Mrs. Kimble (4 page)

D
rinking, Birdie remembered. Late summer at Hambley Bible College, her third-floor dormitory room stifling hot, rules for when you could eat or sleep or shower, the length of your skirt, what you could listen to on the radio. The dormitory a world of women: their voices, their laughter, damp stockings and underthings drying in the communal bathroom. After eight
P.M
., quiet hours: no speaking above a whisper, only studying. Exception on Wednesday, choir practice, the only time a Hambley girl was allowed to raise her voice.

Reverend Kimble directed the choir with watery strokes, eyes closed, a heaviness in his fingertips, as if they’d been dipped in something sweet and elastic. He was young, just past thirty; except for the elderly dean, he was the only man the girls had seen in months. After practice they crowded around him, giggling, asking questions. He had a remarkable voice, deep and resonant; he gave his full attention to each girl as she spoke, as if she were the only one in the room. He did not appear to play favorites, though there were rumors. A girl had been seen coming out of his office, a snooty blond from Charleston, tall and exquisite. For all her beauty
she had a voice like a toad; she did not sing in the choir. Why, then, would she visit the reverend in his office? Publicly and privately, the girls could only imagine.

At practice they followed his hands with their eyes. The hands told them when to breathe, to release, to fall silent. Birdie had studied art history; watching him, she thought of the Pietà: Mary weeping over her son’s crucified body, his naked arms smooth as milk, his chest delicately ribbed like the underside of a flower. She imagined Reverend Kimble’s shoulders bare beneath his shirt, his body the long white body of Christ.

One evening he approached her after practice. “Vivian,” he said. “Are you having problems with the descant?”

No one had ever called her anything but Birdie, a childhood nickname that had stuck because of her lovely voice. Vivian fit her badly, as stiff and chafing as a new pair of shoes. His eyes were a startling blue; they watched her closely, as though he could see through her skin. Blood rushed to her face.

“No,” she said. “I can sing it.”

“I know you can.” He laid his hand over hers. “That’s why I gave it to you.”

In the spring he touched her again. Rehearsal with the windows open, filling the chapel with the muddy smell of life. Birdie’s sinuses were swollen with allergies, her voice thick and nasal. She inhaled and felt a horrible squeeze in her chest. As a child she’d nearly drowned in the pond behind her house. She’d never forgotten the sensation, her lungs clutching for air and pulling in water instead. She grabbed a music stand for support and sent the pages flying, a sheaf of paper drifting to the floor.

The reverend sat her on the piano bench. Even in her terror she was aware of his arm across her shoulders. He dismissed the class
with a wave of his hand and spoke to her in a soft voice. “Asthma,” he said. “My brother had it as a child.” He rubbed her shoulder through her blouse.

“You have a brother?” she said. She didn’t care if he had ten of them. She would have said anything to make it last, the unexpected gift of his hand on her shoulder.

“Used to,” he said. “He died as a child.”

“I’m sorry,” said Birdie. And quickly, before she could be afraid, she laid her hand on his thigh. “My mother died last year.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wanted to lift her skirt and show him her knees, decorated with childhood scars; to tell him about the woman her father had just married, now using her mother’s things. She wanted to take off her clothes and show him everything.

He kissed her on the mouth.

They were married on a Saturday morning in June, the day before her nineteenth birthday. She was three months’ pregnant, not yet showing. They drove to a country church in North Carolina, where the pastor preached in shirtsleeves and owned a strawberry farm across the way. After the ceremony he sold Ken an old pickup truck for two hundred dollars. A week later they drove it to Pullman, Missouri, to live with Ken’s parents. He’d been fired from Hambley; they had nowhere else to go.

C
harlie hated baths, but for a long time his mother had let him alone. Then one morning he heard the water running, landing loudly in the tub.

“Charlie Kimble,” his mother called. “You get in here this instant.” His sister splashed in the water, dressed in soap suds. “Go on now,” said his mother. “We haven’t got all day.”

