Some Wildflower In My Heart

by Jamie Langston Turner

  Eldeen Rafferty ended her story with these words, which I remember well: “Mayfield Spalding wasn’t one to laugh and cut up, but that doesn’t matter one jot or whittle in the Book of the Lamb, ’cause I know as sure as I’m standing here on my own two feet”—here she pointed down to her large feet, over which she wore black rubber boots—“that that man yonder in that casket”—here she pointed with the other hand directly to Mayfield’s lifeless form—”is a’sittin’ at the blessed banquet table of Jesus right this very minute and has got hisself a royal palace up in glory that’ll be for everlasting and everlasting, amen.” As she sat down, the chapel reverberated with a rousing chorus of her final word: “Amen!”

  But I have not yet brought my main character into the scene. Birdie Freeman, though at the time I did not know her name, was playing the organ intermittently during the entire funeral. I had noticed her upon first entering the chapel, for she was playing a prelude of familiar gospel hymns that I had not heard for over thirty-four years, though I knew them all: “The Old Rugged Cross,” “Shall We Gather at the River,” “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” “Rock of Ages.”

  The organ was in front, and Birdie sat at it somberly, wearing a brown dress and small brown hat. I had not seen such a hat since the early 1960s. My prompt assessment was that she was plain. The reader no doubt recalls my earlier description of her as beautiful, but my change of perception did not come until much later in our acquaintance. First she was plain. She immediately brought to my mind the image of the common sparrow, though I was unaware at this time that her name was Birdie. I watched her during the next hour and a half and wished that I could see her hands and feet as she played. In addition to books, music is another of my passions, and although I had taken no formal training at the time, I recognized that the woman had a gifted touch.

  Besides the prelude, Birdie accompanied a vocal solo, a small choral ensemble, a vocal duet, and most peculiar of all, a tuba solo played by a young teenaged boy. These numbers were performed at varying levels of skill. The vocal duet—“I’ve Got a Mansion Just Over the Hilltop”—was comically mawkish, but the tubist proved to be quite proficient, I thought, for one so young. I also recognized the song that the young man played: “He Hideth My Soul.”

  Before Mr. Hawthorne preached, a woman read a lengthy, amateurish poem from a large red book, which she held aloft in a theatrical pose so that the title stamped on the cover—A Harvest of Inspirational Poems—was plainly visible to the audience. The poem spoke often of “that blissful yonder shore,” and the last line of each stanza of the poem repeated the phrase “Crossing the raging Jordan ’twixt earth and heav’n.” Mr. Hawthorne’s “charge,” as he called it—the portions of it that I heard—was quite eloquent in comparison to the speech of the others that day. I heard from him no grammatical gaffes, no ill-chosen diction. In contrast, a man who had delivered one of the brief eulogies earlier had spoken of the “tempestulent waters of life’s sea that buffer and batter us” and of “crossing the portholes of heaven.”

  As Mr. Hawthorne spoke, I tried to distance myself from his words. Thomas was seated in the front row with the other pallbearers, and from my seat in the sixth row, I stared at the wisps of hair on the back of his neck, noting that his latest visit to Pate’s Barber Shop—another example of the creative nomenclature of our local businesses—had obviously been many weeks ago. I do not wish, however, to paint a picture of Thomas as a slovenly man. The stained overalls mentioned earlier had nevertheless been newly washed and pressed, and in spite of his untrimmed neck on the day of the funeral, Thomas looked properly dignified in his black suit. He has broad shoulders for a man of his age and a full head of thick gray hair.

  To occupy my mind during the lengthy service, I began recalling books I had read that included funeral scenes. I believe I may have even smiled when I thought of the chapter in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in which a dog raises a mighty disturbance in the basement while a funeral ceremony is underway in the parlor of the home of the deceased. If I remember correctly, the undertaker slithers out of the room to investigate and returns a few minutes later, having stilled the commotion. By way of explanation, he whispers loudly to the mourners, “He had a rat!” But between my mental diversions, I heard enough of Mr. Hawthorne’s words to know that I did not want to hear more. Many of the words were agonizingly familiar, bringing back memories I had labored for many years to suppress.

