For The Greater Good

-Summer 1931- Texas: The air was dark and thick. As we sat on the porch looking over the dry land and what used to be the wheat field, we saw the dust storm and it was coming fast. We ran inside the house, locked the doors, and hid under the table with the oversized cloth. We placed each table leg onto the cloth to keep it in place. Daddy had put three large bricks on the table to prevent it from flying away if the door was ever thrown from its hinges. This was the best way we knew to hid from the dust storms that barreled upon us. The dust storms that would continue for four years before a decision was made.

-Spring 1935: Could we even have prepared ourselves for it? If we had known, would we have been able to get into the root cellar to hide from it? If we thought dust storms were bad, that black cloud that came upon us was all of them combined, and they brought the devil. For only the devil could have come up with something that horrifying and deadly on Palm Sunday. That black storm sure wasn’t an act of God. Days later they would call it Black Sunday because it left thick black mud everywhere. It was then, we knew, we had to leave.

-Summer 1935: I sat on the porch knowing this would be the last night here. I wondered if there was anything else I could do or say to change Momma and Daddy’s minds. Little Jimmy (Jim Bob to us) had already recovered from one spell of dust pneumonia. His daddy, Jonny, had died from it, and Jim Bob’s lungs couldn’t handle another. Doc at the Red Cross tent and been mighty clear on that. Six-year-old Jim Bob had to leave and as his Momma, I had to take him. His older brother, who was fourteen and looked like his grandpa, was taller than I was, and you would think he was a man who was eighteen with a full grown in beard. I might have to keep that lie goin’ if he was to find and keep work. At least he could share in the driving of the truck. The meeting with the government man two days earlier had showed some promise, and I was surprised to see the Marshall’s there. They had left the great plains a few years ago. They came back. I was shocked, for Clara was the one who wrote to us the most about how great California was. Jack came back and told us how worse it is.

-Summer 1935- the next day: Daddy had woken me up early before the kids. His truck was out in the drive and ready for us to go. Daddy had insisted we take his truck and leave Jonny’s. Daddy’s truck was newer, not by much but it would get us there better than the other. As my eyes opened to the sound of another howling wind, Daddy told me that he had something for me. Him and Momma led me down into the root cellar. Daddy handed me an envelope. “100 dollars! Where’d this come from?”

“Never you mind where it came from, Lucy, just mind that you are taking it with you. Jack Marshall told us some things about California. If you want to survive, do not set up camp with others. You will say to yourself, ‘only for one night,’ well, one-night turns into three months and you will have no way of getting out.” Momma had tears in her eyes.

“I can’t believe people are livin’ thata way. Hundreds of them Clara told me, hundreds.” Momma wiped her eyes with her apron and continued. “Clara said that you want to stay in hotels until you find rent.”

“This 100 dollars,” Daddy began, “will allow you to stay in hotels until you find a place. It will also let you pay for rent three months up front, so you can find work and the kids can go to school, at least Jim Bob.” Momma went to a shelf behind her and pulled out three boxes all wrapped in brown paper.

“Now,” she wiped her eyes again, “never you mind how I came to these, but they will help you with your rent and job search, and also help the kids in school.” I stood there waiting for Momma to show me what was in the boxes. I also noticed that Great-Grand Nana’s pearl necklace, the one she put on every morning before she went to the bathroom, was missing. Carefully she unwrapped each one and handed them to Daddy. “I had to keep ‘em down here so the dust wouldn’t ruin ‘em.” She opened the first box and pulled out a long green skirt. Also in the box was a matching jacket with a crisp white button up blouse. In the same box was the same thing but in blue. In a smaller box was a new pair of shoes.” I touched the clothes lovingly. Momma showed me a new hat for me and the new clothes she had for the boys. For Jim Bob, there were two knew pairs of jeans with two shirts, also socks and new penny loafers for school. For Joseph, one new pair of overalls, jeans and two button-up shirts. He also had socks and a new pair of work boots.

