Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck Page A

She’s exhausted, I realize. She probably hasn’t slept a wink. So I take the clock from her, hang it on its nail on the wall, tilt it this way and that.
    â€œEven now?”
    She nods.
    I wrap my arms around her. “You sure?”
    â€œSure as I’ve ever been,” she says.
    EARLY THE NEXT morning, the sun a cusp of orange on the horizon, Miss Berger’s elegant if aged gray Zephyr ferries me down drowsy, dirt roads, and then onto busier, paved streets. Instead of her typical T-shirt, khaki skirt, and bandana, Miss Berger wears a neat bottle-green suit jacket and skirt and a matching hat. She’s taking herself out to lunch, she informs me during our drive. She doesn’t get into Oklahoma City nearly often enough; she’s going to see a bit of what there is to see. In particular, she’ll visit the library. They have entire shelves devoted to new books, and she wants to browse them.
    Miss Berger parks the car near the city’s brand-new depot, and we make our way inside. Upon hearing my destination and departure time, a porter whisks my suitcase away, leaving me to carry only a picnic basket of food packed by Mother and my pocketbook, which holds the oil company’s check, the scrap of paper with Alice Everly’s information, and all the money I managed to save from my summer at the library—just enough for a train ticket to Los Angeles.
    I start toward the ticket booth, but Miss Berger steps in front of me. With a flourish, she produces from her jacket’s pocket the very ticket I intend to buy. “For you,” she says.
    I shake my head, stunned.
    Miss Berger shrugs. “No refunds allowed.”
    â€œBut I can’t accept it! After all you’ve already done—”
    â€œWell, I’ve got no use for it. You know how I feel about clutter, Ruth. Guess I’ll just have to dispose of it.” She manages to make a little tear in the ticket before I snatch it from her hands.
    â€œThank you.” That’s all I can come up with. When I try to express my gratitude more eloquently, Miss Berger fairly shudders with impatience and, without further ado, draws me into the waiting area. It’s a grand place. She launches into a description of the architectural elements—which she read up on last night, apparently—the art deco details and terrazzo floors, the metal and glass chandeliers with their chevron designs, the bright and colorful ceilings painted with American Indian motifs.
    Only a few minutes until my departure now. There’s so much I want to ask Miss Berger, so much I want to know—about American Indian motifs, sure, but also about her life, her work, how she came to help the people she helps and why. Never mind escaping Alba. At this very moment, I don’t want to say goodbye.
    â€œDo you see that long narrow rectangle spanning the far wall?” Miss Berger points; I see it. “For the Choctaw people, that rectangle symbolizes the road of life that one travels in his span on earth.” She flicks me a glance. “Or her span on earth, as the case may—”
    â€œPlease,” I blurt, clutching her arm.
    Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Yes?”
    What to say with so much vying for my attention. Choctaw . The word lodges in my mind like a pebble in a shoe. “How did you know Mayor Botts is part Choctaw?”
    This is not what I wanted to ask at all. But Miss Berger, patient with most any question, cocks her head, considering. “I could see it in him, and he confirmed it,” she finally says. “I know quite a bit about the tribe, actually. My mother was Choctaw through and through. She grew up on a reservation and met my father, who was French Canadian, and then they came and settled in Alba, where there was land to be had . . . but not a lot of acceptance.”
    Here is something I want to hear. “I didn’t know.” I’m still holding on to her arm. I