The Dust Bowl: A Thimbleful of Hope

by Michelle Jabès Corpora

  We passed the Palace Theater, where Pa had taken Gloria and me to see Treasure Island a couple of years back as a special treat. Gloria thought it was loud and scary, but Pa and I loved it. I’d read our old copy of the book so many times that the pages were falling out, and it was something special seeing Long John Silver himself up on that screen. The place looked a little worse for wear—I guessed there weren’t many folks left who could still afford to pay for a ticket.

  I followed Pa’s truck to a big lot where a bunch of other loaded-down trucks were parked. Men in dusty overalls were talking to other men in dark suits, who I guessed were the buyers. Pa pulled up to an empty spot, and I rode up next to him. While Pa went to speak to one of the buyers, I jumped down from the saddle and whispered in Thimble’s ear. “When those men come over here,” I said, showing him the sugar cubes in my pocket, “jus’ keep your eyes on me and do what I tell you, okay?”

  Now I know folks would say that a horse couldn’t really understand what I was saying, but I swear that when Thimble looked at me with those big, dark eyes, he knew. He pawed the dusty ground as if to say, “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

  A minute later, Pa came over with four buyers who started picking over our things like a bunch of buzzards. After they were done with the stuff in the truck, they made their way over to Thimble and me. “We also got this quarter horse to sell,” Pa was saying. “He’s kinda small, but he’s in real good shape. Strong, too. Ain’t never thrown nobody, either.”

  One of the buyers, a shiny-faced man with slicked-back hair and jowls like a bulldog, came over to inspect Thimble. He didn’t pay me no mind, which was exactly what I wanted.

  “He’s got good teeth,” the buyer said, pulling at Thimble’s muzzle to get a look inside. My gentle horse didn’t bite him—though part of me wished he would. “An’ a shiny coat, too. Not bad. He fit for work?”

  “Sure is,” Pa said, looking hopeful. “He’s a fine, hard worker.”

  I felt sick. This is it, I thought. It’s now or never. I clicked softly with my tongue, and Thimble instantly looked my way. I smiled, feeling a little bit hopeful myself. Because there was something that neither the buyers nor my pa knew: Thimble had a few tricks up his sleeve.

  When the buyer took up Thimble’s lead to make him walk, I pointed at Thimble’s hoof. Following the command, Thimble raised his foreleg off the ground and hobbled forward on three legs. “What’s he doin’?” the buyer asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

  “Um, I dunno,” Pa said, alarmed. “Ain’t nothing wrong with his leg . . .”

  “You sure about that, fella?” the buyer asked. He sounded very suspicious.

  One of the other buyers, a thin, sour-faced man with a handlebar mustache, came around and gave Thimble’s flank a slap. “Go on now,” he barked. “Let’s see how you go.”

  In response, I softly clicked again and pointed down. Thimble pulled back on his bridle with a stubborn neigh and dropped to the ground. “What’s wrong with him?” the first buyer said, looking at Thimble lying there. The buyer with the mustache tugged on Thimble’s lead, but my horse didn’t budge. “Is he lame, stubborn, or what?”

  Pa was sweating. He looked at me for an explanation, but I just shrugged. “I swear, that horse is in perfect health, maybe he’s got a rock in his shoe or somethin’. Please, if you’d jus’—”

  But the buyer men seemed like they’d already made up their minds. “We’ll take all them bits and bobs in the truck for ten dollars, but you can keep your horse.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding in a great sigh of relief. We’d done it! Thimble was safe!

  Pa wasn’t nearly as pleased. “Ten dollars?” he exclaimed. “But there’s good-quality equipment in there! The farm tools alone are worth at least fifty.”

  The buyer shrugged. “Take it or leave it,” he said. “Your choice.”

  Pa took the cap from his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. The sun was beating down hard on us, and I was perishing for a glass of water. “Well?” the buyer asked. “We got other customers to attend to. Better make up your mind while the deal’s good.”

