The Four Winds

Within moments, Jeb and the Dewey kids showed up. A crowd formed around them.

Elsa held her children’s hands. They stood on the muddy bank and looked up to the bright heavens and sang hymns and Christmas songs, and by the end, none of them cared that the local churches denied them entry or that their clothes were ragged and dirty or that Christmas dinner would be small. They found strength in each other. Elsa and Jean looked at each other as they sang the words be unbroken.

When the men finally stopped playing, people looked each other in the eye for the first time in weeks, wished each other a merry Christmas.

Elsa held on to her children’s hands as they walked back to the tent.

Loreda stoked the fire, then poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Elsa.

Ant dragged a stool and two fruit crates outside. They sat in front of the tent, close to the stove’s warmth. They’d made a tree out of nailed-together tin cans and kindling and decorated it with whatever they could find—utensils, hair ribbons, strips of cloth.

Elsa pulled a small, muddied, crumpled envelope out of her pocket and opened the letter that had arrived last week, general mail at the post office.

“A letter from Grandma and Grandpa!” Ant said.

Elsa unfolded it and read aloud.

My dearest daughter and grandchildren,

Another dust storm hit this week, and after that, a cold snap.

It has been a tiresomely cold winter, I must tell you. We are envious of your California warmth. Mr. Pavlov tells us you must have seen a palm tree by now. And perhaps the ocean. What grand sights.

Your grandfather thinks the soil conservation program shows promise. Much of what we planted was hit hard by the continuing drought, but after a light rain this month, we see a little sprouting.

Still, thanks to the Virgin, the well is working. We have enough water for the household and the chickens, so we carry on, hoping again for a crop. The ten cents per acre we get from the government has kept us afloat.

Your last letter spoke of cotton picking. I must say, it is hard to imagine you in the fields, Elsa, but more power to you all for thriving in these difficult times.

Hard times don’t last. Love does. We are sending along small gifts for our beloved grandchildren so that they remember us well.

With love,

Rose and Anthony

Elsa pulled two pennies out of the envelope and handed one to each of them.

Ant’s eyes lit up. “Candy money!” he cried.

“And there are more gifts in my suitcase,” Elsa said, warming her hands around her cup of coffee. “Because I know a young man who likes to snoop.”

Ant wheeled around and went into the tent and came out with two packages, one wrapped in newspaper, the other in cloth.

Ant ripped his open. Elsa had made him a handsome vest from the seat fabric of an automobile that had been abandoned in the camp, and she’d bought him a Hershey’s chocolate bar.

Ant’s eyes rounded. He knew the candy bar cost five cents. A fortune. “Chocolate!” He peeled back the wrapper slowly, revealing a sharp brown corner, which he bit off in a mouselike nibble. Savoring.

Loreda opened her gift. Elsa had repaired Loreda’s shoes, used tire rubber to fashion a new set of soles, which would last longer and be more comfortable than cardboard. Beneath the shoes lay Loreda’s brand-new library card and The Hidden Staircase.

Loreda looked up. “You went back? In the rain?”

“Mrs. Quisdorf picked that book out for you. That card, though, that’s the real gift. It can take you anywhere, Loreda.”

Loreda’s fingers traced the card reverently. Elsa knew that a library card—a thing they’d taken for granted all of their lives—meant there was still a future. A world beyond this struggle.

Ant bounced up and down on the stool in excitement. “Can we give Mommy her present now?”

Loreda walked over to the truck and pulled out a small package wrapped in newsprint.