Broken Ground (12 page)

As far as I know, Mother, Daddy, and Miss Berger are doing just fine. Miss Berger is my primary source of information. In spite of my many letters to Mother, I've heard from her only once—a postcard with a picture of a buffalo on the front.

Dear Ruth,

I'm glad you are good. I like hearing all your news. But from now on, send mail care of the library. Miss Berger says she will put it aside for me. I got to your last letter, but the one before that, he burned it in the stove. Otherwise, everything is the same.

Your Mother

Miss Berger reassures me that Mother appears healthy:
No sign of real distress, I promise you, Ruth
. And then she surprises me by writing that Mother has begun to spend time at the library.
She visits when your father is occupied elsewhere. I quite enjoy our discussions about the books I give her to read
.

On Thanksgiving Day, Miss Myrtle Voyle invites me and a few other “Thanksgiving orphans” to dinner. We eat roast chicken, potatoes, stuffing, and gravy, balancing plates in our laps in the sitting room of the resident director's apartment. Miss Voyle, her helmet of hair freshly styled and lacquered to a metallic sheen, polices the conversation, determinedly asking each member of the small circle about our interests. The other young women, two freshmen and one sophomore, speak of field hockey, nature walks, sightseeing adventures in beautiful Pasadena. I am at a loss. Interests? I find myself talking about my assistantship and Professor Tobias.

Miss Myrtle frowns. “But what do you do for
leisure
?”

“I don't have much time—”

Miss Voyle clucks her tongue. “All work and no play make Ruth a dull girl.” The other young women simper at this, and the conversation continues from there, still commandeered by Miss Voyle, who, to my relief, asks about our favorite classes.
This
I am able to discuss. Soon enough, our dinner winds down. We thank Miss Voyle profusely; indeed, it's comforting to be full of home-cooked food. If only I weren't so tired, craving a nap. I'll have to make a cup of strong tea in the dormitory kitchen. No, I will make a whole pot. I have that much work to do. One paper down, one to go. That's what I'm thinking, following the others out into the hallway, when Miss Voyle draws me aside.

“Professor Tobias is . . . compelling, wouldn't you say, Ruth?”

I watch the others escape around a corner. “He's a terrific teacher.”
Terrific
. I sound like Helen talking about the latest millinery style.

Miss Voyle manages a dour smile. “He's quite the taskmaster, too.”

“Yes.” There's an innuendo to her tone that I don't understand. “But I knew the nature of the assistantship when I took it on. He warned me.”

“I suppose he did.” Her smile fades. “Well, I will be sure and let Professor Tobias know.”

I blink. “Know what?”

“I'll let him know that I'm aware of his influence on you—on all my girls. Professors like Tobias don't reflect on their influence enough.”

She releases me with a nod, and I return to my room. I'm no longer drowsy—I suppose that's one benefit of the exchange. I'm jittery, fidgeting at my desk. It's dark outside; I can see my reflection in the window. I'm struck by how drawn I look, a thin ghost of my former self. I shouldn't be surprised. Helen has pestered me with her concern. “Stop skipping meals, Ruth! Let's have lunch and dinner together again, as we used to. I'd like that, and you need a reminder to eat!” And then she pointed out how my wedding ring keeps slipping off my finger. She suggested I wear it as a necklace. “Otherwise, skinny as you are getting, you're going to lose it!”

For the first time in a long time, I remember the boy at the football game, the little silver cross he wore around his neck. For the life of me, I can't remember where I put the thing. Abruptly I get up from my desk and begin to search the room. It takes me over an hour, but I finally find the cross tucked in a safe place I'd never forget—which I promptly forgot—deep beneath my mattress, where I also hid my money and Charlie's life insurance check.

Suddenly terribly lonely, tears sting my eyes. Last Thanksgiving, Charlie and I ate two dinners, one with his mother, one with my parents. We took a long walk in the evening and talked about our future. It stretched before us, golden and sure. Loss and grief were other people's problems. We'd only ever start over together.

Clutching the boy's cross, I rush downstairs to the lobby, where a wooden booth holds a telephone I've yet to use. I go inside, lift the mouthpiece from the cradle.

