Some Wildflower In My Heart

by Jamie Langston Turner

  As the schoolmaster tore up the note in the closing moments of the play, thus implying that the relationship had ended, I was relieved that he had extricated himself in a timely fashion from what was destined to be a miserable union. I sympathized with the man—something I rarely do in works of literature—as I contemplated the intrusion of such a flighty, undisciplined girl upon his well-ordered life. Furthermore, I felt that his character had been misrepresented in the drama, that he had been made a caricature, while the girl had been granted undeserved favor simply for being gaily youthful.

  The Twelve-Pound Look impressed me as adhering faithfully to the playwright’s intent. I believe that J. M. Barrie meant to evoke scorn and contempt for the arrogant, heavy-handed husband who had driven away his first wife and was clearly in the process of doing the same with his second.

  Susan Glaspell’s play Trifles was, in my opinion, the strongest work performed that night, the title summarizing ironic truths: that small acts can lead to tumult, that what seems to be a mere triviality may hold the key to a great mystery, that while the slenderest thread of hope is often enough to sustain life, the snapping of that thread can wreak sudden and total destruction. The play examines what can happen when a lonely woman lives with a hard man. It explores on a very human level the struggle between emotion and reason, between compassion and duty, between love and law. Though afterward I heatedly stated to Joan my objections to the conclusion that grows out of this play, I acknowledge the truth that when the human soul is wrung dry of hope, normal standards of decency are often abandoned. I do not say that this is right; I say that it is so. I know a great deal about hopelessness.

  At the Second Cup Coffee Shoppe, where Joan ordered espresso and I a cup of hot raspberry tea, we exchanged our opinions of the three plays. She removed her chewing gum from her mouth and set it on a paper napkin, which she then wadded into a ball. As we talked, Joan wrote copiously in her stenographer’s pad, expanding the notes she had taken during the program, striking through certain lines, drawing arrows, and at one point even rotating her pad as she wrote around the perimeter of a page. From time to time she tidied her bangs, starting at her left temple and running a forefinger in an arc across her brow and down to her right temple. It is a mindless habit that she performs often, and it is a wonder that her finger has not worn a curved groove into her forehead. At last she looked at her watch and slid out of the booth. I followed.

  As we started home, I noted that Joan seemed less edgy than earlier. No doubt the plays had taken her mind off whatever had been troubling her. We traveled in silence for several minutes after leaving Greenville. It was a dark night, I recall, with a waxing moon of butter yellow. That night it was “just a big old lopsided beach ball,” as Thomas describes the stage just prior to its reaching maximum fullness.

  Suddenly, Joan blurted out a most amazing question, one for which I was totally unprepared. I must clarify that before this point she had never trespassed into my personal life, nor I into hers. Though I knew sketchy details of her family background, she knew almost nothing of mine except that I had married her cousin more than fifteen years ago.

  “What do you think of men in general, Margaret?” That was her question. I was stunned.

  In the silence that followed, I quickly considered why she might ask me such a question. Hoping that it was merely a stray thought resulting from the three plays that we had attended that evening, I framed a cautious, oblique response. “As we agreed earlier, I believe the three plays can be seen as a collective statement that men often undervalue women.”

  She lifted one hand from the steering wheel in a weary gesture. “Oh, I know that,” she said, “but I’m talking about the men you know. Do you have faith in them? Or can you really have faith in anybody these days? Is marriage just the ultimate gamble, or is there some way to know if it’s going to hold up? I keep thinking of all the men in history, all the way from Adam—if there ever really was such a man—on through the pharaohs of Egypt and the Greek philosophers and the Roman generals and the pilgrim fathers and the explorers and inventors and log-cabin politicians and all the rest. Were any of them really great men of history? Or forget the history part—were they as great in private as everybody thought they were in public?”

  A line from Montana 1948, a novel by Larry Watson and the winner of the 1993 Milkweed National Fiction Prize, sprang to my mind, and I spoke it aloud. “‘I find history endlessly amusing.’”

