Broken Ground (31 page)

I roll my eyes. “How's the wound?”

Thomas grins. “That's the best part. The doctor was amazed at how quickly I'm healing—both my leg and my hand. He thought I must have gone to the hospital on the east side of Los Angeles. When I told him about Silvia and her black book, he was flabbergasted. Actually, he seemed a little ticked off. Guess he doesn't like modern medicine being shown up by
la curandera
.”

I smile. “You'll have to tell Silvia.”

“Oh, I will. Listen,” he says as I turn the key and the truck growls to life. “I've been hankering to get away for a bit, see something different. Have you ever been to the beach?”

I shake my head wordlessly, stung by a memory. Landlocked as we always were, all Charlie and I ever talked about, when we let ourselves dream of college in California, was seeing the beach and the Pacific Ocean.

“All this time here, you haven't gone?”

I manage a shrug. “I've been busy.”

“You want to go?”

I nod. “I think so,” I qualify, and I can't keep the sadness out of my voice. I wanted to go with Charlie. I planned to go with him. “When?”

“Now,” Thomas says.

I gape at him. “But—” I point at his hand, his leg.

He waves my concern away. “I'm better. The doctor said so. Might as well believe it.”

“What about the bonfire?”

“I know a shortcut. We'll be back in time. We can't stay long, but we can be there long enough for you to finally see it and me to get some fresh air.”

THE DRIVE TAKES
less than an hour. As the time passes, I try to put away my sadness and allow myself to be eager for what's to come. Helen encouraged me to try to do new things in California, but without her influence, I've done only what needs to be done and given little thought to any other adventure. Every livelong day, for better and worse, has been adventure enough. And I've been busy, as I told Thomas. Or—
admit it
—constrained. Ultimately, adventure has always seemed a luxury to me, along with fun. Driving simply for the fun of it, going somewhere I don't need to go, seeing something new—the last time I did something like this was probably with Charlie, exploring our small portion of East Texas, and before that with Daddy, going to the ghost towns—a long time ago. And now I'm the one doing the driving. Years since I've done this as well. I smile at the long lost fun of it—my hands on the wheel, my foot on the gas. I roll down the window, rest my arm on the door, let the hot wind buffet me and tangle my hair. From this distance, at this speed, the world we pass appears to be nothing but a gorgeous garden, Eden before the Fall. Farms, groves, flowers, palm trees, fruit stands bursting like cornucopias with their fare—all this flies by in a bright, ever-changing blur. There's a sedative quality to all this, I have to remind myself. If I'm not careful I might forget that poverty lurks just out of sight.

Thomas points at a sign for Huntington Beach. “Nearly there.”

A few more minutes and we're parked in a crowded lot. I am surprised to see that the tall buildings of Los Angeles rise at not so great a distance, and there's an amusement park with a tall roller coaster that undulates against the blue sky. Together, Thomas and I cross the parking lot to the sand. There, he has to move slower on his crutches, slower than I've ever seen him move, uninjured. The sand makes it tough going for him. He apologizes, but I don't mind going slowly. It gives me time to take things in—the blinding sunlight, the salty air, the people lying on blankets and towels in bathing suits that I'm glad Mother and Daddy don't have to see—the sight alone would age them ten years. We weave through the crowd and around the occasional beach umbrella. The vast ocean winks brilliantly; its waves whisper,
Come here
. Finally, we stand on the wet, packed sand at the edge of the shore.

Without a word, I kick off my shoes and stride into the water, my skirt held above my knees. Warm waves lap around my ankles, now my shins, and now—colder now—at the hem of my lifted skirt. I hoist my skirt up around my thighs and wade still deeper. Bigger waves foam just ahead. The children and adults splashing and playing fall away like sheaves of wheat from my field of vision. In this moment it is the ocean and me, all alone. The salt stings my eyes, but that is not why I'm crying.
Our bed is an island,
Charlie and I used to pretend. When I imagined the ocean with him, I imagined us this way—alone, always alone, castaways together. The two of us as one for eternity. That's what I thought we would be. But now the crowd makes itself known again. Here I am, surrounded by people—an entire community that extends from this beach back to Pueblo and Kirk Camp and beyond. I may feel alone sometimes, but the people in my life, they buoy me up. They anchor me. And if I need them, they'll carry me to shore.