  As I studied the people around me, I noted their raptness of expression, their readiness to respond audibly to the preacher’s words, their glances one to another by which they signified their concord.

  My eyes kept returning to Birdie Freeman, still seated at the organ, her small face turned attentively to the preacher. I tried to recollect where I had seen a face like hers before, and near the end of the funeral service it suddenly came to me. It was in a book titled Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier, by Joanna L. Stratton, which I had read a few years earlier. I looked it up at home later and confirmed the fact. Should the reader want to see for himself what Birdie Freeman looked like, secure a copy of the book and find the photograph of a woman named Sarah Jayne Oliver. The brown hat that Birdie wore at the funeral, conforming snugly to her small head, gave the same effect as Sarah Jayne Oliver’s closely combed, neatly pinned hair. As for the faces, the two women could have been twins had they not been separated in time by more than a hundred years. They had the same ordinary brown eyes, the same white forehead, the same high cheekbones, the same suggestion of an overbite around prim, cautious lips.

  As I studied Birdie Freeman’s face that day of the funeral, I could not rid myself of the idea that there existed within her a core of uncommon mettle, that she knew secrets I did not know, that she had witnessed great mysteries. While I was curious on the one hand about these secrets and mysteries, I nevertheless suspected that they were matters against which I would close my ears. It was strange to me that from my first sight of Birdie Freeman, I felt both desirous and unwilling to know her. As I seldom engage in idle speculation concerning the lives of others, I knew not what to think of my sudden arousal of interest in this woman whom I had never before seen. Perhaps some inchoate instinct suggested to me that she, like me, possessed a singular personal history that she would not readily yield.

  My beginning chapter has grown more protracted than I had planned, and I find that writing is far more exhausting than I had imagined. Furthermore, though I had intended a more cheerful beginning, I see already the pall of death upon my book. And though I know that the time is right, I fear the thought of filling the empty pages that follow, for I know that to do so will demand the opening of my own secret chambers.

  2

  Weak and Beggarly Elements

  It is early June, and Thomas has made no sign of noticing the change in my nightly occupation. I still sit in my rocker after our evening meal, but instead of reading, I now write. Perhaps Thomas has noticed but remembers how strongly I dislike being asked what I’m doing. He posed this question to me one night sixteen years ago after we had been married only a week, and I replied, “When and if I wish to yield my privacy to the scrutiny of others, you will be the first to be invited to the exhibition.” He laughed good-naturedly, his brow creased with puzzlement, but he never again asked what I was doing.

  I cannot say why Birdie Freeman’s face lingered in my mind in the months following Mayfield’s funeral, nor why I asked Mr. Hawthorne, when he called on us again two weeks later, “Who was the woman who played the organ at the funeral?” That was when I learned her name. Thomas and I were civil to Mr. Hawthorne during this visit, Thomas’s manner perhaps even approaching cordiality, but we informed him unequivocally that we were not interested in finding a “home church,” as he referred to it.

  When the preacher asked if we had considered our dwelling place for eternity, Thomas answered, “Naw, I can’t say as I’ve given it more than a passin’ thought, and even that might be stretchin’ it.” When ill a
t ease, Thomas often assumes a slightly more ignorant, countrified style of speech than is his wont.

  To this Mr. Hawthorne soberly replied, “Well, you should. You will have to spend eternity somewhere, and eternity is a long, long time.” He went on to describe the two options open to all men.

  So vivid was his portrayal of hell that Thomas told me later, “I was starting to feel like the seat of my John-Brown britches was on fire.”

