Loreda’s mouth watered at all of the foodstuffs for sale in here. Bologna, bottles of Coca-Cola, packages of hot dogs, boxes full of oranges, wrapped loaves of Wonder Bread. Ant ran straight to the array of penny candy on the counter. Big glass jars full of licorice whips and hard candies and peppermint sticks.
The cash register was situated on a wooden counter. The clerk was a broad-shouldered man wearing a white shirt and brown pants held in place by blue suspenders. A brown felt hat covered his cropped hair. He stood as stiff as a fence post, watching them.
Loreda realized suddenly what they looked like after more than a week on the road (and years on the dying farm). Wan, thin, with pinched faces. Dresses hung together with dirt and hope. Shoes full of holes, or, in Ant’s case, no shoes at all. Dirty faces, dirty hair.
Loreda self-consciously smoothed the hair back from her face, tucked a few flyaway strands back under her faded red kerchief.
“You’d best control those kids of yours,” the man behind the counter said to Mom. “They can’t touch things with their dirty hands.”
“I’m sorry for our appearance,” Mom said, stepping up to the counter as she unclasped her purse. “We’ve been traveling and—”
“Yeah. I know. Your kind pours into California every day.”
“I got gas,” Mom said, plucking one dollar and ninety cents in coins from her wallet.
“I hope it’s enough to get you out of town,” the man said.
There was a quiet after that, a drawing in of air.
“What did you say?” Mom asked.
The man reached under the counter, pulled up a gun, clanked it on the counter between them. “You best go.”
“Children,” Mom said. “Go back to the truck. We’re leaving now.” She dropped the coins onto the floor and herded the kids out of the store.
The door banged shut behind them.
“Who does he think he is? Just ’cause he hasn’t hit hard times, the crumb thinks he has the right to look down on us?” Loreda said, infuriated and embarrassed. He had made her feel poor for the first time in her life.
Mom opened the truck door. “Get in,” she said in a voice so quiet it was almost frightening.
NINETEEN
Elsa was glad to put that place in her rearview mirror. She didn’t know what she was looking for, what she was driving toward, but she figured she’d know it when she saw it. A diner, maybe. No reason she couldn’t wait tables. She drove to Bakersfield and felt a little disoriented by the size of the city. So many automobiles and stores and people out walking around, so she turned onto a smaller road and kept driving. South, she thought, or maybe east.
She refused to let one man’s prejudice hurt them after all they’d been through to get here. She was angry that Loreda and Ant had experienced such baseless prejudice, but life was full of such injustice. Just look at how her father had talked about the Italians, the Irish, the Negroes, and the Mexicans. Oh, he took their money and smiled to their faces, but his words were ugly the minute the door closed. Look at what her mother had seen when she’d looked at her newborn granddaughter: the wrong skin color.
Sadly, that ugliness was a part of life and not something Elsa could shield her children from entirely. Not even in California, in their new beginning. She simply had to teach them better.
They passed a sign for DiGiorgio Farms, saw people working in the fields.
A few miles later, outside a nice-looking town, Elsa saw a row of cottages set back from the road, all neatly cared for, with trees for shade. The middle one had a FOR RENT sign in the window.
Elsa eased her foot off the gas, let the truck coast to a stop.
“What’s wrong?” Loreda asked.
“Look at those pretty houses,” Elsa said.
“Could we afford that?” Loreda asked.
“We won’t know if we don’t ask,” Elsa said “Maybe, right?”
Loreda did not look convinced.
“We could get a puppy if we lived here,” Ant said. “I surely do want a puppy. I’d name him Rover.”
“Every dog is named Rover,” Loreda said.