Broken Ground Read online

  “What is it?”

  “Look.”

  I look. “A check?” I look again. “A check.”

  Mother gives a sharp nod. Her expression has hardened to grim.

  “Two thousand dollars,” I say slowly. “A check from the oil company, payable to me.” I look up at her again. “Mama?”

  “Charlie must have been thinking what if. A good man watches out for the what-if.”

  “Life insurance?”

  Mother nods, sinking back down in her chair. “Your daddy considered it his, as we’ve been putting a roof over your head, and it appeared we would be doing so for some time. But that’s not the case after all. Your daddy still wants the check, I imagine—he had some kind of plan for it, you can bet on that—but I don’t want it. It’s not right to want it. Not anymore. Never was, really. Take it, Ruth.”

  “But—”

  “Take it with you to California. And take this, too.” She pulls a scrap of paper from the pocket of her apron. She’s written a name there, Alice Everly, and beneath that a California address and a phone number. “That friend I told you about who went west with her family? It took a little doing, but I tracked her down. I spoke to her on the phone, Ruth. I told her you were coming, and she said to call as soon as you arrive. You won’t be alone out there, not if she can help it.” Mother presses the paper into my hands. “Do that for me, Ruth, promise? Call Alice Everly. Go see her when you’re able. I want you to have some folks out there, our kind of people, who can help when need be.”

  “I’ll call her for you if for no other reason. I promise.”

  Mother’s expression softens with relief. Her eyes go misty again; she looks quickly down at the clock and gets busy fiddling with the back. When the back clicks into place, she seems like she doesn’t know what to do next. She’s exhausted, I realize. She probably hasn’t slept a wink. So I take the clock from her, hang it on its nail on the wall, tilt it this way and that.

  “Even now?”

  She nods.

  I wrap my arms around her. “You sure?”

  “Sure as I’ve ever been,” she says.

  EARLY THE NEXT morning, the sun a cusp of orange on the horizon, Miss Berger’s elegant if aged gray Zephyr ferries me down drowsy, dirt roads, and then onto busier, paved streets. Instead of her typical T-shirt, khaki skirt, and bandana, Miss Berger wears a neat bottle-green suit jacket and skirt and a matching hat. She’s taking herself out to lunch, she informs me during our drive. She doesn’t get into Oklahoma City nearly often enough; she’s going to see a bit of what there is to see. In particular, she’ll visit the library. They have entire shelves devoted to new books, and she wants to browse them.

  Miss Berger parks the car near the city’s brand-new depot, and we make our way inside. Upon hearing my destination and departure time, a porter whisks my suitcase away, leaving me to carry only a picnic basket of food packed by Mother and my pocketbook, which holds the oil company’s check, the scrap of paper with Alice Everly’s information, and all the money I managed to save from my summer at the library—just enough for a train ticket to Los Angeles.

  I start toward the ticket booth, but Miss Berger steps in front of me. With a flourish, she produces from her jacket’s pocket the very ticket I intend to buy. “For you,” she says.

  I shake my head, stunned.

  Miss Berger shrugs. “No refunds allowed.”

  “But I can’t accept it! After all you’ve already done—”

  “Well, I’ve got no use for it. You know how I feel about clutter, Ruth. Guess I’ll just have to dispose of it.” She manages to make a little tear in the ticket before I snatch it from her hands.

  “Thank you.” That’s all I can come up with. When I try to express my gratitude more eloquently, Miss Berger fairly shudders with impatience and, without further ado, draws me into the waiting area. It’s a grand place. She launches into a description of the architectural elements—which she read up on last night, apparently—the art deco details and terrazzo floors, the metal and glass chandeliers with their chevron designs, the bright and colorful ceilings painted with American Indian motifs.

  Only a few minutes until my departure now. There’s so much I want to ask Miss Berger, so much I want to know—about American Indian motifs, sure, but also about her life, her work, how she came to help the people she helps and why. Never mind escaping Alba. At this very moment, I don’t want to say goodbye.

