Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

can’t be beat. Young men do the asking; boys, they seem to me. Mere children. To each and every one of them, I politely say, “Thank you, but no.” Then I make sure each and every one of them sees my wedding band. To a man, they flash awkward smiles and edge away from me, until— alakazam! —they’re absorbed in asking some other girl for her company. Someone whose left ring finger is bare.
    Pretzel duty finished, I find myself standing in a raucous corner, picking away at a plate of cake. And that’s when I spot my books and papers piled unceremoniously on a nearby radiator. I scoop them up, set the plate of cake in their place. Out the door I go.
    It’s only eight o’clock. The library stays open until ten. I take myself there. It is blissfully quiet, empty but for a few glum-looking students overseeing the place. I go to my favorite desk, hidden away in the farthest corner of the top floor, behind a shelf of old books about military history, rarely sought out by students or professors. With a relieved sigh, I open my textbook. I bow over it, try to pick up where I left off this morning. But words seem to jump and rearrange themselves before me. Why can’t I concentrate? I’m always able to concentrate, even when there’s no pressing need. Monday there’s an exam, so tonight there’s a need, especially since tomorrow is Sunday, and I try not to study on Sundays or do anything that might be construed as work. If I read, it’s the Bible. Or—true confessions—one of Helen’s fashion magazines.
    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 R s, 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
    N ext 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.
    â€œUgh,” 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.”
    â€œYou 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.