Broken Ground

by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

  Thomas is absorbed in a discussion with the older kids when the boy drifts over to the youngest group. I ready myself to interfere should he attempt to hurt one of the little ones, but the boy seems satisfied with distracting them—whispering, teasing, tugging at clothes and hair. I make my way over to him cautiously in order to take him by surprise. My plan is to distract or engage him. If he simply needs attention, I can provide that.

  I’m only a few feet away from the boy when a large, luminous white moth, drawn by the firelight, swoops low over his head. He leaps up and catches it in his hands, then, holding it by its narrow, jointed body, brings it close to the face of the nearest girl. Cringing, the girl leans back, which only causes the boy to draw closer. The moth frantically beats its wings, which must be at least four inches long. The other adult attendants, including Thomas, are unaware of this little drama. The girl’s black eyes widen in fear as, slowly, methodically, the boy takes a beating wing and starts to tear it.

  Every impulse to be stealthy evaporates in that moment. I am upon the boy, catching him by the arm, wrenching him around to face me. “Don’t,” I say as the girl gives a cry. The boy stares coldly up at me. The frames of his spectacles are off-kilter; spidery cracks web one of the lenses. I give him a little shake, but his expression remains unreadable. I wonder if he understands English. “Stop that.” That’s all I can think to say. “Basta ya.”

  The boy tightens his fist around the moth, snapping its body, crushing its wings. He drops what’s left of it on the ground, and when I release him, horrified, he holds up his hand, fingers spread wide. Every line that creases his palm is covered with the white dust that coated the wings. “Stop that,” he says, mocking me in perfect English. “Mujer blanca estupida.” He spins away from me, then, and runs, disappearing into the shadows that stretch beyond the fire’s glow.

  The little girl is crying. Other children begin to whimper, too, and parents quickly descend to scoop them up and ferry them away. When something questionable or confusing happens, these people move quickly, I’ve noticed. They probably learned to do so the hard way. White person, children crying—vámonos! Those who linger eye me warily. The children in the other groups have turned restless and distracted, and are watching, too. “I’m sorry,” I say, and add for good measure, “Lo siento.”

  Thomas comes to stand beside me. “What happened?”

  I try to explain, babbling—at least to my ears—but Thomas nods. “Daniel,” he says, confirming something I don’t fully understand. He turns to the children and adults who are waiting to see what’s next, and announces they’ll stop for tonight. They’ve nearly stayed their typical hour anyway. Nodding guardedly, people begin to leave.

  The fire is not the blaze it was when I first arrived. Thomas goes to stir it. “I’m sorry, Ruth. I was hoping your introduction here would be easier.”

  “I made a mess of things.”

  He drags over a log on which a few children perched, and drops it in front of me. He sits down, stretches out his legs, adjusts the hem of his trousers so that his prosthesis is all but hidden, then pats the log for me to join him. I stay standing.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he says.

  “Whose was it, then? ‘Stupid white woman.’ Isn’t that what the boy said? He’s right. I don’t know him, or anyone here, really. Why should he obey me? I interfered where I didn’t belong.”

  “It does take awhile to earn trust in this community, true enough, which is understandable.”

  I nod foolishly.

  “But with Daniel, it’s particularly difficult. And even if he trusts you, as he does a few people—not yet me—that doesn’t mean he’s going to do the right thing. More often than not, he won’t. He likes to cause trouble. And he’s gotten quite good at putting the blame on someone else. An adult, if possible. An adult who’s not of Mexican heritage, even better. It’s clear that he’s had a decent education in a decent school in the past. From his English, I am sure he went to an Anglo school—maybe in Los Angeles? I don’t know. He won’t tell me a thing about himself. He’ll barely look at me.”

  “His spectacles are broken.”