“Clara said that appearance was everything and many a door was closed to her because of how she dressed. Apparently, Californian’s don’t take kindly to folks like us, especially ones who are trying to find a new life with nothing.” Momma’s tears showed through the opening of the cellar. “Your Daddy and I both agreed that if you want to move for Jim Bob’s health, you need not to look like the others.”

“But Momma, we are like the others.” I couldn’t hold in my tears and Momma wiped them away.

“I know that. We all know that, but for Jim Bob’s sake, pretend. God forgive me, but lie, lie if you have too. And single women don’t fend well out there. Say Jonny went to work for the railroad and then say there was an accident and he got killed.” I was shaking and they both saw it. Daddy held me up. It was his turn to speak.

“I know it goes against everything we ever taught you, everything Reverend Willis taught you, but you have to think of Jim Bob. God can forgive lies when it’s for a greater good.” I hugged my parents. “Remember, it’s only for a year. We aren’t a sellin’ and we aren’t a leavin’. You will take comfort in knowing that you always have this farm, this land to come back too. Many can’t say that.”

Momma held something else out to me. “I know it looks like a menstruating belt because it is. I sewed a long purse to it. You can wear this under your clothes to hide your money.”

Daddy chimed in, “Lucy, never keep more than a dollar out of here and in reach of others. If you need more, get it when you use the bathroom. If you thought the hobos here were crazy, California is worse Jack says, especially for single women. No walking around at night. And never stay the night in the same hotel twice.” Daddy paused, “I gave Joe my good rifle and the handgun.” I wasn’t sure if I felt proud of the fact that Daddy saw my oldest fit to be the man of the house now or scared that Joe literally was the man of the house now.

-Summer 1935- California: The Marshalls were right. The people of California did not like “your kind” as we were called. As we crossed the Arizona border, California was beautiful with its green grasses and trees. The smell of the air was crisper, newer, fresher. I felt a surge of energy that we would find new life here. Then I made it into a small town. Nice white picket fences had for rent signs in their windows next to another sign: NO OKIES. We quickly found out that an Okie was us. An Okie were the people we passed in the “migrant camps.” Tents that seemed to go on for miles. Women, children, and men all huddled together in great masses next to a muddy river that women were hauling water from. The smell from the camp was rancid. I thought about how we should be with them. We were them. Then I remembered Momma’s words, “Pretend. Lie if you have to.” As I drove past that camp, I knew I had to.

-California 1935: Our first night was in a hotel. I walked up to the desk and pinged the bell on the counter. I had found some nice trees off the side of the road and made Joseph stand watch as I changed into one of the new outfits Momma had bought me. As I waited for the man to come to the desk, I checked my handbag and saw the three-dollar bills laying neatly in there. One night was three dollars, and I wanted to look like that was all we had, even though in the new clothes, I looked like it wasn’t. A big scruffy man in a crisp white shirt came up to the desk.

“Evening Ma’am. How can I help you?”

“I need a place for the night for me and my two boys.” Glancing over my shoulder he saw the dirty truck out on the road with the tarp on top of it hiding all of our possessions. I knew my accent wasn’t helping.

“Where you come from?”

On the drive here I had time to think of a plan. Time to make up this lie. A lie I would keep adding onto for a year. I couldn’t tell him Texas, Alabama, any of the plain states. So, I remembered Clara Marshall once talking about a group of “pioneers” she had called them, who had gone to what is now the state of Utah. Many more people from all over the country were going there. I decided to say that we were from Utah, not a part of “that religion” but for the railroad. And it was the railroad that brought us to California, not the stock market crash or the dust storms, the railroad.

“Which my husband is working on right now and that is why he is not here with us.” I stood there holding my breath. Waiting for him to say no because I sounded like an “Okie,” and other than the way I was dressed, I looked like one too.

“Three dollars for the night and an extra half dollar for the whole day if you need it.” My silent prayers went up to Heaven. I placed the three dollars on the counter, and he handed me a room key. “There’s parking around the back.”