  Pa curled his hands into fists and looked away, toward the horizon. “All right,” he said. “Take it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after Pa had unloaded all the stuff from the truck and taken his money, I climbed back up on Thimble’s saddle and got ready for the ride home. “Good boy,” I murmured in Thimble’s ear and sneaked him a handful of sugar cubes. As I followed Pa’s truck out of town, I saw him look back at me and hit the brakes.

  “Thought he had a hurt leg,” Pa said, his head poked out of the truck window.

  “Guess he worked it out,” I said, trying to sound innocent. “Maybe it was a rock in his shoe, like you said.”

  But Pa saw right through me. He always told me I could never play poker because I was terrible at bluffing. He got out of the truck. “What did you do?” he asked.

  “Nothin’,” I said. But I knew the jig was up. If I didn’t confess, it would only be worse for me later. “I jus’ . . . got Thimble to do a few little tricks,” I finally blurted, “so that those awful men wouldn’t want ’im.”

  Pa looked fit to burst. “Virginia Mae,” he shouted. “When will you understand that this ain’t a game? That horse ain’t cheap to feed, and we need that money to stay on the farm! We need it to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table! This is our life, Ginny!”

  His anger bit into me like a mosquito sting. “What kinda life is it if we get rid of everythin’ we love?” I shouted back. “Nana’s teacups, the gold necklace Gloria got for her sweet sixteen, and now Thimble!”

  “They’re just things!” he said. “Why can’t you see that?”

  “Thimble ain’t no thing, Pa!” I said, my anger boiling over. “He’s my best friend! Why can’t you see that?”

  Pa stomped the dusty ground with his boot. “Darn it, girl—these days are hard enough without you always makin’ ’em harder! Sometimes I don’t know what to do with you!”

  I opened my mouth to shout back at him, but nothing came out. Pa had never said anything that hurt me before, not like that.

  “Now, listen here,” he went on. “Tomorrow, I’m bringin’ that horse back to town, and I’m gonna talk to those men and make ’em understand what you done. And the money I’ll save plus what I get from sellin’ ’im will keep us afloat for another month or two till we can get the fall crop in. You wanna be mad, fine. But one day, when you’re grown, you’ll understand why I had to do this.” And with that, Pa got back in the truck and started the engine.

  At first, I just stared after him, panting, my hands balled into tight fists. When I finally got ahold of myself, I took Thimble’s reins, and we followed slowly behind Pa’s truck. Every few minutes, Thimble turned back to look at me with big, sad eyes. I felt trapped, stuck between my wanting to keep Thimble and helping my family. “What am I gonna do?” I asked no one in particular.

  Just then, we passed an old jalopy packed to the brim with furniture and suitcases, trundling down the highway. There was a little painted sign nailed to the side that read: CALIFORNIA OR BUST!

  An idea popped into my head, maybe the craziest idea I’d ever had. “Thimble,” I whispered, “what if we went to California, jus’ you and me?” After all, if Pa couldn’t afford to feed Thimble, then I’d bet it would be easier on everyone if he didn’t have to feed me, either. Plus, I could track down Ma’s cousins over in the valley and maybe get a job picking in the fields. Then I could send all the money I made back home until things got better. Pa needed every nickel and dime he could get to be able to keep our land; he said so himself.

  Pa said that I’m always makin’ things harder for everybody, anyway. The thought stung, but I ignored it and squared my shoulders. They’ll prob’ly be better off when I’m gone.

  By the time we arrived back
home, I’d made up my mind. After everyone was in bed that night, Thimble and I were packing up and heading west.

  Chapter 5

  Runaway

  Ever since I was small, Ma liked to tell people I got three things from my father: his eyes, his laugh, and his bullheaded ways. So when I got the idea to run away to California, it was all I could think about, and nothing—I mean nothing—was going to change my mind. I finished up all my chores quick as can be and then spent the afternoon sneaking around the farm, collecting supplies and food for the journey and stashing them in the barn.

