The Four Winds

by Kristin Hannah

  She stepped out into the driving rain. Her children immediately ran to her; she drew them in close, holding them tightly, shivering.

  “Where are the Deweys?” Elsa yelled to be heard over the storm.

  “They left with other volunteers.”

  The driver of the truck stepped out. At first all she noticed was his height and the familiarity of the dark brown duster he wore. It was an old-fashioned coat, something a cowboy would wear. She’d seen it before, somewhere. He walked toward Elsa, through the headlights’ rain-beaded glare.

  It came to her: she’d seen him spouting Communist rhetoric in town once, and again outside the jail, where he’d been beaten on the night Loreda ran away.

  “The jailbird,” she said.

  “The warrior,” he answered. “I’m Jack Valen. Come. Let’s get you warm.”

  “He’s the Communist I met, Mom,” Loreda said.

  “Yes,” Elsa said. “I’ve seen him in town.”

  He led them to the padlocked hotel door and put a key in the lock. The big black lock clattered to the side. He pushed the door open.

  “Wait. The hotel looks boarded up,” Elsa said.

  “Looks can be deceiving. In fact, we count on that,” Jack said. “A friend owns this place. It only looks abandoned. We keep it boarded up, for— Well, never mind. You can have one or two nights here. I wish it could be more.”

  “We are grateful for anything,” Elsa said, shivering.

  “Your friends the Deweys were taken to the abandoned grange hall. We are doing what we can. It came on so suddenly. There will be more help in place in the morning.”

  “From Communists?”

  “I don’t see anyone else here, do you?”

  He led them inside the small hotel, which smelled of decay and cigarette smoke and must.

  It took Elsa’s eyes a moment to adjust. She saw a burgundy desk with a wall of brass keys behind it.

  She followed Jack up to the second floor. There he opened a door to reveal a small, dusty room with a large canopy bed, a pair of nightstands, and a closed door.

  He walked past them into the room and opened the closed door.

  “A bathroom,” Elsa whispered.

  “There’s hot water,” he said. “Warm, at least.”

  Ant and Loreda shrieked and ran for the shower. Elsa heard them turn it on.

  “Come on, Mom!”

  Jack looked at Elsa. “Do you have a name besides ‘Mom’?”

  “Elsa.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Elsa. Now I must go back out to help.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “There’s no need. Get warm. Stay with your children.”

  “Those are my people, Jack. I’m going to help them.”

  He didn’t argue. “I will meet you downstairs.”

  Elsa went into the bathroom, saw her children in the shower together, fully dressed, laughing. She said, “I’m going to help Jack and his friends, Loreda. You guys get some sleep.”

  Loreda said, “I’ll come!”

  “No. I need you to watch Ant and get warm. Please. No fighting with me.”

  Elsa hurried back outside. Now there were several automobiles in the parking lot with their lights on.

  Volunteers gathered in a semicircle around Jack, who was clearly their leader. “Back to the ditch-bank camp off of Sutter Road. We need to save as many of them as we can. The grange hall has room, and so do the depot and the barns at the fairground.”

  Elsa climbed into Jack’s truck. They joined a steady stream of blurred yellow headlights in the falling rain. Jack leaned sideways, grabbed a ratty brown sack from behind Elsa’s seat. “Here, put these on.” He dropped the bag in her lap.

  Fingers shaking with cold, she opened it, found a pair of men’s pants and a flannel shirt, both huge.

  “I have something to tie the pants tight,” he said.

  He pulled off to the side of the road at the destroyed encampment. Drenched, dislocated people walked toward the road, clutching whatever they’d been able to save.

  In the darkness beside the truck, Elsa stripped out of her wet dress and into the oversized flannel shirt, and then put on the pants. Her journal fell out of her bodice, surprising her. She’d forgotten she’d saved it. She set it on the truck’s seat, then stepped back into her wet galoshes and out into the rushing water.

  Jack yanked off his tie and fit it through the belt loops on her borrowed pants, cinching the waistband tightly. Then he took off his coat and put it around her shoulders.