-California 1935- four days later: We stayed three nights in different hotels because every home that had a room for rent said no because of my accent. No matter how many times I told the Utah lie, or wore one of the new outfits, they saw right through me. Finally, on the third day, Mrs. Walker believed my story. She and her husband owned a beet and potato farm also an apple and peach orchard. In their large farmhouse with white columns and its wrap around porch, they had a decent sized, two-bedroom apartment in the basement with a private entrance. It was set up like a square flat iron skillet that used the square for the living room and kitchen and the handle was the hallway with the bathroom and two bedrooms. A nice wood stove was in the middle of the wall where the front door was. A white with black handles electric four burner stove was in the kitchen. Daddy’s suggestion of offering three months up front worked. Mrs. Walker saw us as “kind folk” who “knew how to work hard and not expect handouts like, ‘those others.’” She encouraged us to get settled in before Mr. Walker came home for supper from the fields.

Mr. Walker, who wore a ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots, came by last night to meet us. He had on a nice white Sunday shirt with clean jeans. If I didn’t know any better, I could swear that he was from Texas. I had the boys bathe and put on the new clothes Momma had bought them. I was glad I did. They shined up like new pennies. Mr. Walker, a kind man who knows the value of hard work, knew I was lying about Utah though. “Mrs. Devereaux. I can tell from your accent that you aren’t really from Utah, are you?”

There was no use hiding it any longer. “No sir. I’m from Texas, Amarillo.”

“Well, call me a monkey’s uncle, so am I. I could tell ya know.” His thick accent hung in the air along with his grand smile. He nudged Mrs. Walker, Lucille as she told me to call her. I knew I would, but only when Mr. Walker wasn’t around. “Tell me now, why are you here?”

I could feel the fear in my boys. Would we lose the best place we had found since moving to California? Jim Bob was excited to start school on Monday. And all of us were tired of staying in hotels. I inheld deep and finally came clean. I told him everything except Jonny’s death and Jim Bob’s illness. I would have to keep the Jonny lie going for a little while longer. Lying that I was from Texas was one thing but being a single woman with kids was a whole ‘nother issue. I couldn’t tell them about Jim Bob either. He wasn’t sick now, but dust pneumonia hadn’t been studied, and I didn’t want them thinking that he could get them sick. I told them the truth about the dust storms and how bad it got with Black Sunday and how we couldn’t take it anymore.

“It sounds like we’re the same. We left Texas in ’28 after my Daddy died of Typhoid fever. Momma went to live with her sister. I sold the farm and came out here. Don’t get me wrong now, I love Texas, but there was something about it then that I felt I couldn’t stay. We bought this farm and started talking more Californian, if ya know what I mean.” I nodded my head. I knew exactly what he meant. He continued, “I never realized that times would get so bad on the plains. I was thankful we moved when we did.” He paused and turned to Joseph, “Say, how old are you, young man.”

“Fourteen, Sir. I’ll be Fifteen next month.”

“You know how to farm, tend cows, horses and chickens?” Joseph stood up taller.

“Yes, Sir! I was up before sunup most days on my Grand-Daddy’s farm helping him do all kinds of work.” Without thinking he continued, “I like that time of day. A man can talk to God before the rooster does.” Realizing what he had said and that he had made an extra comment without being asked, he put his head down.

Mr. Walker let out a belly laugh, “You’re my kind of man. Say Joe, how would you like to work for me on my farm? My hired hand that tended the animals left three days ago to catch a pipe, railroad, dream up in Sacramento. I could use a man like you. It pays 15 cents an hour, I know that’s not much, but times are hard for all of us.” He looked at me, “Sometimes harder for most.”

Joseph stood taller than I had ever seen him. “Yes, Sir. Mr. Walker, Sir.” He was called a man, and he had a job that paid cash money.

Jim Bob gazed up at his brother, “a man,” came quietly out of his mouth. The pride in both their smiles was too much, and I started to cry. “You okay Lucy,” Mrs. Walker said to me taking my hand.

“Thank you so much. I don’t know how I can repay you both for. . . for everything. But especially, your kindness.” She embraced me into a hug as Mr. Walker spoke.

“Kindness is free, but I think many folks ‘round here have forgotten that Christ preached to the sinner and not the saint,” Mr. Walker allowed his accent to flow freely.

