Broken Ground (10 page)

Our dorm room has always seemed good-sized to me, especially compared to the bedroom I shared with Charlie or the one I had at Mother and Daddy's house. Tonight it's tight quarters, packed to the gills, and so noisy I can barely hear myself think. A number of young women sprawl across my bed—across the quilt Charlie and I shared; young men sprawl across Helen's. People sit two to each of our desk chairs. Other girls from our floor have lugged in chairs to share, and these are occupied by multiple people as well. Our turret's three wide windows have been flung open; far too many folks perch shoulder to shoulder on the sills. Here's hoping no one takes flight and falls to the ground.

The thought of our little bathroom crosses my mind: Me inside with the door closed, collecting myself in the relative quiet, maybe tucking the boy's silver cross into the medicine cabinet for safekeeping. I manage to maneuver my way there only to find the bathroom crowded as well. Three fellows sit in the tub, pretending to row, row, row their boat, while several girls sit on the tub's rim, simultaneously calling out conflicting commands: “Hold water!” “Check it down!” “Power ten!” Another fellow sits cross-legged in the sink, and three girls have plunked themselves down on the closed lid of the toilet.

I turn away from the bathroom, my fists clenched. Everyone, everywhere, seems at ease with the chaos and closeness; even the resident director and the resident assistant have made themselves comfortable, sitting, respectively, on Helen's desk and mine. Their presence means this party is being monitored for contraband—the liquor and cigarettes of which Helen has told me some people partake, both off campus and on. The resident director, name of Miss Myrtle Voyle, sports a steely helmet of hair and the sharp eyes of a commanding officer. Her assistant, willowy Jane Something-or-other, leaps up now to scrutinize the contents of every cup, the room's every nook and cranny. I want nothing more than to escape, grab my books, and go to the library, a nearby café, anyplace quiet where I can get some work done. But when she claimed my desk for a seat, Jane removed my books and notes and put them who knows where. I'll have to find my things before I slip away. I tuck the silver cross into the pocket of Helen's blue dress and start weaving through the crowd. I'll check the closets first.

But Helen blocks my way, shoves a burlap sack of peanuts into my hands. Her eyes blaze with excitement: Hel Fire is in her element. “Mind putting these into bowls and setting them artfully about?” She foists blue-rimmed bowls upon me—crockery from the dining hall, no doubt snitched for this event. I'd chide her, but she's already back in the fray. Probably best to placate her a bit—do my duty, then disappear when the party really gets going, which, given the early hour, it probably has yet to do. By then Helen will be too preoccupied to notice my absence.

I move from peanut duty to pretzel duty. Within twenty minutes, I have learned more names than I can remember, and have been invited to more upcoming parties than I can ever attend. I've been asked out for coffee, walks, car rides around the city, and drives up into the mountains, where the view, apparently, can't be beat. Young men do the asking; boys, they seem to me. Mere children. To each and every one of them, I politely say, “Thank you, but no.” Then I make sure each and every one of them sees my wedding band. To a man, they flash awkward smiles and edge away from me, until—
alakazam!
—they're absorbed in asking some other girl for her company. Someone whose left ring finger is bare.

Pretzel duty finished, I find myself standing in a raucous corner, picking away at a plate of cake. And that's when I spot my books and papers piled unceremoniously on a nearby radiator. I scoop them up, set the plate of cake in their place. Out the door I go.

It's only eight o'clock. The library stays open until ten. I take myself there. It is blissfully quiet, empty but for a few glum-looking students overseeing the place. I go to my favorite desk, hidden away in the farthest corner of the top floor, behind a shelf of old books about military history, rarely sought out by students or professors. With a relieved sigh, I open my textbook. I bow over it, try to pick up where I left off this morning. But words seem to jump and rearrange themselves before me. Why can't I concentrate? I'm always able to concentrate, even when there's no pressing need. Monday there's an exam, so tonight there's a need, especially since tomorrow is Sunday, and I try not to study on Sundays or do anything that might be construed as work. If I read, it's the Bible. Or—true confessions—one of Helen's fashion magazines.

