Broken Ground (11 page)

“ ‘Whenever the standard of education is low, the standard of living is low, and it is for our own preservation in order that our whole country may live up to the ideals and to the intentions which brought our forefathers to this country, that we are interested today in seeing that education is really universal throughout this country.' ” He drops my exam atop the others and gives me an appraising look. “Word for word, a direct quotation from the address delivered by Eleanor Roosevelt to the National Conference on the Fundamental Problems on the Education of Negroes.”

“Yes, but—” I swallow hard. “I cited her as the source and mentioned the conference as well, didn't I? I intended to do so.”

“You did indeed, Mrs. Warren.”

“Good.” My shoulders sag with relief, then tighten again. “But did the quote dominate too much? Did it overwhelm my own ideas? Sometimes I get so caught up in what I'm reading that I can't see the forest for the trees.”

“I know exactly what you mean by that.” His eyes glint with amusement. “But don't worry. I'm sure you made your thoughts perfectly clear, and Mrs. Roosevelt merely substantiated them.”

“I hope so!”

At my fervency, Professor Tobias smiles and stands. He glances at his watch, then, almost as an afterthought, strolls over to me. His cologne smells like nothing I've ever smelled, like something out of a book by Rudyard Kipling.

“Mrs. Warren, you're an interesting woman.”

I blink at him. “Thank you, sir.”

“I well remember your application to Union. I was the head of the committee that offered you the scholarship. Your answers to the essay questions took my breath away. Your thoughts were sometimes a bit rough, other times downright raw. But most applicants' essay statements can be summed up as: ‘I want to teach because I like children.' You, on the other hand, articulated ideas that I believe even Eleanor Roosevelt would have appreciated. So in spite of the fact that I was concerned your marriage duties might stand in the way of your advancement, I insisted we award you that sum of money. I wanted you on this campus and in my classroom. The fact that your husband is no dimwit, either—well, that sealed the deal. I felt fairly confident that he was too smart a man to stand in your way. And then I heard through the grapevine that he was awarded a scholarship by the Science Department, which confirmed my assessment of his intelligence. So I was doubly reassured.”

First the surprising compliment, then the horrible reminder.

“Was,” I hear myself say.

“Pardon?”

“My husband
was
no dimwit.”

“I understand his gifts are—”

“My husband is dead.”

Professor Tobias draws back a bit. People often respond like this when they learn of Charlie's death—as if my misfortune is contagious. “I had no idea.” He clasps and unclasps his hands, then shoves them into his pants pockets. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm late for my next class.” I turn again toward the door.

Professor Tobias catches hold of my elbow, and with a thud, my books and papers drop to the floor. In an instant, we kneel to collect my things. Standing, arms laden, we smack foreheads. He apologizes. I apologize. And then, smoothly, as if this were his intention all along, he tells me he's in need of a teacher's assistant. The one who was assigned last spring dropped out of school two weeks into the term—a problem of funds. He doesn't want to invest more time and energy in training someone who is going to slip through the cracks before any work gets done. Or in someone who's less than devoted to the field. Or in someone who's going to give up teaching as soon as she feathers her nest.

“How about you, Ruth? Given your scholarship, I imagine you're not going anywhere any time soon. You're intelligent. You're mature. You're an experienced woman, not a giddy college girl. Are you interested in the job?”

When I hesitate, Professor Tobias goes on to say that I'll be paid, “not much but something.” I'll be welcome to engage in any of his work projects or field studies that prove interesting to me—“and believe me, there are waiting lists for these.” Important research, access to scholarly journals and lectures, he'll share these with me as well.

“Do well, and you'll receive a glowing recommendation from me upon your graduation—
prior
to your graduation, should you choose to seek an internship or a summer job. I don't write just anyone a letter, Mrs. Warren. You'll find my opinion carries a lot of weight in professional circles.”

The clock ticks on the wall. Next class is well under way. But work projects, field studies, recommendation letters . . .

“I'll do it.”

