“Relief for Migrants to Bankrupt State.”
Loreda flipped through the pages, saw article after article that claimed the migrants were bankrupting the state by demanding aid. Called them shiftless and lazy and criminal, reported that they lived like dogs “because they don’t know any better.”
She heard footsteps again. Mrs. Quisdorf came up beside her and laid a slim book on the table beside the newspapers. Ten Days That Shook the World, by John Reed.
“John Reed,” Loreda said. The name struck a chord, but she couldn’t remember where she’d heard it. “Thank you.”
“A warning, though,” Mrs. Quisdorf said quietly. “Words and ideas can be deadly. You be careful what you say and to whom, especially in this town.”
* * *
THE CAMP’S LAUNDRY WAS housed in a long wooden building and had six large metal tubs and three hand-cranked wringers. And—miracle of miracles—clean, running water at the turn of a handle. Elsa spent her first morning in camp washing the sheets they had gotten from the Salvation Army and the clothes they’d worn in the flood, putting it all through a wringer instead of twisting the water out of each item by hand. When everything was clean, she carried the damp bundle back to her cabin and set up a makeshift laundry line and hung it all to dry.
Then she retrieved the letter she’d written last night and dropped it off at the post office. Just that—the fact that she could walk fifty feet and mail a letter—was a staggering bit of good fortune.
And now, shopping. Right here. In camp. What a convenience.
The company store was in a narrow green clapboard building, with a peaked roof and slim windows positioned on either side of a white door. She had to walk through mud to get there—mud everywhere, of course, since the flood and the rain—and climb two mud-streaked steps.
As Elsa opened the door, a bell tinkled overhead, sounding surprisingly gay.
Inside, she saw rows and rows of food. Cans of beans and peas and tomato soup. Bags of rice and flour and sugar. Smoked meats. Locally made cheeses. Fresh vegetables. Eggs. Milk.
One whole wall was clothing. Bolts of fabric, everything from cotton to wool. There were boxes of buttons and ribbons and spools of thread. Shoes in every size. Galoshes and raincoats and hats. There were cotton- and potato-picking sacks and canteens and gloves.
Everything was priced high, she noticed. Some things—like eggs—were more than twice the price they were in town. The cot
ton-picking sacks that hung from hooks on the wall were priced three times what Elsa had paid in town.
She picked up an empty basket.
In the back of the store, a long counter ran nearly from end to end; behind it stood a man with muttonchop sideburns and bushy eyebrows. He wore a dark brown hat, a black sweater, and pants with suspenders. “Hullo there,” he said, pushing the wire-rimmed spectacles higher on his nose. “You must be the new resident of Cabin Ten.”
“I am,” Elsa said. “We are, actually, my children and me. And my husband,” she remembered to add.
“Welcome. You look like a fine new member of our little community.”
“We were … flooded out of our … home.”
“As so many were.”
“Our money was lost. All of it.”
He nodded. “Indeed. Again, a common tale.”
“I have children to feed.”
“And rent to pay now.”
Elsa swallowed hard. “Yes. Your prices … they’re very high…”
Behind her, the bell tinkled again. She turned and saw a big man walk in. A toothy smile dominated his florid, fleshy face. He hooked his thumbs into the suspenders that held up his brown woolen pants and ambled casually forward, eyeing the goods on either side of him as he walked.
“Mr. Welty,” the store clerk said. “A good morning to you.”
Welty. The owner.
“It’ll be better when the damn ground dries, Harald. And who have we here?” He came to a stop beside Elsa. Up close, she saw the quality of his clothing, the cut of his coat. It was how her father had dressed for work—a man choosing clothes to make a statement.