Broken Ground (13 page)

“Wetback.” That's the verdict of a grizzled man who stands behind me.

“Illegal. That's what he is. That's what they all are.”

This comes from a woman sitting a few seats away, who speaks with a soft, slow drawl very much like my own. She catches my eye, shakes her head
—What can you do?
Reflexively, my response mirrors hers.

“
Roaches
, these illegals, infesting this country, stealing our jobs—
my
job,” mutters another woman a few rows ahead. From the look of her clothes, grubby face, and lank hair, this woman has fallen on hard times. A burlap bag and a bedroll sit on the floor beside her. She doesn't look like she can afford a bus ticket. Perhaps the station is the best place she can find to take a rest.

I tucked an orange into my pocket this morning, plucked from one of the campus trees. I take it out now and hand it to the woman, tell her I hope she has another job soon.

Better find my bus, I decide then, particularly if there are going to be any other episodes like the one we've just witnessed, which may complicate matters even for those who aren't involved. Carrying my things, I walk quickly outside to where the buses are lined up, waiting to depart. I spot mine, number seventy-three, and hand my suitcase to the attendant, who slings it into a storage compartment. My suitcase lands with the other luggage already stowed in the bus's belly. In spite of his rough carelessness, I thank the attendant. At least this time I know that my things and I are aboard the same vehicle.

I'm about to board when I hear another shout. I glance down the block to see a line of school buses parked across the street and a long line of people—all of whom appear to be of Mexican descent—stretching around the corner to who knows where. What they carry varies by person: trunks, suitcases, boxes, bags; one man carries a crate of chickens, another, a small orange tree in a pot. But to a person they are herded forward by more men in army uniforms and turtle-shell hats—ten, at least—who pace along the line, keeping watch. As on my first night in Pasadena, police officers also bark directions, and several men dressed in business suits carry clipboards and check paperwork.

These repatriates are not nearly as docile as those on my first night here, however. Like the spitting-mad man, many are cantankerous, even contentious; others are anxious and distressed. Women and children along with some of the men weep. Others glower. Two young men break away from the line to yell heatedly at one of the suited officials. A soldier steps in, and another, and a third; ultimately, it takes four soldiers to subdue the young men. The soldiers stay with them, monitoring their actions. Another brief flare-up of anger and the soldiers restrain them both. A police officer stalks over, jangling two pairs of handcuffs as a threat, and I realize I'm glad for the soldiers' presence.
We must take better care of you
. Comforting. These officials will take care of us all.

That's what I'm thinking when someone's weeping rises to a wail. There's the sound of a fist striking flesh, and now I don't want to see or hear any more. I board the bus and throw myself into a seat by a window that faces away from the dispute.

The whole winding way from Pasadena to San Jose, I stare out the window. I should be taking in the landscape, seeing more of California. But I might as well be gazing into a haze. I keep hearing that sound—the sound of one person striking another, of fist on flesh—a sound I'd never heard before but recognized instantly. The sound makes me think of raw meat thrown on a butcher's block. As if this is what it ultimately boils down to, our human condition: Any one of us could be pummeled into submission, cast aside, or shunted off to who knows where. The mother country, I guess. Pray only those who deserve it are treated this way. The illegals.

ALICE EVERLY AWAITS
me at the San Jose bus depot, a straw hat on her head, a black rubber apron tied around her neck and thick waist, a pair of dirty work gloves clasped in her hands. “I took a late lunch break and hurried over,” she explains, hugging me, pushing me away to get a better look, hugging me again. “Oh, you're the spitting image of your mama, with that neat little chin of yours and that lovely mouth. But those eyes are all your daddy's.” Her smile holds a tinge of sadness, because she's missing Mother or troubled by the thought of Daddy, I'm not sure. “Sorry, honey, but we've got to hurry,” Alice continues. “A fellow brought me in his truck—owed me a favor—but he won't be happy at a delay. Can't be late, the job won't wait,” she explains in a singsong.

