Broken Ground (18 page)

All in a rush: The truth but not the whole truth. A portion of the truth.

Alice looks surprised, but promises to ask Hank first thing tomorrow morning.

N
ext morning, the thick, heavy sunlight informs me I've slept later than usual. It was a restless night, filled with troubling dreams I can't remember. Half awake, I get dressed. When I emerge from my room, I find a note from Alice on the kitchen table. I should help myself to whatever I'd like to eat or drink. They'll look forward to seeing me early this evening when they get home from the factory, unless she hears yes or no from Hank. Then she'll try to get home at lunch to tell me.

I find Thomas at work on garden beds. Talmadge has been trying to build these for a while—he's dug the trenches into which the bed walls will be set. But he hasn't had the time or the energy to complete the task. So Thomas's Christmas gift to his parents was a promise that the beds will be up and ready for planting before he says goodbye.

While I slept this morning, Thomas nestled the first layer of four-by-four planks into the trenches. Now he sits cramped in a little red wagon that I assume belongs to the family next door, slathering thick glue along the tops of the planks. He nods good morning, then pushes himself along the bed's perimeter and applies more glue. When he reaches the end of this tier, he pulls himself up out of the wagon, hops to the dwindling stack of planks, picks up another, and carefully sets it atop the adhesive. “Your timing is perfect,” he says. “Hand me a clamp?” He point at a metal device that looks something like the letter
C,
with a long screw extending through its base. I hand it to him, and he twists the screw, securing the two pieces of wood. He thanks me, then arches his back and rolls his shoulders, stretching his muscles. Then he retrieves another piece of wood, I hand him another clamp, and he does the same thing all over again.

In this way, over the next half hour or so, I help him set up the walls of one garden bed. There are two more beds to go, but Thomas is sweating, and he looks about as tired as I feel. I suggest he take a break. I haven't had breakfast yet, and it turns out neither has he.

As it's nearly lunchtime, we have that instead. Brunch, Helen would call it. I make two fried egg sandwiches, and we eat these on the back porch. It is nice out here in the sun. Thomas, leaning against the porch railing, looks more relaxed than I've yet seen him. As I tear a crispy edge from the fried egg white, I find myself telling him that Charlie liked his eggs cooked this way. “We called it bacon,” I say, and Thomas nods, smiling, and tells me that makes sense. At this, I catch my breath. I've never shared a sweet memory of Charlie, I realize. I've shared only sad ones.

Guilt hunches my shoulders. Quickly, I ask Thomas what's next with the garden beds.

“Not sure.” He frowns, eyeing the project, then downs the rest of his sandwich, leverages himself up, takes his dish to the kitchen, and returns to drag the wagon to the second bed. “Might as well do this one,” he says. He hunkers down on the wagon and sets to work. Finished eating now, I help him. This time I clamp the pieces of wood together while he applies the glue.

We finish the walls to the second bed in half the time it took us to finish the first. I'm clamping the last piece of wood into place just as a pack of kids storms out of the duplex next door and into the backyard. At their laughter, Thomas looks up. He watches them for a few moments. “Cousins, visiting until New Year's Day,” he says. “I met them this morning when I borrowed the wagon.”

“They'll probably want it back now. I'll go ahead and return it.”

“Thank them for me, okay?” He smiles sadly. “They remind me so much of Lupe's brothers and sisters.”

I trundle the wagon over to the children, who immediately incorporate it into their play. When I return to Thomas, I find Alice standing beside him, wearing her work apron, as she was the day I arrived.

“This is wonderful! I was never a gardener back home.” Alice grimaces, laughing. “Heck, I wouldn't have wanted to get my hands dirty back then. But take away the hardship, and gardening can feel good. That's one nice thing I learned from all that's happened. I believe I earned myself a green thumb, too.”

I smile. “ ‘Homegrown tomatoes. A little taste of heaven.' That's what Mother always says.”

“Mama's always right.” Alice raps Thomas lightly on his head. “Now. Good news. Hank says you can borrow his truck, long as you fill it with gasoline before you return it. Mind, it's almost on empty, so it will cost a pretty penny. You should decide if you can afford it before you go.”

