Broken Ground (19 page)

Helen wrinkles her nose in disgust. “I didn't know that part of the story. I didn't
want
to know that part! You can be such a know-it-all sometimes, Ruth!”

She's not angry at me, not really. And by the time another hour has passed, our entire room looks like one big Valentine. She's nothing but happy then.

In the weeks that follow, Helen and I eat dinner together in the dining hall two nights a week. We go for weekend walks. Rising in the morning, we tell each other the plan for our respective days; readying ourselves for bed, we summarize the reality. In short, we become the best of friends. This is college as it should be, I tell myself. This is the best life can be without Charlie.

All the while, I am who I've always been: studious to an extreme—though thanks to Helen, a slightly lesser extreme than last semester. I remain devoted to my job as Professor Tobias's assistant. “He's a taskmaster,” Helen complains. She can't seem to understand how much I need and want each task. It's still true: As much as I'm learning in my classes, I believe I'm learning far more from the assistantship. “Who knows? Maybe someday I'll get my master's in education,” I tell Helen. “If I do, I bet it will be a breeze, given all the information I'm gaining now.”

It is Valentine's Day. We are sitting at a large, noisy table in the dining hall. Outside, the sun, a fiery red ball, is slowly disappearing behind a line of palm trees.

Suddenly, Helen's fork clatters against the table, and she glares at me, her hands clasped in furious appeal.

“What is it?” I balance my fork on the edge of my plate.

“I can't bear it anymore. I was talking with some seniors the other day, Ruth. And I— Well, I've been waiting for a time to tell you. They won't tell you. Nobody will, because you keep your distance with everyone but me.”

“Helen.” I push my plate away. “Tell me.”

Helen looks miserable now, her fury having dissolved into distress. “When I mentioned you were Tobias's assistant, Ruth, they had some pretty strong things to say. That man has a reputation. That's what I'm trying to say.”

“I'm not sure what you're getting at.” I clear my throat, trying to steady my voice. “He does have a reputation. He's renowned in academic circles.”

“Oh, he's renowned, all right.” Helen laughs without humor. “He's renowned for having his way with this girl and that.”

The rooms seems to dim. I press my napkin to my lips, then fold it and carefully—too carefully, I realize as I'm doing it—tuck it under my plate. “He's been a gentleman to me. He cares about his students, yes. But he's never crossed the line. Not with anyone I know. Not with me. I'm not going to give up this opportunity because of a few rumors. My friendship with you, my studies, and this assistantship . . . Believe me when I tell you these are what keep me going. Please don't . . . complicate things.”

We stare at each other across the table until we become aware that the people on either side of us—couples; it is Valentine's Day, after all—are listening in. Helen stares at one couple, and I do the same to the other. Only when they resume their conversations do we finish ours, speaking in quieter voices.

“I'll do anything for you. You know that.” Helen picks up her fork again, pokes at her food.

“Thank you. And I'll do anything for
you
.”

“Except quit your assistantship,” Helen says.

“Except that.”

That night I try to grade Professor Tobias's quizzes in the library. I try to write my own paper, “The Montessori System: A Recent Alternative to the Traditional Student/Teacher Relationship.” But after my conversation with Helen, I find myself distracted, discontent. I find myself thinking of Thomas, the quiet, easy way we worked together on the garden beds—a hard task that could be accomplished. We accomplished it. We finished something together, and we could stand back and look at it, wood frames, readied earth, and know we'd done well. I miss Thomas, I realize to my surprise. My other friend. Thomas. This thought makes me restless. I leave my desk and roam the library stacks—which is typically a familiar, comforting activity that reminds me of Miss Berger. But though the act feels familiar, tonight there's no comfort in it. Now I'm searching through recent newspapers and magazines, I'm looking for something, I just can't think what. And then I realize: I'm looking for any reference to repatriation. But once again there is nothing mentioned in the press.

On the other side of the periodicals department, a man is at work: the library janitor, methodically sweeping the floor. In the past, I've heard him speaking Spanish with a coworker. He appears to be from Mexico originally. But for the two of us, this part of the library is empty. Why not ask him what he knows?

