Broken Ground (17 page)

“This was the home of Lupe's friends,” Thomas says. “They came here after the Mexican revolution. They would have been killed if they'd stayed in Mexico. The United States greeted those fleeing the revolutionaries with open arms.” From his pocket, he draws a brass key and, with it, gestures at the chest. “Open it, if you like. I have.”

I turn the key in the chest's lock and slowly lift the lid. It rises creakily, emitting the spicy scent of cedar. First thing I see is a thick book, leather-bound, its title in Spanish, the engraved letters printed in gold. I pick up the book; beneath it is another leather-bound volume. The stack of books continues down from there. I carefully leaf through the volume in my hands. The colorful, glossy illustrations suggest that it is some sort of Arthurian romance. Page after page I turn until I come to the last page and carefully set it back on the stack. Along with the books, there are toys nestled inside the chest—china dolls dressed as flamenco dancers, wooden alphabet blocks, a ball. There is a cream-colored afghan, delicately crocheted, and a black fringed shawl embroidered with bright flowers. A set of sterling silver candlesticks wrapped in clean rags, and a number of china bowls and crystal goblets, similarly stored. Last but by no means least, at the very bottom: a photograph album filled with more images of the people in the photographs on the wall. Other people appear in the pictures as well—babies wearing baptismal gowns, young boys and girls holding white Bibles and dressed in lacy white confirmation clothes, men and women resting in woven chairs, surrounded by beds of blooming flowers, and a few people, quite elderly, lying in state in funeral caskets.

“Why didn't they at least take this?” What I'm looking at should not have been abandoned.

Thomas shoves his hands in his pockets, kicks at the dirt floor. “I came here right after the authorities had ‘swept the camp.' That's the official terminology.” His mouth twists in disgust. “ ‘Cleaned it.' That's what others say, as if the people living here were dirty on purpose. Didn't matter that prison and death might be waiting for them if they once were rich. Didn't matter that this family, as well as many others, had legal documents and work permits. Didn't matter that nothing was waiting for them back in Mexico if they were poor. Didn't matter if families got separated.” He taps the photo album in my hands. “Didn't matter what they left behind. They were herded up and sent off like cattle. What had they done wrong? They'd lived in a place nobody else wanted, because they
had
to. That's what they did.”

“How did you come to have this key?”

He shrugs impatiently; apparently I've asked the obvious. “Before Lupe was taken away, her friends suspected there might be a raid, so they gave her the key to the chest. She and I were hoping to find a way to get it out of here and back to her place, and from there, back to Mexico and its rightful owners. Lupe managed to pass the key on to me when the authorities came for her.”

I lay the photograph album back in its spot, close the chest, and turn the key to lock it. I give the key back to Thomas. “So what do we do?”

“We.” There it is—the hint of his smile. “I was hoping you'd say that. Because I need help, and I'm not getting it from my folks, I can tell you that. They didn't like Lupe. They don't like Mexicans as a rule.” He stares darkly at the key in his hands. “I'm glad I didn't have to come here today by myself, and I'm glad I won't have to figure this out by myself, either. Thank you, Ruth.”

“Alone is not easy.”

“Alone is all right sometimes. But lonely, that's another kind of thing altogether.”

As we leave the camp, he asks if I can get a truck. The best way, he thinks, is to ask his mother. She'll be suspicious if he makes the request, and she doesn't want him driving. “ ‘With that leg,' she says.” With a truck we will be able to get the family's belongings out of the camp, Thomas explains. He has friends who will meet us here and help. A man named Ezra, another man named Ray. They will have some idea what to do next. They make runs to Mexico, trying to restore belongings and documents to deportees. People left behind—family members—they transport as well. “Sometimes they are able to reunite families,” Thomas says. “Other times the search only gets started. They're far and few between, the people who do this work. And there's a reason why. If they get caught, they're put on government watch as Mexican sympathizers and Communists.”

“Are you . . . that?” I ask.