  She replied immediately. “Why’s that?”

  I went on to paraphrase the narrator of Mr. Watson’s story. “No one ever knows the true story of a man’s life. Behind the records of public history lies a dung heap of shameful, private deeds.”

  Joan’s low, breathy laugh gave no evidence of amusement. “I guess that answers my question. So you think those men in history weren’t great at all?” With hardly a pause she continued. “And are you making a blanket statement about all men?”

  “Because of his physical power and rampant ego, a man is predisposed to violate the trust of helpless, dependent women. And I am not using the noun man in a generic sense to include all of humankind. I am speaking of the male of our species.” The caustic nature of my reply must have shocked Joan, for I saw that she glanced at me sharply.

  Neither of us spoke again for a full minute. I did not want to talk further, wishing already that I had responded with less venom. Joan seemed wary of questioning me more, but at last she said quietly, “I hope you’re not saying that Thomas mistreats you, Margaret.”

  At that I emitted a short, derisive laugh. “Thomas is the ideal man, for he leaves me alone.”

  She seemed to relax. “Well, I guess I should be relieved. I was sitting here trying to imagine such a thing, and I couldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t see Thomas hurting a flea, for one thing, but I also couldn’t see you putting up with it for a second if anybody did try something like that.”

  Ready to clear the air, I saw an opportunity to lay the cause for my sudden vehemence upon Larry Watson’s novel, referred to earlier, and thus divert Joan’s attention from myself. “Have you read Montana 1948?” I asked. Had I prudently considered my question, I certainly would have foreseen its potential danger of opening up a risky line of conversation. The book’s initial effect upon me had been painful, as of the salting of deep wounds. Why did I think that I could now discuss it casually? I was later to chastise myself soundly for speaking in haste rather than holding my tongue.

  Joan was immediately interested, for we often recommended books to each other. “No, what is it?”

  “A novel.”

  “Is it good?”

  “It is both simple and complex, vividly specific yet profoundly universal. It is a good story, yet a horrible one.”

  Joan laughed. “Well, you’ve sure grabbed my attention. What’s it about?”

  Again, without thinking ahead, I answered. “A white doctor and an Indian woman who is his patient.”

  She nodded, frowning thoughtfully. “Oh, I think I can predict that one. The doctor abuses the Indian woman, right?” Joan’s mind is quick and nearly always accurate in making connections.

  “I do not want to spoil the book for you,” I replied.

  Joan pointed to a billboard on Highway 11 advertising the Dairy Queen in Filbert. “They’re open till midnight on weekends, I think. Do you mind if I stop for a shake? I’m about to faint for something sweet.”

  I was tempted to request that she drive me home first, but I merely shook my head.

  Unfortunately, she had no intention of changing the subject. “So you think the doctor in this book represents men in general? If given half a chance, any man would do the same?”

  “The evil of which men are capable is boundless,” I said.

  She sighed. “I know some pretty lousy women, too,” she said. “In fact, did you ever take a look at that book by Margaret Atwood I told you about? The Robber Bride?”

  I nodded.

  “That was her point, remember
?” Joan continued. “She summed it all up in that character Zenia. See, if I’m going to be a feminist, I’ve got to be ready to admit that women can be just as mean and ratty as men. At least I think that was one of her points. And that means we’re every bit as morally responsible as men for the mean, ratty things we do.”

  “I care not one whit for feminism,” I said.

  “Well, you can say that all you want, but I think the feminist movement was created by and for women who are angry, truly angry at a deep level. And that anger is always directed at men.” She paused. “Not that we don’t have good reason to be angry—some of us.”

  When I remained silent, she sighed again. “How did we get off on this? Margaret, you sure aren’t helping me any.” She pounded the steering wheel lightly with the heel of one hand and added, “I’m trying to sort out my feelings right now, and they all seem to revolve around two men. Here I am, almost forty years old, and I just can’t reconcile things.”

