Broken Ground (14 page)

“You're Thomas?”

He barks out a humorless laugh. “They've told you about me already, have they?”

“They'll be relieved to know you've arrived safely.” I sit up, clutching the blanket to my shoulders. “I've done my share of sleeping these last days.” I try to smile, hoping he can hear warmth in my words. I swing my feet to the floor and stand, dragging the blanket with me. “You have the bed. I'll take the couch.”

But he's already at the door, blocking my way. I can't make out much about him beyond the fact that he's not much taller than I am—smaller in stature than most men. After a moment of confusion—
What's he got? Some kind of stand or tool?—
I realize that he supports himself on crutches.

“The couch is fine for me. I'll probably be more comfortable there.” Again his laugh, only kinder this time. “Easier access to the front door and my escape, if need be.”

Thomas turns agilely on his crutches and heads off down the dark hallway. I stand there for a moment, waiting, but there's not a peep from Alice or Talmadge, and not another peep from their son. So I take myself back to bed.

I
awake to the sound of singing. A young child unaccompanied by other instruments, with a voice like clear, clean crystal, ringing high and bright.

I wonder as I wander out under the sky

How Jesus the Savior did come for to die . . .

The Christmas carol unfolds, stately and haunting in its slow time. The child sings of Jesus' birth and of the people—wise men, farmers, shepherds—who gathered around him beneath the star's light. Wanderers under the sky, that's who Jesus died for, the child sings, poor people, like you, like me.

When the song ends, a man's sonorous voice fills the air. “That was ‘I Wonder as I Wander,' sung by a member of the Vienna Boys' Choir . . .”

My bedroom door opens a crack as the announcer relays more about the choir and the carol. Alice peeks in at me, her round face beaming. She's wearing what must have been a very nice dress—perhaps her nicest back home, red with jeweled buttons. “Merry Christmas, Ruth!”

“And to you! The music was beautiful.”

“It's our Christmas gift from Talmadge to me, and me to Talmadge, and our birthday gifts, and every gift for many years to come, as it took us so long to save up for it. A radio! Our old one broke some time back. Now we can listen to our shows again. It's secondhand, but it sounds fine.” Alice presses her hands to her breast, barely able to contain her excitement. “And Thomas arrived late last night.”

“Yes?” It wasn't a dream after all.

“He said he'd come to church with us this morning.” She smooths her hair now, and pins her bun more securely into place. “We have to hurry or we'll be late for the service. But don't worry—there will be more music to enjoy, both at church and back here afterward. I can assure you of that!”

Alone again, I quickly get ready, then go to the kitchen, hoping to down a cup of coffee and gobble a piece of toast. Thomas already sits at the table, crutches propped against the back of his chair. As I hesitate in the doorway, he regards me over the rim of his coffee cup. From behind the rising steam, his gaze is steady and serious, his eyes more golden than brown. A lion's eyes, wide-set, heavy-lidded, with eyelashes and brows that are noticeably dark against the amber irises. His brown hair, still wet from his washing up, tips to a widow's peak that recalls his sister's in the photograph. Thomas has rigorously raked his bangs back into place—the marks left by the comb's teeth are distinct—but already, waves and cowlicks have sprung up to thwart his efforts.

“Good morning,” I say.

He sets his cup down on the table, revealing a strong jaw and a wide mouth. He nods at me. Then in one, fluid movement, he pushes himself up from the table and, crutches beneath his arms, propels himself to the coffeepot on the stove. He pours a cup, hands it to me without a word. I thank him.

Still standing, Thomas slathers a piece of toast with jelly, wolfs it down, and drains the coffee from his cup. Next moment, he brushes past me on his crutches, his broad shoulders and muscled arms straining against the thin white cotton of his shirt. He bears weight only on his left leg; he keeps his right leg slightly bent so that his foot skims the floor. As he moves, the cuff of his right trouser leg hitches up an inch or so, and I see the reason for the crutches. Where Thomas's ankle should be, there's a narrow column of smooth, pale wood; bolts secure his black shoe in place. I'd never have guessed he wore a prosthetic. Broken bone—that's what I assumed from his bold, unencumbered movements. A missing limb hasn't slowed him down in any way; rather, it seems to have encouraged inhibition, lending a madcap quality to his otherwise graceful movements. Crutches pounding against the floor in a fast, uneven clip, Thomas swings himself through the kitchen doorway and into the front room.