I sit back in the chair, trying to clear my head. My hands find their way into the pockets of Helen's dress. The boy's cross. I grip it.

And like that, I'm up and heading downstairs to the card catalog. What was it the Friend of FDR by Proxy, Hollywood Movie Star man, said the night of my arrival here? Something about sending the Mexicans back where they belong. Those people at the train station seemed willing to go; they weren't strong-armed like the boy beneath the bleachers. Probably the boy beneath the bleachers was strong-armed because he didn't have a ticket to the game. But still. There's something about these two incidents. I should have looked up the word
repatriation
the first chance I had.
These are the kinds of questions you need to ask,
Miss Berger said. If nothing else, I should have done a little research for her.

I flip through the
R
s, searching for
repatriation
. There's nothing. From what the card catalog suggests, the word doesn't even exist in the English language. I shut the drawer. How do you say
repatriation
in Spanish? I wonder. When I check, I see the library doesn't have newspapers for Spanish speakers. I couldn't read Spanish, anyway, and I know no one who can translate for me. So what does that leave me with? What other words should I find in the card catalog?
California? Mexico? Mother country?
Perhaps. But how do I find
little boy, lost
?

N
ext morning, I wake tucked deep down under the quilt, trying to ward off the chill that leaked in through windows accidentally left open all night. I returned to Garland Hall soon before the party dissipated. By that time, Helen and I were both so tired, we dropped right into our respective beds. Now we face the party's aftermath. The furniture and floor, even our bedcovers, are covered with litter: smears of cake and icing, peanut shells and pretzel bits, dirty plates and crumpled napkins, soda bottles and caps.

“Ugh,” Helen grumbles into her pillow. A puddle of sunlight pools on her bed; she stretches like a cat in its warmth. Her movements send a soda bottle clattering to the floor.

I close my eyes again. “Guess we better get to it.”

“You don't have to help. You didn't stick around to enjoy the festivities, after all, which, honestly, Ruth . . . we played a whacky game of charades. You—yes, even you—would have had fun.” She sighs. “It's a bit odd, don't you think? Ducking out of your own party?”

I open my eyes, give her a look. “
Your
party, you mean.”

“Oh, I suppose.” She rolls over in bed, blearily rubs her face. “Don't bother helping to clean up.”

“One for all, all for one.” Kicking off my covers, I bolt to the windows and close them. “Besides, then you can't hold a grudge.”

“I never hold grudges!”

I hustle into my robe, wrap a scarf around my neck for good measure. “Then you'll never force me into another party again. That's a fair exchange.”

Helen yawns. “I'll think on that.”

It takes us nearly an hour and a half to get our domain in order. Then we dress as quickly as we're able and manage to make the last church service of the day, held in the little white chapel across the quad from Garland Hall. It's a sweet, simple service, very different from those I attended growing up, with hymns to sing and a fair portion of time for prayer. I try to pray for the boy from yesterday—for his safety and for the safety of his friends. I pray they are at their own church services this morning, sitting with their families, singing and praying, too.

On the way back to Garland Hall, I tell Helen about the children's swift disappearance from the game.

She shrugs. “Kids were where they weren't supposed to be. That's all it was.”

“Maybe.”

Helen gives her hair an impatient toss. “If you're going to worry about anything today, Ruth, I'd say worry about tomorrow's midterm. Even I'm a little anxious. I'd think
you'd
be overwrought.”

Turns out, Helen has no qualms about the Sabbath. She tells me such notions are old-fashioned and that God would far rather she study than fritter away time and money by failing the class, which she just might do if she doesn't get at least a B on this exam. Once we're back in our room, she proceeds to pore over her textbook through the afternoon and into the evening. I can't help myself: I break the Sabbath, too, scouring one chapter after the next, refreshing my memory, and then some.

