Some Wildflower In My Heart (56 page)

“Oh, heavens!” she said, fanning her face. “I love children, but I couldn't teach! I didn't go to college a single day!”

“People of all ages pursue college degrees,” I said.

“Well, I don't believe I'm up to that,” she said. I detected a wistfulness of tone, however, even as she protested, but the moment passed. “Now,
you're
the one who should be looking into college courses!” she said. “You really ought to think about going further with your music, Margaret, and I mean it!” Clearly, she was determined to talk about me and not herself.

The following Saturday evening, April 15, we met Birdie and Mickey, along with Joan and Virgil, at C. C.'s Barbecue, located on the main street of Filbert between The Golden Toe Shoe Repair Shop and Sparky's Office Supply. Short on decor but long on taste, C. C.'s Barbecue attracts a multitude of customers from all parts of the state and was even featured several years ago in a regional book titled
Southern Spice: Barbecue in the Southeast
. To secure seating, it is necessary to arrive early, and this we did. By five o'clock the six of us were seated in a large booth next to the front window. I noticed that although the blinds were free from dust and the window glass was wiped to a sheen, a dead spider lay curled up in the corner of the sill.

C. C.'s was named after its original owner, a man whose full name had been Christopher Columbus Boatwright and whose recipe for barbecue had purportedly been a family secret for over one hundred years. C. C. Boatwright had moved his family to South Carolina from Kentucky in the early 1950s and had opened C. C.'s Barbecue in 1955. By all appearances no changes had been made in the furnishings of the interior since its opening. Aside from the spider, however, it was clean. The present proprietor is a grandson of C. C., with the curious name of Wooster Sneed Boatwright.

Joan and Virgil were by now seeing each other quite regularly, and together they had visited the Church of the Open Door in Derby three or four times, although Virgil was still actively involved in his own church in Filbert. Joan had attended his church several times, also.

It had been Birdie's idea to invite them to meet us at C. C.'s. She had inquired about them repeatedly since our evening at the Field Pea Restaurant in November and, according to Joan, had welcomed them enthusiastically, almost embarrassingly so, each time she had seen them together at church. Since Christmas Joan had not sought my counsel concerning her relationship with Virgil but had told me twice that “things were looking pretty good,” which I took to mean either that she was moving closer to the acceptance of Virgil's theological ideals or that he was slowly removing himself from the tentacles of his religion. I felt the former to be the more likely of the two. I did not interrogate her, nor did she offer details.

As C. C.'s Barbecue offers only a buffet-style meal—serving pork, chicken, beef, mutton, and a dozen vegetables—there was considerable shuffling about and a great deal of coming and going among the six of us as we ate our dinner. Though the continuity of our conversation suffered somewhat, there was no lack of volume, both in the sense of quantity and loudness, most of it being light banter and casual observations.

I hold in my mind three memories of Birdie from this night. First, I recall that Virgil spoke at length about the mysterious stone colossi on Easter Island in the Pacific Ocean, and when he had finished, Birdie said, “How fascinating. I've never even
heard
of Easter Island before!” She shook her head and added, “Margaret's been putting ideas about college in my head, but if I ever did try to get in, I'm afraid they'd just laugh and say I had to start all over in first grade.”

Mickey objected promptly and loudly, declaring Birdie to be “smarter than a whip” and telling her to remember her own advice that “you never know till you try it.” She quickly tried to change the subject, but Mickey was not to be put off. Holding his napkin in front of her face as if to silence her, he held forth, his words sounding of repetition, as if he had rehearsed the matter many times to her in private. “Now that we're both working, we've got more money than we need,” he said, “and I could help her study—as if
that
would do any good.” Apparently, then, Birdie had kept our earlier conversation about college in her heart and had not only pondered my words but had even told Mickey about them.

Birdie swatted Mickey's napkin away and, turning to Virgil, asked, “Going back to mysteries, how do you think the Egyptians ever got those huge pyramids in place?” Mickey and I shared a look.