I quickly eat, and in a matter of minutes, the Everlys and I are on our way to church. Thomas leads the way; Talmadge, Alice, and I have to hurry to keep up with him. Alice is, as usual, talkative—so much so that it's hard to get a word in edgewise. Then again, I'm the only one who makes an attempt, my manners kicking in as I try to respond to what she says. “Oh, my,” I manage at one point. And “Really?” at another. Otherwise Alice chatters on, filling Thomas in on the canning factory, the acquaintances she and his father have made there, the nature of their work, and their plans for the future (in a nutshell: put every extra penny aside and retire one day with just enough to live out their lives and pay for their funerals). “You could get a job at the canning factory, too, Thomas!” Alice exclaims, only to be met with grim silence from her son and husband. Thomas and Talmadge stay a good distance from each other and avoid eye contact altogether. Complete strangers, that's what they appear to be. If it weren't for the fact that their expressions are set to the same degree of stubbornness, and that Talmadge, too, has a widow's peak, silvery though it may be, I might assume these two men had never met. Without Alice's verbosity, this walk would be strained to the point of excruciating.

Church is a small white clapboard building with a narrow bell tower that reverberates with clanging as we approach. There are steps up to the sanctuary door, and Thomas takes them two at a time. Only at the entrance does he finally come to a full stop. He follows me inside, the last of us to enter, and as he does, he sucks in a long breath, as if storing up oxygen for a deep dive.

The church is crowded and warm. Alice manages to find enough space for us to sit together in a pew near the back. Alice sits down first, then Talmadge, then me, and finally, Thomas, who occupies the aisle seat, carefully laying his crutches on the floor, well out of the way of any passersby. While Thomas seems uncomfortable, constantly shifting in his seat, I relax into the wooden pew. This is familiar. I know what I have to do, or if I don't, I will be told. I can listen, and if the sermon proves dull, who knows? I might hear a word from God.

The white-haired pastor preaches on Luke 2:1–20, that beautiful passage about Jesus' birth and the shepherds' arrival at the stable. I anticipated the baby wrapped in swaddling cloth and laid in a manger, the angel's message on the hillside, the things that Mary treasured, and pondered in her heart. But the pastor never gets to that. Instead, he focuses on the first two verses of the chapter—the description of Caesar Augustus, his decree of a census, and Joseph's willingness to take Mary from Nazareth to Bethlehem to be registered as a member of the house and line of David.

“Here is yet another biblical example in which governmental orders are followed by godly people,” the pastor says. “We must take this as our model. If we are asked to obey, we must do so, especially in such difficult times. Pay your taxes. Give your landlords, farm owners, and bosses their due. Report those who do otherwise. We've elected our political leaders. Now let's help them keep the peace.”

Talmadge sits straight, shoulders back, fists clenched on thighs. Except for the fact that he's nodding in agreement, he might as well be carved from stone. On the other side of him, Alice shifts uneasily, her expression tight with anxiety. As for Thomas, his nervous system might as well be constructed of frayed electrical wires; sitting close to him like this, I believe I can feel his fury emanating in sharp jolts. Though he's given to silence, it's clear he wants to speak; his mouth works as he bites back words.

“Are you all right?” I whisper as Alice leans over, trying to reach her son. “Your mother,” I whisper when Alice fails to catch hold of his sleeve. “She wants you.”

At this, Thomas grabs his crutches and rises from the pew. The pastor looks up from his notes and the congregation turns to see the cause of the commotion. Thomas doesn't linger. He launches himself down the aisle and out the door.

“Well.” The pastor nods knowingly. “Guess someone doesn't see things the way I do.”

He continues with his sermon. Though I try to listen, I find I can't. I bow my head slightly, so no one will notice, and begin to pray. Mother, Daddy, Miss Berger, Edna Faye, the boy beneath the bleachers—this litany of names comes to me as always. But now I lift up Alice, Talmadge, and Thomas, too.