My pocketbook holds a twenty-dollar bill, which I've been saving to buy a thank-you gift for Alice and Talmadge. I imagine I'll have enough left to buy something worthwhile after I replenish the tank. “That's fine,” I say.

Alice smiles, holds out a set of keys. “You mind giving me a ride back to the factory before you run your errands?”

I let Alice lead the way to the truck. Before I follow, I whisper to Thomas that I'll be right back. We'll do what we need to do then.

THOMAS AND I
rattle in Hank's truck to the outskirts of town, then turn down the road that leads to the ditch-bank camp. Black smoke billows before that uneven horizon line of green, obliterating much of the citrus groves beyond. At the sight, Thomas slams his fists against the dashboard. “God, no!” he shouts. “Drive, Ruth! Drive faster!”

I accelerate until the steering wheel shakes, just shy of uncontrollable in my hands. Soon enough, Thomas's
no
reveals itself as the worst kind of
yes
. The ditch-bank camp is all but burned to the ground. Even inside the truck, the shimmering heat from the fire hits us like a wall.

The Tulsa race riots, Minah, Susan, and Jubilant, the wolf at the door—the memory of all this flashes through my mind. Thirty-five city blocks were destroyed in Tulsa. This, though a very different situation, seems like more of the same.

There's another pickup truck parked near the ditch-bank camp. Two men sit inside, watching the dying fire. Straw cowboy hats shadow their faces, but even with the truck windows rolled up tight against the smoke, I can see that one man's skin is brown, the other man's white.

“Ezra and Ray, here to help,” Thomas says.

The white man springs out of the truck and runs through the heat and smoke to where we're parked. Thomas rolls down his window, and instantly, the air in the cab is hazy and gray. I cough, my eyes stinging, as the man peers inside. The man is older than I thought, given the speed at which he ran. He has wire-rimmed glasses, a thick white mustache, and thinning white hair. He is swearing a blue streak. Noticing me, he stops midexpletive. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn't sound sorry at all. He sounds livid.

Thomas introduces the man as Ray. My eyes are streaming now. I swipe at my tears and give a nod of greeting, but he ignores me. “We would have gone on in if there was anything left to save,” he says.

Thomas groans. “Nothing? Not even on the far side?”

“Nothing.”

“You're sure?”

Ray scowls, his mustache bristling. “We could make absolutely sure. We could crawl through there, digging our way. And we could die. What good would that do anyone, really?”

Thomas doesn't say anything to this. He's holding the key to the cedar chest, I realize. Ray turns and heads back to the truck where Ezra sits, and in one swift movement, Thomas pitches the key out the window. It lands in the ditch's polluted water. The algae and scum are so thick, it doesn't make a ripple. Thomas looks at me, and his eyes, red and swollen from the smoke, are teary. “You go on, Ruth. I'll catch a ride with them. The three of us need to talk.”

And then he's out the door, running to join his friends.

They're still watching the fire as I turn the truck around and head back to San Jose. I roll down the windows, trying to air out the cab. Don't want to return the truck to Hank smelling like this. I have to
do
something first. Fill it up. Clean it out. Make something better.

I drive into the center of town, fill the tank at a gas station, and then park the truck in a nearby vacant lot. There's a rag shoved under my seat; I use it to wipe away the ashy grime, revealing again the rust-spattered paint. The wind comes in gusts: good. I leave the windows open. There's also the faint scent of smoke on the air. That might be good, too. Maybe I can fudge the truth a little and say I drove past the fire. Actually, that is the truth, isn't it? It was a fire unlike any I've seen.

I've got hours before seven o'clock, the end of the day shift, when I need to have the truck parked where Hank can find it. I'll leave the windows open every last one of those hours while I walk the streets of San Jose, looking into the windows of shops that were closed yesterday for the Sabbath. Looking, but still too dazed to see much, although I swear I'm going to find a gift for Alice and Talmadge.

Finally, something catches my eye—an empty picture frame, beautifully carved with scrolling flourishes and lilies. It's a frame worthy of Grace's photograph. It's the gift I've been looking for.