  “Do you see that long narrow rectangle spanning the far wall?” Miss Berger points; I see it. “For the Choctaw people, that rectangle symbolizes the road of life that one travels in his span on earth.” She flicks me a glance. “Or her span on earth, as the case may—”

  “Please,” I blurt, clutching her arm.

  Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Yes?”

  What to say with so much vying for my attention. Choctaw. The word lodges in my mind like a pebble in a shoe. “How did you know Mayor Botts is part Choctaw?”

  This is not what I wanted to ask at all. But Miss Berger, patient with most any question, cocks her head, considering. “I could see it in him, and he confirmed it,” she finally says. “I know quite a bit about the tribe, actually. My mother was Choctaw through and through. She grew up on a reservation and met my father, who was French Canadian, and then they came and settled in Alba, where there was land to be had . . . but not a lot of acceptance.”

  Here is something I want to hear. “I didn’t know.” I’m still holding on to her arm. I don’t want to release it. Not yet. And she doesn’t draw away from me. She looks at the far wall, the rectangle there. But her unfocused gaze suggests she sees something entirely different.

  “My parents died in a car accident when I was sixteen. Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to learn things they might have told me. It’s been a bit of a compulsion, in fact. I probably know more about my heritage now than I would have if they’d lived.”

  I swallow hard. “What did you do when they died? Besides learn things, I mean. What did you do?”

  Miss Berger sighs, her gaze still distant. “I tried to raise myself as I believe they would have if they’d lived. I never forgot them, but I got on with my life. I didn’t go to college, as I’d hoped to do, but I worked my way into the position I hold now.” She winces as if something pains her, and I loosen my grip on her arm. For a long moment, she is quiet; she feels she’s said enough, I’m afraid. But then she takes a deep breath.

  “I think about my mother every time I enter the library.” She turns to me, present and attentive again. “The building was constructed before the Land Run as a mission school for Choctaw children, back before people became concerned about the ‘Indian Problem.’ Soon after the Run, the number of white children in the area surpassed the number of Choctaw—or so it was said—and the school’s mission changed accordingly. The Choctaw children were removed from the school, some of the older ones forcibly, and sent to the reservation, all but uninhabitable territory, not so far from the Thorne place. I take it as no coincidence that the Klan holds their meetings at the reservation’s doorstep. I also take it more than a little personally.”

  “I didn’t know.” I feel like a fool, repeating myself.

  Miss Berger smiles at me, and her smile is kind. “But that’s why you’re going to college, yes? To learn things. To know more. To understand.” Only now does she withdraw her arm. She tugs at the cuff of her jacket, trying to smooth the wrinkles I’ve made in the sleeve. “Let’s find your platform, shall we?” Her voice is bright and energetic. “Don’t want to waste that ticket.”

  I hurry after Miss Berger. In a matter of moments, we stand by the train. It hisses and gusts fumy steam, readying for the journey.

  “Well,” I say for something to say, “I guess this is it, then.”

  Miss Berger turns abruptly and clenches my arms. With quiet urgency, she says she trusts me, but there are my parents and the rest of Alba to worry about. One misspoken word from me, and other people could suf
fer more than they already have. But now I’m leaving, so now she’ll tell me, as she’s wanted to since the other night. “Wolf’s at the door,” she said in so many words to the mayor. And then he, along with the new sheriff and the two remaining officers who weren’t already draped in white sheets, drove out to the Homestead, where they had a little talk with the Klan.

  Miss Berger leans closer to me, and her voice becomes quieter still. “Let me be clear. The mayor and the sheriff talked, and everyone else listened, as people are apt to do when guns are pointed their way. I’m not saying it’s the right way to do things—threatening violence with violence—and I don’t think that’s ultimately what doused the fire under the kettle. I think what did it, at least temporarily, was Botts’s real threat. He promised that if there were any more such gatherings or related actions, he would go straight to the governor. He’d go higher than that, if need be. He’d contact the press out east and name names. I wouldn’t put it past Botts to do something like that. He’s a decent man. He knows how it is to be on the other side of the majority. So for now, at least, certain folks can sleep a little easier. I wanted you to know this before you left, Ruth. I realize it’s been troubling you. I hope you can rest easier now, too.”