AS SOON AS
the service ends, Alice prods Talmadge and me to leave the sanctuary, and quickly. Outside, where few have yet to gather, there's no sign of Thomas.

Without a word, Talmadge and Alice start home. The whole way, they don't exchange a word, so I am quiet as well. The walk seems longer now, and I yearn for Alice's banter. Clouds scud across the sun, casting a pall over the slapped-together duplexes. Any illusion of Christmas in paradise—blue sky, warm temperature, palm trees and poinsettias basking in the sun—has vanished. There's a raw chill in the air. A burst of wind spits down cold rain, and soon enough, we are drenched. When we finally arrive at the Everlys' home, we find Thomas sitting on the couch in the living room, reading a tattered newspaper. He doesn't look up at our entrance.

“So it's going to be like this,” Talmadge says.

Thomas turns a page. Talmadge swoops down on his son, yanks the paper from his hands, and throws it to the floor. The pages scatter.

“Please,” Alice says.

Neither of the men looks at her. Thomas trains his gaze on his father, who is shouting. “In my house, my church, you show some respect. You can have your opinions. I can't stop you. But you keep them to yourself, you hear me, or you can damn well leave.”

Alice claps her hands over her ears. I go to her and slip my arm around her shoulders. She is shivering in her wet clothes. As I draw her into the hallway, she begins a strangled apology.

“Hush, now,” I say. Though Mother would blanch, I tell Alice that I'm more than a little familiar with family disagreements. A flicker of relief passes over her pained expression. “Why don't you go put on some dry clothes,” I say. “I'll make some hot coffee. We can sip it while we cook Christmas dinner.”

Alice nods and stumbles off to change. My own dress, I've realized, clings wetly to my every curve. I make a few adjustments, pulling at the fabric here and there. Then, before I can reconsider, I march into the living room and suggest that Talmadge, who fell silent soon after our retreat to the kitchen, find us a good radio station. Now I turn to Thomas, who is holding that blamed newspaper again. I place my hands squarely on my hips. If only briefly, I once ran my own little household. I know how to set things straight. I set Professor Tobias's office straight time and again, and I set straight students who ask smart-mouthed questions, and foolish ones, too, and, come to think of it, long before I shared a home with Charlie, I set straight entire sections of the Alba Public Library. I can set this situation straight. I can also delegate chores.

“There are potatoes to be peeled.” When Thomas doesn't lower the newspaper—an act of further resistance, I suppose—I stride over to him and flick the pages down so he has to meet my eyes. “Out on the back porch might be a good place to do the peeling, if it's not raining too hard.” I lift my chin and frown down at him. “
Tempus fugit
.”

Am I seeing correctly? Do the corners of his eyes faintly crinkle with humor? Do I strike him as funny?

Before I have time to decide whether I've offended him or not, Thomas hoists himself from the couch and maneuvers his way into the kitchen. Talmadge busies himself at the radio. He finds a bright Christmas carol, and then he, too, leaves the room—to change, I presume. I steal away as well. In the bedroom, I shed my wet dress, strip off my underthings and put on dry ones, then consider the skirts and blouses I have left to wear. Though it might be deemed inappropriate, I slip into my well-worn, comfortable housedress, yellow accented with violets and green leaves. I would have worn it to cook Christmas dinner with Charlie. Talmadge, Alice, and Thomas have revealed their less than decorous selves. I might as well do the same.

As an afterthought, I turn to the mirror and brush out my wet hair.

JACK BENNY IS
joking on the radio.

I start toward the kitchen, but on second thought, I retrieve Thomas's newspaper. Out of sight, out of mind. I'll return it to him when I'm sure things have settled down.

The little desk in my bedroom seems the best place to hide the newspaper. I open the top drawer and start to tuck it inside. It's only then that I notice the headline.

Mexicans Leave for Home—

Another Lot of About 1200 Repatriates

Accept Offer of L.A. County

I read on.

In light of the concern expressed in a recent editorial in these pages, this reporter has interviewed both local and state government authorities to determine the willingness of members of the Mexican population to be repatriated to their original home. Also interviewed are leaders of Los Angeles's Mexican community, who work to maintain a decent and law-abiding district in the area north of the Olvera Street Plaza. Below are their collected statements.