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.”

Jean reached over for Elsa’s hand and held it. Elsa hadn’t known until right then how much difference a friend could make. How one person could lift your spirit just enough to keep you upright.

TWENTY-TWO

Dearest Tony and Rose,

June in California is beautiful. Hard red flowers have burst out in the cotton fields. Imagine the look of it across thousands of acres, with the mountains in the distance.

The friends we have made promise plenty of work for all when the cotton is ready to pick.

I must admit, it’s hard to imagine myself working in someone else’s fields. I’m sure it will make me think of you and the many wonderful hours we spent tending to our grapes and our fruit and our vegetables.

We miss you and think of you often and hope you are well.

Love,

Elsa, Ant, and Loreda

IN JUNE, ELSA FOUND that if she woke at four A.M. and joined Jeb and the boys in line, there was usually work in the cotton fields, weeding and thinning the crop. Not every day, but most days she worked twelve hours for fifty cents. The pay wasn’t good but she spent carefully and they survived. When Loreda’s shoes wore out, instead of buying a new pair, Elsa cut out pieces of cardboard and fit them carefully inside the shoes.

Today, after a long, tiring day, she walked home with the others from the ditch-bank camp who’d found work at Welty Farms, which had nearly twenty thousand acres of cotton in California; the nearest field was about three miles north of the ditch-bank camp, past the town of Welty.

Jeb was beside her, walking back from work with his boys. “There’s talk that Welty might cut wages,” he said.

“How can they possibly pay us less?” Elsa said.

Another man said, “So many desperate folks floodin’ into the state. More’n a thousand a day, I heard.”

“Most of ’em’ll take any pay at all if it means they can put food on the table,” Jeb said.

“The durn farm owners can pay less and less,” said another man. “I’m Ike,” he said to Elsa, extending a thin-fingered hand in greeting. “I live at the Welty camp.”

She shook his hand. “Elsa.”

Fifty cents. That was what she’d earned today, and it wouldn’t go far, and there was never any way of knowing how long this money had to last or when she’d get work again or what she’d be paid. What if they offered her forty cents tomorrow? What choice would she have but to agree?

“Once we’re pickin’ cotton, we’ll be better,” Jeb said.

The man named Ike made a sound. “I don’t know, Jeb. I got a bad feeling. The price of cotton is down, and the damned Ag Adjustment Act is putting the squeeze on the growers again. The government wants less cotton planted to raise prices. You know what that means. Sooner or later, if the growers get squeezed, we get pounded.”

“What about the summer months?” Elsa asked. “Once the cotton is thinned, it will be months before it’s ready to pick. What work is there then?”

“Most of us move north pretty soon to pick fruit. We come back in the fall for cotton.”