“Brava!” Professor Tobias claps his hands, cuff links flashing. “Let's meet together tonight or tomorrow evening. We've got a lot to figure out. Working with me is highly rewarding and highly demanding, the best of my assistants always say. Rewarding
because
it's demanding, demanding
because
it's rewarding. Bear that in mind as we begin.”

I nod. “Tonight?”

“Six o'clock sharp, in my office. Until then, Mrs. Warren.”

“Please,” I say. “Call me Ruth.”

His eyebrows arch, and then he nods. “I'll do that.”

THE FALL TERM
flies now, and my assistantship proves to be as Professor Tobias promised: equal parts rewarding and demanding. Each night I stay up late, juggling his work with mine. For each quiz I take, I grade close to one hundred. I type up his research notes, dashed off on scraps of paper. I mimeograph handouts and am his second reader for most student papers, checking for grammatical errors after he has scored the overall content and structure. Reading his scrawled remarks and criticisms, I feel for the first time that I am really learning how to write and think critically. When I'm able, I sit in on his other classes, the better to inform my efforts. I assess the multiple choice and short-answer sections of his exams, too. I record all final grades in his grade book. I repeatedly organize his cluttered office. I come to understand his quirks, habits, and preferences better than I understand Helen's; almost better than I understood Charlie's; perhaps better than I understand my own—no,
better
than I understand my own, given the way I'm changing. I feel like some kind of creature shedding its skin—not an easy process, but a necessary one. My single regret as Thanksgiving break approaches is that Helen and I aren't as close as we once were. Still, I'm never lonely. Even when I'm alone, I experience the almost palpable presence of Professor Tobias—his mentorship and demands.

“You're by far the best assistant I've ever had, Ruth,” he says one night in his office. He waves his hand at the student work I've finished evaluating, stacked in neat piles on his desk. “If you ever decide teaching isn't for you, I'll take you on permanently.” He stretches his arms above his head, flexing his fingers. “I merely need to determine in what capacity.”

A knock sounds at his office door. I start to rise from my chair, but he holds up his hand in warning. “Let me. God knows who's here at this hour.” He appears more distressed than surprised, bumping his leg hard on the edge of the desk as he bolts to the door in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. He cracks the door and peers through it into the hallway.

“Are you with someone, John?”

An older woman's quavering voice, and rising like a cloud above Professor Tobias's shoulder, a crest of soft white hair. Otherwise, his broad back blocks my view.

Professor Tobias murmurs a swift, polite response; I catch only
assistant
. Then for a moment, he and the woman in the hallway stand in silence.

“You said Patrick O'Brien would be your assistant after Nora left.” Her voice is sharp, the quaver all but dissipated. Patrick O'Brien is the young man in my class. The copilot. The lieutenant.

Professor Tobias responds in a mannerly fashion, although this time his voice is so low that I'm unable to make out a word. My name, I suppose he says, and perhaps how it was a good thing he chose me over Patrick O'Brien, for I'm the best assistant he's ever had. I can't help but smile. It's exhilarating to be affirmed; only Charlie, Miss Berger, and Helen have done so in the past.

Professor Tobias firmly closes the door. He tugs his jacket into place and then, his sophisticated self again, moves easily through the close quarters of his office to sit behind his desk. He rolls his eyes heavenward; we seem to be sharing a joke. I smile encouragingly. “Who was that?”

He kicks his shoes up on his desk. The heels land squarely on student papers. “You don't know?”

“No. Should I?”

“Oh, you most definitely should. That was only Union University's finest antique. Some know her as the Old Battleax, but the Right Reverend Florence Windberry is my preferred nomenclature.”

I don't know whether to chuckle knowingly or shape my expression into one of utmost respect. I hesitate, and then: “She's a minister?”

Professor Tobias throws back his head and howls with laughter. “A minister! Florence? That's rich.” Tears brim in his eyes. He tugs a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and swipes them away. “I'll have to tell the other faculty you said that. It'll make their collective week.”

