“Shall I take it back? I could tell my husband how insubordinate you’ve been.”
Forty cents.
Elsa walked away, pushed through the door, let it bang shut behind her. She got in the truck and drove down the driveway, trying not to panic.
Forty cents for a day’s work.
Now she knew why the folks in the camp walked to find work. Gas was already a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Tomorrow she’d join the people leaving the ditch-bank camp before dawn in the hopes of finding work in the fields. The pay had to be better than this.
But she’d be damned if her children would work in the fields. They would go to school and get an education.
Out on the main road, she saw a slim man walking along the roadside, his shoulders hunched in defeat, carrying a tattered knapsack. Black hair hung in dirty strands from a holey hat. One foot was bare.
Rafe.
It couldn’t be, but still …
She slowed the truck to a stop and rolled down the window. It was not her husband, of course.
“You need a ride, friend?” she asked.
The man glanced sideways. The skin on his face was tightly drawn over sharp bones. His cheeks were hollow. “Naw. Thanks, tho. Ain’t nowhere to go and I got me a rhythm.”
Elsa stared at him for a long moment, thinking, Yeah, none of us has anywhere to go, then she sighed and put her foot to the gas.
* * *
THAT DAY IN CAMP, Loreda learned the flexibility of time. Until today, it had always seemed fundamental, reliable. Even in the midst of heartbreak—losing her father and her best friend, and Ant’s illness—time had soothed with its consistency. Time heals all wounds, people told her, underscoring its essential kindness. She knew in fact that some wounds deepened over time instead of lessened; still, she’d relied on time’s constancy. The sun rose and the sun fell every day; in between there were chores and meals and markers, a schedule of daily life.
Here, hobbled by misery, time crawled forward.
There was nowhere to go and nothing to do. She couldn’t leave Ant and go hunting for doves or jackrabbits. Instead, she and her brother sat on the lumpy camp mattress and Loreda read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz out loud. But the book, with its terrible tornado in Kansas, wasn’t as fantastic as it used to be, not when you were staying in a place that looked like a disaster zone. In fact, Loreda thought it might give them both nightmares.
It was just past five-thirty P.M. when Loreda heard the familiar rumble of their truck. She pushed Ant away and jumped out of bed.
Outside, on the rutted road, a crowd of people were walking this way.
Mom pulled up next to the tent and parked. Loreda waited impatiently for her to shut off the engine and step out of the truck. When Mom finally did exit the truck, she just stood there, hunched over, looking tired. Defeated.
“Mom?”
Mom straightened quickly and smiled, but Loreda saw that it was a lie, that smile. The defeat in Mom’s blue eyes was frightening.
“I did laundry and soaked beans,” Loreda said, suddenly wanting Mom back, the woman who was a full-charge-ahead workhorse, who never cried or gave up, who was never afraid. “We can leave after dinner.”
“I got a job today,” Mom said. “I worked all day for forty cents.”
“Forty cents? That’s not even enough to—”
“I know.”
“Forty cents?”
“Now we know what we’re up against, Loreda. We can’t spend money on rent or gas.”
“Wait. You promised we’d only stay one day.”