“He also blessed the poor,” Jim Bob said.

“Right you are, young man,” Mr. Walker replied and tousled his hair, “Right you are.”

-Winter 1935- California: Joseph loves helping Mr. Walker and with us living in their basement, he is never late for work. Mrs. Walker helped me get a job at the local post office sorting mail. After I told her I hadn’t even gone to high school due to farming, she had said, “Anybody who can read and write can sort through letters.” With her recommendation, and the fact that I wasn’t a migrant, I was offered the job. “What’s your address,” the fat man behind the desk had asked me. I knew I had an actual address and not “Migrant camp on Miller Road.” I knew the Walker’s address had been what had saved me.

I have been working there for four months. Jim Bob is loving school, although it does make him sad that the “other kids” are treated badly. He wants to be their friend but when he tries, the big kids made fun of him too. Bless his heart, he is the kindest little boy I know, and it breaks my heart that right now his kindness is seen as wrong. However, without fail, every night during his prayers, he blesses the poor. With me at the post office and Joseph working the field, I felt that it was time to stop hiding the lie about Jonny.

On Saturday’s Mrs. Walker invites me to have coffee with her, and today I told her.

“Lucille. I have something to tell you.” She put her cup down and looked at me with those kind eyes.

“Do you remember when I first came here?”

“Of course, Lucy. Of course. I was sure you were another migrant looking for a free handout from a Christian. And even though you were a migrant, you weren’t looking for a free handout. There was something different about you.”

“I know I wasn’t totally honest then, and I need to tell you about my husband.”

“It’s okay, Lucy. Railroad workers are gone for a long time. Sometimes months at a time, he’ll come around.”

“That’s just it Lucille, he won’t.” Her eyes got wide, and I could tell what she was thinking.

“No Ma’am, it’s not another woman at all. Although I wish it was. My husband died last year of dust pneumonia. Jim Bob got it in May and that is the main reason we left Texas. I’m so sorry for keeping this lie to you all this time. I should have told you the first night we were in the apartment.” Nothing could hide Lucille’s tears. She wiped them with her napkin. Mr. Walker and Johnny came up the back porch steps and into the kitchen. An inch of snow sat on top of their ten-gallon hats and they shook it off before stepping inside. Daddy had given Joseph one of his old ones, and he swore he would never take it off.

“What’s for lunch. We’re starvin.’” Mr. Walker looked at his wife, studying her. “Lucille, what’s wrong?”

“Lucy, it’s me who needs to apologize,” she started, ignoring her husband’s question. “I judged you that day. I was still judging you that first night. You paid three months of rent up front, but I believed that was all you had. I believed that sooner or later you would have some excuse for not being able to pay the rent. I’m the one who is sorry.”

“What is going on here?” Mr. Walker’s voice had changed, and Joseph was now staring at us, two women who were both crying. Mrs. Walker stood up.

“I’m sorry Bill. Lucy was just telling me about her husband. He died last year, and she moved all the way from Amarillo for Jim Bob who got the dust pneumonia his daddy died from. She lied when she told us he was working on the railroad.” Mr. Walker walked around the table. He walked back the other way, his cowboy boots clomping on the hard wood floor. Finally, he sat down across from me.

“Mrs. Lucy, I know exactly why you lied about your husband. You had too.” He put a dirty field-stained hand over mine. “It’s okay. When there was no sign of Jonny, I kind a figured that something else had happened, but whatever that was, you had proved yourself better than that.” I couldn’t help more tears in my eyes. Lucille came and gave me a hug. “Say,” Mr. Walker asked, “you drove all this way just for your boy?”

“Yes, sir. The Red Cross doctor said that if I wanted Jim Bob to live, I had to move. My parents sold their prized possessions in order for me,” I looked at Joseph, “us, to have the three months up front, plus extra.”

“You’re a brave woman Ms. Lucy. And I believe God forgives lies when it’s for the greater good.”

“Hey Momma, that’s the same thing Grand-Daddy told you the day we left.”

“Yes, it is Joe. Yes, it is.”