The Four Winds(119)

The truck lurched forward and died.

“Sorry,” Loreda said.

“Try again. Take your time.”

Loreda worked the pedals, put the truck in first gear. They moved slowly forward.

The engine revved.

“Second gear, Loreda,” Elsa said.

Loreda tried again and finally got it into second.

They drove in fits and starts down the road to the state relief office, where there was already a crowd of people waiting. The line snaked out the door and through the parking lot and down the block.

Elsa and Loreda got in line.

As they stood there, the sun began to set slowly, gilding the valley for a few beautiful moments before the sky darkened.

They were almost to the head of the line when a pair of police cars drove into the parking lot. Four uniformed policemen exited the vehicles. Moments later a Welty truck drove up and Mr. Welty stepped out.

People in line turned to look, but no one said anything.

Two of the policemen and Mr. Welty cut to the head of the line and strode into the relief office. They didn’t come back out.

Elsa clung to Loreda’s hand. In normal times, the folks in line might have turned to one another, asked what was going on, but these weren’t ordinary times. There were spies everywhere; people wanted to take a place at Welty, wanted a job.

Elsa finally stepped into the small, hot office, where a pretty young woman sat at the desk with the file box full of residents’ names in front of her.

Welty stood beside the woman, appeared almost to be looming over the poor girl. Two policemen stood beside him, hands rested on their gun belts.

Elsa eased Loreda away and walked up to the desk alone. Her throat was so dry she had to clear it twice to speak. “Elsa Martinelli. April 1935.”

Welty pointed at Elsa’s red card. “Address Welty Farms. She’s on the list.”

The woman looked at Elsa with compassion. “I’m sorry, ma’am. No state relief for anyone who is capable of picking cotton.”

“But . . .”

“If you can pick, you have to,” she said. “It’s the new policy. But don’t worry, as soon as cotton season is over, you’ll be put back on the relief rolls.”

“Wait a minute. Now, the state is cutting my relief? But I’m a resident, and I am picking cotton.”

“We want to make sure you keep picking it,” Welty said.

“Mr. Welty,” she said. “Please. We need—”

“Next,” Welty said loudly.

Elsa couldn’t believe this new cruelty. People needed this relief to feed their children, even if they did pick cotton. “Have you no shame?”

“Next,” he said again. A policeman came up to physically move Elsa out of the line.

She stumbled away, felt Loreda steady her.

Elsa stepped out of the relief office (what a joke that title was) and stared at the long line of people, many of whom didn’t yet know their relief had been cut. So, the state was helping the growers avoid a strike by cutting relief to people who were already barely surviving.

She heard a shout and turned.

Two policemen slammed a man against the building wall, said, “Where’s tonight’s meeting? Where is it?”They shoved the man into the wall again. “How are you going to feed your family from San Quentin?”

“Elsa!”

She saw Jeb Dewey rushing toward her. He looked frantic.

“Jeb. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Jean. She’s sick. Can you help?”

“I’ll drive,” Elsa said, already running toward the truck.

Elsa drove out to the old squatters’ camp and parked near the Deweys’ truck. She and Jeb and Loreda got out. A wood and metal roof had been built over the bed. Another roof extended out to the side, created a covered cooking area where the children now sat. Jean lay on a mattress in the back of the truck.

“Tell us what to do,” Jeb said.

Elsa climbed up into the truck bed and knelt beside Jean. “Hey, you.”

“Elsa,” Jean said, her voice almost too soft to be heard. Her eyes had a glassy, unfocused look. “I told Jeb you’d be at relief today.”

Elsa placed a hand on Jean’s forehead. “You’re burning up.” She yelled to Jeb: “Get me some water.”

Moments later, Loreda handed Elsa a cup of warm water. “Here, Mom.”

Elsa took the cup. Cradling Jean’s neck, she helped her sip water. “Come on, Jean, take a drink.”

Jean tried to push her away.

“Come on, Jean.” Elsa forced the water down Jean’s throat.

Jean looked up at her. “It’s bad this time.”

Elsa looked down at Jeb. “You got any aspirin?”

“Nope.”

“Loreda,” Elsa said. “Take the truck to the company store. Buy us some aspirin. And a thermometer. The keys are in the ignition.”

Loreda ran off.

Elsa settled herself in closer to Jean, held her in her arms, and stroked her hot brow.

“It’s the typhoid, I reckon,” Jean said. “You should probably stay away.”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of. Just ask my husband. He had to run off in the middle of the night.”

Jean smiled weakly. “He was a fool.”