The Four Winds

“Try again. Take your time.”

Loreda worked the pedals, put the truck in first gear. They moved slowly forward.

The engine revved.

“Second gear, Loreda,” Elsa said.

Loreda tried again and finally got it into second.

They drove in fits and starts down the road to the state relief office, where there was already a crowd of people waiting. The line snaked out the door and through the parking lot and down the block.

Elsa and Loreda got in line.

As they stood there, the sun began to set slowly, gilding the valley for a few beautiful moments before the sky darkened.

They were almost to the head of the line when a pair of police cars drove into the parking lot. Four uniformed policemen exited the vehicles. Moments later a Welty truck drove up and Mr. Welty stepped out.

People in line turned to look, but no one said anything.

Two of the policemen and Mr. Welty cut to the head of the line and strode into the relief office. They didn’t come back out.

Elsa clung to Loreda’s hand. In normal times, the folks in line might have turned to one another, asked what was going on, but these weren’t ordinary times. There were spies everywhere; people wanted to take a place at Welty, wanted a job.

Elsa finally stepped into the small, hot office, where a pretty young woman sat at the desk with the file box full of residents’ names in front of her.

Welty stood beside the woman, appeared almost to be looming over the poor girl. Two policemen stood beside him, hands rested on their gun belts.

Elsa eased Loreda away and walked up to the desk alone. Her throat was so dry she had to clear it twice to speak. “Elsa Martinelli. April 1935.”

Welty pointed at Elsa’s red card. “Address Welty Farms. She’s on the list.”

The woman looked at Elsa with compassion. “I’m sorry, ma’am. No state relief for anyone who is capable of picking cotton.”

“But…”

“If you can pick, you have to,” she said. “It’s the new policy. But don’t worry, as soon as cotton season is over, you’ll be put back on the relief rolls.”

“Wait a minute. Now, the state is cutting my relief? But I’m a resident, and I am picking cotton.”

“We want to make sure you keep picking it,” Welty said.

“Mr. Welty,” she said. “Please. We need—”

“Next,” Welty said loudly.

Elsa couldn’t believe this new cruelty. People needed this relief to feed their children, even if they did pick cotton. “Have you no shame?”

“Next,” he said again. A policeman came up to physically move Elsa out of the line.

She stumbled away, felt Loreda steady her.

Elsa stepped out of the relief office (what a joke that title was) and stared at the long line of people, many of whom didn’t yet know their relief had been cut. So, the state was helping the growers avoid a strike by cutting relief to people who were already barely surviving.

She heard a shout and turned.

Two policemen slammed a man against the building wall, said, “Where’s tonight’s meeting? Where is it?” They shoved the man into the wall again. “How are you going to feed your family from San Quentin?”

“Elsa!”