chores were done, she dragged the copper tub into the tent and then started hauling water again. Bucketful after bucketful; she hauled it from the ditch, boiled it and strained it and poured it into the tub.
Finally, she tied the tent flaps shut and disrobed—a thing she hadn’t done in weeks. In the past month, they had learned, all of them, how to survive in these terrible conditions, packed in like prisoners. Baths had become luxuries rather than necessities.
She stepped into the tub and crouched down. The water was lukewarm, but still it felt heavenly. Using their last scrap of soap, she washed her body and her hair, trying not to care that in places she felt only her scalp.
Shivering as the water chilled around her, she stepped out and dried off, saving the water in the tub for the kids to bathe in. Heat radiated down from the canvas and up through the dirt floor as she brushed her thinning blond hair. There was no mirror in which to check her appearance, but she didn’t want one. She covered her head with her cleanest kerchief, wishing that, today of all days, she still owned a hat.
The women would all be wearing hats.
Don’t think about them. Or yourself.
This was for her children.
She unpacked her best dress.
Best dress. Made last year from scraps of pillowcase lace and flour sacks. The last time she’d worn it had been to church in Lonesome Tree.
Don’t think about that.
She dressed carefully, pulling up her sagging cotton stockings and stepping into worn-down shoes. Then she stepped out of the tent and into the blazing afternoon sun.
Jean stood outside her own tent, holding a broom.
Elsa waved and walked over.
“I think you’re lookin’ for trouble,” Jean said, looking worried.
“If I am, it’s about time.”
“I’ll be here waitin’ when you get back,” Jean said.
Nadine walked over to join them. “She’s really going?” she said to Jean.
Jean nodded. “She’s going.”
“Well, doll,” Nadine said, “I wish I had your pluck.”
Elsa was grateful for the support.
She walked out of camp. On the main road, the few automobiles that passed her honked for her to get off to the side. By the time she reached the school, she was covered in fine red dust.
She brushed as much of the dirt off of her as she could. She would not be a coward. Chin up, she crossed the lawn and bypassed the office and walked toward the library.
There was a sign on the door for the after-school PTA meeting.
She opened the door just as the school bell rang and children ran out into the hallway.
In the library, books lined every wall; there was a checkout desk, and bright overhead lights. A dozen or so women stood clustered together, sipping coffee from china cups. Elsa noticed how well they were dressed—silk stockings, fashionable dresses, matching handbags. Hair cut and styled. At one side of the room, a long table, draped in white, held trays of cookies and sandwiches and a silver coffee urn.
The women turned to stare at Elsa. Their conversations stalled and then stopped altogether.
Elsa wondered how it was she’d thought a clean flour-sack dress or a bath would help. She didn’t belong here. How could she have thought otherwise?
No. This is America. I’m a mother. I’m here for my kids.
She took a step forward.
Eyes on her. Frowns.
At the clothed table, she poured herself a cup of coffee and took a sandwich. Her hand was shaking as she lifted it to her lips.
An older woman, in a tailored tweed skirt suit and heels, with tightly curled hair that peeked out beneath a beribboned felt hat, peeled away from the cluster of women and walked resolutely toward Elsa. As she neared, she raised one eyebrow. “I’m Martha Watson, president of the PTA. You’re lost, I presume.”
“I’m here for the PTA meeting. My children are in school here and I’m interested in the curriculum.”
“People like you don’t influence our curriculum. What you do is bring disease and trouble to our schools.”
“I have a right to be here,” Elsa said.
“Oh, really? Do you have an address in the community?”
“Well…”
“Do you pay taxes to support this school?”
The woman sniffed, as if Elsa smelled, and walked away, clapping her hands. “Come along, mothers. We need to plan the end-of-the-year raffle. We want to raise money to get those dirty migrants a school of their own.”
The women fell in behind Martha, waddling like chicks behind the mama duck.
Elsa did what she’d always done when faced with derision and contempt. She walked away, defeated, left the library, went out into the now-deserted schoolyard.
She was almost to the flagpole when she stopped.
No.
This was not the woman she wanted to be anymore. Not the mother she wanted to be. These women looked at her and judged her and thought they knew her. They thought she was trash.
But she wasn’t trash. And her children certainly weren’t trash.
You can do it.
Could she?
They’re bullies, Elsa. That was what Rose would say. The only way to fight a bully is to stand your ground.
Be brave, Grandpa Walt would say. Pretend if you have to.
Clutching her handbag strap, she walked back into the school. At the library door, she paused, but not for long, and then opened the door.
The women—a gaggle of geese, Elsa thought—turned to her. Mouths dropped open.
Martha took control. “I thought we told you—”
“I heard you,” Elsa said. She was literally quaking inside. Her voice wavered. “Now you will hear me. My children go to this school. I will be a part of this. Period.” She sidled into the back row and sat down, clamping her knees together, holding her purse on her lap.
Martha stared at her, lips pinched tightly together.
Elsa sat still.
“Fine. You can’t impose manners or breeding. Ladies. Sit down.”
The women took their seats, careful not to be near Elsa.
For the entire meeting—more than two hours—no one looked back at her. In fact, they were studiously avoiding her as they talked among themselves, saying things in strident voices: dirty migrants … live like hogs … lice … don’t know any better … shouldn’t be allowed to think they belong.
Elsa heard the mess
age but didn’t care, and not caring felt good.
Almost exhilarating, in fact. For once, she had not let someone else tell her where she belonged.
“The meeting is adjourned,” Martha said.
No one moved. The women sat rigidly upright, facing Martha.
Elsa got it.
They wouldn’t walk past her.
They carry disease, you know.
Elsa faked a sneeze. Everyone jumped.
Elsa got to her feet and walked casually toward the door, taking her time. As she passed the food table, she saw all that was there: little peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches on store-bought bread with the crusts cut off, deviled eggs, a Jell-O salad, and a plate of cookies.
Why not?
They thought she was a dirty Okie anyway. What beaten dog didn’t jump at scraps?
Elsa picked up the plate of cookies and dumped all of them into her handbag. Next, she removed her headscarf and filled it with sandwiches. Then she snapped her handbag shut.
“Don’t worry, ladies,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll bring a treat next time. I’m sure y’all love squirrel stew.”
She walked out of the library and let the door bang shut behind her.
* * *
A HALF HOUR LATER, Elsa got her first whiff of the camp—the stench of too many people living without sanitation on a hot May day.
At their tent, she found Loreda and Ant sitting on boxes out front playing cards. Loreda had started making the lentil stew. Smoke puffed up through the stove’s short metal pipe and drifted sideways.
At Elsa’s arrival, Ant jumped up to greet her, but Loreda remained seated. Her daughter looked up and said, “Hey,” in that new clenched voice of hers.
Ant produced a local newspaper that was stained and torn. Across the top in bold black type was the headline: “Criminal Element Rampant in Migrants Flooding into State. One Thousand Enter California Per Day.” “I found this in the trash at school. I stole it. For the fire,” he said.
“It ain’t stealing if it’s in the trash,” Loreda said.
“I have a surprise,” Elsa said.
“A good surprise?” Loreda said without looking up. “Or another bad thing happening?”
The Four Winds Page 23
