As I gazed into the pot, the bubbles grew larger and gradually began swirling and foaming, then rapidly accelerated into a turbulent boil. I watched Birdie slowly poured the dry oats into the cauldron, stirring all the while. The steam rose toward her, but she did not retreat. Nor did she throw resentful glances toward me in the manner of Algeria and Francine when they felt intruded upon. Once when I was standing behind Algeria, she had inquired huffily, “Here—you wantin’ to do this yo’self?” and had even thrust the stirring spoon toward me. Instead, Birdie said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a big pot of oatmeal as this, and I know for sure I’ve never made one!”
No one knew, nor did I reveal, the cause of my extreme solicitousness in the boiling of water. The narrator of Poe’s story “The Tell-Tale Heart” speaks of the heightened awareness of his senses, especially of his hearing, as a result of a peculiar disease. “I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth,” he says. “I heard many things in hell.” I, too, have suffered the hearing of many hideous sounds, among them the hiss of boiling water, the tremendous clatter of an upset pot, and the tortured screams that ensued.
Birdie continued to stir the oatmeal, reducing the heat until the mixture merely simmered. “Algeria told me how to do this to make the amount come out right,” she said, looking up at me jubilantly as if she had perfected a great art. I moved away without speaking to correct an error that I noted in Francine’s preparation of cheese toast. She had taken from the refrigerator a new box of sliced cheese rather than finishing the box that we had opened on Monday for cheeseburgers.
It has occurred to me that the way a writer acquaints his readers with a character in his story should be no different from the way we come to know someone in ordinary life. Since I began writing my story, I have wrestled with the insurmountable obstacle of describing on paper the enormous composite reality of Birdie Freeman. I see the task more clearly as my tale grows, for I understand that though it is a painstaking process, the drawing of her portrait must be accomplished through “minutely organized particulars,” to borrow the words of William Blake, a poet whose words I seldom find cause to borrow, for I have always felt that Blake was too conscious of himself as he composed his verse. I would have liked him more as a poet had he been less of a mystic. The point, however, is that by piling up specific evidence, I shall eventually succeed, and you shall know Birdie as I knew her.
Twenty-five minutes after Birdie had emptied the oats into the boiling water, the children began filing in for breakfast. Each morning I stood at the end of the line to mark my forms for the government. I watched the children receive their trays in the kitchen and then exit into the cafeteria to sit at the three tables nearest the door.
This morning I observed Birdie as she set the bowls of oatmeal onto each tray. Francine stood to her left, adding a piece of cheese toast, an orange, and a carton of milk. Algeria was at the stove ladling oatmeal into bowls. These she placed, a dozen at a time, onto a large tray, which she then carried over to the serving line. As Birdie emptied each tray of its twelve bowls, Algeria took an empty tray back to resupply it with full bowls.
The children chattered freely, laughing and shoving one another playfully, but the women did not talk among themselves during the time they were serving. I watched this morning, however, as Birdie spoke directly to each child, something Francine and Algeria never did when they served unless asked a question.
Vonnie Lee had been fond of teasing the children, though not individually, and they had liked her despite the fact that they rarely understood what she was saying when she tossed out bits of nonsense such as “Hey, it’s the little old lady from Pasadena!” or “It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to!” Although Francine had children of her own, she seemed, for the most part, uninterested in those of other people. Algeria, though I often saw her quick eyes scanning their faces with something akin to hunger, held herself aloof from the children. We were in many ways, I suppose, an odd lot to be working in the cafeteria of an elementary school.
I had always strongly recommended that my workers refrain from fraternizing with the pupils in order not to interfere with the efficiency of our serving, and this had become a tacit regulation. I realized this morning, however, that I had failed to repeat the injunction in our opening meeting this year, and now as Birdie encircled the rim of each bowl with her small hands and lifted it onto every tray in turn, she addressed each child. “It’s hot, honey,” she said, or “Blow on it a little before you eat it, sweetie.” She looked at every child as she spoke, and I saw that she had already learned the names of several. “Good morning there, Maria, here’s some nice hot breakfast” or “This here will make those bright eyes even shinier—Lamont, isn’t that your name, sweetheart?”