“Number, please,” the campus operator says.

I say the number.

“You do realize you'll be charged for this call? You'll receive a bill in your mailbox?”

“That's fine.” I've saved most of the money I've earned from my assistantship. If that's not enough, I'll use my earnings from the library, or cash the insurance check.

The operator puts the call through. I listen to the ringing, half a country away. Like others in Alba who were once able to invest in a telephone, my parents share a party line. There's a click, then another and another, as several people pick up telephones. This is the way it always goes, along with the inevitable eavesdropping.

“Hello?” Mrs. Dennis, who lives down the road from Mother and Daddy.

“Hello?” Mr. Schneider, from next door.

“Hello?” Finally. Mother.

“It's me.” I'm crying now, no doubt about it.

“Ruth? Ruth!”

A flurried exchange in faraway Alba follows, and at least one person hangs up the telephone. Mother starts asking questions, never mind the inadequately stifled breathing of whoever is listening in. Again and again, I try to reassure her that I'm all right. I miss her, that's all. Yes, I had a nice Thanksgiving. Yes, it's the warmest November I've known. Yes, I'm doing well in school. Yes, I'm enjoying my assistantship.

“What about you?” I roughly brush the tears from my cheeks. “How are you?”

Mother answers vaguely, “Fit as a fiddle.” Daddy must be standing close at hand. I'd like to ask about her visits to the library and the books she's reading. But it's too risky.

“Listen to yourself, alone on Thanksgiving night!” Mother blurts. “You promised me a favor, Ruth. Don't you dare wait any longer. Call the Everlys.”

For a moment, I can't think what Mother means. Then I remember: her childhood friend, the woman who, with her family, moved from Oklahoma to California when times got bad.

“Ruth? You have the number and address still? I wrote it down for you, remember?”

“I do. I carry it in my pocketbook, in case.” I think it's still there. I haven't used my pocketbook since my arrival—there's been no need. But I don't mention that.

“Hang up now and call them.”

“But I'm fine—”

“They'll invite you for Christmas. Now, Ruth. Call them. You promised me.”

“I did. And I will. But—”

“Now.”

“Can't I talk to Daddy first?”

Silence.

I swallow hard. “He prefers not to talk to me?”

“That's right.”

I hear a little gasp from the eavesdropper on the line. “Oh!” Mother yelps like she's been slapped. “Is that you, Bud Schneider?”

There's a click. Mother and I listen to the silence. Then she tells me she's hanging up, too, because I've got another call to make.

I retrieve Alice Everly's number from my pocketbook, talk to the campus operator again. She puts the call through, and this time, a man picks up. “Pride of California Canning.” He sounds like he'd like to bite my head off—clearly, he'd rather be spending his holiday elsewhere. Readying myself for his ire unleashed, I give him my message:
Daughter of Mary Steele. Lives in California now, too. Hopes to visit, maybe over Christmas? Please call this number and leave a message with the Union University operator saying when you might be able to receive my call next time.
The man speaks more kindly to me now; perhaps he hears sadness in my voice. Alice Everly will be in for her shift tomorrow, he says. He'll make sure she hears every word of what I had to say.

In due time Alice Everly returns my call and leaves her own message:
No need to ring me back. We'll expect you for Christmas. Come as soon as you're able. Stay as long as you want.

F
orgive and forget. Apparently, that's Professor Tobias's motto. After Thanksgiving break, we resume our familiar working relationship, and the semester draws swiftly to an end.

On the final day of exam week, I meet Professor Tobias in his office to collect the last of the work for the semester. We are intent upon getting his grades in by the twenty-third of December. Just in time for the holiday break, when we will each, in our respective ways, be able to rest.

Professor Tobias shuts his office door against the noise of the giddy, exhausted students who are causing a general ruckus in the hallway. And then without further ado, he invites me to his home on Christmas Day.

“Who wants to be alone on the holidays? Not me. Not you, I'd venture. I'm having a New Year's Eve party, and you're welcome to that as well. I've invited a few other students and some of the faculty—only those who are up for a little fun, of course.”

I thank him and decline, explaining about the Everlys.

