fact. For once, she had not let someone else tell her where she belonged.
“The meeting is adjourned,” Martha said.
No one moved. The women sat rigidly upright, facing Martha.
Elsa got it.
They wouldn’t walk past her.
They carry disease, you know.
Elsa faked a sneeze. Everyone jumped.
Elsa got to her feet and walked casually toward the door, taking her time. As she passed the food table, she saw all that was there: little peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches on store-bought bread with the crusts cut off, deviled eggs, a Jell-O salad, and a plate of cookies.
Why not?
They thought she was a dirty Okie anyway. What beaten dog didn’t jump at scraps?
Elsa picked up the plate of cookies and dumped all of them into her handbag. Next, she removed her headscarf and filled it with sandwiches. Then she snapped her handbag shut.
“Don’t worry, ladies,” she said, reaching for the door handle. “I’ll bring a treat next time. I’m sure y’all love squirrel stew.”
She walked out of the library and let the door bang shut behind her.
* * *
A HALF HOUR LATER, Elsa got her first whiff of the camp—the stench of too many people living without sanitation on a hot May day.
At their tent, she found Loreda and Ant sitting on boxes out front playing cards. Loreda had started making the lentil stew. Smoke puffed up through the stove’s short metal pipe and drifted sideways.
At Elsa’s arrival, Ant jumped up to greet her, but Loreda remained seated. Her daughter looked up and said, “Hey,” in that new clenched voice of hers.
Ant produced a local newspaper that was stained and torn. Across the top in bold black type was the headline: “Criminal Element Rampant in Migrants Flooding into State. One Thousand Enter California Per Day.” “I found this in the trash at school. I stole it. For the fire,” he said.
“It ain’t stealing if it’s in the trash,” Loreda said.
“I have a surprise,” Elsa said.
“A good surprise?” Loreda said without looking up. “Or another bad thing happening?”
Elsa touched Loreda with the toe of her shoe. “It’s good. Come on.”
She herded her children toward the Deweys’ tent. As they approached, Elsa smelled cornbread cooking.
Elsa called out a greeting at the closed flaps.
The tent flaps opened. Five-year-old Lucy stood there in her burlap-sack dress, skinny as a stalk of alfalfa, with four-year-old Mary standing so close the two girls looked conjoined.
Lucy smiled, showing off two missing teeth. “Miz Martinelli,” she said. “What’re y’all doing here?”
“I brought you something,” Elsa said.
Inside the murky darkness that smelled of sweat, Elsa saw Jean sitting on a box, sewing by candlelight.
“Elsa,” Jean said, getting to her feet.
“Come out,” Elsa said. “I have a treat.”
They gathered outside, around the small stove, where cornbread baked in a black cast-iron skillet. Jean sat down in the chair by the stove.
The four children plopped down in the weed-infested dirt, all cross-legged, and waited quietly.
Elsa opened her purse and took out a handful of cookies.
Ant’s eyes lit up. “Wowza!” He cupped his hands together and reached out.
Elsa put a sugar-dusted cookie in each pair of hands, and then handed a small peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwich to Jean, who shook her head. “The kids need it more.”
Elsa gave Jean a look. “You need to eat, too.”
Jean sighed. She took the sandwich, took a bite, and moaned quietly.
Elsa tasted a cookie. Sugar. Butter. Flour. The single bite hurled her back in time to Rose’s kitchen.
“How did it go?” Jean asked quietly.
“They made me president. Asked where I bought my dress.”
“That good, huh?”
“I took all their treats. That was the highlight.”
“I’m proud of you, Elsa.”
Elsa couldn’t remember anyone ever saying that to her. Not even Rose. It was surprising how much those few words could lift one’s spirit. “Thank you, Jean.”
The children ran off, laughing together. It was remarkable—and inspiring—to see how one sugary treat could revive them. Later, they’d have the sandwiches.
When they were alone, Jean said quietly, “I’m in trouble, Elsa.”
“What’s wrong?”
Jean put a hand on her flat stomach and looked sadly at Elsa.
“A baby?” Elsa whispered, lowering herself to sit on a crate beside Jean.
Born here?
Good Lord.
“How’m I gonna feed this one? I don’t reckon I’ll ever get milk in my breasts.”
Once, Elsa would have said, God will provide, and she would have believed it, but her faith had hit the same hard times that had struck the country. Now, the only help women had was each other. “I’ll be here for you,” Elsa said, then added, “Maybe that’s how God provides. He put me in your path and you in mine.”