“I thought that, too,” Ant said. “I got the pencils from school! All by myself.”

The journal reminded Elsa of who she’d once been: the girl with the bad heart who had read books and dreamed of going away to college to study literature. She’d dreamed of one day writing.

Do you have some hidden talent of which we are all unaware?

Elsa hated that she heard her father’s voice now, of all moments, at this time when her love for her children almost bowled her over and she thought, even in the midst of all this hardship and failure, I have raised good children. Kind, caring, loving people.

“I’ll write something,” Elsa said.

“Will you let us read it, Mommy?” Ant asked.

“Maybe someday.”

1936

One thing was left, as clear and perfect as a drop of rain—the desperate need to stand together . . . They would rise and fall and, in their falling, rise again.

—SANORA BABB,

WHOSE NAMES ARE UNKNOWN

TWENTY-FOUR

On the last day of January, a cold front moved into the valley and stayed for seven days. The ground turned hard; fog lay for hours every morning. There was still no work.

Their savings decreased, but Elsa knew they were the lucky ones; they’d saved cotton money and there were only three of them. The Deweys had six mouths to feed and soon it would be seven. The migrants who had just arrived in the state, most of them with nothing, were trying to survive on federal relief—paltry amounts of food handed out every two weeks. They lived on flour-and-water pancakes and fried dough. Elsa could see the ravages of malnutrition on their faces.

Now it was past suppertime, which had been a cup of watery beans and a slice of skillet bread for each of them. Elsa sat on an overturned bucket by the wood-burning stove, with the metal box open on her lap. Ant sat beside her, taking his daily nibble off his Christmas Hershey’s chocolate bar. Loreda was in the tent, rereading The Hidden Staircase.

Elsa counted their money again.

“Elsa! It’s time!”

She heard Jean shout her name. Elsa stood up so fast she nearly upended the box of money.

The baby.

Ant looked up. “What’s wrong?”

Elsa ran into the tent and hid the box of money. “Loreda,” she said. “Come with me.”

“Where—”

“Jean’s having her baby.”

Elsa ran to the Deweys’ tent. She found Lucy outside, crying. “Loreda, take the girls to our tent. Tell them to stay with Ant and not to come back until you come to get them. Then come back to help me.”

Elsa entered the Deweys’ dark, dank tent.

A single lantern glowed, barely banishing the shadows. She saw gray lines in the dark: a pile of food stores, a makeshift washbasin.

Jean lay on her side on a mattress on the floor, as still as a held breath.

Elsa knelt beside the mattress. “Hey,” she said, touching Jean’s damp forehead. “Where’s Jeb?”

“Nipomo. Hopin’ to pick peas.” Jean panted. “Somethin ain’t raht, Elsa.”

Not right. Elsa knew what that meant; every woman who’d lost a child did. A mother’s instinct was strong at a time like this.

Loreda came into the tent.

“Help me get her to her feet,” Elsa said to Loreda.

Together they got Jean upright. Jean leaned heavily on Elsa. “I’m taking you to the hospital,” Elsa said.

“No . . . sense.”

“It’s not nonsense. This isn’t a child with a cough or a fever, Jean. This is an emergency.”

“They . . . won’t . . .” Jean’s face tightened as another contraction hit.

Elsa and Loreda got Jean settled in the passenger seat of the truck. “Watch the kids, Loreda.”

Elsa started the engine and hit the lights and they were off, rattling down the muddy road, driving too fast.

“Can’t . . .” Jean said, clutching the armrest. “Take . . . back . . .”

Another contraction.

Elsa turned into the hospital parking lot; the building glowed with expensive electrical lighting.

Elsa slammed on the brakes. “Wait here. I’ll get help.”

She ran into the hospital, rushed down the hallway, and stopped at the desk. “My friend is having a baby.”

The woman looked up, frowned, and then wrinkled her nose.

“Yeah, yeah. I smell,” Elsa said. “I’m a dirty migrant. I get it. But my friend—”

“This hospital is for Californians. You know, the folks who pay taxes. For citizens, not vagrants who want to be taken care of.”

“Come on. Be human. Please—”

“You? Telling me to be human? Please. Look at yourself. You women pop out babies like champagne corks. Find one of yours to help you.” The woman finally rose. Elsa saw how well-fed she was, how plump her calves were. She reached inside a drawer, pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. “I’m sorry, but rules are rules. I am allowed to give you these.” She held out the gloves.

“Please. I’ll scrub floors. Clean bedpans. Anything. Just help her.”

“If it’s as dire as you say, why waste time begging with me?”