My second memory is a picture. Joan was telling of a man with whom she worked, describing his idiosyncratic nature, though not in a mean-spirited fashion. “At least once every half hour he combs his hair,” Joan said, “and he writes everything out by longhand before he enters it in the computer, and he uses a
pencil
, never a pen. And of course the pencil has to be
sharpened
after every few sentences. Oh, and if he's in a strange room, he's got to figure out which direction north is or he can't function.”

She went on to narrate the story of attending a meeting in the company of this man. “We had to go down several flights of stairs because the elevator was broken,” she said, “and then we twisted around through all these hallways until we came to the conference room, which was big and well lit but didn't have any windows. So the meeting starts and Gerald is acting
so weird
—squirming around in his chair, looking up at the ceiling, then at the doors, tracing patterns in the air with his finger, sighing, and on and on. So I finally lean over to him and say, ‘What in the world is the matter with you?' And do you know what he says? You won't believe this! He gives me the most desperate look and says, ‘Which way is north? I've lost track.' Of course, I didn't have the foggiest idea, but I pointed immediately to the back wall, and then he settled right down.”

Throughout this tale I watched Birdie. Her face was alight, her teeth clamped firmly upon her lower lip and her eyes fixed intently upon Joan. A phrase from Tracy Kidder's splendid book
Old Friends
came to my mind as I studied her. Mr. Kidder, in describing one of the residents of Linda Manor Nursing Home, wrote that the man had “a large capacity for vicarious enjoyment.” If this man's capacity was large, Birdie's was immense, enormous, surpassing all limits. I can see her yet, bending toward Joan as she listened.

As I said, this memory is but a picture, for I cannot recall precisely what Birdie said following Joan's story. No doubt it ran along these lines: “Well, now, aren't people just the most interesting things? There are so many different kinds!” And had she met Gerald someday, she would have taken him under her wing with great tenderness and would have done everything within her power to ensure that he never lost his bearings.

My third memory of the evening is as a blinding white flash against which I hide my eyes. Before we parted, Birdie and Mickey walked with Thomas and me to our car, which was parked in the lot to the rear of C. C.'s. Joan and Virgil had already said good-bye and driven away.

“I wish we had time to play some Ping-Pong,” said Mickey. “Or go for a walk—I'm full as a tick, as they say in Kuwait!” And he patted his stomach gently as if it were sore to the touch.

“If we get done at church at a decent time, maybe we could call you and you can come over for a little while,” Birdie said with an expression in her eyes, which, as I look back upon it, seemed beseeching. Mickey had already told us before supper that they were scheduled to meet at the church at seven o'clock, along with other members of the decorating committee, to “add a few little touches” to the sanctuary for Easter Sunday.

“Or you could drop by our place,” Thomas said. “Maybe we could play some Rook. Margaret and I need to get you back for last time.”

“Well, we'll have to see how it goes,” Mickey said good-naturedly. “Knowing some of the folks on the committee, it won't go fast. There'll be a lot more talking than decorating.”

“And you'll be one of the worst!” Birdie said, laughing. Mickey pretended to be offended, pushing out his lower lip.

The two of them bade us farewell and had already moved away when Birdie appeared to think of something and swung back around. “Margaret! Thomas! Won't you …” She paused and contorted her face as if agonizing over what she was about to say. It was only a fraction of time, but I believe that I sensed what was coming. She took a step toward us and held out her hands, tilting her head imploringly. “Well, what I'm trying to say is…would you please at least just
think
about coming…well, tomorrow is Easter Sunday, you know, and…oh, I know we've been over all this before, but …”

Mickey broke in, feigning a Chinese accent and holding his hands before him in a subservient, prayerlike pose, trying, I suppose, to ease the tension. “Ah-so, me translate for tongue-tied wife. Thomas and Margaret welcome to come to Church of Open Door tomorrow. We have special Easter service.” Then, speaking normally, he added, “And we could probably even arrange a meal afterward, couldn't we, treasure?”