IN THE FEW
remaining days, Thomas and I work on the garden beds. The work helps me stave off the black fog; perhaps, to gauge from the intensity of his focus, it serves a similar purpose for Thomas. We don't say much. We don't need to say much. There doesn't seem to be much to say anymore. Dispirited but for the work before us, we finish the beds, prepare the ground. Dirt gets beneath my nails, covers my hands. It feels good to get my hands dirty. It is good to break up the ground so the ground can become a garden.

Thomas and I finish the job the day before New Year's Eve, to the delight of Alice and Talmadge. The next day, New Year's Eve, my one-year wedding anniversary, I wake to find that Thomas is gone.

Smiling, Alice hands me a slip of paper. “He left this for you. His address. In case you ever have need, he said.”

I go to the bedroom and stuff the slip of paper inside my pocketbook. When I return to Alice, I tell her what day this would be for Charlie and me, and she doesn't mention Thomas again.

That night I give the picture frame to Alice and Talmadge. Alice weeps, thanking me, and for the first time, Talmadge draws me close in a hug. We have our last dinner together, and I thank them for their hospitality so repeatedly that they finally beg me to stop. Next morning, New Year's Day, I pack my things and board the bus back to Pasadena.

On the ride, I write to Mother and Miss Berger. I expand on the good things about this holiday—the kindness of strangers who are strangers no more, the sights of San Jose, the garden beds. I omit the bad things. Mother never wants to know the bad if she can help it. And though Miss Berger would want to know, I choose not to tell her. I don't want to write it down. I don't want to live it all over again—the abandoned camp, the fire, and Thomas's grief, coupled with mine.

I
open the door to my room in Garland Hall to find Helen standing before the big bay window. She whirls around to greet me, a chain of red hearts draped around her neck, a heart pinned in her blond hair. In one hand, she holds a silver foil Cupid, arrow set in bow, ready to fly; in the other hand, she holds a ball of red twine. She casts these things on her bed and makes for me, the chain of hearts dragging on the floor behind her. She throws her arms around me and squeezes the breath from my lungs.

“I don't think I've ever been happier to see anyone, Ruth!” Helen grabs my suitcase only to drop it on the floor, then helps me out of my coat and shoves a bowl of colorful candy hearts into my hands. “Take one. Take as many as you like! Only you have to read the message printed on every one you eat. That's our new tradition.”

Hel Fire, feisty as ever. Dutifully, I choose a lavender-tinted heart. “
Be Mine
.”

Helen laughs. “But I am! You should know that by now.” And then: “In all seriousness, I missed you terribly. It was lovely with Mama and Papa. But I'm a different person now, I realized that. I know we were ships in the night the last half of fall semester. You were so busy with your work. I was so busy having fun. But I want to change that, Ruth. I want us to see more of each other this spring. I want to do more work and have a little less fun, and I hope you'll have more fun and do a little less work. What do you say?”

“Sounds wise.”

“Well, I've never been called that before!” Flushed with happiness and conviction, Helen plucks a pink heart from the bowl. “
Always and Forever,
” she reads. Solemnly, she taps the little heart against mine in a kind of toast, then pops the candy in her mouth. “Now you, Ruth.”

I eat the candy heart. It tastes like sugared chalk, but I don't say so to Helen. Her words have worked some good in me. I'm glad to be back at college, back here with her. I'm glad—and relieved—to start in again on my chance at another life.

Before I unpack, I offer to help Helen decorate our room.

“It can be such a dull time of year, January into February,” she explains when I ask if we aren't jumping the gun a little on Valentine's Day. “It's much prettier here than in Oklahoma in the winter, of course. But these are the days when I strive to live up to my New Year's resolutions and inevitably fail. A bit of color and a few decorations lift my spirits, times like this. They probably do the same for most everyone.” Helen catches her breath, and her green eyes widen. “Unless— Oh, Ruth, I didn't think! With Charlie and everything, maybe all this lovey-dovey stuff isn't a good idea?”

I look quickly away from her, trying to hide my expression. I focus on tacking a cupid to the wall. “It's Saint Valentine's Day, after all. Valentine didn't live his life and lose it for romance. From what I've read, he ministered to persecuted Christians.” I manage to flash her a wry smile. “Until he got himself decapitated, that is.”