Alice leads me to a rusted pickup. She helps me heave my suitcase into its bed, and then we clamber into the dusty front seat. The driver, Alice's friend, proves to be a hard-muscled, flinty-eyed man named Hank who also works at the factory. He doesn't say a word the whole ride, and I don't, either, though Alice rambles on, reciting the names of the farms we pass, as well as the crops harvested there. Asparagus, melon, and beets, she says over and over again.

Hank drops us off outside a wood-frame duplex that stands in a tight row with similar duplexes on either side. “We live in a very different neighborhood from our place back home,” Alice says, gesturing at the dirt road beneath our feet. As we walk to her front door, she removes her hat, and a tumble of gray hair escapes from the bun pinned low at the back of her head. She shakes out her hair and a sharp, metallic smell fills the air—the smell of tin from the factory, it seems to be. “Least we have somewhere to live.” Alice opens the door. “Shouldn't complain. Talmadge—my husband—hates it when I complain. But sometimes I can't help myself.”

The duplex proves sparsely furnished, but clean and tidy, with oddly elegant accents here and there—a thick red rug, an ornately carved wooden rocking chair, and a stained glass reading lamp in the front room; in the small, crowded kitchen, a fancy dining room table and four large chairs. There's a bathroom with a shower and toilet, and two bedrooms. One bedroom can't hold much besides a big four-poster bed; the other has a narrow Murphy bed, already unlatched from the wall and neatly made. There's a little desk and chair tucked into a corner here, too. Alice gestures for me to put my suitcase in the space beside that. “Consider this your room,” she says. As I start to thank her, she puts her finger to her lips: “Hush, now. We know how it is.”

She explains how her family—she, Talmadge, and their two children—came to live in this place; she explains the toll it took on them, getting here. After the Everlys left Oklahoma, they traveled for nearly three years, moving from ditch-bank camp to farm camp to ditch-bank camp again, on and on, always changing location with the changing season, migrating to the next harvest. Only about five months ago she and Talmadge wound up getting jobs at the local canning factory. “Back home we used to have everything we wanted, or we could get it easy as pie, but we still didn't have enough. By the time we came here, we found ourselves wanting only steady jobs, and we had to fight for them, don't you know, prove ourselves superior to the younger employees. It wasn't easy. But by this time we had the muscle, the calluses, and most important, the determination. The desperation, more like.” She shuffles sideways between dining room table and kitchen counter to reach the block of ice in the icebox, then chips ice into two glasses and edges over to the sink to pour us some water. “After a few months, we scraped together enough money to rent this place. We're only just settled, but here we plan to stay.”

We drain our glasses in silence. I'd hoped the cold would refresh me, but my eyelids are drooping. I can hardly keep my eyes open.

“You're exhausted,” Alice confirms. “Take a nice, long nap, why don't you? Talmadge and I get off work around seven o'clock. We'll have dinner then.”

She steers me back to my little room, makes sure I sit down on the bed. As soon as I hear the front door close behind her, I fall back on the mattress, too tired to crawl under the covers.

After a series of dreams that tangle and unravel like a skein of knotted yarn (Professor Tobias figures in many), I dream of the boy beneath the bleachers, only this time, horribly, he has the face of the spitting-mad man.

I awake to the sound of footsteps. Sweaty yet chilled, I sit bolt upright, expecting a boy turned man or a man turned boy—I'm not sure which, doesn't really matter which, either will be spitting mad. But it's Alice and a silvery-haired fellow who must be Talmadge, standing there, at the bedroom door, smiling.

TWO QUIET DAYS
pass, during which I often find myself nodding off and dreaming strange dreams. Suddenly, it is Christmas Eve—sunny and pleasant, like spring in Oklahoma. Alice and Talmadge return from work at seven o'clock, as usual, only tonight they're giddy with the fact that the holiday will span a long weekend. Today is Friday. Tomorrow, Saturday, they won't have to work. Not on Sunday, either. “A two-day weekend,” Talmadge says with a sigh, dropping into an easy chair, kicking off his beaten-down work boots. “Almost like old times.”

We've talked a lot about old times, these past evenings together. Alice and Talmadge miss everything about Alba. To keep things simple, I say that I do, too. When they ask what happened to Charlie, I spare myself some pain and give an abridged version of the truth: killed in an accident. They knew Charlie; they knew his mother, Margaret, too. They've had their own grief, they tell me. Their daughter, Grace, died about two years after their arrival in California. She was so young, only fourteen, but she got typhus and there was nothing they could do.