I am making my way over to him when a reference librarian blocks my path.

“The library has been closed for half an hour.” She smiles sympathetically. “It's far past time for you to go.” When I press for a few more minutes, her smile fades. “Now,” she says. “Rules are rules.”

I RETURN TO
Garland Hall to find two pieces of mail in my mailbox. One is a brightly colored valentine from Helen. It shows two little girls, one with blond hair, one with brown. Both ride prancing ponies. Scrolling words ring the picture, the familiar nursery rhyme:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,

The honey's sweet, and so are you
.

And in Helen's hasty scrawl:
Love you, Roomie.

The other letter is enclosed in a small, thin envelope. I recognize the handwriting: Mother's stiff, careful script, each letter pinched and constrained. Right there in the little mailroom, with other girls chattering, laughing, sharing Valentine's greetings and grumblings, I tear open the envelope. Here is Mother's handwriting again, only this time smeared with her efforts. And here is a ten-dollar bill. Tears sting my eyes. It's the most money Mother has ever given me—a real sacrifice on her part. I can't imagine how she got it past Daddy.

Ruth,

Captain died. Daddy was stricken until he brought home another rooster and named him General. What will be next? President?

I laugh right out loud; it is rare when Mother jokes. A good sign, I hope.

Other girls glance my way, surprised at my outburst. It's as rare that I laugh as that Mother jokes, apparently. I smile, embarrassed, and head to the lobby for more privacy. But the lobby, too, is packed to the gills with Garland Hall residents—young women talking and studying together, or gathered around the piano, listening as a conservatory student improvises wildly on “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” A few others work on a large puzzle spread across the coffee table, which shows a nighttime view of the Hollywoodland sign rolling unevenly below the crest of an arid hilltop. The puzzle's full moon punches a white hole in the dark sky above. Only a small portion of sky and land is yet to be completed; as I watch, a girl cries out and snaps a puzzle piece into place to the exuberant cheers of her friends. I look toward the stairs. Since Helen isn't down here, she'll be up in our room, unless she's sneaked out again. After our dinner conversation, I won't take the risk of going up. I doubt she's put aside her worries about my assistantship, and I'm not ready for another discussion. Not yet.

I go to the front door, where Miss Voyle waits, watching for stragglers after curfew. If I know our Never Failing Bulwark of a Resident Director, she'll stand guard for at least another hour. I show her my letter and ask permission to read it outside on the front steps. “You can keep your eyes on me the whole while,” I say.

Miss Myrtle gives a queenly wave of her hand.

I sit on the bottommost porch step. The chapel bells sound ten-forty-five as I again begin to read.

Alice wrote me last week. You weren't alone in enjoying the holiday. The Everlys were glad for your visit. She said you got along real well with her boy.

I'm doing fine. Your daddy's doing fine. But we miss you. Not just me but your daddy, too.

Please write when you are able and tell me all your goings-on.

Your Mother

I fold the letter and slip it back in the envelope. I sit on the bottom step, missing them—not just Mother but Daddy, too—until Miss Voyle demands that I come inside.

A
t the end of nearly every day now, I write to Mother. Sometimes just a postcard. Other times longer notes and full-fledged letters. I write to Mother the way I might keep a diary if I were the kind of person who kept diaries. I tell her most everything. Most of most everything wouldn't interest other people—the details of what I'm learning in my classes and through my assistantship. But for the first time in my life, I choose to assume that Mother will care. She will care as much as Miss Berger, if not more.