Charlie shucked his shirt and pants and stepped into the tub. He knew there was no fighting it. Yet it was strange: he had never in his memory taken a bath in the morning. It didn’t make sense. The whole point, he thought, was to go to bed clean.

His mother kneeled down beside the tub and rubbed the soap with a washcloth. Her hair was rolled in plastic curlers; pins crisscrossed at her hairline.

“Lord,” she said. “You’re filthy. You look like a little Indian.” She took his arm and rubbed it with the cloth. “This is just a lick and a promise. We have to get you to the Semples’.”

No, he thought. It was a clear, sunny morning; he’d started adding rocks to the dam in the creek. He knew a hundred better
things to do than sitting on the sunporch with Miss Semple and her ancient mother.

“I don’t want to,” he said.

“I’m afraid you don’t have any say in the matter. Rinse.”

Charlie obeyed, sliding under the water up to his chin. “Why can’t we have Dinah?” he asked. Any time his mother and father had gone out at night, Dinah Whitacre had come to sit for them. She was fourteen and danced to songs on the radio. She cooked frozen pizzas and let Charlie stay up as late as he wanted.

“Dinah’s busy.” His mother lifted Jody out of the water and wrapped her in a towel. “You sit in there and soak awhile. It’ll save me some scrubbing.”

T
OGETHER THEY CROSSED
the street. Charlie wore long pants that made his legs itch. His mother held Jody on one hip; a diaper bag hung from the opposite shoulder. She wore lipstick and a hat, a sign they were going somewhere unpleasant. Her heels clicked across the pavement and up the stairs to the Semples’ front porch.

“You behave yourself,” she whispered to Charlie, knocking at the screen door. “Be a little gentleman.”

The door opened. A dusty smell floated onto the porch. “Good morning, all,” said Miss Semple, holding the screen door open with a long arm. She was tall and thin, the sort of woman who’d been old for a long time. She wore a plain gray dress that nearly touched her ankles, black shoes as big as a man’s. Eyeglasses dangled on a chain around her neck.

“I should be back by three o’clock,” said his mother. “Four at
the latest.” She took the diaper bag from her shoulder and handed it to Miss Semple.

“Take your time,” said Miss Semple. “We’re always happy to have Charlie and Jody.”

Charlie tried to catch his mother’s eye. He hoped she would not take her time. But you never knew with her.

“We just finished eating,” said Miss Semple. “Can I get them some lunch?”

Lunch, Charlie thought.

“Goodness, no,” said his mother. “I don’t want you going to any trouble.”

Miss Semple smiled. Deep cracks appeared around her eyes, as if her skin wasn’t used to such treatment. “Later on we’ll have some tea.”

Charlie’s mother bent and kissed him. On his cheek he felt the waxy imprint of her mouth. “I’ll be back soon,” she said.

Miss Semple took Jody by the hand. “Come say hello to Mother. She’s looking forward to seeing you.”

They went into the house. Charlie glanced back at his mother standing at the corner, fumbling in her purse. A car whizzed past.
Look both ways,
he thought as she scurried across the street.

He followed Miss Semple past the dark parlor, toward the light of the kitchen. In all the times he’d been to the house, they’d never sat in the parlor, though once he’d sneaked inside the small, cluttered room and examined the photos hanging on the wall, women in bonnets, old men with long Semple faces. The windows were hidden by deep blue curtains. Everything else—the sofa, the fringed lampshades—was covered in plastic.

The kitchen smelled of toasted bread. Charlie glanced toward the stove: an empty pot, nothing more.

“Mother’s out enjoying the sun,” said Miss Semple.

They went out the back door to the screened porch. Sun streamed through the striped awnings, a hot green light. Mrs. Semple lay on the wicker sofa, her head propped with pillows, her bottom half covered with a crocheted afghan. She was old and enormously fat; through the afghan Charlie could see the outline of her thighs, round as hams. In front of her a tray table held a half-empty bowl of soup. Beside her a radio played organ music.

“Mother,” said Miss Semple, touching her hand. “Look who’s here. It’s Charlie and Jody.”

