Broken Ground

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

  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 Rs, 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?

  FIVE

  Next 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 cla
ss, 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.

  “ ‘Whenever the standard of education is low, the standard of living is low, and it is for our own preservation in order that our whole country may live up to the ideals and to the intentions which brought our forefathers to this country, that we are interested today in seeing that education is really universal throughout this country.’ ” He drops my exam atop the others and gives me an appraising look. “Word for word, a direct quotation from the address delivered by Eleanor Roosevelt to the National Conference on the Fundamental Problems on the Education of Negroes.”

  “Yes, but—” I swallow hard. “I cited her as the source and mentioned the conference as well, didn’t I? I intended to do so.”

  “You did indeed, Mrs. Warren.”

  “Good.” My shoulders sag with relief, then tighten again. “But did the quote dominate too much? Did it overwhelm my own ideas? Sometimes I get so caught up in what I’m reading that I can’t see the forest for the trees.”

  “I know exactly what you mean by that.” His eyes glint with amusement. “But don’t worry. I’m sure you made your thoughts perfectly clear, and Mrs. Roosevelt merely substantiated them.”

  “I hope so!”

  At my fervency, Professor Tobias smiles and stands. He glances at his watch, then, almost as an afterthought, strolls over to me. His cologne smells like nothing I’ve ever smelled, like something out of a book by Rudyard Kipling.

  “Mrs. Warren, you’re an interesting woman.”

  I blink at him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I well remember your application to Union. I was the head of the committee that offered you the scholarship. Your answers to the essay questions took my breath away. Your thoughts were sometimes a bit rough, other times downright raw. But most applicants’ essay statements can be summed up as: ‘I want to teach because I like children.’ You, on the other hand, articulated ideas that I believe even Eleanor Roosevelt would have appreciated. So in spite of the fact that I was concerned your marriage duties might stand in the way of your advancement, I insisted we award you that sum of money. I wanted you on this campus and in my classroom. The fact that your husband is no dimwit, either—well, that sealed the deal. I felt fairly confident that he was too smart a man to stand in your way. And then I heard through the grapevine that he was awarded a scholarship by the Science Department, which confirmed my assessment of his intelligence. So I was doubly reassured.”

  First the surprising compliment, then the horrible reminder.

  “Was,” I hear myself say.

  “Pardon?”

  “My husband was no dimwit.”

  “I understand his gifts are—”

  “My husband is dead.”

  Professor Tobias draws back a bit. People often respond like this when they learn of Charlie’s death—as if my misfortune is contagious. “I had no idea.” He clasps and unclasps his hands, then shoves them into his pants pockets. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m late for my next class.” I turn again toward the door.

  Professor Tobias catches hold of my elbow, and with a thud, my books and papers drop to the floor. In an instant, we kneel to collect my things. Standing, arms laden, we smack foreheads. He apologizes. I apologize. And then, smoothly, as if this were his intention all along, he tells me he’s in need of a teacher’s assistant. The one who was assigned last spring dropped out of school two weeks into the term—a problem of funds. He doesn’t want to invest more time and energy in training someone who is going to slip through the cracks before any work gets done. Or in someone who’s less than devoted to the field. Or in someone who’s going to give up teaching as soon as she feathers her nest.

  “How about you, Ruth? Given your scholarship, I imagine you’re not going anywhere any time soon. You’re intelligent. You’re mature. You’re an experienced woman, not a giddy college girl. Are you interested in the job?”

  When I hesitate, Professor Tobias goes on to say that I’ll be paid, “not much but something.” I’ll be welcome to engage in any of his work projects or field studies that prove interesting to me—“and believe me, there are waiting lists for these.” Important research, access to scholarly journals and lectures, he’ll share these with me as well.

  “Do well, and you’ll receive a glowing recommendation from me upon your graduation—prior to your graduation, should you choose to seek an internship or a summer job. I don’t write just anyone a letter, Mrs. Warren. You’ll find my opinion carries a lot of weight in professional circles.”

  The clock ticks on the wall. Next class is well under way. But work projects, field studies, recommendation letters . . .

