Broken Ground (16 page)

“That was beautiful.” The hollow ache is still there, but perhaps it is tempered.

“My mother was Swedish,” Talmadge says. “This is the one tradition she passed down that we've kept alive all these years. Even on the road as we've been, we've managed it.”

He turns on the radio again, and another carol fills the room—“Away in a Manger.” Alice joins me on the couch; Talmadge takes the ornately carved rocker by the radio; Thomas pulls in a chair from the kitchen. There are no gifts tonight beyond the music, the meal, the candles on the tree. But as Alice darns socks, and Talmadge draws on his pipe, and Thomas pulls out a piece of wood and starts whittling away, there is something to which I can't quite put a name, and it is enough. It is enough for me to endure this Christmas. Enough for me to believe yet another Christmas will come. Enough to lighten the black fog to gray.

N
ext morning, Sunday, there's no sign of Thomas in the front room or kitchen, so I assume it's just Talmadge, Alice, and me bound for church. But upon our departure, there Thomas is, waiting outside on the front porch. He grimly mumbles something about an early-morning walk down memory lane. Talmadge doesn't acknowledge this, but Alice, carrying a picnic basket, swiftly kisses her son's cheek.

“I'm so glad you returned in time,” she says. “I'm glad we can try again.”

I wait until Alice and Talmadge are a safe distance ahead, then I ask Thomas if he'll be all right, no matter what the preacher says.

Thomas cocks his head thoughtfully, as if trying to parse every element of my serious tone. “Yes, ma'am. I'll be good. I promise.”

He's teasing me. I lift my chin and stride after Talmadge and Alice. Soon enough Thomas takes the lead as he did yesterday and keeps a quick pace all the way to church. Yesterday's storm has scrubbed the sky a cloudless, bright blue, washed the air clean, polished palm leaves to a high sheen. Dew-drenched blades of grass sparkle. Only the flowers seem to have suffered from the lashing rain and wind.

The church sanctuary is crowded, and again the four of us have to squeeze together in a pew: Thomas in his place by the aisle, then me, then Alice and Talmadge. In this sermon (to our shared relief, I am sure), the pastor emphasizes the importance of gratitude in times of both abundance and need. Can't really argue with that. Thomas stays the entire service and participates with the rest of us. Alice's whole demeanor softens; she can't stop smiling even as the pastor reads of Job's suffering. At one point, she reaches over me for Thomas's hands, and he responds, reaching for hers, and there the three of us sit, with their hands clasped above my lap. I have to press my lips together to keep down the laughter bubbling up inside me—not because I find this humorous but because it fills me with joy such as I haven't known in a long time. Here is a moment of grace in spite of everything, or because of it. Then I remember Daddy and Mother, and a pang of longing shoots through me. Will I ever experience something like this, no matter how fleeting, with both of them? With Mother, yes, maybe. But with Daddy? I doubt it.

After the service, Alice tugs the picnic basket from beneath the pew, and we walk to a nearby park. Talmadge spreads a blanket in the shade beneath a circle of trees, and we settle down to lunch. Stiff and ungainly, Alice and Talmadge occupy the majority of the blanket. I perch at the fringed edge. Thomas rolls over onto his belly in the grass, his legs stretched out behind him, his crutches within easy reach. Propped up on his elbows, he looks the most comfortable of any of us. We savor the food—what's left of yesterday's chicken, egg salad sandwiches, some oranges, and treats so rare they feel decadent: bottles of fizzy, warm Coca-Cola and a melting Hershey bar to share. The air warms to hot; the sun casts mottled shadows through the leaves, rustling overhead. Birds utter calls that are strange and exotic, at least to me. Our movements slow to languid. Even my eyes are drooping, and Alice and Talmadge, having worked hard at the factory all week, can't stop yawning as they finish up their chocolate and sip the last of their sodas.

“Remember Sunday afternoons before, in our backyard?” Alice murmurs, leaning in to her husband.

“Remember the screened-in porch.” Talmadge smacks a drowsy fly and misses.

We are quiet for a moment. Then Alice sighs and turns to me with a rueful smile. “I wanted to show you the sights of San Jose. But, oh, for a nap first! Can't think of the last time I took one.”

