of his hand and read it.
To John Doe and Mary Doe, whose true names are unknown:
You will please take notice that you are required to vacate and surrender up to me the premises now occupied by you; said premises being known as California Lands Unit 10.
This is intended to be three days’ notice to vacate said property on the grounds that you are in unlawful possession thereof, and unless you do vacate the same as the above stated, the proper action at law will be brought against you.
Thomas Welty, owner, Welty Farms
“You’re evicting us? How am I here unlawfully?” Elsa said. “I pay six dollars a month for this cabin.”
“These are pickers’ cabins,” the man said. “Did you pick today?”
“No, but—”
“Two more nights, lady,” the man said. “Then we come back here and take all your shit and throw it in the dirt. You’ve been notified.”
He left.
Elsa stood in the open doorway, stared out at the pandemonium in camp. A dozen men moved ominously forward, pounding notices on doors, kicking doors open, handing out eviction notices, and nailing them on posts near every tent.
“They can’t do that!” Loreda screamed. “Pigs!”
Elsa yanked her children inside, slammed the door shut.
“They can’t evict us for exercising our rights as Americans,” Loreda said. “Can they?”
Elsa saw when it settled into place for Loreda, when she really understood the risk. As bad as ditch-bank living had been before, they’d had a tent, at least. Now, if they got kicked out of here, they had nothing.
The growers knew all of this, knew tomorrow it would be harder for the workers not to pick, and harder still the day after that.
How long could hungry, homeless, starving people stand up for an idea?
* * *
ELSA WOKE TO A hand clamped over her mouth.
“Elsa, it’s me.”
Jack. She sat up.
He took his hand away from her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“There’s talk of trouble. I want you and the kids out of the camp tonight.”
“Yes. They evicted all of us today. I think that’s just the beginning.” She threw back the covers and got out of bed. His hand slid down her side in a quick caress.
Elsa closed the window vent, then lit a kerosene lamp and went to wake the children.
Ant grumbled and kicked at her and rolled over.
“What?” Loreda said, yawning.
“Jack says there may be trouble tomorrow. He wants us to move out.”
“Of the cabin?” Loreda said.
In the faint light, Elsa saw the fear in her daughter’s eyes. “Yes,” Elsa said.
“All right, then.” Loreda elbowed her brother. “Get up, Ant. We’re on the move.”
They packed their few belongings quickly and stowed the boxes in the back of the truck, along with the crates and buckets they’d salvaged in the last few months.
At last, Elsa and Loreda stood at the door, both staring at the two rusted metal bed frames with mattresses and the small hot plate, thinking what luxuries they were.
“We can move back in when the strike is over,” Loreda said.
Elsa didn’t answer, but she knew they wouldn’t live here again.
They left the cabin and walked out to their truck.
The children climbed into the back and Elsa got into the driver’s seat. Jack took his place beside her.
“Ready?” he said.
“I guess.”
She started the engine but didn’t turn on the headlights. The truck grumbled down the road.
Elsa parked in front of the boarded-up El Centro Hotel, where they’d stayed during the flood.
Jack unlocked the heavy chain from the front door and led them inside.
The lobby stank of cigarette smoke and sweat. People had been here, and recently. In the dark, Jack led them up the stairs and stopped at the first closed door on the second floor. “There are two beds in here. Loreda and Ant?”
Loreda nodded tiredly, let her half-sleeping brother angle against her.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” Jack said. “We’ll come get you in the morning for the strike. Elsa, your room is … next door.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand and let him go, then got the kids settled in their separate beds.
In no time, Ant was asleep; she could hear his breathing. It struck her with painful clarity that this simple sound was the very essence of her responsibility. Their lives depended on her and she was letting them strike tomorrow.
“You’re wearing your worried face,” Loreda said when Elsa sat down on the bed beside her.
“It’s my love face,” Elsa said, stroking her daughter’s hair. “I’m proud of you, Loreda.
“You’re scared about tomorrow.”
Elsa should have been ashamed that Loreda saw her fear so clearly, but