The Four Winds

Loreda closed her eyes and thought of all the things she wished she’d said to her mother. I love you. I’m proud of you. I’ve never seen anyone so brave. Why was I so mean for so long? You gave me wings, Mom. Did you know that? I feel you here. Will I always?

When she opened her eyes, there were stars overhead.

EPILOGUE

1940

I AM STANDING BEHIND the farmhouse in a field of blue-green buffalo grass. To my left, a sea of golden wheat waves in the breeze. My grandparents’ farm has been recontoured, as have all the big farms in the county. Newspapers credit the President’s soil conservation plan for rescuing the Great Plains, but my grandmother says it was God who saved us; God and His rain.

I look like any other girl my age, but I am different from most. A survivor. There is no way to forget what we went through in the Great Depression or to unlearn the lessons of hardship. Even though I am only eighteen, I remember my childhood as a time of loss.

Her.

She is what I miss every day, what I cannot replace.

I walk toward the family cemetery behind the house. It has been restored in the past few years: New white fencing surrounds the square of lush grass. One of us waters it every day. Asters bloom along the fence. Every new bud brings a smile. Nothing is ever taken for granted.

I mean to take a seat on the bench my grandfather built, but for some reason I remain standing, staring down at her headstone. She should be here today, beside me. It would mean so much to her … and more to me. I hold tightly to her journal. The few words she wrote will have to last me a lifetime.

I hear the gate open behind me. I know it is my grandmother, following me. She can sense when the sadness rises in me; some days she gives me space with my grief, some days she takes my hand. I don’t know how, but she always knows which I need.

The gate creaks shut.

My grandmother moves in to stand beside me. I can smell the lavender she puts in her soap and the vanilla she has used in today’s baking. Her hair is white now; she calls the color her badge of courage. “This came for you in the mail today. From Jack.”

She hands me a large yellow envelope, with a return address in Hollywood. Jack is on to another fight these days, against fascism, now that there is war in Europe.

I open the package. Inside is a slim book with a marked page. I open the book to that page.

It is a grainy black-and-white photograph of my mother, standing in the back of a truck, with a megaphone to her mouth. The caption reads: Union organizer Elsa Martinelli leads strikers amid a spray of tear-gas bombs and bullets.

I touch the picture, as if I’m blind and my fingers can somehow reveal a deeper image. I close my eyes and remember her standing there, shouting, “No more, no more…”

“The day she found her voice,” I say.

My grandmother nods. It is a thing we have spoken about often in the past few years.

“You should have seen her,” I say. “I was so proud of her.”

“As she would be of you today,” Grandma says.

I open my eyes and see the headstone in front of me.

Elsa Martinelli

1896–1936

Mother. Daughter.

Warrior.

“I wish I’d told her I was proud of her,” I say quietly. Regret reemerges at the oddest moments.

“Ah, cara, she knows.”

“But did I say it? Everything was so terrible, and I

… looked past her. I kept thinking my life was out there, somewhere else, when it was right beside me. She was right beside me.”