He laughs. “You're spending your vacation working the farm with Okies?”

I force a smile. He's joking, surely. “You forget:
I'm
an Okie.”

“You're absolutely not, not like that, Ruth. You're lovely, educated. You've overcome your origins—” He hesitates as my smile fades. “I apologize. What an idiotic thing to say! I'm originally from the Middle West, too, you know. Des Moines area. I simply can't stand the thought of you doing hard labor after the extraordinary effort you've given this semester. I think you deserve a little rest, that's all.”

“I doubt I'll be working, except to help Mrs. Everly around the house. At any rate, they're not farmers. They work in a factory.”

“Oh,” Professor Tobias says wryly. “Well, that's a big difference.” I stare at him, and he shakes his head, waving away his words. “Again, my apologies. Unnecessary and idiotic. I'm protective of your interests, that's all, Ruth. I truly care about you. Sometimes my feelings get in the way of my judgment, I suppose. You are special. I've never met anyone like you—more my equal than my student. Occasionally I'm unsure what to say or how to act. You leave me unsettled, and sometimes, I fear, behaving for the worst. I hope you understand.”

“I understand.” I don't, but I'm not sure how to express this without offending him. He's had his own kind of effect on me, and it's not purely intellectual. It's emotional as well. Like Miss Berger, he has believed in me, and so helped me believe in myself again.

Professor Tobias is watching me closely, his eyes flicking over my features. I feel the flush rising warm on my face. He reaches out and takes my hand in his. He lifts my hand carefully, like it is something precious and delicate. His fingers and palm are smooth, dry, and warm; mine, all torn cuticles and gnawed nails, have gone clammy. With his thumb, he traces the blue veins that branch across the back of my hand; my skin prickles with discomfort and I withdraw it.

Professor Tobias gruffly clears his throat. “Go easy on yourself with the grading, Ruth. It will get done. I've asked too much of you, I fear, these last months. Next semester, we must work on taking better care of you.”

He opens his office door. Dazed, I turn to go. As I step into the hallway, he murmurs softly into my ear. Unsteady on my feet, I make my way back to Garland Hall. It's only when I'm in my room again that it sinks in.

“You're a fine woman. And a scholar.” That's what he said.

TWO DAYS BEFORE
Christmas, I walk from Garland Hall to the bus station, lugging my suitcase, which holds a few changes of clothing and some books. I buy a round-trip ticket, open-ended from Pasadena to San Jose, where the Everly family now lives.

The first bus leaves in an hour. I find a seat in a corner of the station's nearly empty waiting room and prepare to bide my time. I am out of practice when it comes to doing nothing. The last few days, I've by no means gone easy on myself. I've graded exams and papers nearly around the clock, and somehow managed to write to Mother and Miss Berger, summing up the end of the semester and confirming my Christmas plans. Driven as I've been, I haven't been able to think about Professor Tobias. When I do, confusion overcomes me, and I find myself wasting time I don't have. So I don't think. I do, and I do, and I do some more.

Here in the station now, simply sitting seems a lost art and a luxury, and also a very risky business indeed. Dangerous, more like, with the black fog threatening again, now that there's no work to keep it at bay. I will myself to stay in one place, quiet and still. I close my eyes and try to slow my breath.

The station grows noisier with the gathering crowd, the waiting room, stuffy and hot. I've not slept much since I don't know when.
We have to take better care of you
. A nice thing for Professor Tobias to say. Gentlemanly. A comfort. Such drowsy comfort, like a sedative.

There's a throaty cry, and I open my eyes with a start. I glance at my watch. I must have drifted off—a little over half an hour has passed. Thank goodness I awakened in time to board my bus. I look toward the noise: the station entrance. There's movement there, people, and another cry. Blinking, trying to clear my head, I get to my feet, the better to see, as do a few others around me. Two men in military uniforms—the drab green of the U.S. Army, with turtle shell–like helmets on their heads and guns in their holsters—stand just outside the entrance. They hold a struggling man. I glimpse the man's brown skin and black hair, his face contorted with anger and fear. He's spitting mad—literally, he spits on the floor. Then he's dragged out of sight.