I look back to see Thomas standing at the water's edge, watching me. He smiles and waves. Even at this distance, I can see the dimples creasing his tanned cheeks. Wise man, winsome boy. He seems both. I churn back through the water to him.

“I love it here.”

“I thought you would.”

Shielding my eyes with my hand, I look out at the ocean. “It reminds me of something. The prairie! That's it! Rolling and endless.”

Thomas regards me for a long moment. “You see that, too, then.”

“I see it, too.”

We make our way slowly along the beach for a bit, then sit on the sand and watch the sun sink toward the horizon. When the ocean swallows it, the beach goes dim and cool. It's quiet now but for the waves' whispering, with all the sunbathers trudging off to the rest of their lives. I could stay here all night. I could sleep with Thomas in the sand or, if a storm comes—which it might, he says, nodding at the clouds rolling in—we could sleep under the shelter of the wood pilings just over there. I say this to Thomas. “Only joking,” I say. He smiles, and his smile seems almost sad. “Are you?” Still, very still, I hold myself. Until a breeze stirs, cooling my skin—I'm sunburned again, I realize—and I shiver. Then Thomas puts his arms around me, and I bury my face in his chest. He is warm. He warms my heart. I thank him for this, and though I've done nothing, he thanks me, too.

“You'll catch a chill. Let's go home,” he says then.

Home
. I smile into the soft cotton of his shirt. Under his shirt,
him
. I smile into him. “Yes. Let's.”

I drive us back to camp, and this time he holds my hand. He clasps it so carefully, so tenderly, that it seems he thinks my hand might be hurting, as his is. It takes my breath away for a moment, our hands together like this. But then I'm breathing again, steady and calm. We are safe, together. We won't hurt each other. We know there's too much hurt already all around. I believe this. In silence, we drive the rest of the way to Kirk Camp, hands clasped. I feel the soft throb of his pulse in his wrist. We are alive together, and I thank God. Charlie would understand. I believe this, too. I would wish the same for him, if things had been different, the other way around and me gone. Creature comfort—that's what this is right now with Thomas. And so much, so very much more.

At the camp's entrance, as our headlights cut across the fence, Thomas asks me to hold up for a moment. Then he releases my hand and climbs out of the truck.

I see it, too, the flier nailed to the gate. Thomas returns with it. Together, we read:

Labor Day Holiday This Coming Monday!

The fields will be at rest

As we take the day to honor

Those who have labored.

Picnic and Dance begins at 6:00 sharp, Monday night.

Come one and all.

Food, drink, and music provided.

Work resumes as always

First thing Tuesday.

Beneath this there's a professional portrait of a fine-looking man—the kind of confident man who probably has the wherewithal to become a politician. Thomas tells me this is Mr. Ronald Kirk, the son of Mr. Reginald Kirk, who originally established this farm and recruited laborers from Mexico to work it. “Ronald is a very different man than his father,” Thomas says soberly. “Just look at this. Usually, when farm bosses post fliers—about a rare holiday or a health clinic or a camp inspection—they make sure it's also translated into Spanish.”

We drive into camp, and as we approach Luis and Silvia's place, we see, down this street and that, police officers nailing the same flier to shop doors, fence posts, and tree trunks. I remember what I saw outside the doctor's office then, and I describe the scene to Thomas—the officers, the men in suits, all of them as white as Thomas or me—and the fliers, now being passed along.

“We have to get to the bonfire,” Thomas says abruptly, his voice gone grim. “We have to tell the others.”

There is no teaching this night. Instead, children stay close to their parents, and we talk about what the fliers may mean.

THE NEXT DAY,
one of the older women in camp stays with Silvia. Thomas, Luis, Daniel, and I walk to the southern border of Kirk Camp, near where I washed clothes with Silvia and the other women, so long ago, it seems now. We're bound for the little church recently established there. It was agreed last night at the bonfire that we needed to meet with people from the other farm camps in this area. The place to most easily convene would be at church. One group is going to the Catholic church in Puebla, where most people attend. We are going to the small Protestant church, held in a cantina, which was a filling station before that, Thomas tells me.

