think I just … ran off. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“That’s an odd thing to say to a woman you barely know.”
“If you’ll notice, I’m trying to change that, Elsa. I want to know you. If you’ll just give me a chance.”
“You scare me,” she said.
“I know,” he said, still holding her hand. “The growers are scared, the townspeople are angry, the state is bleeding money, and people are desperate. It’s a volatile situation. Something’s gotta give. The last time it exploded, three union organizers were dead. I don’t want to put you in danger.”
The funny thing was, Elsa hadn’t meant that at all. She was afraid of him as a man, afraid of the things she felt when he looked at her, afraid of the feelings he had awakened in her.
“Aren’t you a union organizer?” she said.
“I am.”
It made her think for the first time about the danger he was putting himself in. “So, I am not the only one who needs to be careful, am I?”
THIRTY
All that long, hot summer, Elsa and Loreda did their best to find work. They didn’t dare leave the growers’ camp to look elsewhere, and didn’t want to use relief money for gas, so they stayed in Welty and found what work they could. On days when there was no work, Elsa did her chores and then walked Loreda and Ant to the library, where Mrs. Quisdorf kept them busy with books and projects. With the kids safe at the library, Elsa often walked to the ditch-bank camp and sat with Jean by the muddy water or the buried-in-dirt truck and talked.
“Where is he?” Jean said on a particularly hot day in late August. The camp smelled to high heaven in this heat, but neither one cared. They were just happy to get a little time together.
“Who?” Elsa said, sipping the lukewarm tea Jean had made.
Jean gave Elsa that look, the one they’d perfected with each other. “You know who I mean.”
“Jack,” Elsa said. “I try not to think about him.”
“You need to try harder,” Jean said. “Or just admit he’s on your mind.”
“I don’t have a good history with men.”
“You know the thing about history, Elsa? It’s over. Already dead and gone.”
“They say people who don’t heed history are doomed to repeat it.”
“Who says that? I ain’t never heard it. I say folks who hang on to the past miss their chance for a future.”
Elsa looked at her friend. “Come on, Jean,” she said. “Look at me. I wasn’t pretty in the best of times—when I was young and well fed and clean and wore fine clothes. And now…”
“Ah, Elsa. You got a wrong picture of yourself.”
“Even if that is true, what does a person do about it? The things your parents say and the things your husband doesn’t say become a mirror, don’t they? You see yourself as they see you, and no matter how far you come, you bring that mirror with you.”
“Break it,” Jean said.
“How?”
“With a gosh dang rock.” Jean leaned forward. “I’m a mirror, too, Elsa. You remember that.”
* * *
COTTON’S READY.
Word spread through the Welty camp on a hot, dry day in September. Airy white tufts floated above the crop, lifted into the clear blue sky. Notices on each cabin and tent advised the folks to be ready to pick at six in the morning.
Elsa dressed in pants and a long-sleeved blouse and made breakfast, then woke the children, who now sat on the edge of their bed, eating hot, sweet polenta, chewing it silently.
It broke Elsa’s heart that they would be picking with her today. Especially Ant. But they hadn’t had a meeting about it, not this season. Last year they’d been naïve; Elsa had thought she could keep her children in school while she made enough money to feed and house and clothe them. Now she knew better. They’d been in the state long enough to understand: Cotton was their lifeblood. Even the children had to pick.
They’d had no choice but to fall into the cycle the growers wanted them in: living on credit, building up debt, and never making enough, even with relief, to break out. They had to pick enough to pay off this year’s debt, so they could start living on credit again in the winter when the work vanished.
She rolled up their cotton sacks and filled their canteens and packed their lunches, and then hurried the kids out of the cabin to the row of waiting trucks.