The Four Winds

Mom frowned, tucked her chin in. “What does Mr. Valen have to do with this?”

“I’m sure he’ll be at the meeting. Nothing scares him.”

“I’ve said all I’m going to on this subject. We are staying away from union Communists.”

THIRTY-ONE

On Thursday, after ten hours of picking cotton, Loreda’s entire body hurt, and tomorrow morning, she would have to get up and do it all again.

For ten percent less in wages.

Ninety cents for a hundred pounds of picked cotton. Eighty cents if you counted the cut taken by the crooks at the company store.

She thought about it endlessly, obsessively; the injustice of it gnawed at her.

Just as she thought about the meeting.

And her mother’s fear.

Loreda understood the fear more than her mother suspected. How could Loreda not understand it? She’d lived through the winter in California, been flooded out, lost everything, survived on barely any food, worn shoes that didn’t fit. She knew how it felt to go to bed hungry and wake up hungry, how you could try to trick your stomach with water but it never lasted. She saw her mother measuring beans out for dinner and splitting a single hot dog into three portions. She knew Mom regretted every penny she added to their debt at the store.

The difference between Loreda and her mother wasn’t fear—they shared that. It was fire. Her mother’s passion had gone out. Or maybe she’d never had any. The only time Loreda had seen genuine anger from her mother was the night they’d buried the Deweys’ baby.

Loreda wanted to be angry. What had Jack said to her the first day they met? You have fire in you, kid. Don’t let the bastards snuff it out. Something like that.

Loreda didn’t want to be the kind of woman who suffered in silence.

Refused to be.

Tonight was her chance to prove it.

At eleven o’clock, she lay in bed wide awake. Waiting. Counting every minute that passed.

Ant lay beside her, hogging the covers. Usually she wrenched them back and maybe even gave him a kick for good measure. Tonight she didn’t bother.

She eased out of bed and stepped onto the warm concrete floor. For as long as she lived, she would be grateful for flooring. Always.

A quick sideways glance confirmed that her mother was asleep.

Loreda grabbed a blouse and her overalls from the coatrack and dressed quickly, buttoning the bib after she’d stepped into her shoes.

Outside, the world was still. The air smelled of ripe fruit and fecund earth. A hint of woodsmoke from extinguished fires. Nothing ever really left here; things lingered. Scents. Sounds. People.

She closed the door quietly behind her, listening for footsteps. Her heart was pounding; she felt afraid … and keenly alive.

She waited, counted to ten, but she didn’t see any foremen out and about.

Moving quietly, she headed into the night.

In town, she walked past the theater and City Hall, and turned onto a back street, where the grass was overgrown and most of the houses and businesses were boarded up. Dodging the streetlights, she stuck to the shadows until she came to the hotel they’d stayed in during the flood.

It was so quiet out here, she hoped they hadn’t canceled the meeting. All day, as she’d sweated and strained in the field, dragging her heavy sack behind her, pocketing the coupon that devalued her labor, she thought about tonight’s meeting.

There were no lights on in the El Centro Hotel, but a few cars were parked out front, and she saw that the heavy chain that locked the doors together hung slack from one of the doorknobs.

Loreda cautiously opened the front door.

A man with a beak of a nose and small round spectacles stood behind the reception desk, staring at her.