  Pa didn’t say a word to me all day, even at supper. Ma and Gloria, who knew better than to get in the middle of one of our quarrels, steered clear of us both. After I washed my dishes, I went straight to the barn to give Thimble a good grooming. “Say goodbye to this place, boy,” I said, going over him with the little round curry comb I used to brush his coat every night. “Tonight, we’re goin’ on a long trip, and we ain’t coming back for a while. Okay?” Thimble whinnied and leaned into the brush like he had an itch I was scratching. Truth was, Thimble and I were always ready for an adventure. And this was going to be the biggest one yet.

  Round midnight, long after everyone else was in their beds, I got up and put on my best pair of overalls and a wide-brimmed hat. In the next room, I could hear Gloria snoring like an old engine. She swore up and down that she’d never snored in her life, on account of it not being very ladylike, so hearing it made me chuckle. Made me a little sad, too, but it wasn’t the time for all that. It was time to go.

  Once I got my boots laced up, I made my way out of the house to the barn, where my stuff was ready and waiting. Thimble was awake and seemed as excited as I was, his tail raised like a flag as I set to fitting him with the pack and his saddle.

  That done, I hoisted myself up onto Thimble’s back and clicked my tongue to get him moving. “Let’s go now,” I whispered to him. “Real quiet-like.” We walked out past the house and down the front path, and it wasn’t until we got to the road that I looked back.

  When will I see this place again? I wondered. The old slouchy porch, the chickens in the henhouse, the Wilsons and the Atwoods, my school friends, Gloria, Ma—

  Pa . . .

  A lump started to rise in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Part of me felt downright awful leaving without saying boo, but I knew that if Ma or Pa had any idea what I was up to, they’d stop me. And as soon as the sun rose on tomorrow, one of those buyer men would take Thimble away for good.

  No. I couldn’t let that happen.

  It’s like Pa said: This was the way it had to be.

  “Goodbye,” I said and urged Thimble down the road into the night.

  * * *

  Thimble and I rode for a few hours across the open highway heading west, only stopping at a little pond for water and in a patchy field so Thimble could take a load off and graze awhile. We saw a couple of trucks and jalopies on the way, but mostly we had the dark road to ourselves. Eventually we passed by a billboard with a picture of a sleeping boy that read: “Next Time, Try the Train! Travel While You Sleep! Southern Pacific.” Looking at that boy made me yawn. I was plum tuckered out. “Whoa,” I said to Thimble and pulled the reins to steer him behind the billboard. After tying his lead to a post and making sure he had room to lie down, I wrapped myself in an old quilt and settled down on the dirt, resting my head on my pack. The quiet of it all made me feel kinda lonely. So I scooched myself over to where Thimble had set himself and curled up beside him. “It’ll be okay, boy,” I said quietly. “As long as we stick together. Right?” Thimble just sighed, so I closed my eyes and listened to him breathe.

  Some hours later, the glare of the bright morning sun woke me from a dreamless sleep. A skinny jackrabbit was sitting on his haunches just a foot away from where I was lying, watching me with huge black eyes. When I sat up and stretched, he bounded away in a flash, his long ears flattened against his head like he was guilty of something. “Hope you didn’t let that rabbit steal none of our stuff,” I said to Thimble, who was busy grazing nearby.

  Thimble stopped his munching long enough to look at me with his head cocked, like he was saying, “Rabbit? What rabbit?” I could hardly blame him—he probably worked up quite an appetite during our ride, so he was far too hungry to care much about some nosy critter.

  My stomach growled watching him eat, but I wasn’t ready to tuck into my rations too much just yet. I had to make sure I had enough for the whole journey. So I took a swig of water from my canteen and nibbled a piece of leftover fried cornmeal that I’d taken from the kitchen before Thimble and I left.

  While I ate, I watched the cars on the highway go by. The road was crowded with them, bristling like porcupines with table legs and tools poking out of their backs, all of them heading west. Sometimes I saw little kids sitting in the truck beds, their clothes, shoes, and faces the color of dust.

  I squinted at a sign across the way, which had a road number inside the outline of Texas. We must have crossed over the state line last night! From what I’d seen when I’d studied Pa’s map, I just had to stay on this until I hit Route 66, which would take me the rest of the way to California.