  I felt myself go cold. I had no desire to serve as confidante or counselor. I had nothing to say to Joan concerning the men in her personal life. I turned my head to the right and studied the scattered houses that we were passing on the outskirts of Filbert, most of which were dark. Those in the working class of Filbert were not given to late-night carousing.

  “I can’t quit thinking about the last three years of Daddy’s life,” Joan said. “I was awful.” I thought at first that she must have meant to say, “It was awful,” but she clearly said, “I was awful.” No doubt the reader will remember that it was Joan’s father and Thomas’s uncle Mayfield Spalding whose funeral I described at the beginning of my narrative.

  When I did not respond, she continued. “You know, he’d started going to that church in Derby and had turned religious. Then he started on a campaign to ‘mend our relationship,’ he called it. He started calling me on the phone and sending me cards and leaving all kinds of gifts on my back porch—strange stuff you wouldn’t think of, like a brass door knocker with a J monogrammed on it and an umbrella with pictures of jungle birds all over it. Once it was a two-pound box of imported Dutch cocoa, and—oh, here we are.”

  Joan pulled into the Dairy Queen and turned off the ignition, then reached for her purse on the seat between us. As she removed her billfold, she laughed dryly. “I always hung up when he called, and I tore up the cards as soon as I read them. I didn’t want to read them, but I always did. I kept the gifts and even used some of them, believe it or not.” She took out a five-dollar bill. “You want anything?”

  “No,” I said, as she got out of the car.

  I watched Joan speak to the young man behind the order window, then throw her head back and close her eyes. She reached back with one hand, gathered a clump of her dark shiny hair near the crown of her head and crushed it, then slowly released it, letting it sift through her fingers. She repeated this action several times, then shook her head vigorously and ran her finger around the fringe of her bangs.

  It was clear by now that one of the two men to whom she had alluded was her deceased father. Though I do not intrude into matters that are none of my concern, I could not help wondering who the other man was. I had known Joan only as a single woman and had difficulty now trying to imagine her otherwise.

  When she returned to the car with her milk shake, I was disappointed to see that she made no move to put the car in motion. Furthermore, she had not lost her train of thought.

  She dipped her spoon into her milk shake, filled it, and then slowly, pensively placed the spoon in her mouth. I looked at my watch, hoping to signal my wish to be taken home, but she appeared not to notice.

  “That poor man tried and tried,” she said after a few moments, “but I never let him get to first base. I didn’t have a chip on my shoulder—I had a boulder. I think I always meant to give in sooner or later and start patching things up, but then he died. There I was, getting my jollies out of holding a grudge, and all of a sudden he was gone. I tried to stay mad at him. I even went to the funeral mad. But I know now that I was mad at myself and at my brothers because I knew Daddy had tried to settle things with them, too. We were all in cahoots against him. We’d call one another and compare notes on everything he did. At the funeral I was ticked off, I guess, that we wouldn’t have him to kick around anymore. He’d gone and pulled a fast one on us. But underneath it all, of course, was this huge load of guilt. I was mad at myself for not giving him a chance, and I was mad at my brothers for their part in our little conspiracy.”

  Though I did not want to hear Joan’s confession, I was thankful that her thoughts had turned inward and that she was no longer quizzing me; therefore, I said nothing. She continued, as if finding great comfort in the outpouring. “And he thought of us even in planning his funeral. That preacher at his church said Daddy had asked to have the funeral at Mortland’s since he thought we kids would be more likely to come to it than if they had it in a church, and he wanted to make it easier for us.” She broke off with a brittle laugh. “Daddy—I can’t believe I’m calling him that after all these years. It doesn’t fit, does it, for somebody you spent your life hating?”

  She stirred her milk shake and then turned to me. “Margaret …”

  I knew that she wanted me to look at her, and after her pause grew uncomfortably lengthy, I relented.

  “Margaret, I was awful. I wanted to make him suffer for all those years I didn’t have a mother, for not ever noticing I was alive unless I burned the toast or didn’t have his shirts starched just right. As if punishing him now was going to erase it all.”

