The Four Winds(83)
Loreda sat down at the oak desk, which had a lamp on it. She couldn’t help flicking the light on and off and on again, marveling at the magic of electricity on demand.
The librarian returned with a book. “What’s your name?”
“Loreda Martinelli.”
“I’m Mrs. Quisdorf. You come back for your card, but I’ll trust you with this for now.” She set down a worn copy of The Secret of the Old Clock.
Loreda touched the book, lifted it to her face, and inhaled the remembered scent that made her think of reading at night . . . with Stella after school; listening to Daddy telling her bedtime stories. Like a flower that had been sucked dry in a drought and felt the first drop of spring rain, Loreda felt herself revive. “Do you have one I could take to my brother? He’s eight. And maybe one for my mom? I’ll bring them back, I promise.”
Mrs. Quisdorf eyed her assessingly and finally smiled. “Miss Martinelli, I believe you are my kind of girl.”
THAT NIGHT, AFTER THE children were asleep, Elsa swept the tent floor—again—and rearranged the collection of found fruit cartons that had become their pantry. They had sugar, flour, bacon, beans, canned milk, rice, and butter. A veritable feast. But even as the Depression had worsened, food prices had gone up. Five gallons of kerosene cost a dollar. Two pounds of butter cost fifty cents. Six pounds of rice cost nearly half a dollar. It was terrifying how fast it added up.
And today she’d spent seventy-five cents on haircuts for the three of them. She hoped she didn’t regret it come winter.
Hefting the box of clothes she’d gotten today, she ducked out of the tent and walked over to see Jean, who sat in a chair by the woodstove, darning socks by lantern light. Jeb and the boys had taken the truck, hoping to find autumn work in the grape fields. No one expected them to find it this late in the year, though.
“Hey, Jean,” Elsa said, coming out of the dark and into the lantern’s pale light. She and the children had chosen what fit them from the box of clothes and saved the rest for the Deweys.
“Elsa. You look so pretty!”
Elsa felt her cheeks heat up as she set down the box of clothes. “Betty Ane tried.”
Jean touched the wooden bucket nearest her with her toe. “Sit down.”
Elsa settled herself on the bucket, ignoring the way it pinched into her bony buttocks. Lord, those beauty salon seats had felt heavenly.
“Why do you say things like that?”
Elsa looked through the box of clothes until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers felt soft, soft wool. “Like what?”
“Has no one ever said you were pretty?”
Elsa stopped rooting through the clothes and looked up. “I love a friend who lies.”
“I’m not lying.”
“I’m . . . not good with compliments, I guess.” Elsa said, smoothing the silky, chin-length hair back from her face. She pulled out a soft lavender-blue baby blanket and held it out to Jean. “Look at this.”
Jean took the blanket, stared down at it. “He was dancing up a storm yesterday,” Jean said, putting a hand on her rounded belly.
Elsa knew Jean prayed every day to feel movement in her womb, and that with every movement she felt both joy and fear. “I had a dream last night. I had a job in a diner. I was serving apple pie to women who still wore hats that matched their dresses.”
Jean nodded. “I reckon we all have that dream.”
WINTER HIT THE SAN Joaquin Valley hard, a frightening combination of bad weather and no work. Day after day, rain fell from steel-wool-colored skies, fat drops clattering on the automobiles and tin-can shacks and tents clustered along the ditch bank. Puddles of mud formed and wandered, became trenches. Brown splatter marks discolored everything.
Elsa mourned every dollar spent, counting and re-counting her money on a daily basis. She was frugal, but even so, her savings diminished. She hated that she and the children had had no choice but to buy galoshes this month. There had been nothing in their sizes at the Salvation Army or the giveaway box at the Presbyterian church.
By late December, her savings had dwindled enough that she lived in a constant state of fear. Cotton hadn’t earned them enough to last through the winter; she understood that now. She needed help to feed her children; it was as simple, as heartbreaking, as that. She couldn’t get money from the state until April, but she could get food from the feds. It was better than standing in a line at a soup kitchen, bowl and spoon in hand, but she knew that could be her future if she wasn’t careful. Honestly, she’d be doing it now if she hadn’t heard that the supply at the soup kitchens was stretched to the limit; she didn’t want to take free food out of the mouths of people who had no other choice, not while she still had some money.
“It ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Jean said when Elsa told her.
They were standing in Elsa’s tent, having a cup of coffee together in the relative quiet of mid-morning. Loreda and Ant had left for school hours ago. Rain thumped on the canvas, rattled the poles. “Really?” Elsa said, looking at her friend.
They both knew better. It was something to be ashamed of. Americans weren’t supposed to take handouts from the government. They were supposed to work hard and succeed on their own.
“None of us got a choice,” Jean said. “You don’t get much—beans and rice—but every morsel matters.”