  I had just rolled up my quilt and finished packing everything up into Thimble’s saddlebag when I heard it. A long, low whistle, off to the south. I turned my head toward the sound and saw a finger of gray smoke rising from a locomotive that crawled like a black snake across the horizon.

  A steam engine!

  Although I’d seen pictures of freight trains in schoolbooks, I’d never actually seen one with my own eyes. The closest railroad was a whole county away from home, and we’d never had reason to go there. This was my chance! I leaped astride Thimble and urged him into a gallop toward the tracks.

  With the wind in my hair, we flew across the scrubby field, scattering half a dozen jackrabbits as we went. I raised myself a few inches off the saddle, keeping rhythm with Thimble’s rolling gait. Pretty soon we were close enough to the train to really see it. The engine was as shiny as my church shoes, and had the words ROCK ISLAND painted in white across the coal car behind it. More than a dozen boxcars and flatcars trailed them, lumbering along the tracks with a terrific chugga-chugga sound.

  We stopped a good twenty feet back and watched it go by, and I held onto my hat to keep it from blowing away. “Lookit that, boy!” I shouted over the noise. “Ain’t that a sight!”

  But then I saw something else on that train.

  A boy. Running across one of the flatcars like Death himself was chasing him.

  I squinted as the flatcar got closer. The boy looked probably about my age, and he wore a gray cap and a pair of overalls not unlike mine. A burlap sack was slung over his back, and it bounced as he ran.

  Then another figure popped out of the train car behind him, and I saw why he was running.

  The man was tall and broad, and he wore a black uniform with a billy club hanging from his belt. He mounted the flat car and caught sight of the boy. “Stop right there!” the man shouted, chasing after him. “You’re gonna be sorry when I get my hands on you, you little brat!”

  As the flat car sped past where Thimble and I were standing, I caught sight of the boy’s face as he fled toward the front of the train. Our eyes met for an instant. “Help!” he cried out. “Help me!”

  Chapter 6

  A One-Horse Race

  The wind whipped the boy’s shouts away as the train thundered by. Who is that boy? I wondered. And why is that man after him? But I didn’t have time to think or to have any of my many questions answered. I had to decide, and fast. Was I going to help or not?

  Thing was, it seemed like Thimble had already decided what to do. He pawed the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust, as if to say, “C’mon, Gin, let’s go!”

  “Well,” I said, gripping the reins tight. “If you say so.” I clicked my tongue and squeeze
d Thimble’s sides with my heels, and he took off like a rocket.

  Something I don’t often mention about my horse: He may be small, but he is fast.

  Thimble galloped beside the tracks, huge clouds of red dust billowing up from his hooves. Bent low into the wind, I squinted ahead to see the boy and the man in black on a flatcar loaded with lumber. I passed the man, who glanced over at me curiously. “Hey!” he yelled. “Get away from there!”

  I felt the blood drain from my face—was I doing the right thing? What if I got in trouble? But then the desperation in the boy’s eyes came back to me, and I felt that old bullheadedness set in. Maybe that boy had done wrong, but I didn’t think he deserved whatever was coming to him.

  “Sorry, mister,” I shouted back at the man in black. “Gotta run!” I squeezed my heels a bit more, and Thimble put on an extra burst of speed. By then, the boy was standing in between the flatcar and the boxcar in front of it. Thimble was catching up, but he could only run like that for so long. Then I glanced up ahead and got another shock.

  The train was coming up to a trestle bridge. On either side of the tracks, the land fell away into a deep gulch, and we were coming to it fast. If we were going to get that boy off the train, we’d have to do it before there was no more ground to run on!

  The boy must have seen the look on my face because he peeked around the side of the boxcar himself and paled at what he saw. “Hey, kid!” he shouted at me. “You’ve gotta hurry or I’m done for!”

  “Who’re you callin’ a kid?” I yelled back. “And can’t you see we’re comin’ as fast as we can?”

  The boy shrugged and pointed to a steel ladder that was bolted to the back corner of the boxcar near where he was standing. “I’m gonna climb down there!”