The old lady blinked. She was nearly blind. Miss Semple nodded at Charlie, his signal to speak. She had taught Sunday school.

“Hello, Mrs. Semple,” said Charlie.

The old lady reached out to touch his face. She smiled, showing shiny pink gums.

“She’s glad to see you.” Miss Semple sat on the old glider, covered with flowered cushions. “Come sit next to me,” she said to Charlie.

Jody dozed in Miss Semple’s lap. The organ music ended and another program began, a man who believed the world had turned its back on Jesus.

“This is the Reverend Poundstone,” said Miss Semple. “He’s Mother’s favorite.”

Charlie watched the old woman and wondered how you could tell: Mrs. Semple appeared to be asleep. Finally Miss Semple got up from the glider. “I’m going to make us some tea,” she said, lifting Jody in her arms. “Charlie, you keep Mother company.”

Time passed. The Reverend Poundstone grew angry: grace would not wait forever. Between the two panels of the awning Charlie could see a narrow strip of sky.

Miss Semple reappeared carrying a tray. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. She set the tray on the table and settled back on the glider. The tray held a china teapot, three cups, and a plate of cookies.

Charlie considered. If he refused the tea, he might not get a chance at the cookies.

“Okay,” he said.

Miss Semple poured the tea and added milk and sugar.

“Thank you,” said Charlie. The tea burned his tongue and tasted like soap. Inside the scratchy pants his legs were slick with sweat.

Miss Semple offered him the plate. “Would you like a cookie?”

“Yes’m.” He took one and put the whole thing in his mouth. It was small and hard, covered with powdered sugar. Once the sugar melted away it tasted intensely of lemon.

Miss Semple lifted Jody onto her lap. She grimaced. “Oh dear,” she said. She looked down at her dress, now smudged with wet. “Somebody needs a change.” She set Jody on her feet and took her by the hand, into the kitchen. “We’ll be right back.”

Charlie glanced at the old woman. Her eyes were closed, her lips wet with saliva.

“Wait no longer,” urged the Reverend Poundstone. “The moment of salvation is at hand.”

Charlie reached for the plate. He set it on his knees and ate the cookies two at a time. He ate until his teeth hurt and his lap was dappled with sugar.

T
O
B
IRDIE
, Harry Doyle looked large and wealthy. His hands were soft and clean. His fat pink face was impeccably shaved, the smooth skin of his neck pinched by a white shirt collar. He reminded her of her father.

“How do you do,” said Birdie.

She let him shake her hand. She was more nervous than she would have imagined. The mere fact of dressing herself, riding the bus downtown. She hadn’t worn stockings in months. In her wallet she carried three dollars.

“Have you done secretarial work before?” he asked. He was director of classified advertising at the paper.

“Yes.” She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “My husband had a parish in Missouri for two years. I was the church secretary.” It was largely true. She’d typed up the church bulletin each week, kept track of who sold raffle tickets in the spring.

“Minister,” said Doyle. “He have a church now?”

“He’s an assistant chaplain at the college.” She allowed herself a smile. She’d had a little wine before she came, to help her relax. It was her first glass in two days.

Doyle looked down at a piece of paper on his desk. “You ever studied typing in school?”

“High school,” said Birdie. That was an actual lie. She’d disdained the commercial classes, chosen art and music over bookkeeping, French over shorthand. She’d learned typing on her own, on an old manual her father kept in the basement.

“This here’s your typing test,” said Doyle. “You type eighteen words a minute.”

Birdie smiled again.

“I’m afraid I can’t hire you,” said Doyle. “Fifty words a minute would be the minimum.”

Birdie leaned forward in her chair. The vinyl seat made a rude sound beneath her. “I’m out of practice,” she said. “I could go home and practice and come back in a month or two.”

“That’s fine,” said Doyle. “You do that, Miz Kimble.”