He stops walking, looks at me. “That's what my parents told you.”

“Not exactly. They argued about it, though.”

“I sympathize with people who are being deported without due process. I sympathize with those, like Lupe and her family, who are U.S. citizens. So maybe I'm a sympathizer. But I'm no Communist. Are you?”

I have to smile at this. “I hardly know what a Communist is.”

“Well, read up.”

At this, I bristle. “I will.”

“Good.” Thomas starts walking again, and after a moment, I catch up to him. He resumes our conversation as if in midsentence. “But you have to ask my mother soon. Today, if possible. Left and right, Mexican camps are getting torched. The reason is the filth, the fear that disease might spread. Also, white migrant farmworkers are demanding better living quarters, and they've caught the government's ear. The Farm Security Administration is starting to build halfway decent compounds.” Thomas shifts his weight on his crutches, trying to ease the pain of his injury. “I'll be here until New Year's Day. I'm leaving then. Gotta get back to work. How about you?”

“The semester starts on the second. As long as your folks don't mind me staying, I don't have anywhere else to go until then.”

“So we have six days. That's not long, since we're at the mercy of other people's plans.” He glances at me. “I'm sure my parents will want you to stay, Ruth. You make the house feel less empty, now that Grace is gone.”

We've reached the ditch. This time Thomas plans more carefully for his jump, and I do, too; still, he falls flat on his face, and I do, too, and again we barely get him to his feet. To judge from Thomas's expression, he would find the walk back to San Jose unbearable. We decide he should forgo the extra blocks it will take to get to the park. We just manage to get him to his parents' house. There, I insist he take the bed in which I've been sleeping. He doesn't protest. When I ask what else I can do for him, he tells me to go. His folks are waiting. Rest is what he needs for now.

Alice and Talmadge are disappointed but not surprised that their son is not with me. We take in a few of San Jose's sights—pretty buildings and churches, shops, a particularly lovely park. Though I feign interest, my thoughts are elsewhere. My thoughts are somewhere I've never been, with people I've never met, whose photographs are growing moldy in a cedar chest. My thoughts are far, far away.

THAT NIGHT AFTER
dinner, Thomas and I join his parents in the front room, where they are listening to the
Fleischmann's Yeast Hour
variety show, featuring tonight's special guest, Eddie Cantor. I force myself to pay attention to his jumping-jack delivery and madcap gags. Soon I am laughing along with Alice and Talmadge; Thomas joins in, too, now and then. I find myself wondering what Mother and Daddy are doing tonight. Why, they could be listening to this very show on their radio. The three of us have listened to it in the past, though I never laughed like this with them. I've laughed like this only with Charlie.

It hits me then. New Year's and before that, New Year's Eve, which is the day of our wedding anniversary. In five more days, Charlie and I would have been married a year.

I go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and force myself to drink it down in one gulp. But the water fails to wash the knot from my throat.

“You all right?”

Thomas stands beside me. There is our reflection again in the dark window. I watch myself shrug.

“They'll go to bed soon,” he says.

“I know what I need to do.” My tone is biting. I try and soften it. “Waiting for the right moment, that's all.”

Thomas nods. “Nothing to be nervous about.”

“I don't like lying, and I'm going to have to lie.”

“Withhold a portion of the truth. That's different.”

“Semantics.” I cut him a look. Thomas is nothing like Charlie, my one true love. He's nothing like Professor Tobias, my teacher and guide. He's not above withholding a portion of the truth.

“What do you do, exactly, for work?” I ask.

He sways a little, probably uncomfortable standing this long. He's tended to his injured leg as best as he could. At least that's what he said. But he won't let me see it, so who knows what's really going on where wood meets skin and bone.

“I work for the WPA. You know it?”

I snort, truly offended this time. “I haven't been living with my head in the sand. Of course I know it—the Works Project Administration. Relief, recovery, and reform. I'm surprised that you're working for the same government that's pushing for repatriation, though. Isn't that a conflict of interest? Which of the
R
's does the government pay you for, exactly?”

