Some Wildflower In My Heart (10 page)

A red Volkswagen stopped in the lane next to mine, evil black fumes curling from its exhaust pipe, and the teenager behind the steering wheel looked at me with the churlish expression of one long accustomed to doing battle with adults. Next to my car was a narrow, raised concrete median, separating the two northbound lanes from the two southbound. A metal pole, painted in black and yellow stripes, rose about four feet from the center of the median, serving as a warning marker. The pole was capped with a rounded metal cone, and upon this cap I upended the little canvas shoe. If the child's mother frequently drove this route, I reasoned, she would certainly spot the missing shoe—unless someone else took it first.

The teenager was still watching me furtively, but when the light turned green, his car sprang forward. I returned to my own car, the thoughts of loss and waste troubling me, and continued on my way, trying not to think about the possibility of the teenager in the Volkswagen returning to take the shoe, perhaps to dangle from his rearview mirror as a trophy of yet another victory over the impotent adult world.

I sincerely endeavored that day to erase from my mind the image of the child's shoe. One reason is that the thought of the tiny canvas sneaker evoked memories from which I must take constant care to distance myself. Even today I can close my eyes and feel the weight of a small foot within the palm of my hand and can recall the frequent tying of laces as if it were yesterday. Another reason is that my solution to the dilemma—the transfer of the shoe from the road to the top of the pole—filled me with great unrest, for it reminded me again of the many unsatisfying choices in life.

I had long been resigned to the fact that life held very few grand, well-marked crossroads at which the signposts of
Good
or
Evil
flashed unmistakably. There were a few of them, of course; diverging roads at which point the traveler had to make a single, life-altering choice. My decision to leave my grandfather's house at the age of seventeen was one such choice. I know now, however, that even these momentous choices rarely, if ever, lead to either unalloyed happiness or to abject misery of soul. Life's choices, I learned long ago, are difficult and unrewarding, even in so small a matter as what to do with a child's lost shoe. Even right decisions bring doubts and twinges of regret.

As I drove on my way that day, the phrase “Traveling through the dark” preyed upon my mind, the words coming from the title and opening line of a poem by William Stafford, in which a driver must decide whether to leave a dead doe on the road or push her over the mountainside into the canyon below. The speaker's dilemma is complicated when he realizes that within the doe lies an unborn fawn; he can see its movement. Now, as I thought of the poem and of the narrator's decision to sacrifice the fawn for the safety of other motorists, my spirits were dampened by the reminder of life's dark, cramped corners. I set about presently, however, to put these thoughts out of my mind, disturbed at myself for overreacting to an event of so little consequence as a boy's lost sneaker.

When I arrived at school, though I still felt unsettled, I determined to immerse myself at once in the simple, familiar tasks before me. Birdie arrived at a quarter of seven, and Algeria and Francine walked in together only seconds later. Because the children who qualified for the government's Start-Off-Right program began arriving at the cafeteria at 7:50 for their free breakfast, we had no idle time in the mornings. By 6:53 all three women were busy with their kitchen duties.

When I came out of my office at 7:20, Birdie was standing beside the heavy aluminum cauldron that we used for heating water. The water was steaming, on the verge of boiling, small silver bubbles sliding up the sides to bob at the surface, then vanish quickly. I could hear the muted rumbling and gurgling within the cauldron, the ticking sound of the electric burner that presaged the full, roiling eruption. Even today I find it difficult to sit at my desk when I sense this prelude to boiling. I often come out to be on hand when the boiling commences. In her left hand Birdie held a large Pyrex measuring bowl of oatmeal and in her right our largest wooden spoon with the longest handle.

She flashed me a smile. “I guess it's true what they say about a watched pot, isn't it?” She clutched the handle of the measuring bowl tightly. The spout was poised above the rim of the cauldron, ready to release the contents at the proper moment.

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 children,” 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.”