  As Mr. Hawthorne discussed the pleasures of heaven, I tried to imagine his look of astonishment were I to begin quoting the entire fourteenth chapter of the gospel according to John, which my grandfather had required me to memorize as punishment for what he called my “unwavering willfulness” one Saturday when, at the age of thirteen, I had balked at his suggestion that I attend a teen singspiration at church. Though I had lived with my grandparents only a few months, my doubts about the Bible were already well planted by this time, and the fourteenth verse of John 14 served to water my skepticism, for I had repeatedly asked that my grandfather die, in the name of Jesus as the verse stipulated, but to no avail. With the thinnest thread of hope, I tried to cling to verse eighteen, in which I was promised comfort, but once again fulfillment was denied.

  I have laid aside a number of novels—dismissing them as unworthy of my time—for their overuse of coincidence at critical points in the plot. I must tell the events of my story as they happened, however, and I will neither omit nor apologize for what is to follow.

  The memory of Birdie Freeman’s firm lips and steady gaze as she sat at the organ remained with me during the months to come. I cannot explain this. I even reread the entire book Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier, something I rarely do, in an effort to rid myself of her ghost, though perhaps subconsciously I was hoping to acquaint myself with her more intimately. I was reminded in this second reading that Sarah Jayne Oliver, the nineteenth-century kinswoman I had appropriated for Birdie, was a wife and mother of sturdy character who had adapted herself to the rigors of frontier life with uncomplaining gallantry. She was noted for her careful planning of the family’s menu, shunning heavy fried foods and pastries. She also played a small reed organ called the melodeon, a fact that, in addition to the physical similarities between her and Birdie, provided another striking parallel—though this is not the coincidence to which I alluded. Let me continue.

  Mayfield’s funeral was on the fourth day of January. Five months later at the beginning of June, almost exactly a year ago now, Vonnie Lee, another of my lunchroom workers at Emma Weldy Elementary School, told me she would not be returning to her job the following fall. Actually, her exact words to me were, “Buddy says he’s sick and tired of me having to come to work so blasted early an’ says I gotta quit and try to get me a job at the R. C. Cola plant, same shift he works.” Buddy was her husband, whom Vonnie Lee both liberally praised and maligned in the cafeteria kitchen.

  I met this news of her leaving us with outward stoicism but inward distress. In spite of her infuriating loquacity, Vonnie Lee was a fast and careful worker, possessing an artistic flair with institutional food, which, although adding little in nutritional value or actual palatability, nevertheless contributed enormously to its appeal in the eyes of the children. It was Vonnie Lee’s idea, for example, to toss a boxful of raisins, cornstarch, honey, and brown sugar into a simmering pot of water and ladle a small portion over each serving of ham. The results were such that I felt the additional expense to be justified. Later she even experimented with chopping instead of slicing the ham so that the younger children could eat it more easily with spoons. Vonnie Lee was a culinary innovator.

  It was with no small degree of pessimism, therefore, that I awaited the opening of school at the end of that summer and the arrival of a new employee. In my twenty-two years at Emma Weldy Elementary School, I had suffered my share of unsuitable cafeteria workers, several of whom had failed even to complete the opening preparatory week before resigning. Three of them had tried to lay the blame at my feet, calling me various unflattering names and complaining of my demands for perfection. I have no use for whiners, though I am always fair with a worker who shows stamina and a modicum of intelligence.

  The reader can well imagine my astonishment when I walked into the cafeteria at 7:50 on Monday morning, the twenty-eighth of August, and found seated in one of the bright orange plastic chairs none other than Birdie Freeman. She looked at me pleasantly, her child-sized hands folded gently over a large tan purse in her lap. She wore a green cotton jumper, a white blouse, black canvas sneakers, and white socks. Her hair appeared to be quite long, but it was neatly braided, coiled, and pinned to her small head. As I noted this, I felt a sudden chill run through me, for I recalled that Sarah Jayne Oliver, pictured in my book about pioneer women, had worn her hair in much the same arrangement. I recognized Birdie instantly but of course refrained from acknowledging the fact.

  “May I help you?” I asked. She informed me later that I was frowning when I said this. Besides the surprise of recognizing her, perhaps I was a bit chagrined by her excessive punctuality, for I was always the first of the cafeteria crew to arrive.

