The Four Winds

Loreda walked into the library and headed straight for the checkout desk.

She handed Mrs. Quisdorf the book.

“And what did we learn from this?” Mrs. Quisdorf asked in a lowered voice, although it didn’t look like anyone else was here. The library was empty most days.

“It’s all about class struggle, isn’t it? Serfs against landlords throughout history. Marx and Engels are right. If there was only one class, where everyone worked for the good of all, it would be a better world. We wouldn’t have people like the big growers making all the money and people like us doing all the work. We starve while the rich get richer.”

“From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,” Mrs. Quisdorf said, nodding. “That’s the general idea. Who’s to say if it actually works, though.”

“Hey, what’s going on at the theater? I thought it was closed down.”

Mrs. Quisdorf looked back through the windows. “Town meeting. It’s politics, I guess you could say. Happening right under our noses.”

“Would they let me in?”

“It’s open to the public, but … well … sometimes it’s better to study politics from a nice, safe historical perspective. The real thing can be pretty ugly.”

“How can they stop me from going? I’m a resident of the state now.”

“Yes, but … well, be careful.”

“I’m reliably careful, Mrs. Q.,” Loreda said.

Outside, a hot June sun shone down. She left the side street and emerged onto Main, passing a soup kitchen with a long line of people out front.

Loreda merged into the well-dressed crowd and entered the theater. Inside, red velvet curtains bracketed a raised stage. Gilt trim highlighted intricately carved woodwork. Within minutes, most of the seats were taken.

Loreda took a seat on the aisle beside a man in a black suit and hat who was smoking a cigar. The smell of the smoke made her feel slightly sick.

A man stepped up onto the stage, took his place behind the podium.

The crowd quieted.

“Thank you all for coming. We all know why we’re here. In 1933, the Federal Emergency Relief Administration was set up to be temporary help for folks coming into the state. We didn’t know we’d be overrun with migrants. And who knew so many of them would be of weak moral character? Who knew they’d want to live on relief? Thanks to FDR’s support for business, we’ve ended federal relief, but the state still pays people who have been here for a year. And frankly, the state just doesn’t have the resources to handle the need.”

Weak moral character?

A man in the crowd stood up. “We hear they aren’t going to pick. Why should they? They’re living the good life on the dole. From my taxes!”

“What if there aren’t enough workers to pick our cotton crop?”

“And what about that durn tent camp the feds are building for migrants in Arvin? It’ll be a hotbed for agitators. I hear they’re talking about giving them gosh darn healthcare.”

A man stood. Loreda recognized Mr. Welty. He liked to walk through camp, with his chest all puffed up, and look down on his workers.

“The damn relief workers are coddling the Okies,” Welty said. “I say we stop all relief during the picking season. What if they get a hankering to unionize? We can’t afford a strike.”

Strike.

The man at the podium held out his hands to quiet the audience. “That’s why we’re here today. The CSA shares your concerns. We will not let the crop—or your bottom line—suffer. The state knows how important the crop is to our economy. Just as we know how important it is to manage the disease in the camps so our own children remain safe. We need to build a migrant school, a migrant hospital. Keep them to themselves.”

“The damn Red agitators were at my farm this week stirring up trouble. We gotta stop a strike before it happens.”

A man strode down the aisle as if he owned the place. He wore a brown suit coat that was dusty and out of date. Loreda saw him and sat up straighter.

Jack.

“They’re Americans,” Jack said. “Do you have no shame at all? You don’t mind breaking their backs when the cotton is ready, but as soon as it’s done, you throw them away like they’re garbage. Just as you’ve always done to the people who pick your crops. Money, money, money. It’s all you care about.”