The Four Winds

“Raffaello,” Mr. Martinelli said, turning his gaze to his son. “Is it true?”

Rafe flinched, unable to quite meet his father’s gaze. “Yeah.”

“Madonna mia,” Mrs. Martinelli said, then rattled off something further in Italian. Angry, that was all Elsa got from it. She slapped Rafe on the back of the head, a loud crack of sound, and then began yelling: “Send her away, Antonio. Puttana.”

Mr. Martinelli pulled his wife away from them.

“I’m sorry, Rafe,” Elsa said when they were alone. Shame was drowning her. She heard Mrs. Martinelli yell, “No,” and then, again: “Puttana.”

A moment later, Mr. Martinelli returned to Elsa, looking older than when he’d left. He was craggy-looking—his brow thrust out, tufted by sagebrush eyebrows; the bumpy arch of a nose that looked to have been broken more than once; a blunt plate of a chin. An old-fashioned cowcatcher mustache covered most of his upper lip. Every bit of bad Panhandle Texas weather showed on his deeply tanned face, created wrinkles along his forehead like year rings in a tree trunk. “I’m Tony,” he said, and then cocked his head toward his wife, who stood about fifteen feet away. “My wife … Rose.”

Elsa nodded. She knew he was one of the many farmers who bought supplies from her father each season on credit and paid it back after harvest. They had met at a few county gatherings, but not many. The Wolcotts didn’t socialize with people like the Martinellis.

“Rafe,” he went on, looking at his son. “Introduce your girl properly.”

Your girl.

Not your hussy, your Jezebel.

Elsa had never been anyone’s girl. And she was too long in the tooth to be a girl anyway.

“Papa, this is Elsa Wolcott,” Rafe said in a voice that cracked on the last word.

“No. No. No,” Mrs. Martinelli shouted. Her hands slammed onto her hips. “He’s going to college in three days, Tony. We’ve paid the deposit. How do we even know this woman is in the family way? It could be a lie. A baby—”

“Changes everything,” said Mr. Martinelli. He added something in Italian, and his words silenced his wife.

“You’ll marry her,” Mr. Martinelli said to Rafe.

Mrs. Martinelli cursed loudly in Italian; at least it sounded like a curse.

Rafe nodded at his father. He looked as frightened as Elsa felt.

“What about his future, Tony?” Mrs. Martinelli said. “All of our dreams for him?”

Mr. Martinelli didn’t look at his wife. “It’s the end of all that, Rose.”

* * *

ELSA STOOD SILENTLY BY. Time seemed to slow down and stretch out as Rafe stared at her. The silence around them would have been complete but for the chickens squawking from the pen and a hog rooting lazily through the dirt.

“I’ll get her settled,” Mrs. Martinelli said tightly, her face a mask of displeasure. “You boys go finish up for the night.”

Mr. Martinelli and Rafe walked away without a word.

Elsa thought, Leave. Just walk away. That was what they wanted her to do. If she walked away now, this family could go on with their lives.

But where would she go?

How would she live?

She pressed a hand to her flat belly and thought about the life growing in there.

A baby.

How was it that in all the maelstrom of shame and regret, she’d missed the only thing that mattered?

She would be a mother. A mother. There would be a baby who would love her, whom she would love.