“Can't think, either.” Talmadge stretches his arms above his head, and his joints give a loud crack. Wincing, he reclines on the blanket, turns on his side, settles his hand beneath his cheek for a pillow, and closes his eyes.

I glance at Thomas. He is watching his father, his steady gaze gone soft with emotion. Grace. Here it is again: the love a son can have for his dad, when times are simple and peaceful and shadows of blame and hurt retreat. I've never seen a man look at another man as Thomas is looking at Talmadge now. So tender is Thomas's expression, I have to look away.

“Do you mind, Ruth?” Full cheeks flushed, Alice speaks apologetically. “An hour or so, and then we'll take a look around? I'm feeling awful guilty, as you are a guest. And Thomas, it's been so long—” She hesitates, perhaps afraid of saying too much. “But a little rest would make me a better companion. And we'd still have time to see the most important places.”

“Of course you should rest,” I whisper, so as not to rouse Talmadge. “You, too, Thomas, if you like. I'll go ahead and take the picnic basket home.” I smile, trying to reassure Alice. “That way we won't have to carry it later, when you're raring to go.”

Alice nods gratefully and lies down beside her husband. As she spoons her wide back against his narrow chest, her dress strains against her thighs, and the dingy lace of her slip peeks out from beneath her hem. If I could, I'd cover them with something soft, tuck them in for sweet dreams. But it's too hot for that anyway, and they look perfectly content, babes in the woods—or rather, beneath a small circle of trees.

“I'll go with you, Ruth. I could use a walk.” Thomas squares a crutch on the ground and hops up, then snags the other crutch and the picnic basket. He frowns, noticing, as I do, Alice's expression: Tired as she is, she manages to give us a knowing look.

“You two have fun, now,” she says.

Thomas turns abruptly away from his mother. “Back soon,” he casts over his shoulder. And then, carelessly: “Come on, Ruth, if you're coming.”

Only when we're out of Alice's sight does Thomas allow me to catch up to him. “I don't want her getting her hopes up,” he says.

I nod. “Me, either.”

Without a word, Thomas starts off again, and—no surprise—I have to walk briskly to keep up. At his parents' house, he doesn't bother to go inside; he simply drops the picnic basket on the porch and turns to me.

“You said you wanted to know the other side of the story?”

“I did.”

“If that's still true, then let's go.”

THOMAS LEADS ME
to the outskirts of town, where the duplexes and small bungalows dwindle to overgrown, empty lots. A low, uneven line of green spans the horizon.

“One of the bigger citrus groves in this area.” Pointing, Thomas breaks our quick pace. “But what's between here and there—that's what you need to see.” He nods at a ramshackle tumble of glinting metal and bleached wood only a half mile or so farther down the road.

“A Hooverville?”

“Not exactly.”

Without explanation, Thomas sets off again. When we reach our destination, I have to bend over, plant my hands on my knees. It takes some moments for me to catch my breath. Only then can I see what's right before us: a ditch filled with stinking standing water over which gnats and flies swarm. Scum and algae slick the water's surface; long-legged spiders skitter across brilliant clots of green. From somewhere close at hand, bullfrogs bellow.

“Look there.” Thomas nods toward the opposite bank, where sludge steadily bubbles. Could be a spring gushing up from below. But the reek tells me it's not. It's some poisonous combination of refuse churning up from the sediment.

On the other side of the ditch stands—or rather,
lists
—the ramshackle tumble. A sorry excuse for shelter, it's a patchwork mess of shacks, sheds, and lean-tos cobbled together from tin, wood, tarp, and palm fronds, long gone dry and brittle. No doors to be seen. No windows. No privies. Stranger still, no sound. This so-called camp is dead silent, which makes all the more noticeable the disturbance in the muck, the occasional pop of air bubbles.

I clear my throat, which has gone dry; I've been trying to breathe only through my mouth to reduce the stink. “Ghost town?”

“You could say that.”

Thomas propels himself toward the fetid ditch. Pushing off with his crutches, he vaults it. He lands hard on the other side, a tangle of limbs and wood. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Got the wind knocked out of him, I bet. He sits up then, hitches up the left leg of his trousers, and, grimacing, adjusts his prosthesis. “Come on.” He can barely speak; he's still breathless.

“I'm no athlete.”

“If I can do it, you can do it.”