After all 130 children were served, I observed Birdie as she went out into the cafeteria and bent over a fifth-grade girl sitting at the end of a table. I knew who the child was and understood well why she always sat alone. Mrs. Triplett, the school nurse, had attempted at one time to intervene but had been rudely rebuffed by both the girl, whose name was Jasmine Finney, and her grandmother, with whom she lived.
Birdie spoke to Jasmine only a moment, then stooped down and appeared to look at the child’s feet. When she returned to the kitchen, I called her into my office. I stood behind my desk to address her. “Here at Emma Weldy, your duties are to be confined to the kitchen,” I said. Even as I spoke, I was aware that my words sounded cold and sodden.
“Oh, I understand that, Margaret,” Birdie said with a sprightly nod. “I was just saying a word to little Jasmine.” I had never thought of the child as “little Jasmine,” considering her hefty size and her malicious temperament.
“You were hired to prepare and serve the meals here,” I said, “and anything that distracts you from those duties will be a detriment to the success of your employment.” Birdie looked up at me quizzically, turning her head slightly as if straining to hear an inflection by which she would know that my words were in jest.
I continued. “Each pupil here at Emma Weldy has ready access to a teacher, a counselor, and a principal, all of whom are professionally equipped to deal with the problems of children. Your concern must be in the refining of your kitchen skills. When serving the children, you will no doubt see the wisdom of keeping silent so that we can all make better use of our time.”
I stopped and looked past Birdie into the kitchen. Algeria and Francine, though pretending to be busy, were casting surreptitious glances in our direction.
At the same moment that I saw Algeria lift the cauldron from the stove, I realized that Birdie was shaking her head. “Oh, Margaret,” she said, and she continued to shake her head quite briskly. “My heart would just shrivel up inside of me if I couldn’t talk to the children.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, averting my eyes.
She reached out and touched the cuff of my blouse. “You don’t mean this as strict as it sounds. I know you don’t. I can see it in your eyes, Margaret. You just mean for me to be sure to put my work first, and I understand that. I really do—and I will, too. You can count on that.”
“I do not say things that I do not mean,” I said. I took one step back, and her hand fell from my wrist.
Birdie’s expression tightened, and as her front teeth clamped over her lower lip, two deep, dimplelike indentations formed on either side of her mouth, though she was not smiling. She glanced down at her shoes—she had exchanged the black canvas sneakers that she had worn the first day for white ones—then again brought her eyes to mine, lifting her chin just slightly. With astonishment I saw that her eyes were rimmed with tears.
“If you want me to leave my job, I will,” she said. Her voice did not quaver, but from the corner of one eye a tear overflowed messily.
“I was not suggesting that you resign,” I said. Acutely peeved over her show of emotion, I am sure that I must have raised my voice.
“Oh, but I’ll have to if I can’t be friendly with the childr
en,” she said, wiping her cheek with the flat of her hand. She spoke softly, but her tone was resolute. I knew that she was not staging a performance merely to get her way. I was certain that, if pressed, Birdie Freeman would remove her hairnet and white plastic apron at this very moment and take her leave.
“Your primary duties here at our school are to be confined to the kitchen,” I repeated firmly, yet I realized that I had added what amounted to a qualifier.
“I know that, Margaret.” The pool of tears had already begun to recede, I noticed. Only the one had spilled over. The two of us gazed at each other for several moments, during which time I noted that one of her brown eyes contained a fleck of amber, like a tiny shard of bottle glass embedded into the iris. Birdie spoke at last. “I give you my word that I won’t let my interest in the boys and girls get in the way of doing my job.”
“Take care that it does not,” I said, and turning my back on her, I picked up the weekly menu and studied it, though I knew it by heart.
I waited for her to leave my office cubicle, but when I turned my head I could see that she was still there. “You are free to go,” I said.