Of course, I write Miss Berger as well. A few weeks after Valentine's Day, I write her in more detail about my trip to San Jose and my experiences with Thomas. (These things I still keep from Mother. And any description of Thomas might pointlessly intrigue her, as it did Alice.) For Miss Berger, I describe the deportation I witnessed at the bus stop, the abandoned camp, and the torching—all this and a bit about Thomas, too. And so the Repatriation Act becomes Miss Berger's concern as well. Through her library connections, she gains access to Spanish-language newspapers and, utilizing a Spanish/English dictionary, tells me what she gathers from these articles. They are replete with descriptions of farmworker strikes and union meetings, which are frequently raided, as are the Mexican migrant workers' camps. The journalists cover the ongoing harassment and segregation of Mexican people, along with Filipino people, they report, and Japanese.
If we're not careful,
Miss Berger writes,
we'll be living the Indian Removal Act all over again, only with a different population made to suffer. “We must eliminate the alien horde!” That's one of the many troubling refrains intoned by the supporters and sycophants of Labor Secretary William S. Doak
.
Honestly, some of these raids and sweeps are reminiscent of those perpetuated by the KKK, only these perpetrators wear suits and uniforms instead of white robes.

At moments like this, Miss Berger's fervency leaves me unsettled. If she's correct, then to whom and what do I pledge my allegiance? I consider writing Thomas to ask him what he thinks about all this, but he'll only confirm Miss Berger's opinion, I'm sure, and where would that leave me? Overwhelmed, most likely. Entirely swayed by the force of their arguments. Unable to make up my own mind. So I save my letter-writing for Miss Berger and Mother, and otherwise escape into academic pursuits. The Ivory Tower is an apt term, I realize. Up here, Rapunzel can plait her hair and live an ordered life of the mind, with everything viewed at a reasonable distance. Down there in the fray of the real world, things quickly unravel and come undone, and when they do, Rapunzel can't see or think straight for the tangled mess.

I MARK THE
day of Charlie's passing alone in my dorm room. It is not a Saturday. It is not a Sunday. It is a Tuesday, and for the first time—the only time, I vow—I skip classes, appointments, all work. I make no excuses. I turn my face to the wall when Helen tries to rouse me. She knows what day it is; she finally gives up and leaves me alone. I stay in bed, blanketed by black fog, for much of the morning.

Helen returns at lunchtime, carrying a carton of tomato soup. “If you won't eat, I'll force-feed you,” she announces. So I sit up and take a few dutiful spoonfuls, then a few more. I'm hungry, I realize. I finish the entire carton of soup, and as I do, Helen starts to question me. To my astonishment, she asks me about Charlie—more about him and our life together than she's ever asked. “What was he like as a little boy?” “When did you know you loved him?” I hesitate, wary of what such talk will do to me, but then I find myself telling her the story of the snowfall. The one and only miracle of my life. And as I describe this and other memories of Charlie, the black fog begins to lift. I
remember
him. I put my memories of him back together, and he is not entirely lost. When Helen heads off to her afternoon classes, I lay the photographs of Charlie and me on my desk. I look at them for a long while. I thank God for him. Then I get dressed, open the curtains and the windows, and start to study. I have work to catch up on now. And Professor Tobias expects a stack of quizzes graded and returned to him tomorrow.

The following Sunday is Easter. Given the short break, most people stay on campus, so for this holiday, at least, I'm not alone. Helen and I attend the service at the campus chapel and a lavish Easter Day luncheon in a meeting room off the dining hall, hosted by the Education Department. The luncheon is open to all majors, as well as faculty, staff, and their families. The meeting room proves packed, and noisy with talk and laughter.
This
feels like a real celebration, even to me, and enjoying myself as I am, that must make me a true college coed. I wouldn't claim to be the poster girl Helen is. But for the first time, I feel like I fit in.

Before we sit down to eat, Helen hands me a narrow black velvet box topped with a silver bow. For her, every holiday entails gift-giving—and not just a token, like the chocolate bunny I bought her at the last minute and set in a little pink woven basket atop her pillow while she showered for church—but a Present with a capital
P
. For Christmas, for instance, she gave me a complete edition of Shakespeare's plays. I gave her a new umbrella because, around and about as she always is at all hours, in all weather, hers kept turning inside out. So it is with some trepidation that I open the velvet box. What's inside is as beautiful and perfect as I assumed it would be: a delicate gold chain, wound around a white satin pillow, and beside the chain, a tiny embossed tag that reads
24 Karats
. Besides my wedding band, it's the nicest piece of jewelry I've ever received. The nicest thing I own. I start to say something inane—
Oh! You shouldn't have!
—but Helen holds up her hand.