man at the desk said, taking her chit worth twenty dollars and giving her eighteen dollars in exchange. Elsa rolled the money as tightly as she could, mentally calculating the total of their savings. It seemed like a lot now, but she knew it wouldn’t be much by February.
But she wasn’t going to think of that today. She returned to the street, where the children stood beneath a lamppost, waiting.
It was one of those sharp-as-a-tack moments when she saw them: Loreda, thin as a chicken bone in a threadbare dress and shoes that didn’t fit and long, raggedly growing-out hair; Ant, scrawny and with dirty hair no matter how hard Elsa tried to keep him clean, still—thankfully—fitting into Buster’s old shoes.
Elsa forced a smile as she walked out to meet them. Taking Ant’s hand, she headed down Main Street, where the shops were opening for the day. She smelled coffee and freshly baked pastries as she passed the diner, and the familiar smell of baled hay and bags of grain as they passed the feed store.
There it was: the destination she’d had in mind when they left the camp this morning.
Betty Ane’s Beauty Shop.
Elsa had seen the pretty little salon every time she came to town, seen well-dressed women coming out with stylish hair.
Elsa walked toward the salon. It was housed in an old-fashioned bungalow with a fenced yard out front.
Loreda stopped, shook her head. “No, Mom. You know how they’ll treat us.”
Elsa knew better than to make another hollow promise; she also knew that no matter how often you were knocked down, you had to keep getting up. She tightened her hold on Ant’s hand and opened the gate.
Loreda wasn’t following. Elsa knew it and kept going. Come on, Loreda, be brave.
Elsa and Ant walked up to the front door and Elsa opened it.
A bell jangled overhead.
Inside, the salon filled what had once been the bungalow’s parlor. There were two pink chairs stationed in front of mirrors. Cords lay snaked on the floor, gathered up at a machine in the corner. Framed photographs of movie stars lined the pink walls.
A middle-aged woman in a white frock coat stood in the center of the salon holding a broom. She looked thoroughly, almost stubbornly modern, with waved, chin-length platinum-dyed hair and pencil-thin eyebrows. Her Clara Bow lips were painted a bright French red. “Oh,” she said at the sight of them huddled together.
Loreda slipped in beside Elsa, took hold of her hand, and tugged it. “Let’s go, Mom.”
Elsa took a deep breath. “This is my daughter, Loreda. She’s thirteen and about to start school on Monday, after a season of picking cotton. She expects to be teased, because … well…”
Loreda groaned beside her.
“Let me speak to my husband,” the beautician said, and left the room.
“She’s probably calling the police,” Loreda said. “She’ll say we’re vagrants. Or worse.”
A few moments later, the woman returned to the beauty parlor and faced them, pulling a comb out of her pocket. “I’m Betty Ane,” she said, moving toward them, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She came to a stop in front of Loreda. Close but not too close.
Please, Elsa thought, tightening her hold on Loreda’s hand, be kind to my girl.
At the same moment, a large man in a brown suit came into the parlor from another room, carrying a big cardboard box.
“This is my husband, Ned,” Betty Ane said.
“I understand,” Elsa said. “You and Ned want us to leave. Go back to our kind.”
Ned pulled the hat off of his head. “No, ma’am. We came here in ’30. It was tough to make a living, but nothing like it is now.” He offered her the box. “Here’s some coats and sweaters and such. Winter can be cold here. There’s a shower in our bathroom. Hot water. Why don’t y’all help yourselves? A hot shower and new clothes can be a mighty bit of help in hard times.”
Betty Ane smiled kindly at Loreda. “And I see a girl who needs a new hairstyle for her first day of school. Lord knows thirteen is hard enough without all of this.” Betty Ane gave Loreda an appraising look. “You’re a real beauty, doll. Let me work my magic.”
TWENTY-THREE
Loreda sat in the tufted velvet chair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Betty Ane had cut Loreda’s black hair in a precise line along her chin and then coaxed it into waves that cascaded down from a deep side part. Her face, scrubbed clean