The Four Winds
The librarian came out from around the desk. She was a sturdy woman with gray pin curls and black-rimmed glasses. “Do you have a library card?”
“No.” Loreda was ashamed to admit it. She’d always had a library card in Texas. “We are … new to the state.”
“Well.” The librarian smiled kindly. “Thirteen?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“In school?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The librarian nodded. “Come with me.”
She led Loreda through the library stacks to a large wooden student’s table that was strewn with newspapers. “You can sit here. Let me find you something.”
Loreda sat down at the oak desk, which had a lamp on it. She couldn’t help flicking the light on and off and on again, marveling at the magic of electricity on demand.
The librarian returned with a book. “What’s your name?”
“Loreda Martinelli.”
“I’m Mrs. Quisdorf. You come back for your card, but I’ll trust you with this for now.” She set down a worn copy of The Secret of the Old Clock.
Loreda touched the book, lifted it to her face, and inhaled the remembered scent that made her think of reading at night … with Stella after school; listening to Daddy telling her bedtime stories. Like a flower that had been sucked dry in a drought and felt the first drop of spring rain, Loreda felt herself revive. “Do you have one I could take to my brother? He’s eight. And maybe one for my mom? I’ll bring them back, I promise.”
Mrs. Quisdorf eyed her assessingly and finally smiled. “Miss Martinelli, I believe you are my kind of girl.”
* * *
THAT NIGHT, AFTER THE children were asleep, Elsa swept the tent floor—again—and rearranged the collection of found fruit cartons that had become their pantry. They had sugar, flour, bacon, beans, canned milk, rice, and butter. A veritable feast. But even as the Depression had worsened, food prices had gone up. Five gallons of kerosene cost a dollar. Two pounds of butter cost fifty cents. Six pounds of rice cost nearly half a dollar. It was terrifying how fast it added up.
And today she’d spent seventy-five cents on haircuts for the three of them. She hoped she didn’t regret it come winter.
Hefting the box of clothes she’d gotten today, she ducked out of the tent and walked over to see Jean, who sat in a chair by the woodstove, darning socks by lantern light. Jeb and the boys had taken the truck, hoping to find autumn work in the grape fields. No one expected them to find it this late in the year, though.
“Hey, Jean,” Elsa said, coming out of the dark and into the lantern’s pale light. She and the children had chosen what fit them from the box of clothes and saved the rest for the Deweys.
“Elsa. You look so pretty!”
Elsa felt her cheeks heat up as she set down the box of clothes. “Betty Ane tried.”
Jean touched the wooden bucket nearest her with her toe. “Sit down.”
Elsa settled herself on the bucket, ignoring the way it pinched into her bony buttocks. Lord, those beauty salon seats had felt heavenly.
“Why do you say things like that?”
Elsa looked through the box of clothes until she found what she was looking for. Her fingers felt soft, soft wool. “Like what?”
“Has no one ever said you were pretty?”
Elsa stopped rooting through the clothes and looked up. “I love a friend who lies.”
“I’m not lying.”
“I’m … not good with compliments, I guess.” Elsa said, smoothing the silky, chin-length hair back from her face. She pulled out a soft lavender-blue baby blanket and held it out to Jean. “Look at this.”
Jean took the blanket, stared down at it. “He was dancing up a storm yesterday,” Jean said, putting a hand on her rounded belly.