The Four Winds
Elsa climbed into bed beside her son, taking him into her arms, murmuring prayers.
He lay frighteningly still.
She took some Vaseline out of a tin and smoothed it in Ant’s raw, dirt-clogged nostrils, then refit the gas mask over his face. He blinked up at her, crying; mud formed in the corners of his red eyes.
“Don’t cry, baby. This storm will stop soon and we’ll take you to the doctor. He’ll make you all better.”
He wheezed through the gas mask. “O … kay,” he said.
Elsa held him close, hoping he didn’t see her tears.
* * *
NINE DAYS, AND STILL no respite from the storm. Wind rattled the walls and scratched at the door.
When Elsa woke to yet another day of wind, she checked on Ant, who slept beside her. He hadn’t been strong enough to get out of bed in the last four days. He didn’t even play with his soldiers anymore and didn’t want to be read to. He just lay there wearing his gas mask, wheezing.
That terrible, drawn-out breathing was the first thing she listened for each morning when she woke and each night when she drew him close.
She heard his breathing and said a quick prayer to the Virgin Mary and got out of bed. Pulling the crusty bandanna down to her throat, she stepped down on the fine layer of silt that had collected on the floorboards overnight. Leaving footprints across the room, she went to the nightstand to wash her face.
The mirror stopped her, as it so often did these days.
“Lord,” she croaked. Her face looked like a mile of desert in the summer—brown, cracked, furrowed. Her lips and teeth were brown with grit. Dust had gathered in the corners of her eyes and on her lashes. She washed and dried her face and brushed her teeth.
In the sitting room, she stepped into her boots by the door and paused, staring down at the rattling knob. The walls shook at the force of the wind. She slipped her bandanna back up over her nose and mouth, then put on her gloves and used all her strength to open the door.
Wind pushed her back. She leaned into it and squinted into the driving dust.
Finding the rope they’d strung between the house and the barn, she pulled herself across the yard, hand over hand, making her way slowly. At last she came to the barn. Once inside, she snapped a lead rope onto Bella’s halter and led the poor, stumbling cow out of her stall and into the barn’s wide center aisle. The walls clattered and shook; dust rained down from overhead.
Setting the pail in place, Elsa sat down on the milking stool and took off her gloves, tucking them into her apron pocket. Lowering her bandanna, she reached for the cow’s dry, scabby teat. The barn rattled around them; wind whistled through the cracks, broke through boards.
Elsa’s hands were so chapped and raw that it hurt her as much to milk as it did the cow. She took hold. The cow bellowed in pain.
“Sorry, girl,” Elsa said. “I know it hurts, but my boy needs milk. He’s … sick.”
Thick brown milk came out in oozing muddy globs, splattered into the bucket.
“Come on, girl,” Elsa urged, trying again.
And again. And again.
Nothing but milky mud.
Elsa closed her gritty eyes and rested her forehead on Bella’s great, sunken side. The cow’s tail swished at her, stung her cheek.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, grieving for the lost milk, wondering how she would feed her children without milk or butter or cheese, grieving for this good animal who was breathing in dirt all day long and wouldn’t live long. The other cow had stopped producing milk months ago and was even worse off than Bella.
With an exhausted sigh, Elsa put her gloves on and pulled her bandanna up and led Bella back into her stall.
By the time Elsa made it back to the house, her forehead was scraped raw and she could barely see. This wind grated s
kin away.
“Elsa? You okay?”
It was Tony. He came up beside her, put a steadying arm around her.