  Elsa was too cold to be polite. She put on the coat, buttoned it up. “Thank you.”

  He took her by the hand. “The water is still rising. Be careful.”

  Elsa held on to his hand as they slogged through the cold, muddy, rising water. Ruined belongings floated past them. She saw a broken-down truck with a pile of junk tarped in the back. And a face. “There,” she yelled to Jack, pointed.

  “We’re here to help,” Jack shouted.

  The black, shiny tarp slowly lifted. Huddled beneath it, Elsa saw, was a bony woman in a wet dress, holding a toddler. Both her face and the toddler’s were blue with cold.

  “Let us help you,” Jack said, reaching out.

  The woman pushed the tarp aside and crawled forward, holding her child close. Elsa immediately put an arm around the woman, felt how thin she was.

  At the side of the road, volunteers—more now—were waiting with umbrellas and raincoats and blankets and hot coffee.

  “Thank you,” the woman said.

  Elsa nodded and turned back to Jack. Together, they trudged back to the camp.

  Water and wind beat at them; mud filled Elsa’s boots with cold.

  They worked through the long, wet night. Along with the rest of the volunteers, they helped people get away from the flooded encampment; they took as many as they could to warmth, got them settled in whatever buildings they could find.

  By six in the morning, the rain and the flooding had stopped and dawn revealed the devastation caused by the flash flood. The ditch-bank camp had been washed away. Belongings floated in the water. Tents lay in tangled masses, ruined. Sheets of cardboard and metal lay scattered, as did boxes and buckets and quilts. Jalopies were up to their fenders in water and mud, trapped in place.

  Elsa stood by the side of the road, staring at the flooded land.

  People like her who had almost nothing had lost everything.

  Jack came up beside Elsa and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. “You are dead on your feet.”

  She pushed the wet hair out of her eyes. Her hand trembled at the effort. “I’m fine.”

  Jack said something.

  She heard his voice but the vowels and consonants were stretched out of shape. She started to say, I’m fine, again, but the lie got lost somewhere between her brain and her tongue.

  “Elsa!”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  Oh, wait. I’m falling.

  * * *

  ELSA WAKENED IN JACK’S truck as it rattled to a stop in front of the boarded-up hotel. Elsa sat up, feeling dizzy. She saw her journal on the seat beside her and picked it up.

  The parking area was crowded with people now. It had become a disaster staging area. Volunteers offered food and hot coffee and clothes to the flood victims, who walked around with a dazed look.

  Elsa got out of the truck, staggered sideways.

  Jack was there to catch her.

  She tried to pull away. “I should go to see my children—”

  “They’re probably still sleeping. I’ll make sure they’re fine and tell them where you are. For now, though, you are getting some sleep. I saved a room for you.”

  Sleep. She had to admit it sounded good.

  He helped her up the stairs and into the room next to her children’s. Once inside, he led her straight into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower water and waited impatiently for it to get warm; when it did, he wrenched back the curtain. Elsa couldn
’t hold back a sigh. Warm water. She tossed her journal onto a shelf above the toilet.

  Before she fully understood what he was doing, Jack had removed her galoshes and peeled the heavy canvas duster off of her and pushed her into the spray of water, fully dressed.

  Elsa tilted her head back, let the hot water run through her hair.

  Jack pulled the shower curtain shut and left her.

  The water at Elsa’s feet turned black with the mud. She stripped out of Jack’s clothes—probably ruined now—and reached for the soap in the dish and rubbed it in her hands. Lavender.

  She washed her hair and scrubbed her skin until it tingled. When the water began to cool, she stepped out, dried off, and wrapped herself in the towel. Steam hung in the room. She washed Jack’s clothes in the sink, then draped the shirt and pants and her undergarments and socks over the towel rack and returned to the bedroom.

  Clean sheets.

  What a luxury.

  Maybe Jack was right. A short nap might help.

  Elsa thought of all the laundry she’d done in her life, the joy she’d always taken in hanging sheets to dry, but never until now had she fully, deeply appreciated the sheer physical pleasure of clean sheets on naked skin. The fresh smell of lavender soap in her hair.

