The Four Winds

“Yes … Loretta, is it?”

Loreda didn’t correct the pronunciation of her name. Mrs. Sharpe didn’t look like much of a listener. “I’m interested in more recent history, ma’am. The farmworkers here in California. The anti-immigration policies that deported the Mexicans. And what about workers’ unions? I’d like to understand—”

The teacher rapped her ruler down so hard it cracked. “We do not talk about unionism here. That’s un-American. We are lucky to have jobs that put food on our tables.”

“But we don’t really have jobs, do we? I mean—”

“Out! Now. Don’t come back until you’re ready to be grateful. And quiet, as young women should always be.”

“What is wrong with everyone in this state?” Loreda said, slamming the book shut on Bobby’s finger. He yelped in pain.

“We don’t need to learn about what old rich men did more than one hundred years ago. The world is falling apart now.” She strode out of the tent.

What now?

Loreda marched through the grassy mud toward … what?

Where was she going? If she went back to the cabin, Mom would put her to work doing laundry.

The library. It was the only thing she could think of.

She walked out of camp and turned onto the paved road and walked to town.

In Welty, which was less than a mile away, she turned onto Main Street, where a series of awninged shops had obviously once offered everything a person could need if you had money. Tailors, druggists, grocers, butchers, dress shops. Now most of them were closed. A movie theater stood in the center of town, its marquee unlit, its windows boarded up.

She passed a boarded-up hat shop; a man sat on the stoop, one leg stretched out, the other bent. He draped an arm over the bent knee, a brown hand-rolled cigarette dangled between his fingers.

He peered up at her from beneath the brim of his tired-looking fedora.

A look of understanding passed between them.

Loreda paused for a moment outside the library. She hadn’t been here since the day of her haircut. It already felt like a lifetime ago.

Today she looked bedraggled, unkempt, skinny. At least she was wearing the relatively new hand-me-down dress, but the mud splattered lace-up shoes and socks were not a good look on anyone.

Loreda forced herself to open the door. Once inside, she stepped out of her muddy shoes, left them by the door.

The librarian looked Loreda up and down, from her dirty stockinged feet to the ratty lace of her hand-me-down collar.

Remember me, please. Don’t call me an Okie.

“Miss Martinelli,” she said. “I hoped you’d return. Your mother was so pleased to pick up your library card.”

“It was my Christmas present.”

“A fine gift.”

“I … lost the Nancy Drew books in the flood. I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Quisdorf gave her a sad smile. “Nothing to fret about. I’m just glad to see you looking well. What can I find on the shelves for you?”

“I’m interested in … workers’ rights.”

“Ah. Politics.” She walked away. “Give me a moment.”

Loreda glanced at the newspapers spread out on the table beside her. One from the Los Angeles Herald-Express had the headline: “Stay Away from California: Warning to Transient Hordes.”

Nothing new there.