Behind me her voice was low and mournful. “There’s just so many problems, aren’t there?” I did not answer. “Some of these poor babies break my heart—but I needed your reminder, Margaret, and I truly will try not to let myself get too wrapped up in their little lives. I’m a kitchen worker.”
“Very well,” I said, and I turned abruptly, brushed past her, and left her standing in my office.
The next morning I saw that Birdie had come to school with a large brown paper bag, and when she reached inside and removed a shoe box I knew at once what she had done. After the children filed through for breakfast, I retreated to the pantry to open a large box containing eight-pound cans of pinto beans. These I began arranging on a shelf. From the pantry I heard Birdie speaking to the children who came back for second helpings. “There you are, sweetheart.” “I bet you just love pancakes, don’t you, honey?” “That sure is a pretty barrette, Lindy.” I afterward busied myself straightening the boxes of gelatin and pudding mix, then checked to see how many packages of paper napkins were on the shelf.
By the time I returned to the kitchen, Birdie was helping Francine prepare the apple cobbler to be served at lunch. I noticed that the shoe box was still sitting in the cupboard where the workers stored their personal belongings, but the lid had been removed, and the box was now empty. Later, when the classes passed through for lunch, I made a point of looking at Jasmine Finney’s feet. As I had suspected, the girl wore a brand-new pair of sneakers, huge white ones with purple and pink stripes stitched down the sides. She wore the same malignant expression on her face, however, and as she passed me, I heard the echo of Birdie’s gentle, sorrowful words from the day before, like the voice of doves. “There’s just so many problems, aren’t there? Some of these poor babies break my heart.”
It struck me as a curious coincidence that the inadequate footwear of a child had recently been brought to the attention of both Birdie and me. I could not help wondering that day what course Birdie would have taken had she been in my place at the traffic light the morning before.
The shoe was still on the striped pole when I drove past the intersection the following two days but was gone by Monday of the next week. I never pass that way now without visions of shoes filling my mind—my own saddle oxfords of long ago, which I had recalled that day as I considered the matter of gifts; the ragged shoe flung from a car window by an anonymous toddler; the large white sneakers on the feet of Jasmine Finney; Birdie’s canvas Keds. And each time I pass the intersection, I pause to contemplate the quiet aggressiveness of one small woman against the problems of the world, then to question the lasting consequence of her good deeds.
7
A Tinkling Cymbal
I am no longer writing my story by longhand in my red spiral notebooks. Let me explain how this change came about.
Two days ago Thomas came home at one-thirty in the afternoon to search for a receipt verifying the recent purchase of two new tires for his pickup truck, one of which was proving unsatisfactory. He entered through the kitchen door, as he typically does, and made his way directly to his bedroom. I heard him rummaging about noisily, as I suppose all men do, and after many thumps and exclamations I heard him cry, “There she is, by jings!” Had I known what he sought, I would have instructed him to look first in the pockets of his overalls, which is precisely where he had located the missing receipt. I never wash a pair of his overalls without checking the pockets, and my search invariably yields candy wrappers, nuts and bolts, loose change, and the like. In many ways Thomas is simply a very tall little boy.
As he passed through the hallway on his way back to the kitchen, he must have glanced into the living room, for he stopped abruptly. I did not look up but was aware of his presence. He inhaled sharply and stood there for several moments before speaking.
“Margaret.” It was not a question but a statement of moderate surprise.
“Yes.” I continued writing, though I later had to delete the entire ungainly sentence and reconstruct the thought more gracefully.
“You mean to say you’re sittin’ here writin’ in those red books of yours all day long and nights, too?” His tone was not accusatory; rather, he seemed to be awed by the fact. To this point, Thomas had made no outward sign of noticing my nightly occupation.