  “Did the mayor tell you all this?”

  Miss Berger gives a small shrug. “Oh, I went along for the ride. I didn’t get out, mind you, didn’t let those lunatics see me, the only woman there. But I rolled down the car window and got an earful, believe you me. Now.” She heaves a sigh, a mixture of relief and sadness. “It really is time for goodbye.”

  I set down the picnic basket, and we hug each other close.

  “Write me,” Miss Berger says, her arms still around me. “And not just postcards, either. ‘The weather is beautiful! Wish you were here!’ Not that. I expect full-blown letters.”

  “You’ll write to me, too?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll tell me if things change? For better or worse?”

  “I will.” She draws away from me, her expression soft with understanding. “It’s good you want to know. Keep on wanting to know as much as you can about everything you can, you hear me?”

  I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

  “And don’t you worry, Ruth. I’ll check in on your mother.”

  I manage once again to thank her.

  A whistle blows. “All aboard!” a conductor shouts. “Last call! All aboard the Antelope, express to Kansas City!”

  Miss Berger gives me a gentle shove. Next thing I know, I’m on the train. Dazedly, I find my place by a window. The aisle seat is empty, so it is easy enough for me to sit down—collapse, really—drop the basket of food at my feet, and peer through the smudged glass. There is Miss Berger, a tall figure in bottle green, walking back to the waiting room. She pauses at the entrance, looks up and all around. She is taking in the architecture again. She isn’t missing a thing.

  My vision blurs.

  Go, she said, Charlie said, God said, I said. And now here I am, going.

  The train lurches forward, and crying, finally crying for the first time since Charlie’s death, I am gone.

  IN KANSAS CITY I have to switch trains—and quickly. Flustered, I hustle to a platform. Turns out to be the wrong one. I barely make it to the right one, where, accompanied by the screech of metal wheels, gearing up to go, and a conductor’s reprimands, I jump onto the Atlantic Express. I take my seat—again by a window—as the train jolts forward. My companion for this leg of the journey, an elderly man, is already hunkered down by the aisle. He’s sound asleep, grizzled chin to sunken chest, gnarled hands twitching in his lap. With some effort I manage to settle into place without awakening him.

  All the way across Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, all the way to Braxton, California, the Atlantic Express has no scheduled stops. The hours stretch before me, and as they pass, the elderly man sleeps so deeply he might as well be under a spell. I, on the other hand, am wide awake, jittery with excitement and nerves. Can’t focus to read or write a letter. So I watch the country roll by. After Kansas City, the towns dwindle from sparse to next to nothing—a crossing gate here, a depot there. A solitary platform flashes by. There’s the occasional gas station or trading post, a few ramshackle houses. Deeper into the plains, an uneven brown line appears in the distance. Mountains, maybe? There will be canyons and deserts to come, I know, and occasional bodies of water, and always the changing sky, like nothing so much as an enormous bowl turned upside down. And there will be my memories.

  Late afternoon, we pass the first Hooverville, constructed beneath a bridge. Then another under a viaduct. A few hours later, one right out in the open, no shade or shelter to be found. In these places, men, women, and children squat in lean-tos, big boxes, broken-down trucks, abandoned freight cars, fashioning some semblance of safety and security. Come sunset, they huddle around ash can fires. Sometimes, when Route 66 runs parallel to the tracks, I catch sight of jalopies and pickups straining beneath the weight of more people than they should carry, plus their worldly goods. They’re heading west. Okies, like me. Arkies, like the man beside me, I learn when he finally snorts himself awake around ten at night. Motivated by a handbill, or a newspaper account, or a rumor, they’re escaping someplace that just might kill them if they stay. It’s foolish, I know, but every time we pass one of those vehicles, burdened with tattered families, I look for Edna Faye.