“I don't want to fall in.”

“Then don't.”

The gray clouds of yesterday are scudding across the sky again, obliterating the sun. Thomas glances up, and when he looks at me again, his expression has turned cool. “You don't really want to know it, do you?”

“What?”

“The truth.”

At this, I kick off my shoes, hoist my skirt above my knees, run as fast as I can toward the ditch, and jump. I fall flat on my face on the ground near Thomas, my feet dangling over the side of the bank, my toes digging into the thick, sticky mess below. “Guess again,” I gasp. I pull myself up and rub my feet in the grass, trying to clean them.

A grin flashes across Thomas's face. It's the first time I've seen him really smile. Dimples cut into his cheeks, deep and long—more weathered lines than dimples. Deep lines radiate from the corners of his eyes, too, nearly reaching his temples. This is the face of a man who likes to laugh. But then his smile fades, erased by another grimace, and he seems another kind of man altogether. He's hurt, I realize.

“A fool, that's what I am.” He strikes his fist against his thigh. “Should have taken more time getting across. I've done it now.” He rubs his shin where flesh and bone must meet the prosthesis. His pained expression is also sheepish. “I could use some help, Ruth, if you don't mind.”

“Of course.” I go to him, and he tells me to put my hands where the crutches usually go, and help him up, if I can.

I hunker down to use the muscles in my legs. With a grunt, I try to lift him; with a groan, he tries to help me. Together we get him to his feet. I retrieve his crutches, and he leans on them, his mouth tight against the pain. But he doesn't complain. He looks toward the ghost town. “Shall we?”

Faltering now in his movements, Thomas leads me into what seems a senseless maze. There are no roads; we follow overgrown, meandering footpaths. In more out-of-the-way places, the paths are punctuated by deep holes, which once served as toilets. A vision of Edna Faye, weeping at my departure from East Texas, flashes through my mind. Did she know about places like this? Had she
lived
in places like this? Was her sadness laced with dread?

“It's worse than I imagined,” I say.

“This is where the Mexican farmworkers had to live after the Dust Bowl refugees took over their original camp. It was a dump prior to that.” Thomas's voice is sharp with anger. “The people who lived here did the best they could with what they were given. Lupe had friends who lived here. She brought me to visit them just before she and her family got taken away. Right after, the people who lived here were deported, too.”

“I'm sorry.” My words sound empty and flat, and Thomas doesn't reply.

We do a thorough investigation of the camp. It takes us some time to navigate the abandoned structures; we peer inside most of them. There are things there—belongings left behind during what must have been a chaotic departure. Luggage, opened and unopened, scattered clothing, books, and toys, overturned furniture, broken dishes, pots and pans, paintings and photographs hanging at haphazard angles on shack walls. Food was left behind, too. Dirt and cobwebs cover everything else. Thomas tells me that this is a fraction of what was here when he visited this place soon after the deportation. “There's been looting,” he says. “So who are the real criminals—the people who lived here? That's what the government says. But you tell me.”

We have come to a shack made almost entirely from rusted license plates nailed together to form walls and roof shingles. Most of the plates are from Mexico; a few are from Texas, Arizona, and California. I am stunned by the workmanship, and I tell Thomas so.

He gestures at the low, narrow opening that serves as the doorway. “Go inside for a better look.”

Ducking my head, I enter. Thomas follows. The roof proves so low that neither of us can stand up straight. I turn in a hunched, slow circle to see one room, a dirt floor, no windows, although daylight—and the elements, insects, and animals, I imagine—streams through chinks between the license plates. There's a potbellied stove in one corner, with a tin chimney that extends through a hole in the roof. A mattress on the floor. Clothesline hanging from the ceiling. And there's a cedar chest so big that I wonder if the people who lived here built their shelter around it. Above the cedar chest hangs a tin crucifix and two mildewed photographs. One photograph shows a bride and groom. Though their clothing is from the last century, their postures and expressions are reminiscent of Charlie's and mine in our wedding portrait—proud and joyful. The other photograph shows several generations of what looks to be an extended family—all dark-haired and dark-eyed and wearing fancy if antiquated clothes. They stand before a fine house, the columns of which are festooned with lush flowering vines.
Una
hacienda
—yet another Spanish word I've learned since coming to California.