  “Yes, thank you, I’m here to work,” Birdie replied, smiling but remaining seated. As I was her superior, I felt that she should have stood to talk to me.

  “Let me direct you to the office in that case, and the secretary will escort you to the proper location,” I said.

  “Oh, I’ve already checked in at the office,” she said, “and Mrs. Cameron brought me on down here.”

  “Am I to assume then that you are our new cafeteria employee?” I asked. She claimed later that I spoke these words in a tone that conveyed a total absence of faith in her aptitude for kitchen work.

  “That’s right,” she said, still smiling and standing now, at last, to offer her hand. “My name is Bernadetta Freeman, but my friends all call me Birdie. And you must be…?”

  “Good morning, Bernadetta,” I said, keeping my distance. I do not make a habit of shaking hands with people. Even as I do not imitate the speech of southerners, I do not participate in their loose frequency of physical touch. Though I do not consider myself rude in the strict sense, I do not deny that I am highly reserved, a characteristic that others most often translate as rudeness. However, if the general public understood the degree to which germs are transferred by means of casual contact, I believe that the custom of handshaking would be allowed to die out. Birdie took a quick step toward me nonetheless and clasped my hand in a firm hold that I neither expected nor desired. Her hands were much smaller than mine, but they were surprisingly strong.

  “Oh, please—it’s Birdie,” she said.

  As her smile broadened, I saw the severe extent of her overbite.

  “I know we’re not friends yet, but I sure didn’t mean you couldn’t call me by my nickname. I’d feel a lot more at home if you would call me Birdie.”

  She laughed, for no reason that I could see, and I noted that all of her teeth were unusually large for the size of her mouth. It was hard to imagine what she would look like without the conspicuous dental defects, for her smile completely overtook her features. It was as if a weed had suddenly produced a grotesque bloom. I nodded and pulled my hand from hers, quite forcefully, she told me later. Just then Francine burst into the cafeteria whistling. She stopped when she saw Birdie and me.

  “Hey, hey, hey, everybody,” she said. Then she saluted me and spoke in the staccato fashion of a serviceman to his officer. “Here’s Francine, reporting to duty, sir! Ready to fill up the bellies of all the little starvin’ children of Filbert, sir! Forward, march!” Francine’s attempts at humor are invariably weak and ill-timed.

  Birdie smiled at her, however, and said, “How do you do,” at which point Algeria wandered in, silent and surly as is her morning custom.

  “Let us begin the preliminaries,” I said, turning to lead the way from the lunchroom into the kitchen. I went into my office cubicle and picked up from my desk a folder, the tab of wh
ich bore the label Opening Staff Meeting, then went back out into the kitchen, seated myself on a tall stool at the big stainless steel worktable, and waited for the other three women to do the same.

  Birdie pulled up a stool next to Algeria, who glowered darkly at her before flinging her keys onto the metal tabletop with a fierce clatter. Francine, smiling blithely, sat down heavily next to me and began picking from her black T-shirt what looked like hairs from a white feline. I leaned over to her and said, “Let me remind you, Francine, that a floor strewn with animal hair is not a clean floor. I will conduct my standard fall inspection on Friday.”

  Francine looked at me blankly for a brief second, then carefully, with thumb and forefinger, pulled another white hair from her sleeve, stretched open the top of her T-shirt with her other hand, dropped the hair inside, patted her chest, and grinned at me. Francine has a vulgar streak. “There,” she said. She and Algeria exchanged glances, and Algeria grunted—a sound she often intends as a form of laughter. I chose to ignore Francine’s small act of rebellion.

  “As we all know, Vonnie Lee is no longer with us,” I said, addressing all three women. “Bernadetta Freeman will be serving in her place.” I paused and looked at Birdie, whose face wore the expectant look of a six-year-old. Her torso swayed slightly, and it occurred to me that she must be swinging her feet. Pointing to myself, I said, “I am Margaret Tuttle, the lunchroom supervisor. Next to me is Francine Perkins, and across from me is Algeria Simms.”