The Four Winds

They passed a county hospital with a gray ambulance parked out front, and finally came to the school. Green grass and trees gave it an inviting look. A crowd of laughing, talking kids swarmed the yard. They were clean and well dressed. The migrant children moved woodenly, silently, among them.

“Look at them, Mom,” Loreda said. “New clothes.”

Elsa tipped Loreda’s chin up with one finger, saw the tears gathering in her daughter’s eyes. “I know what you’re feeling, but don’t you dare cry,” Elsa said. “Not about this, not with all you’ve been through to get here. You’re a Martinelli, and you’re as good as anyone in California.”

Tucking her children’s hands in hers, she took them across the grass, beneath the billowing American flag.

Inside, the hallways were full of children. Elsa noticed the looks thrown their way and saw how the better-dressed children avoided them. A bulletin board held flyers for field trips and school functions and advertised the upcoming PTA meeting.

Elsa headed into the first office she saw. She stood with her children in front of a long counter. A placard on it read: BARBARA MOUSER, ADMINISTRATION.

Elsa cleared her throat. “Excuse me?”

The woman seated at a desk behind the counter looked up from her paperwork.

“I am here to enroll my children in school.”

The woman sighed heavily and got to her feet. She was dressed in a pretty blue dress with a fabric belt, silk stockings, and sensible brown shoes. Elsa noticed that her nails were well cared for and her cheeks were nice and plump.

The woman walked up to the counter, on the other side of which Elsa and the children stood. “Did you bring report cards? Transfer papers? School records?”

“We left in a bit of a rush. Times back home were—”

“Hard for you Okies. Yes.”

“We’re from Texas, ma’am,” Elsa said.

“What are their names?”

“Loreda and Anthony Martinelli. We call him—”

“Address?”

Elsa didn’t know how to answer the question. “We … uh.”

The woman turned her head, yelled, “Miss Guyman, come here. Squatters. Okies.”

“We’re from Texas,” Elsa said firmly.

The woman pushed a piece of paper at Elsa. “Can you read and write?”

“Oh, for gosh sakes,” Elsa said. “Of course.”

“Names and ages.” She handed Elsa a pencil.

As Elsa wrote down the children’s names, a younger woman appeared in the office, dressed in a crisp white nurse’s uniform and cap. The nurse marched over to the children, went to Loreda and began pawing through her hair.

“No lice,” the nurse said. “No fever … yet. How old is this girl?” the nurse asked. “Eleven?”

“Thirteen,” Elsa answered.

“Can she read?”

“Of course. She’s excellent in school.”

The nurse checked Ant’s hair. “Fine,” she said at last. “Most of your kind work the fields at eleven. I’m surprised your daughter is in school.”

“Our kind are hardworking Americans who have hit hard times,” Elsa said.