Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck Page B

don’t want to release it. Not yet. And she doesn’t draw away from me. She looks at the far wall, the rectangle there. But her unfocused gaze suggests she sees something entirely different.
    â€œMy parents died in a car accident when I was sixteen. Since then, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to learn things they might have told me. It’s been a bit of a compulsion, in fact. I probably know more about my heritage now than I would have if they’d lived.”
    I swallow hard. “What did you do when they died? Besides learn things, I mean. What did you do ?”
    Miss Berger sighs, her gaze still distant. “I tried to raise myself as I believe they would have if they’d lived. I never forgot them, but I got on with my life. I didn’t go to college, as I’d hoped to do, but I worked my way into the position I hold now.” She winces as if something pains her, and I loosen my grip on her arm. For a long moment, she is quiet; she feels she’s said enough, I’m afraid. But then she takes a deep breath.
    â€œI think about my mother every time I enter the library.” She turns to me, present and attentive again. “The building was constructed before the Land Run as a mission school for Choctaw children, back before people became concerned about the ‘Indian Problem.’ Soon after the Run, the number of white children in the area surpassed the number of Choctaw—or so it was said—and the school’s mission changed accordingly. The Choctaw children were removed from the school, some of the older ones forcibly, and sent to the reservation, all but uninhabitable territory, not so far from the Thorne place. I take it as no coincidence that the Klan holds their meetings at the reservation’s doorstep. I also take it more than a little personally.”
    â€œI didn’t know.” I feel like a fool, repeating myself.
    Miss Berger smiles at me, and her smile is kind. “But that’s why you’re going to college, yes? To learn things. To know more. To understand.” Only now does she withdraw her arm. She tugs at the cuff of her jacket, trying to smooth the wrinkles I’ve made in the sleeve. “Let’s find your platform, shall we?” Her voice is bright and energetic. “Don’t want to waste that ticket.”
    I hurry after Miss Berger. In a matter of moments, we stand by the train. It hisses and gusts fumy steam, readying for the journey.
    â€œWell,” I say for something to say, “I guess this is it, then.”
    Miss Berger turns abruptly and clenches my arms. With quiet urgency, she says she trusts me, but there are my parents and the rest of Alba to worry about. One misspoken word from me, and other people could suffer more than they already have. But now I’m leaving, so now she’ll tell me, as she’s wanted to since the other night. “Wolf’s at the door,” she said in so many words to the mayor. And then he, along with the new sheriff and the two remaining officers who weren’t already draped in white sheets, drove out to the Homestead, where they had a little talk with the Klan.
    Miss Berger leans closer to me, and her voice becomes quieter still. “Let me be clear. The mayor and the sheriff talked, and everyone else listened, as people are apt to do when guns are pointed their way. I’m not saying it’s the right way to do things—threatening violence with violence—and I don’t think that’s ultimately what doused the fire under the kettle. I think what did it, at least temporarily, was Botts’s real threat. He promised that if there were any more such gatherings or related actions, he would go straight to the governor. He’d go higher than that, if need be. He’d contact the press out east and name names. I wouldn’t put it past Botts to do something like that. He’s a decent man. He knows how it is to be on the other side