a drought—seeds we can’t afford—and oh, yeah, kill your last living farm animal for sixteen lousy bucks.”
“There’s a plan for relief. We want to pay you not to grow crops. Might even get the banks to forgive mortgage payments.”
“We don’t want charity,” someone called out. “We want help. We want water. What good is keeping our houses if the land is useless?”
“We’re farmers. We want to plant our crops. We want to take care of ourselves.”
“Enough,” Tony said. He shoved his seat back and stood up. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
When Elsa glanced back, she saw the disappointment on Bennett’s face as more families followed the Martinellis out of the schoolhouse.
THIRTEEN
Elsa stood in the falling snow. The sounds of the world were muffled by the airy flakes. Such a pretty, sparkling layer of white; she marveled that she could still find beauty in nature. As she headed down into the root cellar, she heard Bella’s low, mournful moan. The poor cow was as hungry and thirsty as the rest of them. Shivering with cold, Elsa stared at the empty shelves. There should be boxes of onions and potatoes, mason jars full of fruits and vegetables; instead there were bare shelves.
And now … this news from the government expert.
Elsa had thought of the plains pioneers, people like Tony and Rose, as indomitable, invincible. People who had come to this vast, unknown country with nothing but a dream and who had tamed the land with grit and determination and hard work.
But apparently they’d misjudged the land. Or, worse, misused it.
She thought about their daily chores, done this week in a bitter, skin-biting cold, and tonight there would only be a slice of bread, a few of last season’s soft potatoes, and a bit of smoked ham for supper. Not enough to fill any of their bellies. And then it would be time for bed and they would each go their own way, into their own black, frigid rooms, unwilling to waste precious fuel or money for anything as fanciful as light, and they would crawl into beds that always felt gritty no matter how often they changed the sheets, and try to fall asleep.
Now she took three shriveled potatoes from the box, trying not to notice how few were left, and walked back out into the falling snow.
“Mom?”
Elsa turned.
Loreda wore layers of ill-fitting clothes, and two pair of knee socks, which no doubt increased the discomfort of wearing outgrown shoes. In the past few months, Loreda had let her bob grow out and so her hair was almost to her shoulders. An uneven fringe of bangs hung past her nose and continually covered her eyes. She said it didn’t matter what she looked like anymore because she had no friends.
Even so, her beauty was remarkable. No bad haircut or cheap frock could dim it. She had inherited her father’s olive complexion and elegant bone structure and luxurious black hair. And those eyes, like Elsa’s and yet more intensely blue. Almost violet. Someday men would see her across a crowded street and stop in their tracks.
Loreda’s cheeks were bright pink; melted snowflakes glistened on her dark lashes and full lips. “I want to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
Loreda led the way up to the porch and sat down on the swing.
Elsa sat down beside her.
“I’ve been thinking,” Loreda said.
“Oh, no,” Elsa said quietly.
“I’ve been a crumb to you since Daddy … you know, made tracks.”
Elsa was shocked by the acknowledgment. All she could think of to say was, “I know how much he hurt you.”
“He isn’t coming back, is he?
Elsa longed to touch her daughter’s hair, brush it back from her forehead in the kind of intimate touch that had been possible years ago, back when Loreda’s body had felt like an extension of her own and Elsa had thought that her daughter’s bold heart must surely strengthen Elsa’s weaker one. “I don’t think so. No.”
“I gave him the idea.”
“Oh, honey. Don’t take responsibility for his actions. He’s a grown man. He did what he wanted to do.”
Loreda was silent for a long time before she said, “That man from the government, he says this land is ruined.”
“That’s his opinion, I guess.”
“It isn’t a hard thing to believe.”
“No.”
“I should get a job,” Loreda said. “Make some money … to help out.”
“I’m proud of you for that, Loreda, but half of the country is out of work. There are no jobs. We are the lucky ones, on the farms. We still have food.”