  Thomas laughs dryly. “It’s a bigger problem than broken spectacles.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m not sure of his last name. I’m not sure of anything about him, really. Someone heard he lives with an aunt and uncle here at the camp. I’ve yet to meet them. He works in the fields, like so many of the kids. I’ve seen him out there. Some days he works hard, like a man. Other days he lollygags around. A few times I’ve caught him sleeping. I’m the overseer; I’ve got to take him to task then. But if I were him, or any of these kids, for that matter, I’d be sleeping all the time, I bet, and far more inconsistent in my labor. So I ignore his behavior as much as possible. I get the feeling he doesn’t have much, and I don’t want to jeopardize anything he does have. Kid’s got a temper, that’s for sure. I’ve seen him let loose on more than one adult and many children. I’ve been trying to encourage him to join us at the bonfire and attend the lessons. Mostly, he doesn’t. When he does, most of the time something happens like tonight. But I won’t ask him to leave, and the other adults certainly won’t. Every child, no matter how ornery, is the best hope this community has.”

  “Which makes my riling him up all the worse.” Frustrated, embarrassed, I walk in a small, futile circle.

  “I’m glad you came tonight, Ruth. I want your help with all this, if you still feel able to give it. I need all the help I can get.”

  I look at him. “Teaching, you mean?”

  “Teaching, yes.”

  I shrug. “If they’ll let me teach.”

  “We’ll try again tomorrow night. I’ll make sure and give you a proper introduction.”

  Suddenly breathless, I look away from him and into the dying fire.

  “It would be good if you could mind a group,” he says. “There’d be less running around for me then. As it is now, I just get started on something, and then I have to jump up again.”

  “I worked with a little girl back in Texas. I believe I’d feel most easy with the younger ones.” I keep my gaze on the flames.

  “That’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  We stay very still for a moment, neither of us talking. Then Thomas fills the expanding silence, speaking quickly, fervently. He tells me about the kids, which groups are capable of what as a whole, and which individuals in the groups are capable of more. “It’s hard,” he says, “the difference in abilities, all because of the education they did or didn’t receive. Some of the kids went to schools where Spanish was never spoken in the classroom—it was against the rules. Other kids never went to school at all. The little ones, there’s less variety, many of them were too young for school until now. The basics, that’s what the little ones need, as you’ll see right away, I’m sure. But there may be exceptions among them, too.”

  “I understand.” I say.

  He grins, dimples cutting into his weathered face. “I bet you do, college girl.” His grin fades. “Listen to me, going on and on. Am I talking awfully loud?”

  I can’t help but smile. “It’s all right.”

  “You being here could make a real difference, Ruth.” Abruptly, Thomas stands. He comes over to me and takes my hand. His hand is smaller than Charlie’s, nimbler, but strong, I can tell from his grip. His palm is heavily callused. Sometime tonight, mine has gone clammy; I feel awkward and clumsy and cold.

  I find myself shaking Thomas’s hand as if we’ve just struck a business deal. Then I draw away from him, saying that it’s time I get back to Silvia. I’ll see him tomorrow night. I promise him this.

  I head back toward Kirk Camp, moving so quickly that I might as well be trying to catch a bus, or, for that matter, keep up with Thomas, if he were walking by my side, but who, when I cast a look over my shoulder, is where I left him, watching me go. He lifts his hand; for a moment I think he is asking me to wait for him. But then he shoves his
hand into his trouser pocket. Confusion further hastens my step, and as I enter Kirk Camp and turn down a dirt road that hides me from him, relief descends. I slow down. Too close, too fast, too much, too strange, too wrong—my hand in his. Slow down.

  Thoughtlessly, I enter the shack without knocking to find Silvia and Luis stretched out on their bed, holding each other close. They are dressed, but they appear as flustered as I feel. I apologize immediately and we try to laugh it off. We’re unsettled, the three of us, until the curtain falls between us and we take to our respective beds. From the quiet that ensues, I assume they are soon asleep. Only I hold my body rigid so I won’t twist and turn fretfully, restless as I am now, and as I am all night.