A
T THE CORNER
she caught the bus, deserted at that hour, just her and an old colored woman who blew her nose in a checked handkerchief. Oh well, Birdie thought. Better not to dwell on it. Better to enjoy the remarkable feeling of riding alone on a city bus in the middle of the afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she was truly alone, no baby tugging at her, no little boy asking where the bathroom was. A week had passed since the county woman’s visit, yet Birdie still looked over her shoulder each time she left the house, wondering if the neighbors were watching. She’d taken a chance leaving the children with the Semples—who knew what Charlie might say to them?—but it was already done. She might as well take her time.

The bus stopped at an intersection; Birdie stepped down and crossed to the five-and-dime. Window signs advertised the specials: charcoal briquettes, roasted cashews, Breck shampoo. Through the glass she saw the long counter of the luncheonette. For the first time in weeks, she felt hungry. She went inside and sat at the counter, ordered coffee and pie.

“You want ice cream with that?” said the waitress, a thin, stooped woman with dyed hair and deep lines around her mouth. Ice cream cost a quarter more. Birdie reached into her purse and felt the three bills in her wallet.

“Yes, please,” she said.

At the other end of the counter, two men in shirtsleeves were finishing their lunch.

“Whatcha doing for the Fourth?” asked the older one, a fat, bald man in a striped tie.

“Going to the shore,” said the other. He was young and nice-looking. “I got a trunk full of firecrackers for the boys.”

The men pushed away their plates. In a moment they would go back to one of the buildings on Canal Street, to do whatever men did in offices. Birdie had only the faintest notion of what her father called “bidness.” Her grandfather had owned a vineyard that produced a sweet, cloudy white wine he called Tidewater Tea. Her father ran the vineyard as a hobby but made his living as a lawyer for the local school district, walking a mile each day to his office in town. Birdie’s mother had never had a job, nor had any white woman she’d ever known.

Birdie looked out the window. Across the street a girl went into the hardware store. She wore shorts that barely covered her bottom, a man’s shirt knotted at her waist.

“Will you look at that?” said the young man, the one with the firecrackers.

The waitress shrugged. “I think a woman ought to dress like a woman, myself.”

“Those don’t look like any man’s legs to me,” said the young man.

“They sure don’t,” said the old man. “But still.”

Men’s talk, Birdie thought: not intended for her ears. Still, it made her wonder. What would they say about her when she got up to leave? She looked down at her baggy skirt and shapeless blouse. Nothing, she realized; they would say nothing at all.

She hadn’t bought the clothes herself. They had been chosen for her by Ken’s mother, who hadn’t considered Birdie’s summer dresses fit for church or anywhere else. They’d spent a Saturday at Ferman’s department store in Pullman, which sold tractor parts
and animal feed as well as clothing. Ken’s mother, enormously fat, wore dresses as big as tablecloths; she seemed to feel Birdie should wear the same size. She picked out skirts that hung nearly to Birdie’s ankles, a billowing shirtwaist dress striped green like a porch awning.

Once, their first summer in Missouri, Ken had come home to find Birdie weeding the garden in a pair of Bermuda shorts. “What do you think you’re doing?” he’d hissed. It was a small town; there were things the minister’s wife simply couldn’t do. She was not to wear shorts or leave the curtains open during the day or play the radio while she did housework. She could be friendly with the parish women, but not too friendly: she couldn’t invite a particular one over for coffee, for example, or the others would feel snubbed. Above all she couldn’t drink alcohol, not even the homemade wine her father sent at Christmas.

They lived in the parsonage with Ken’s parents; his father had been Pullman’s pastor until his stroke. He took over his father’s duties; Birdie taught Sunday school and made covered dishes and sang in the choir. Twice a week she listened to Ken preach. My husband, she thought, wishing her old schoolmates were there to see her, the girls Reverend Kimble had not chosen. At school she had enjoyed their jealousy; she felt as though she’d been singled out for a prize. Now no one envied her. She spent her days caring for Ken’s paralyzed father, bathing and feeding and reading to him. She and her husband slept in his boyhood room, the wallpaper printed with pictures of cowboys. They ate at the family table like two grown siblings.