The outside of the cantina is drab and dusty, but inside, it's a burst of color. The walls are painted blue, the tables red, and the chairs green, yellow, purple, and orange. We help a few members of the congregation push the tables to the wall and set the chairs in a circle. By the time the service is due to begin, there are about fifteen men, women, and children sitting in the circle with us. The pastor, whose name is Raphael, leads us in prayer—“
Padre nuestro,
” he begins, and then I make out the words
como en el cielo, asi también en la tierra
. The Lord's Prayer. I join in under my breath, quietly matching my pacing to theirs, chiming in on the Spanish words I know. “Amen,” we all say. They sing hymns in Spanish, and I listen, trying to translate the words. Then Raphael reads from Matthew 13, the parable of the sower. As much as I'm able, I translate this, too. It helps that I've heard the parable read so many times, I almost know it by heart: . . .
some seeds fell by the wayside, and the fowls came and devoured them up; some fell upon stony places . . . and when the sun was up, they were scorched . . . some fell among thorns
. . . but others fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit . . .

From what I'm able to understand, Raphael suggests in his sermon that although this is usually called the parable of the sower, it might be more appropriately called the parable of the four soils. God the Father, Raphael says, will do His part in our lives no matter what, changing us, sowing hope and opportunities for transformation. But we must prepare the ground of our own lives, our souls. What does it take to do that? We must be caring and, at the same time, fierce. We must scare away the birds—distractions, these may be, that take us away from what's necessary and good. We must cast aside heavy stones, such as grief or despair. We must weed out anger and judgment, and shield ourselves from the scorching sun of doubt that burns faith from our lives. We must suffer ourselves to be broken ground, carefully tilled and tended, knowing that only then can we be fertile and fruitful. “When we are most broken,” Raphael concludes, “only then can we grow in God.”

These last long months, this last hard season of my life—this is what I've been unable to understand, let alone believe. I understand and believe it now.

We close the service in prayer. Then Raphael nods at Thomas, who stands. In Spanish, he tells the small gathering what I saw in Puebla. He tells them about the
gringos
posting the fliers in Kirk. Members of the congregation murmur; those fliers were posted in other camps, too, though no one saw who put them up.

“I'm afraid we may be encouraged to come together for a celebration,” Thomas says in Spanish, “only to suffer a raid and deportation.”

La redada
.
El regreso
.

For some moments, no one speaks. There's a clock on the wall; the sound of its ticking fills the room.

Finally, Luis clears his throat. “
Y entonces todo se perdera,
” he says, his voice shaking. Thomas nods as I piece together the puzzle of Luis's words:
And then all will be lost
.

There's a long moment of silence before the others start to talk. From what I can gather, most want to leave the area. Today or tomorrow before six o'clock, when the Labor Day festivities are supposed to start, they want to be gone. By the end of the meeting the general consensus seems to be that they will be exactly that—somewhere else entirely, having fled. The gathering disperses quickly then, and our little group heads back to Kirk Camp.

P
EOPLE ARE ALREADY
packing. For many of them, this is a familiar routine; they work swiftly. Others struggle with decisions. Some of the struggles spill out of homes and into streets in the form of arguments, tears, breathless exchanges, stunned silence. This language I can easily interpret—the language of fear, panic, and conflict. I talk this way to myself as I stuff my belongings into my suitcase, then take many things out again and try to fit the new school supplies inside instead. The quilt takes up so much room, but I can't leave it behind. So when the supplies overflow onto the floor, I grab two orange crates and pack them full, too. Daniel and I help Luis collect their things while Silvia watches numbly from the bed. By nightfall, everything inside the shack that is small enough is stuffed inside something that makes it easier to carry. The rest of the things, the table and chairs, the mattress, cot, and bedding, we'll have to maneuver as best we can. Silvia is dozing again, and Daniel is curled up beside her, so I whisper to Luis that I'm going to find Thomas. “He'll have found someone to give us a ride,” I say, desperately hoping that this is the case.