  NEXT EVENING, THOMAS introduces me as Señora Ruth. He mentions that I’ve been to college. That’s his “proper” introduction, and then I am teaching. Of course, I need to prove my worth and win the children’s trust. But with some care and concern, patience and perseverance, and a little bit of good humor, I vow I will.

  Of course, it takes a few weeks. I stay with Silvia by day and, after Luis returns, do my best to teach the younger children something worthwhile by night. Silvia’s due date is still about a month away, but increasingly with each passing day, she experiences stabbing pain that she fears might be contractions. She is often unable to keep her food down, and so she grows weaker. She has gotten to a state where she can barely endure anyone’s touch; she says her skin is tender, almost on fire. Luis sleeps on the dirt floor now. Many nights I’m so worried for her—for them both—that I beg to forego the bonfire and stay with them. Now it’s Luis who gently pushes me out the door.

  I have less trouble keeping my distance with Thomas. I’m polite but aloof; we talk of the children only, and of how our school might improve. I make sure there’s always a few feet between us, and that seems to do the trick. We’re never in close enough proximity to easily touch. If Thomas notices the change in my demeanor, he doesn’t mention it. He, too, is all business.

  The boy Daniel is all mischief. He makes unpredictable appearances at the bonfires, and his stays are erratic; like some kind of magician, he appears, disappears, and appears again, never where I expect him. We’ll catch sight of him up in a nearby tree, sitting on a branch, listening in. He’ll skulk around the outskirts of the older kids, or the younger. Never does he settle down among his peers or sit quietly with the adults. One night he danced around the fire. Another night he threw things at us from the shadows. Thomas and I try to hunt down Daniel’s aunt and uncle—though everyone believes he lives with them, no one knows who they are. Try as we might, we can’t seem to find them. So we endure his presence if he’s not too disruptive. A few hard times, Thomas had to enlist the help of some of the bigger men gathered around the bonfire: They carry Daniel back to camp, kicking and screaming. After one such indecorous departure, ten days pass without any sight of him . . . ten days during which Silvia’s pains continue to grow worse. I’ve made a calendar for her, and every night when I return from the bonfire, I mark off another day, which brings us closer to the time when she will deliver this baby.

  By now, I’ve learned all the children’s names, and the names of their families, and some of what they’ve lived through before coming here. Hard times. Tiempos difíciles. It’s as I’d expect—little food, unfair pay, relentless, grueling labor for people of all ages, the babies carried on their mothers’ backs through harvests, even in the hottest seasons. But hearing it from the children and the parents I am coming to know as individuals—these intimate stories work away at me, change my thoughts and beliefs, until I hardly recognize the woman I once was, who thought deportations were best for everyone involved, and that certain Americans were more “real” than others. I can’t sleep at night for the changes inside me, and for Silvia, stirring and moaning in the darkest hours.

  I’m tired all the time—more tired than when I was at Union, more tired than I can ever remember being—but I’m not as tired as the people who work in the fields every day, and if they can keep going, I can, too. In fact, those hours when I’m with the children, my weariness evaporates and I’m at my most energetic. They are making progress with the alphabet; some are able to correctly say every letter in the proper order in both Spanish and English, which is more than I can do most days. More slowly, but on the whole steadily, the children are learning to add and subtract as Edna Faye once did. I think of her often; I still pray for her. I long to feel as companionable with these children as I did with her. Maybe someday they will trust me wholeheartedly? Or will I be the one who stops short in the face of our differences, just short of being part of the community? I’m afraid this will be the case if I don’t continue to change.

  Since I left Union, I’ve dodged my memories of Tobias—my work with him and my time in his class. These memories make me feel sick inside. But one night when some of the older, more precocious children are giggling and distracted, and some of the younger, less advanced children are struggling to keep up, I force myself to recall at least some of what I learned in Educational Practices. Examples from the textbook and Tobias’s lectures descend on me. I hear his voice in my head, see myself hanging on his every word, remember how I ignored the warnings, and feel once again ashamed. But then one idea settles and catches my attention: not a distraction but a possibility. The adults don’t have to be the only teachers among us. Let the older children use what they know to help the younger.

