Broken Ground Read Online Free Page B

Edna Faye’s family—all but her father, who is now a name in the alphabetical list of names that precede Warren, Charles, a name etched on the black slab of granite laid down by the oil company beneath a tall sweet gum tree outside of camp. Edna Faye’s siblings have piled onto the mattress that lines the bed of the dilapidated wagon hooked up to their jalopy, tent poles strapped to its running board. Edna Faye’s mother, who seems to have aged twenty years in however long it’s been since the blowout, sits hunched behind the steering wheel. What unbelievable quiet for such noisy kids. They lean into their belongings—blankets, buckets, boxes, two battered bicycles, and an old cookstove—and keep the silence of the dead. Where are they going? West? I’ve heard about West on the radio, read about it in the papers and on the fliers distributed by the farm owners, which promise work and better weather. I’ve seen evidence of west-bound refugees on the road, too. So many fleeing their homes and farms, driven out by dust storms, drought, and dissolution, rattling on toward where the sun inevitably sets. Mother’s closest friend from her childhood back in Guthrie had to go west; Mother has told me so time and again, until the telling has distilled into a kind of refrain: “Alice Everly and her family were far better off than us. If they turned homeless, what are the odds we’ll do the same?”
    Take me with you, Edna Faye. Anywhere but Alba. Take me there. I wrench my arm from Mother’s grip and go to her. We clasp hands.
    â€œOne plus one equals two,” she says.
    I nod. Take me.
    â€œTwo minus one equals one,” she says.
    I close my eyes against this difference.
    â€œDon’t give up.” I hear my voice for the first time since the blowout. Really hear it—rough and thin as a piece of paper torn in half. “You hear me, bright girl? Keep learning.”
    Mother’s hand settles again on my shoulder. Edna Faye releases me, and Mother steers me toward Daddy’s car. Next thing I know, I’m in the backseat. I watch through the window as Edna Faye climbs onto the mattress in the truck’s bed and burrows down beside her brothers and sisters.
    Edna Faye is crying. Out the window as we pull away, I watch that little girl, my bright girl, do a woman’s work of tears.
    SPRING CREEPS IN, as it will. Blossoms open on the redbud by the road; I see them from my bedroom window. A flash of blue streaks by one day—an indigo bunting whistling its sharp, clear song. The bellflowers out back will bloom soon, no doubt. All things blue recall Charlie’s eyes. Mother says I am blue. “Pray. You’re not praying hard enough. You must end this blue mood, Ruth.” Darker than blue, I think. Darker than Charlie’s eyes. Black, the color of my eyes. Black fog punctured by occasional birdsong, the flickering movement of pink buds on a brown branch tossed by the wind—the wind that used to remind me of God’s spirit encompassing me. Mother is right about one thing: I’m not praying hard enough. I’m not praying at all. I’ve tried. I can’t. And if God speaks in a still, small voice, well, I can’t hear God for the wind.
    I lie in bed days and nights. I don’t sleep much.
    â€œENOUGH IS ENOUGH!”
    Out of nowhere, Daddy’s voice. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me since our return to Alba. I open my eyes, look toward the bedroom doorway. There he stands, wearing a denim shirt and a pair of hickory-stripe bib overalls, as he does every day of the week but Sunday. Dim light fills the bedroom; outside, the rooster, Captain, crows. It must be early morning. How long have I been lying here, awake?
    Daddy strides to my bed, stands over me. He rubs his hand roughly over the gray stubble of his beard. “Free ride ends now, Ruth. Understand.” A statement, not a question.
    He’s gone