“Oh, by all means!” Birdie said. “I've got a ham I'm going to fix for our Sunday dinner, and we'd love to have you join us after church!”

“Ah-so!” said Mickey. “Eat ham with chopsticks!”

I despised myself for my response. I have relived the scene many times, wishing that I could alter my role. I was selfish and obstinate.

It is important to understand that in the past weeks, before our outing to C. C.'s Barbecue, I had actually begun to entertain the thought of visiting Birdie's church unannounced some Sunday, of arriving at the last minute and sitting in a back pew, of exiting swiftly at the conclusion of the service so as to escape the attention of church members such as Eldeen Rafferty. I had begun to feel a strong yearning to see Birdie at the organ, to hear prayers offered and hymns sung, to hear her beloved Brother Hawthorne preach, to observe firsthand the people of whom she so often spoke.

I had taken to arguing with myself over the matter.
Remember Marshland
, I warned myself.
Remember your grandfather. Remember the hypocrisy. Remember your vow never to enter another church
. I then answered my own objections.
This is not Marshland. My grandfather is dead. My vow has already been compromised by my organ lessons at the church
.

Like a petulant child, however, I opposed being led by the hand, and as we stood in the parking lot of C. C.'s Barbecue, I was filled with a perverse contrariness.

Thomas looked at me, his eyebrows raised as if in resignation. He shrugged and seemed on the verge of acquiescence when I spoke. “I thought that we had reached an understanding on the subject of your church,” I said to Birdie. “Your needling and cajoling only serve to confirm our suspicions that your friendly advances are driven by ulterior motives.” Like a child, I shoved away the very thing that I wanted because—oh, the shame of it—because
it was offered to me
.

Even as I spoke, fully aware of my disgraceful behavior, I was too proud, too stubborn to retract my words. The excuses that I chanted silently were feeble and altogether insubstantial.
I will not have my actions dictated. I will not surrender unless on my own terms. I will not be snared by offers of dinners
, and the like.

I whipped about and opened the car door, seated myself, and pulled the door shut with far more force than necessary. Through the closed window I heard Thomas's voice, then Mickey's in reply, but I could not distinguish their words. From Birdie I heard nothing. I was aware that the conversation had ended and that Thomas was walking around the car to the driver's side. I turned my head slightly and could see, through my peripheral vision, that Mickey and Birdie were moving away from our car toward their own.

Once seated in the car, Thomas made no move to start the engine. All was quiet except for the sound of his breathing. I have often wondered, at times with amusement, why women can breathe noiselessly, yet men must make an audible business of it. I found no amusement in the thought at this moment, however. At last Thomas spoke in a low, even tone. “That was uncalled for, Rosie. You hurt Birdie's feelings.” He paused and then added, “She was cryin'.” Another short interval and then, “It wouldn't hurt a thing in the world if we was to go to their church one Sunday. It'd sure mean a lot to 'em.” Another pause before he inserted the key into the ignition and then, “Birdie sure sets a store by you. There was no need to answer her so rough.” I said nothing, but my heart burned with shame.

I tried to telephone her later that night, but only once, at ten o'clock. To my great relief there was no answer, and I did not try again. The next morning at nine o'clock, Easter Sunday, a basket sat beside our newspaper on the front doorstep. It held freshly baked cinnamon rolls and a note in Birdie's handwriting. “We made these this morning and wondered if you were ready to eat again after that big meal last night.” It was signed “Mickey and Birdie.”

It did not slip my notice that they must have arisen before daybreak to bake and deliver homemade sweet rolls before going to church. I believe that I had only to say the word
church
and Thomas would have brushed off his black suit and stood ready at the door within minutes. I did not say anything, however, and when we ate our Sunday meal at two o'clock, neither of us seemed to have an appetite.

On Monday morning, April 17, I summoned Birdie to my office cubicle shortly after her arrival at school. At that time I delivered a carefully composed, pathetically inadequate apology. “My words on Saturday night were not meant to offend you. I regret having spoken hastily.”