PROFESSOR TOBIAS IS
“holding forth,” as Helen likes to say. Midterms collected, the bell about to ring, he sits jauntily on the edge of his desk, and regales us with a description of what we'll study next. “Progressive education, based in a commitment to experiential and hands-on learning, as described in
Democracy and Education
and other works by John Dewey.” Professor Tobias crosses one leg over the other, as at ease being the center of attention as someone else might be in a hammock. “I happen to have interviewed John Dewey, which will be the basis for my next scholarly article.” He runs a hand through his carefully groomed dark hair. His fingers are long and graceful, his clipped nails buffed to gleaming. He wears a sapphire pinky ring. Sapphire cuff links adorn his shirt cuffs, and there's a sapphire on his tie clip, too. He loosens his tie, smiling. “I promise, if you continue to be a very good class, I'll reward you with a few particularly delectable tidbits from my conversation with Dewey. Who knows? Perhaps I'll share portions of my article. You could be my first readers—you might be able to put that on a résumé someday! But only if you're very,
very
good.”

Laughter bubbles throughout the room, and inside me, too, a giddy release after so much focused concentration—directed toward a mediocre end, I'm afraid. So many questions, so little time, and me a bit sketchy on some answers, although I did anything but rest yesterday afternoon. I grimace, guiltily recalling this, as someone tugs smartly at a lock of my hair. Helen, who sits just behind me. I turn to find her dramatically batting her eyelashes. “Swoon,” she breathily whispers. I scowl; she scowls back. Then she winks. “Not you, silly,” she mouths. “Look around.”

Some of the young women in the class do seem to be swooning. They incline themselves toward Professor Tobias, elbows on desks, chins balanced on open palms or backs of hands, eyes either wide or drowsily half-mast. There are more than a few parted lips and flushed cheeks. I sink down in my chair, embarrassed for us all, and study my desktop, sticky with old varnish and who knows what else. And there, scratched into the wood:
Prof T + Me
. I didn't notice this before. Too busy taking notes and exams, I guess. Too much, in my own way, in his thrall. Charisma and charm, couldn't care less. Looks, the last thing on my mind. But intelligence—that's another thing altogether. Surely he knows that. Surely he knows that's why I hang on his every word. I'm not swooning. I'm absorbing ideas.

The bell rings. In a rush, students stand and, chattering, gather their things. Young women surge around Professor Tobias, still lounging on his desk, exchanging pleasantries. “Thank you!” “Till next time!” That kind of thing. The lone young man in the class lingers longer; he leans against the desk like he, too, if invited, would take a seat there. Pilot, copilot. Captain, first mate. They have a brusque yet jovial exchange that ends in a manly guffaw. Never mind that they've taken up residence in what is typically a woman's world: a classroom for would-be elementary school teachers. They're men's men, these two. Don't anyone forget it.

“Are you coming?” Helen stands over me, textbook balanced on her hip.

“In a minute.”

She nods knowingly. “Politely waiting your turn to kiss his ring?”

“Will you
stop
!”

Helen shrugs. “Maybe. When I've sufficiently goaded you to expand your horizons. There are other fish in the sea, Ruth.” She saunters away.

Fuming, I clumsily collect my things. The male student slouches toward the door, only to hesitate at the threshold. “Tonight, then?”

Professor Tobias replies with a salute. General, lieutenant.

And now it's just plain old me approaching him. I've raised my hand to ask questions or give answers in class, but otherwise we haven't spoken.

“Yes?” His gaze is disconcertingly intense.

I clear my throat. “I wanted to apologize for the quality of my work on the midterm.”

“Really, Mrs. Warren?” His tone is droll and dry. “Surely you jest.”

My cheeks go hot. “It's true, sir.”

“Well, if it's true, I ask only one thing.
Do not
make another student disclaimer in my presence. Nothing is more humiliating to either of us. Not to mention predictable to the point of boring. And you can do better than that, Mrs. Warren.”

“Understood.” I start to the door.

“Wait.”

I glance back. Professor Tobias pulls the stack of exams onto his lap and begins rifling through them. He withdraws one and sets the others aside. I recognize my handwriting on the back page. Suddenly breathless, I watch as he scans my responses. Long minutes pass while he flips through all four pages. Then he turns back to the third page and begins to read aloud.