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Brava!” Professor Tobias claps his hands, cuff links flashing. “Let’s meet together tonight or tomorrow evening. We’ve got a lot to figure out. Working with me is highly rewarding and highly demanding, the best of my assistants always say. Rewarding because it’s demanding, demanding because it’s rewarding. Bear that in mind as we begin.”

  I nod. “Tonight?”

  “Six o’clock sharp, in my office. Until then, Mrs. Warren.”

  “Please,” I say. “Call me Ruth.”

  His eyebrows arch, and then he nods. “I’ll do that.”

  THE FALL TERM flies now, and my assistantship proves to be as Professor Tobias promised: equal parts rewarding and demanding. Each night I stay up late, juggling his work with mine. For each quiz I take, I grade close to one hundred. I type up his research notes, dashed off on scraps of paper. I mimeograph handouts and am his second reader for most student papers, checking for grammatical errors after he has scored the overall content and structure. Reading his scrawled remarks and criticisms, I feel for the first time that I am really learning how to write and think critically. When I’m able, I sit in on his other classes, the better to inform my efforts. I assess the multiple choice and short-answer sections of his exams, too. I record all final grades in his grade book. I repeatedly organize his cluttered office. I come to understand his quirks, habits, and preferences better than I understand Helen’s; almost better than I understood Charlie’s; perhaps better than I understand my own—no, better than I understand my own, given the way I’m changing. I feel like some kind of creature shedding its skin—not an easy process, but a necessary one. My single regret as Thanksgiving break approaches is that Helen and I aren’t as close as we once were. Still, I’m never lonely. Even when I’m alone, I experience the almost palpable presence of Professor Tobias—his mentorship and demands.

  “You’re by far the best assistant I’ve ever had, Ruth,” he says one night in his office. He waves his hand at the student work I’ve finished evaluating, stacked in neat piles on his desk. “If you ever decide teaching isn’t for you, I’ll take you on permanently.” He stretches his arms above his head, flexing his fingers. “I merely need to determine in what capacity.”

  A knock sounds at his office door. I start to rise from my chair, but he holds up his hand in warning. “Let me. God knows who’s here at this ho
ur.” He appears more distressed than surprised, bumping his leg hard on the edge of the desk as he bolts to the door in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. He cracks the door and peers through it into the hallway.

  “Are you with someone, John?”

  An older woman’s quavering voice, and rising like a cloud above Professor Tobias’s shoulder, a crest of soft white hair. Otherwise, his broad back blocks my view.

  Professor Tobias murmurs a swift, polite response; I catch only assistant. Then for a moment, he and the woman in the hallway stand in silence.

  “You said Patrick O’Brien would be your assistant after Nora left.” Her voice is sharp, the quaver all but dissipated. Patrick O’Brien is the young man in my class. The copilot. The lieutenant.

  Professor Tobias responds in a mannerly fashion, although this time his voice is so low that I’m unable to make out a word. My name, I suppose he says, and perhaps how it was a good thing he chose me over Patrick O’Brien, for I’m the best assistant he’s ever had. I can’t help but smile. It’s exhilarating to be affirmed; only Charlie, Miss Berger, and Helen have done so in the past.

  Professor Tobias firmly closes the door. He tugs his jacket into place and then, his sophisticated self again, moves easily through the close quarters of his office to sit behind his desk. He rolls his eyes heavenward; we seem to be sharing a joke. I smile encouragingly. “Who was that?”

  He kicks his shoes up on his desk. The heels land squarely on student papers. “You don’t know?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Oh, you most definitely should. That was only Union University’s finest antique. Some know her as the Old Battleax, but the Right Reverend Florence Windberry is my preferred nomenclature.”

  I don’t know whether to chuckle knowingly or shape my expression into one of utmost respect. I hesitate, and then: “She’s a minister?”

  Professor Tobias throws back his head and howls with laughter. “A minister! Florence? That’s rich.” Tears brim in his eyes. He tugs a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and swipes them away. “I’ll have to tell the other faculty you said that. It’ll make their collective week.”