  Turning my eyes from hers, I realized that I was breathing more heavily than usual.

  She continued. “Every day I’d think of something I’d almost forgotten from my childhood, and I’d get a little harder. I remembered the way he’d watch my brothers gang up on me for trying to make them behave. He’d just watch them punch at me or pull my hair, all three of them at the same time, yelling and poking me from all sides, and he’d walk out of the room.”

  She stopped and took several furious draws on her striped straw. “Of course, I was bigger than they were and could defend myself pretty well, but the point was he never showed me that he cared about what happened to me. He never came to school and talked with my teachers. He never let me sign up for any kind of team or club or any of those things kids do. We could never have a dog or cat, not even a sorry little goldfish. The first time I went to the dentist was when I was ten years old, and my aunt Geri took me then. I was just like a piece of furniture to him. He never talked to us. He was always wrapped up in a hard little knot when he came home. When I was fifteen—fifteen—I took some money out of his wallet one day and bought myself a bra at Woolworth’s. He’d never even noticed I needed one.”

  Still, I made no reply.

  “He never once hugged me, Margaret. He never kissed me. He never even touched me.”

  Though I take pride in my self-control, at that moment my composure was straightway shattered, and I cried out passionately, “And for that you should count yourself among the blessed, Joan Spalding!”

  Joan gasped audibly and sat motionless. I looked down at my hands and saw them balled into fists. I willed myself to loosen them and lay them flat, palms downward, in my lap. I concentrated on taking slow, regular breaths.

  As I said, Joan is smart; she infers accurately from the barest clues. When she spoke again, I could hardly hear her words. “I’m sorry, Margaret. I never dreamed…who did it to you, Margaret? Your father?”

  I could not answer. I looked out the car window and saw the teenaged boy inside the Dairy Queen close the order window and lower an interior shade over it, then turn off the fluorescent light that illuminated the large menu board.

  “And that’s why the book you were talking about upset you so much,” Joan said. “You must just want to choke me, blubbering on and on about a father who wouldn’t let me join Girl Scouts or have a puppy, and you’re carrying something like that around inside you.” She exha
led slowly. “I can’t think of anything to say except I’m sorry. And that’s pretty weak.” She lifted her milk shake, then stopped. She opened the car door and walked slowly to the trash bin, where she deposited the cup. When she returned, she started the engine, and as we pulled out of the Dairy Queen, she asked, “Have you ever told anybody about your father?”

  “It was not my father,” I stated flatly. “And telling people neither alters the facts nor repairs the damage. At any rate, my grandfather was a pillar of the community. No one would have believed me.”

  As we rode toward my house, Joan fell silent. She seemed to be done with questions. I gazed through the window at the countryside, aglow under the yellow moon, and I felt again the utter darkness of my night seasons as a girl when a great black cloud hid the moon.

  10

  The Fragments That Remain

  I must return now to Birdie, but first a final word about the disclosure of my grandfather’s sordid deeds. As indicated to Joan, I had indeed read parts of Margaret Atwood’s novel The Robber Bride. Of the three interwoven stories in the book, I lost myself most thoroughly in the life of Karis, who as a girl had been misused by her uncle Vernon.

  It is a fact, I believe, that incidents of particular distress to an individual may continually repeat themselves forever afterward as one reads or hears of similar occurrences in the lives of others and thus experiences again and again his own personal tragedy. I say may continually repeat themselves, for I have read many accounts of the mind’s unique means of protecting itself by obliterating the memory of such unspeakable suffering. My mind did not perform this merciful feat, however, and every day of my life I have lived with the dark knowledge of my grandfather’s heinous acts upon me.

  I clearly recall feeling a flash of envy, and of something akin to wistfulness, upon reading in The Robber Bride that Karis’s uncle had ceased to abuse her when she reached puberty, for he feared the possibility of pregnancy. Had my grandfather been of the same mind, my torment, though inalterably devastating and unforgivable, would have been short-lived, for I was already thirteen when my mother died and I went to live with my grandparents.