through the dirty windshield at the road ahead, at the devastation left by the black storm; buildings broken, cars in ditches, fences torn away.
The rosary that hung from the rearview mirror swung from side to side.
More than a thousand miles to California, and what would they find there? No friends, no family. I could work in a laundry … or a library. But who would hire a woman when millions of men were out of work? And if she did get a job, who would watch the children? Oh, God.
“Mommy?”
Ant tugged at her sleeve. “Are you okay?”
Elsa shoved the truck door open. She stumbled away and stopped, breathing hard, fighting the tidal wave of panic.
Loreda came up beside her. “You thought Grandpa and Grandma would come?”
Elsa turned. “Didn’t you?”
“They’re like a plant that can only grow in one place.”
Great. A thirteen-year-old saw what Elsa hadn’t.
“I checked the glove box. They gave us most of the government money. And we have a full tank of gas.”
Elsa stared down the long, empty road. Not far away, a crow sat on a shed that was buried almost to the peak in black dirt.
She almost said, I’m scared, but what kind of mother said those words to a child who counted on her?
“I’ve never been on my own,” Elsa said.
“You’re not on your own, Mom.”
Ant popped his head out of the window of the cab of the truck. “I’m here, too!” he chirped. “Don’t forget me!”
Elsa felt a rush of love for these children of hers, a soul-deep sense that was akin to longing; she drew in a deep breath, exhaled, and smelled the dry Panhandle Texas air that was as much a part of her life as God and her children. She’d been born in this county and always thought she’d die here. “This is home,” she said. “I thought you’d grow up here and be the first Martinelli to go to college here. Austin, I thought. Or Dallas, a place big enough to hold your dreams.”
“This will always be home, Mom. Just because we’re leaving doesn’t change that. Look at Dorothy. After all her adventures, she clicked her heels together and went home. And really, what choice do we have?”
“You’re right.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, remembered another time when she’d been scared and felt alone, back when she’d been sick. That was the first time her grandfather had leaned down and whispered, Be brave, into her ear. And then, Or pretend to be. It’s all the same.
The memory calmed her. She could pretend to be brave. For her children. She wiped her eyes, surprised by her tears, and said, “Let’s go.”
She returned to the truck, took her seat, and banged the door shut beside her.
Loreda settled in beside her brother and opened up a map. “It’s ninety-four miles from Dalhart to Tucumcari, New Mexico. That should be our first stop. I don’t think we should drive at night. At least, that’s what Grandpa told me when we were studying the map.”
“You and Grandpa picked out a route?”
“Yeah. He’s been teaching me stuff. I guess he knew all along he and Grandma weren’t coming. He taught me all kinds of stuff—how to hunt for rabbits and birds, how to drive, and how to put water in the radiator. In Tucumcari, we pick up Route 66 west.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a battered bronze compass. “He gave me this. He and Grandma brought it with them from Italy.”
Elsa stared down at the compass. She had no idea how to read it. “Okay.”
“We can be a club,” Ant said. “Like the Boy Scouts, only we’re explorers. The Martinelli Explorers Club.”
“The Martinelli Explorers Club,” Elsa said. “I like it. Off we go, explorers.”
* * *
AS THEY NEARED DALHART, Elsa found herself slowing down without thinking about it.
She hadn’t been back here in years, not since the day her mother had taken one look at Loreda and commented on her skin color. Elsa might have taken her parents’ criticism of herself to heart, but she would never let her children face it.
Dalhart had been as broken by the Depression and the drought as Lonesome Tree had; that much was obvious. Most of the storefronts were boarded up. A line of people stood at the church, metal bowls in hand, waiting for free food.
The truck bumped over the railroad tracks. Elsa turned onto Main Street.
“We’re not supposed to turn here,” Loreda said. “We go past Dalhart, not through it.”
Elsa saw Wolcott Tractor Supply: