Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck Page B

without even trying, I have Spanish words on the tip of my tongue. The language is everywhere, on street signs, churches, and missions, in shops and cafés. And everywhere, people speak it, not English. I should have expected this, given my experience at the depot on the night of my arrival, but the fact continues to take me by surprise. “What country are we in again?” I sometimes ask Helen and she sometimes asks me. But we’ve learned that California was Mexican Territory about as recently as Oklahoma was Indian Territory. So I guess that explains why.
    Helen clutches my arm. “It’s starting!”
    The game, I realize, blinking at the football field. That’s what she means. That’s why we’re here, after all.
    The bleachers grow crowded as the game goes on and on and on. Though Helen tries to explain the rules, talking of downs and yards, offense and defense, I grow antsy. My books, the exam, the letter I owe Miss Berger—these things seem to exert a magnetic pull. Finally, as the crowd’s shouting crescendos, Helen leans over and tells me that we’re nearly at the end of the second quarter. “Halftime’s coming right up!” From her tone, this is a good thing. “Does it take another half to make a whole?” I ask in all seriousness. Helen gapes at me and then laughs. Her laughter is my answer.
    I try to watch the cheerleaders. Young men wearing blue and gold sweaters and neatly pressed slacks flip young women wearing blue and gold sweaters and shin-length skirts into the air. There’s additional gymnastics and a whole lot of shrieking. U-N-I-O-N S-P-A-R-T-A-N-S! Repeatedly, they spell the words, until I can’t think what they mean. I lean my elbows on my knees, clap my hands over my ears, stare blindly at their antics. Let my posture connote relaxation for Helen. Actually, I’m trying to muffle the din and let my mind wander anywhere but here.
    My mind wanders to wondering, to if . If Charlie had boarded the Antelope with me, if we’d changed trains in Kansas City together, if we’d traveled across the rest of the country to Los Angeles, if we’d made our way through the train station there (marveling that the earth could heave and quake as it did less than a year ago, leaving such disrepair), if we’d settled into one of the college apartments set aside for married students, if we’d plunged into freshman year together, if we’d been older than most everyone else together, if we’d been together . . . would we have spent this Saturday afternoon taking a break from our studies? Would we have gone to a football game? Would we have felt more at home at homecoming together than I feel on my own? Or would we have stayed in our apartment, shared popcorn for an afternoon snack, quizzed each other for tests, napped when we got tired? Would we have said “Our bed is an island”? Would we have drifted together on an ocean of our own making?
    â€œFor heaven’s sake!” Helen whispers urgently into my ear. “You’re shivering. Are you okay, Ruth?”
    I hug myself tight.
    â€œYou’re cold like you get.” A statement not a question. Helen knows. She puts her arm around my shoulders. “Look, it’s halftime. You stay put, and I’ll go get us some hot cider and donuts. They make the donuts fresh here. They’re always nice and warm.”
    With the pennant-waving fellow at her side, Helen descends the bleachers at a brisk clip. Much of the crowd has proceeded her, leaving me and a few other stray souls to mind belongings and seats.
    The university marching band is milling about the field, playing a jazzed-up version of a popular ballad I’ve heard on the radio but can’t name, when from beneath me comes a rustling. A whimper follows, and the rustling intensifies to scrabbling. I start—thoughts of rodents, nothing like the library’s mice, more like rats,