* * *
A HALF HOUR LATER, Elsa got her first whiff of the camp—the stench of too many people living without sanitation on a hot May day.
At their tent, she found Loreda and Ant sitting on boxes out front playing cards. Loreda had started making the lentil stew. Smoke puffed up through the stove’s short metal pipe and drifted sideways.
At Elsa’s arrival, Ant jumped up to greet her, but Loreda remained seated. Her daughter looked up and said, “Hey,” in that new clenched voice of hers.
Ant produced a local newspaper that was stained and torn. Across the top in bold black type was the headline: “Criminal Element Rampant in Migrants Flooding into State. One Thousand Enter California Per Day.” “I found this in the trash at school. I stole it. For the fire,” he said.
“It ain’t stealing if it’s in the trash,” Loreda said.
“I have a surprise,” Elsa said.
“A good surprise?” Loreda said without looking up. “Or another bad thing happening?”
Elsa touched Loreda with the toe of her shoe. “It’s good. Come on.”
She herded her children toward the Deweys’ tent. As they approached, Elsa smelled cornbread cooking.
Elsa called out a greeting at the closed flaps.
The tent flaps opened. Five-year-old Lucy stood there in her burlap-sack dress, skinny as a stalk of alfalfa, with four-year-old Mary standing so close the two girls looked conjoined.
Lucy smiled, showing off two missing teeth. “Miz Martinelli,” she said. “What’re y’all doing here?”
“I brought you something,” Elsa said.
Inside the murky darkness that smelled of sweat, Elsa saw Jean sitting on a box, sewing by candlelight.
“Elsa,” Jean said, getting to her feet.
“Come out,” Elsa said. “I have a treat.”
They gathered outside, around the small stove, where cornbread baked in a black cast-iron skillet. Jean sat down in the chair by the stove.
The four children plopped down in the weed-infested dirt, all cross-legged, and waited quietly.
Elsa opened her purse and took out a handful of cookies.
Ant’s eyes lit up. “Wowza!” He cupped his hands together and reached out.
Elsa put a sugar-dusted cookie in each pair of hands, and then handed a small peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich to Jean, who shook her head. “The kids need it more.”
Elsa gave Jean a look. “You need to eat, too.”
Jean sighed. She took the sandwich, took a bite, and moaned quietly.
Elsa tasted a cookie. Sugar. Butter. Flour. The single bite hurled her back in time to Rose’s kitchen.
“How did it go?” Jean asked quietly.
“They made me president. Asked where I bought my dress.”
“That good, huh?”
“I took all their treats. That was the highlight.”
“I’m proud of you, Elsa.”