I looked up. Thomas was wearing his oldest pair of overalls and a faded but well-pressed red shirt. On the wall behind his head hung a large handmade clock with a triangular wooden frame and hands comprised of flattened nails. Norman Lang, the owner of the hardware store where Thomas rents the space for his vacuum repair business, had custom-designed it for our wedding gift in 1979. Though it violated all principles of aesthetics, I had watched without comment on the day before our marriage as Thomas proudly hung it on a prominent wall in my duplex, where we were to live.
Thomas stood now in the small hallway gazing at me, his hands clasped behind his back, his neck extended forward, his head tilted as though examining an encased museum relic. The triangular clock, positioned as it was behind him, made him appear to be wearing a colonial hat such as those worn in the days of George Washington. The effect could have been comical had I not been annoyed by the interruption.
“Is it somethin’ that needs to be put down on paper so bad you gotta spend all day and night doin’ it?” he asked.
His questioning me thus struck me with sudden force as further evidence of his increasing boldness. A year ago he would not have dared interrogate me so. One of the side effects of a large steady dose of Birdie Freeman has been, I suppose, a diminishing of my customary brusqueness toward Thomas. As a result, he now approaches me more frequently and unabashedly with direct questions and opinions. Of my evolving relationship with Thomas, more will come later.
Though I have tolerated his gradually expanding inquisitiveness, yesterday I was suddenly moved to wrath by his encroachment.
“My time is my own, is it not?” I said irritably. “You see no dust upon the furniture, do you? Your clothes, which you simply drop into the hamper, continue to be returned to your bureau washed and ironed, do they not? You have not yet come home to find your table empty at mealtimes, have you?” My words sounded harsh even to me, and I could not look Thomas in the eye as I spoke them.
The air between us was still, though the small air conditioning unit in the window labored continuously. Thomas took a step forward as if to attempt pacification, then apparently reconsidered. He turned slowly into the kitchen and exited through the back door, closing it quietly behind him.
Feeling chastened by his mildness, as I often do, I tried to continue writing but found my thoughts resistant to molding. At the time, I was endeavoring to recreate my conversation with Birdie concerning her excessive communication with the children in the serving line. For the first time since I began writing my story two weeks ago, I found myself groping for wo
rds, or rather, desperately pursuing them. The sentences would form themselves in my mind, appropriately worded, but in the brief moment between the flash of thought and the applying of my pencil to the paper, they would begin to dissipate. I would quickly snatch the ones I could recall but upon rereading a passage would deplore its hollowness.
I struggled on for the better part of an hour before giving it over. If Thomas had not broken my thought, I am quite certain that I could have finished the chapter that afternoon. I suppose this was my first experience with what I have heard labeled as “writer’s block,” a term I had previously suspected to be merely a weak excuse invented by slothful writers.
As I recall, I abandoned my writing for a time and spent the next hour in the kitchen making preparations for supper. I do not assemble meals in the hasty, slapdash manner shown on television commercials. My suppers never consist of an indistinguishable sauce poured from a jar over heaps of rice or noodles. Though it was only midafternoon, I prepared the chicken for baking, placed it in a covered dish for the time being, and then set it in the refrigerator. That done, I mixed the batter for a cake of which Thomas was especially fond. Several years ago I had experimented with a recipe for fresh strawberry cake, adapting it from my best recipe for white cake, and Thomas had eaten three pieces the first night I served it.
I was not making the cake, I told myself, as penance for my curt response to him earlier that afternoon; rather, I needed to use some of the strawberries that he had brought home the day before. By now we had already eaten the two pints that Joan had brought us. I placed the cake in the oven to bake, set the timer, and began peeling carrots.
As I worked in the kitchen, my mind returned to my story, and gradually finding myself once again in calm possession of my thoughts, I sat down and opened my notebook around four o’clock to resume my writing but was interrupted shortly thereafter by a telephone call from a representative of Bellaire Marketing Research. It was a woman’s voice, inarticulate and poorly modulated. She mumbled her first name—Doris—and then immediately launched into quite a lengthy introduction of the organization’s services, stumbling over a number of words and mispronouncing subsidiary and cyclical.
Some Wildflower In My Heart Page 8