  She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. Within moments, she was asleep.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When Loreda woke up, she didn’t know where she was.

  She sat up slowly, feeling a cloud-soft mattress beneath her. Hair lay across her face in tangles; it smelled of lavender. Mom’s soap. But it wasn’t quite the right aroma, and they hadn’t had lavender soap in years.

  The flood. The ditch-bank camp.

  It came back to her in a flash, the muddy water rushing past them, the tent collapsing, people screaming.

  Loreda eased out from underneath the covers and found Ant curled up beside her, wearing only his saggy underwear and an undershirt.

  Their slightly damp clothes hung from hooks on a wooden dresser. Loreda got up and took her clothes with her into the bathroom. After she used the toilet, she couldn’t help herself: she took another shower but didn’t wash her hair. Then she put on her dress and sweater. Her coat was gone. As was all of their money and food.

  “Oh, no, yah don’t,” Ant said, flinging the covers aside when she walked back into the room barefoot.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ain’t leavin’ me here alone. I’m not a baby anymore. I’m starting to think things happen that I don’t know nuthin’ about.”

  Loreda couldn’t help smiling. “Get dressed, Antsy.”

  He dressed in last night’s still-damp clothes—all they had left now—and together they left the room, walked on bare feet down the narrow stairway to the lobby below. Halfway down, they heard voices.

  The small lobby was filled with people; the air smelled of sweat, wet clothes, and drying mud. Loreda and Ant pushed their way through.

  Outside, a bright sun shone on the wet street, which had been cordoned off to traffic. Several organizations had set up tents in the street—the Red Cross and the Salvation Army, some state relief organizations. A couple of church groups. Each held a table and chairs, along with donuts and sandwiches and hot coffee, as well as boxes of goods and clothes for giveaway.

  “It’s like a carnival,” Ant said, shivering in his damp clothes. “But I don’t see no rides.”

  “Any rides,” Loreda said, crossing her arms for warmth.

  The displaced migrant families were obvious; they gathered in bedraggled groups, wearing blankets and looking dazed, sipping hot coffee.

  Loreda saw a tent set back from the others. A banner hung from one tent pole to the other, WORKERS ALLIANCE: FDR’S NEW DEAL SHOULD WORK FOR YOU.

  Communists.

  “Come on.” Loreda dragged Ant to the tent, where a woman in a black coat stood all by herself smoking a cigarette. She wore black wool pants and a creamy white sweater and a beret. Bright red lipstick accentuated the pallor of her skin.

  Loreda approached the tent. “Hello?”

  The woman pulled the cigarette from her bright red lips and turned. Her dark eyes narrowed into an assessing gaze that swept Loreda from head to foot. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Loreda had never seen a woman like this. So … elegant, or maybe it was just boldness. She was probably Mom’s age, but her style and beauty were somehow ageless. “I’m Loreda.”

  The woman extended a hand. Bright red lacquer polish brightened her short fingernails. “I’m Natalia. You’re freezing.”

  “W-wet clothes. But that doesn’t matter. I want to join your group.”

  The woman took a drag of her cigarette, exhaled slowly. “Really?”

  “I know Mr. Valen. I have … been to a barn meeting.”

  “Really?”

  “I’d like to join the fight.”

  Natalia paused. “Well, I imagine you have more reason than most. Today, though, we are not fighting. Today we are helping.”

  “Helping people gets their attention.”

  “Smart girl.”

  “I want to be a part of…” She lowered her voice. “You know. Rise up. Stand up.”

  Natalia nodded. “Good for you. A girl who thinks for herself. You can start by getting some dry clothes and shoes for you and the boy. Put them on. Stop shivering. Then you may help me pour coffee.”