  I divide my group into five smaller groups of about four children each, then I hand out five of the ten chalkboards that Thomas has managed to purchase in these last months. I set each group different math tasks. I oversee the groups, but with the children helping one another in this way, I’m mostly able to observe. With a few errors, each group manages to move through the addition tables all the way up to five. I gather them together again, we correct what needs correcting, and start in on learning the sixes.

  Thomas has been reading The Story of Doctor Dolittle to the middle group. The next night, I bring my copy of The Brothers Grimm to our meeting. The children practice their sixes together, and as a reward for their good behavior, I ask if they’d like a story. They clamor for one and draw closer around me, settling themselves as comfortably as possible on the ground. I sit down, too. I let the book fall open on my lap The pages flip to “Rapunzel.” I stare at the first page and the facing illustration of a girl in the tower. Edna Faye loved this picture best. After one of her visits, Charlie would ask me to tell the story of “Rapunzel”—not the fairy tale but Edna Faye’s response to it. “How was our neighbor today?” he’d ask. And I’d describe her gray eyes widening, her hands clasped at her chest, her lingering sweet, sad smile of longing, her questions, her answers to my questions. Charlie loved hearing all this, and I loved telling it to him. He would love that I’m telling the tale again now.

  I know it practically by heart. Certainly, I know every detail and twist and turn of Rapunzel’s entrapment and escape. But I’m afraid I’ll cry if I rely too much on my memory now with Charlie so present to me that I expect any moment he will step into the circle of light cast by the fire. So I ask the children to raise their hands if I say something that’s unclear or if they have something to add, and I begin to read the fairy tale word for word from the book.

  Soon hands are waving. Sometimes I am able to offer a satisfactory explanation to a question, but other times the children have to help me—those who can translate my English into Spanish or make comparisons to the world they all know. I listen carefully to their discussions, and in this way I learn a little more about each child. Charlie and Edna Faye retreat a bit, and I find myself absorbed with my students instead. They show me yet another side to the fairy tale. While Edna Faye liked the tower best, and I liked the escape, these children are more interested in the woman who’s hungry at the beginning. A woman who’s hungry, and pregnant, desperate to eat anything—desperate for the plant growing in a nearby garden most of all. The children discuss how it is when peo
ple are hungry like that, surrounded by good things to eat that they are not able to have. It is like that all the time in the fields, they say. The woman’s condition, coupled with her desire, causes her to beg and plead with her husband to do the wrong thing. When people are desperate, the children agree, they are often driven to do things they otherwise would not do. They might be driven to steal things that don’t belong to them, if it meant keeping someone they love alive. And this is how it is for the husband in the story. One night, so great are his wife’s cravings, he climbs the wall separating them from the plant she desires—a plant called rapunzel. He picks the plant—“harvests” it, one of the children says, doe-eyed Clara, who spends her days minding her little brother and baby sister. He takes it back to his wife, and the woman devours it. But of course it isn’t enough. (It is hardly ever enough, the children agree.) She wants more. So the next night the husband tries the same thing again, only this time he is caught by the woman who owns the garden. She lives in the castle—a very fine house, a hacienda, the children agree. The woman is a witch. “La bruja es mala,” a small boy cries with a shudder. His name is Gabriel. I tell Gabriel—and the other children, who look worried, too—that yes, this witch is bad. “But she’s not real,” I say. “She’s only in this story.” The witch catches the man as he scales the garden wall, and she accuses him of theft. She says she will curse him or, better yet, kill him. But the man begs so eloquently for mercy that the witch finally grants it. On one condition. When the man’s wife gives birth to their baby, he must deliver the baby to the witch. “Now we get to the best part,” I tell the children. “The tower and the escape.”