I glare at our reflection. Though Thomas is a bit taller, he's slouching into his crutches, so we are the same height. He's studying the window, too, so he must see the look in my eyes. Do I know the WPA, indeed. I may not know much about Communism, but I have read up on other things. Roosevelt's laws and domestic programs are growing ever more liberal and controversial—Daddy doesn't approve—but many say the WPA is making it possible for poor people to survive, providing hope for economic restoration.

If Charlie ever erred in his assessment of the extent of my knowledge and understanding, it would be to presume I knew
more
than I actually did.

The reflection in the window alters and dims as my vision clouds with tears. I miss my husband something terrible, and no one, no wealth of knowledge and understanding,
nothing
, not even time will ever change that.

“You're upset.”

Again I'm at the sink wiping away tears. “What gave you that idea?”

“Why?”

“You're taking money from the very government with which you disagree.”

“You sound like my father. And to him I always say: That's democracy. You get to disagree and still be a citizen.” Thomas sighs. “What is this really about, Ruth?”

I step away from the sink, the window, and our reflection there. “I won't ever love another man.”

Thomas goes still. To judge from his stunned expression, I might as well have struck him. “I never said you would.”

“I want this to be clear.”

“It is.”

“I love Charlie.”

He runs a hand through his hair, flattening the shock that springs from his widow's peak, which stands out darker than usual against his tanned skin. The color has drained from his face, I realize.

“I love Lupe,” he says.

“Do you have a picture of her?” I blurt.

He gapes at me for a moment, and then he nods.

“Show me.”

Thomas fumbles in the back pocket of his trousers, pulls out a worn brown wallet, and draws from it a photograph not much bigger than a stamp. He holds it up for me to see. When I reach for it, he pulls back his hand. “I'll hold it.”

I lean forward to peer at the little square, the corner of which is obscured by his ragged thumbnail. So this is Lupe, in black and white, Lupe from her shoulders on up, this little bit of her, salvaged from a larger photograph. A man's arm is around her shoulders. I could swear the arm is Thomas's. Her dark hair falls in waves against her delicate jaw; her black, almond-shaped eyes shine beneath thin, arching brows; her cupid's-bow lips are parted in laughter.

“She's radiant,” I say.

“She is.”

I turn away from the two of them—him and her—suddenly embarrassed. “I'll talk to your mother now.”

“Wait.”

I hesitate in the doorway. “There's no right moment. Now's as good a time as any.”

“You asked what I do for work.” He speaks gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. “How I can accept money from the government when I feel the way I do about the deportations.” He presses Lupe's photograph to his chest, as if she might feel his heart beating and know he still loves her. “I think our government is about as good as it gets. I want you to believe me when I say this.”

“Democracy. I know.”

He nods. “So here's what I do, exactly. By day, I oversee a Mexican migrant camp, Kirk Camp, located in Puebla, a
barrio
east of Los Angeles. By day, I'm the person most Mexicans in most camps would call the bad guy.
Chico malo
. Except it's not like that in Kirk Camp. I fill a necessary position, help when I'm needed—which is pretty often, I have to say, since mediators play an important role between those working the farms and those who own the farms. But Kirk Camp is unique in its self-sufficiency. They need me, but they don't
need
me, you could say. And we all like it that way.”

“And by night?”

His smile flickers. “Remember we have something in common? By night I'm a teacher. I don't have my certification, understand. I'm probably not as much of a teacher as you are after one semester at college. I've never even been to college. But I'm able to teach basic math, reading, and science to the Kirk Camp kids after they've returned from the fields and had their supper. By night I do the work I like best.”

In the front room, the radio clicks off. We evaluate each other, Thomas and I, taking the measure of our new understanding. Then I turn away from him and go straight to Alice.

“Do you think your friend Hank might let me borrow his truck? I need to run some errands. It won't take more than a few hours. I'll bring it back safe and sound, I promise.”