  * * *

  VOLUNTEERS ARRIVED IN A steady stream. By noon there were hundreds of people in the valley, handing out hot coffee and warm clothes and sandwiches. The Red Cross had set up a temporary shelter in an abandoned automobile dealership and given folks a place to stay overnight. The Salvation Army had taken over the local grange hall. According to Jack, half the Communists and socialists in Hollywood had come to help or sent donations. There was even word that some movie stars were here, although Loreda hadn’t seen any. Or maybe Natalia was an actress; she certainly had the glamour.

  Loreda and Ant had spent the last few hours helping flood victims in any way they could. Loreda had found dry, warm clothes and shoes for the three of them. The clothing—their only real belongings now—sat in a box in the Communists’ tent. She’d found a dress and sweater for Mom and had taken them up to her room. Seeing Mom asleep, Loreda had left the clothes for her. Now Loreda sat in the Communists’ tent beside Natalia. In front of them, the table held a big metal coffeepot and a nearly empty tray of sandwiches. And a stack of flyers, very few of which had been taken, if any.

  Natalia lit up a cigarette, offered Loreda one.

  “No, thanks. I’d rather eat than smoke.”

  Natalia leaned forward and took the last bologna sandwich, handing it to Loreda.

  Taking a bite, Loreda stared out at the diminished crowd. There were fewer people out here now. Most had been relocated or helped in some way.

  Out in the cordoned-off street, Jack threw a softball back and forth with Ant. Loreda found herself mesmerized by Ant’s joy in such a simple thing. It made her think about Daddy and who they’d all been before he left. His leaving was still the worst thing that had happened to their family. The drought and the Depression would end. Daddy leaving them in the middle of it would hurt forever.

  She looked at Jack. Even with all they’d been through, the long, terrible night, there was a strength in him that comforted her. You could count on a man like that, she thought. A man who didn’t just spout ideas, but fought for them, took beatings for them, and stayed in place. If only her father had been more like Jack.

  A rebel instead of a dreamer. Daddy had given Loreda words; it was actions that mattered. She knew that now. Leaving. Staying. Fighting. Or walking away.

  Loreda wanted to be like Jack, not like her faithless father. She wanted to stand for something and tell the world she was better than this, that America should be better than letting her live this way.

  But look at the stack of flyers left on the table. Very few had been taken. People had taken coffee and sandwic
hes, but apparently they didn’t want words. Especially not fighting words. And the only name on the Workers Alliance sign-up sheet was Loreda’s.

  “How do you know Jack?” Loreda said, looking at him.

  “I met him years ago at a John Reed Club. We were both young and full of ourselves.” Natalia dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with her fashionable shoe. “He was the first person I know to start talking about workers’ rights in the fields. He got us to fight the deportation of Mexicans a few years ago. It was an ugly time, but…” She shrugged. “People get scared when they lose their jobs and they tend to blame outsiders. The first step is to call them criminals. The rest is easy. You know about that,” she said, eyeing Loreda.

  “I do.”

  “Several years ago, the Mexicans organized and joined the union and struck for better wages, but it came with violence. Men died. Jack spent a year in San Quentin. When he came out, he was even more determined.”

  Loreda hadn’t considered prison. “How is it illegal to ask for better wages?”

  Natalia lit up another cigarette. “It isn’t, technically. But this is a capitalist country, run by big-money interests. After the state’s anti-immigration campaign, when they rounded up all the illegals and deported them back to Mexico, the growers would have had a real problem, but then…”

  “We started coming.”

  Natalia nodded. “They sent flyers across America, telling workers to come. And they came, too many of them. Now there are ten workers for every job. We’re having trouble getting your people to organize. They’re—”

  “Independent.”

  “I was going to say stubborn.”

  “Yeah. Well, a lot of us are farmers, and you have to be stubborn to survive sometimes.”

  “Are you stubborn?”

  “Yeah,” Loreda said slowly. “I reckon so. But more than anything, I’m mad.”

  * * *

  ELSA WOKE TO SUNSHINE coming through glass windows and it made her miss the farmhouse in Lonesome Tree. She would write about that in her journal later, about the simple joy of seeing sunshine through clean glass, golden, pure as the gaze of God, and how it could lift one’s spirit.