The Four Winds(97)

“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 sandwiches, 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.”