The Four Winds(101)

Lord, I miss home so much sometimes I can hardly breathe.

How is the farm? The town? You both?

Please write to us soon.

Love,

Elsa, Loreda, and Ant





TWENTY-EIGHT





Last night, they’d eaten a meal that almost filled their bellies and which had been cooked on an electric hot plate inside a cabin with four walls and a roof overhead and a floor to stand upon. After supper, they’d climbed into real beds on real mattresses that weren’t on the floor. Loreda had slept deeply, with her little brother tucked in close, and awakened the next morning refreshed.

After breakfast, they each dressed in the new garments and shoes they’d gotten from the Salvation Army and stepped outside into a bright sunlit day.

The Welty camp was situated on a few acres tucked in between cotton fields. Although the camp hadn’t flooded, evidence of too much rain was everywhere. The grass had been stomped into mud, but Loreda could see it would be a green pasture under better conditions. Now many of the trees, scattered randomly throughout the camp, were broken-limbed by the storm. Ditches full of muddy water ran here and there. Ten cabins and about fifty tents created a makeshift town in the center of the camp. Between the cabins and the first of the tents, Loreda saw a long building that was the laundry, and four restrooms—two for women and two for men—each of which had long lines of people waiting their turn. Most important, there were two faucets at each entrance. Clean water. No more hauling water from the ditch, boiling and straining it before each use.

At the company store, more people waited in line, mostly women, standing with their arms crossed, children close by. A hand-painted sign pointed the way to the school.

“What if I said we’d start tomorrow?” Loreda said glumly.

“I’d say you were just bumping gums,” Mom said. “I’m going to do laundry and get some food and you’re going to school. End of story. Start walking.”

Ant giggled. “Mom wins.”

Mom led the way toward a pair of tents positioned at the far end of the camp in a grove of spindly trees. She paused beside the largest of the tents, which had a wooden sign posted out front: LITTLE KIDS SCHOOL.

The tent next door read: big kids school.

“I reckon I’m big,” Ant said.

Mom said, “I don’t think so,” and eased Ant toward the Little Kids tent.

Loreda moved fast.

The last thing she wanted was to be walked into her classroom by her mother. She went to the Big Kids tent and peered inside.

There were about five desks. Two were empty. A woman wearing a drab gray cotton dress and rubber boots stood at the front of the room. Beside her was an easel that held a chalkboard. On it, she’d written: American history.

Loreda ducked inside and sat at the empty desk in the back.

The teacher looked up. “I’m Mrs. Sharpe. And who is our newest pupil?”

The other kids turned to look at Loreda.

“Loreda Martinelli.”

The boy in the next desk scooted so close his desk edge banged into hers. He was tall, she could tell. Lanky. With a dirty cap pulled down so low she couldn’t see his eyes. His blond hair was too long. He wore faded overalls over a denim shirt; one bib strap was untied and the corner flapped over like a dog’s ear. A winter coat hung on him, too big and missing most of the buttons. He pulled off his cap. “Lor-ay-da. I ain’t heard that name before. It’s pretty.”

“Hi,” she said. “Thanks. And you are?”

“Bobby Rand. You moved into Cabin Ten? The Pennipakers left just before the flood. The old man died. Dysentery.” He smiled. “Glad to have someone my age here. My pa makes me go to school if there’s no pickin’.”

“Yeah. My mom wants me to go to college.”

He laughed, showing off a missing tooth. “That’s rich.”

Loreda glared at him. “Girls can go to college, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh. I thought you were jokin’.”

“Well, I’m not. Where are you from, the Stone Age?”

“New Mexico. We had a grocery store that went bust.”

“Students,” the teacher said, rapping a ruler on the top of the easel. “You are not here to jaw. Open your American history books to page one-twelve.”

Bobby opened a book. “We can share. Not that we’re gonna learn anything that matters.”

Loreda leaned toward him, looked at the open book. The chapter heading was “The Founding Fathers and the First Continental Congress.”

Loreda raised her hand.

“Yes . . . Loretta, is it?”

Loreda didn’t correct the pronunciation of her name. Mrs. Sharpe didn’t look like much of a listener. “I’m interested in more recent history, ma’am. The farmworkers here in California. The anti-immigration policies that deported the Mexicans. And what about workers’ unions? I’d like to understand—”

The teacher rapped her ruler down so hard it cracked. “We do not talk about unionism here. That’s un-American. We are lucky to have jobs that put food on our tables.”

“But we don’t really have jobs, do we? I mean—”

“Out! Now. Don’t come back until you’re ready to be grateful. And quiet, as young women should always be.”