At this revelation, Alice abruptly leaves the room. Talmadge and I sit in awkward silence for a few moments until she returns carrying a mottled cardboard frame, the kind used by portrait studios. Inside there's a hand-tinted photograph of a pretty young girl. Her hair is thick and curly, pinned back by a blue velvet bow to reveal a striking widow's peak that perfectly accents her heart-shaped face. Her round hazel eyes hold bright pinpoints of light. She is smiling—a kind smile, a smile wise beyond her years. The narrow gap between her front teeth only adds to her charm.

“Grace.” Talmadge sounds like he's calling out to his daughter, calling her home.

Alice sets the photograph where we can easily see it, on the orange crate that serves as a coffee table. “Losing her about killed us.” Then Talmadge drapes his arm around Alice and holds her steady. “About killed our boy. Her big brother, Thomas. Not the typhus. The loss.”

“Did kill Thomas,” Talmadge mutters. “Our son—the boy we raised—is gone for good.”

Alice presses a restraining hand to her husband's chest. “Thomas thinks differently now. Different than us, that's all.”

“He thinks like one of them Commies.”

“He's not a Communist.” Alice draws away from her husband. “Don't you dare say so. Especially in front of our company.”

“Might as well be. All those meetings and demonstrations. Remember that fellow Guthrie we heard sing over at the Bakersfield camp? Thomas can't keep a tune, but if he could, he'd be singing that kind of song. Heck, I don't believe he considers us family anymore. He considers those other people family. And those people are nothing like us.”

“Hush.” Alice yanks a pocket watch from Talmadge's vest and draws in a sharp breath. “He'll be here any minute.” She turns to me. “Please don't hold our boy's opinions against us or him. He's still the good man we raised him to be. This is just a hard season in his life. It's got everything to do with Grace's passing. You understand, Ruth, don't you?”

I nod. “I do.”

“Grace's passing, sure,” Talmadge mutters. “But there's more to what's gotten Thomas all stirred up.”

“Bear in mind what's important, will you?” Alice snaps. Talmadge starts as she drops the pocket watch in his lap. “Our son is coming home for the first time in a long time. Don't you dare ruin his visit or you might find me at odds with you, too. Permanently.”

“Not half likely,” Talmadge mutters, tucking his watch back in his vest pocket.

“I'm going to bring in the Christmas tree.” Alice stands abruptly. “It'll be good to be decorating when Thomas arrives. He can join right in.”

I move to help her, but Talmadge pushes past us both and goes outside. He returns in a moment, dragging a scrawny pine that he cut down this morning. He anchors the tree in an old paint can filled with stones, then tips it this way and that. No matter his efforts, the tree stays at a tilt. Alice finally determines that the trunk is too crooked for it to stay upright on its own, so Talmadge drags it to a corner of the front room and braces it between the walls there. Meanwhile, Alice pops popcorn, then sets me to work with a needle and thread, stringing garlands. She applies herself similarly to a bowl of bright cranberries. Talmadge sits on the floor, looking—never mind his silvery hair—like a little boy as he cuts snowflakes, hearts, and paper chains from old newspaper. All seems peaceful again. Over the course of the evening, we complete our simple decorations. By bedtime, they festoon the thin branches.

“Good enough,” Alice says, topping the tree with a paper star.

Still no sign of Thomas, though. By some unspoken agreement, we don't mention this. We head to bed, Alice lingering to unlock the front door.

HOURS LATER, I
am dreaming uneasy dreams when the mattress gives beneath me. I open my eyes to see in the darkness the darker shadow of a man. He sits on the bed beside me. Next instant, he's up and backing away.

“Who's there?” the man gasps.

Thomas Everly. Let it be Thomas Everly.

“Ruth Warren. From Oklahoma.” My heart bangs in my chest. “Your folks—they invited me to stay. I'm visiting just for Christmas—”

“Oh.” His breathing begins to quiet. “I'm sorry to wake you.”