  I nibble at the food Mother provided—ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, a peach, two slices of watermelon, a handful of oatmeal cookies, a jug of water, and a thermos of coffee that goes from hot to cold over the course of the trip. A wealth of food, the kind of food my parents can’t afford. Mother took a risk, buying such things. If Daddy finds out—well, I don’t want to think about it. I offer to share the wealth with the elderly man. He politely resists until around midnight, when he accepts half a cup of cold coffee and a ham sandwich. In a heartbeat, he downs both, and then again he sleeps.

  I doze off and on, too. I dream of Charlie. When the dreams are sweet, we are all tangled up together, we are reading together, riding this train together, going off to college together. But when the dreams turn bitter, more like the truth, we are falling, drowning, burning, dissolving, vanishing, gone. Charlie is so present that each time I open my eyes, I turn to the elderly man beside me, expecting my husband instead. The shock of this doesn’t diminish, nor does the dismay that follows.

  I am fully awake at dawn. Outside it’s desert, pure and simple. How the earth has changed color over this long ride—red to brown to all the many shifting shades before me now—but always cracked and parched. The vegetation has evolved, too. Patchy, struggling farm fields have yielded to tenacious scrub, tumbleweed, and cacti. There’s the occasional blooming thing as well—blurred splotches of pink, yellow, or red that must be cactus flowers.

  At Braxton, the Atlantic Express finally slows to a stop. I’m considering standing, climbing over my still-sleeping seatmate, stretching my legs, when suddenly, the conductor appears, grabs the old man, and drags him down the aisle and out the door. As fast as that it happens. Then there’s a scornful shout from the conductor—something about a ticket. I twist in my seat and see the old man sprawled on the cement platform, arms and legs akimbo, a look of resignation on his face. The wind lifts his battered hat and pushes it, haphazard as a tumbleweed, onto the tracks. “All aboard,” the conductor shouts, and the train lurches forward again.

  There’s a billboard above the platform where the man still sprawls:

  JOBLESS MEN KEEP GOING!

  We can’t take care of our own.

  BETWEEN BRAXTON AND Los Angeles, the towns increase in size and activity. Palm trees thicken, as do other tropical plants that I cannot name, and flowers. In between the towns, lush farms spread. People of all ages work the fields—people who resemble me as much as anyone, or my previous seatmate, or Edna Faye and her family. Okies and Arkies, they look to be—probably still bone white where their skin is covered; o
therwise, sunburned tender pink to harsh red—tending crops low to the ground or fruit trees in rows, too, bending and rising, reaching and plucking, gathering harvest that would be considered heaven-sent back home. In spite of that billboard, it seems to me this land is very much taking care of folks, whether they’re originally its own or not. I hope that all the others I’ve witnessed trying to get here will find such reward. There’s work if a body wants it, surely, and food to be eaten, and a place to rest.

  Just outside Los Angeles, I try to pray. I pray for myself. I start there. But then I pray for the old man who accompanied me from Kansas City to Braxton. For Mother and Daddy, Miss Berger, Minah, Susan, Jubilant, and Mayor Botts, I pray. For Edna Faye. For safety and mercy. For hope in the future.

  It’s evening when we arrive. The Los Angeles train station proves immense—or it feels that way to me. It’s something of a mess too, damaged by a recent earthquake. And it’s crowded; harried people running every which way, jostling and pushing as they pass. With the help of an impatient porter, I locate the electric trestle train that will take me across something called the Arroyo Seco, then on to Pasadena’s Santa Fe depot. What at other times might be a short jaunt seems nearly as long as my previous cross-country trip—I’m that anxious. I learn one thing along the way, which I will try to remember to write to Miss Berger: The Arroyo Seco is a vast canyon unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Canyon crossed, the trestle train makes its way into Pasadena and the depot. And like that, I am where I will be, I imagine, for four years to come. Wobbly-legged, I step off the train and into my new life.

  But I don’t know which way to go. So I follow the lead of other passengers, who hurry on, familiar with these surroundings. We wind up at the baggage claim. Swiftly, the others collect their belongings, and then they’re gone—out the depot’s exit and off into the evening. I’d like to follow them, ask the kindest-looking of the bunch directions to Union University. But my suitcase is nowhere to be seen.