I wince, embarrassed. “Please don't.”

“No doubt Florence would love to be a minister, I'll give you that.” Composed now, Professor Tobias folds his handkerchief and tucks it back in his pocket. “Heck, she'd boss God around if she could.”

“Who is she?”

I sound more than a little snippish, and Professor Tobias's merriment abates. Levelly, he says that Florence Windberry is the former chair of the Education Department and faculty emeritus. When I give him a questioning look, his voice grows taut with impatience.

“She's long retired. But she haunts these halls like a specter, keeping perpetual watch and poking her nose into other people's business.”

“My goodness, you're hard on her.”

I intend this as easy banter, but Professor Tobias does not receive it that way. He steeples his fingers beneath his chin. Over their tips, he gives me a long look.

“Have you never encountered someone who seemed intent on questioning your aspirations and inhibiting your actions? Someone who challenged your very worth?”

Images flood my mind. There sits Daddy with the other Elders, lecturing me on my behavior; there he stands, snatching up my books—the ones he deems questionable; there he goes, carting my books away. There he is time and again, saying I'm not good enough, saying I'm in the wrong. Telling me no.

I nod.

“Who?”

“I prefer not to say.”

“Tell me, Ruth.” His voice is gentle but firm.

I hesitate, the words clotting in my throat. But then I blurt them out. “My father.”

“Your father!” Professor Tobias draws in a sharp breath. “I loathe people like that—men like him, women like Florence.” He shakes his head. “You brave thing. I applaud you for getting this far.”

I study my hands, clenched in my lap. If I could, I'd take back my words. I'm not a gossip or disloyal. Despite what Daddy may think, I do try to follow the Fifth Commandment. “He wasn't—isn't—that hard on me. He's always done his best, I'm sure. He's a man of his time and place. That's all.”

“A sorry excuse.”

I look up at Professor Tobias, who scowls.

“You don't know him.”

“But I know you.”

“As well as you know Florence Windberry?” I sense that my frustration is out of proportion to the situation, but I can't suppress it. “You act like a gentleman with her, but then you speak ill of her when she's not present. I wonder what you really think of me.”

Professor Tobias regards me coldly. “I think you are a naive woman with a fair amount of potential who's received an enviable opportunity, which, if you're not careful, you might jeopardize.” He spreads his hands flat on his desk, as if, in measuring their span, he will remember himself. “Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do tonight.”

Clearly, I am dismissed. Flustered, I blindly stumble over a book on the floor as I make my exit. Only by catching hold of the doorknob do I keep my balance. I open the door and turn back to him, mustering myself to make things right.

“Tomorrow, then, as always? During your Friday office hours? I'll collect whatever work you have for me?”

He's shuffling through papers now. He doesn't look up. “If you like, Mrs. Warren.”

It hits me then. All may be vanity—I know it is—but that by no means inhibits my desire for affirmation. Especially from authority. Especially when that authority is a man.

HE IS NOT
there during his office hours the next day. A folder stuffed full of student papers awaits me instead. The grading takes up much of my weekend, to Helen's annoyance and, for the first time, mine. I have my own work to do, yet I spend three times as long evaluating that of other students', trying to be exacting and accurate in my comments, trying to surpass expectations. As a result, I neglect the two papers that loom for me between Monday and Wednesday of this week—the few days left before Thanksgiving break. I'll hand the papers in late, receive the obligatory lower grade, in order to get back in Professor Tobias's good graces.

And so it is that I spend most of Thanksgiving break alone in my room at Garland Hall or in the library, catching up. Helen has gone to meet her parents, who are spending the holiday in Santa Barbara so she can be with them. Most everyone else has places to go, leaving Union a veritable ghost town. I expected this; I wasn't planning to go anywhere. There isn't time to return to Alba, and even with the money I received from the oil company, I really can't afford the trip. I'll be lucky if I'm able to return to Alba at all over the course of the next four years, and even then I'll probably go only if there's an emergency—serious illness or (unthinkable) another death.