Some Wildflower In My Heart (28 page)

This was typical of Thomas. When calculating himself to be at a disadvantage in a confrontation, he will try to divert his opponent's attention and leaven the mood with humor. His humor is of a lowly form, however, most often relying upon exaggeration for its effect. He is also fond of the pun.

“You know that I detest eating in public restaurants,” I said.

He laughed inanely and smote his thigh. “Well, then, just make believe it's a
private
restaurant, and you'll be okay!”

“I will not allow you to evade my objections with your juvenile retorts,” I said.

There was a lengthy pause while his face took on an expression of mock wonder. “Well, I'll be John Brown,” he said at last. “Is
that
what I was doin'? I just thought I was cuttin' up. I had no idea I was invadin' your objects with…whatever it was you said.” Clad in a pair of faded denim jeans and a blue flannel shirt, the hem of which was untucked on one side, his eyes wide with feigned incredulity, Thomas looked like a grown Tom Sawyer hearing of some new superstition.

When especially infuriated by Thomas's circumlocution in the rare instances that we have what is termed a face-off, I have been driven to draw unflattering comparisons, and I did so now. “Someday you must come to Emma Weldy and engage in a conversation with Francine Perkins,” I said. “The two of you could amuse each other for hours.”

Though he knew Francine's identity, having observed her and even spoken casually to her when he had come by the school cafeteria on some small errand, he pretended to have a lapse of memory. “Let's see…Francine—ain't she that
real smart
gal that's real nice and real funny that everybody likes so much? And I remind you of her, huh? Well, I'm real flattered, Rosie.”

My neck muscles were so taut I could almost feel them quivering. I turned around and once again knelt beside the bathtub. “I am not going to the Field Pea for supper tonight or any night,” I said, picking up the sponge and attacking with fresh vigor a slat of the blinds, a slat I had already cleaned thoroughly.

Thomas's answer came promptly. He had dropped his jocular tone. “Well, then, you'll have to call Joan and tell her yourself 'cause I told her we'd be there at six, and she's expectin' us and has it all set with her friend. I don't aim to be the one to spoil it for her, so you do the callin'. Tell her
you
ain't comin'.” I heard him turn to exit, then pause to add, “She might be wantin' to know why you're backin' out, so maybe you better think up what excuse to tell her.” I heard him walk through the kitchen and close the back door behind him, then the thud of his work boots as he descended the steps to the yard.

I took his remarks to mean that he intended to be present at the Field Pea at six o'clock regardless of my decision. I believe it is accurate to say that in that moment I became unreasoning in my anger. For the next thirty or forty minutes, I crashed about, first hanging the blinds with a great clatter to drip-dry over the bathtub, then dragging the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet and yanking it along behind me as I furiously guided the power nozzle over the carpet in violent thrusts, stopping periodically to pull pieces of furniture away from the walls.

Part of my turmoil, I could not deny, was due to the fact that Joan had telephoned Thomas instead of me, an act that I knew not quite how to interpret. I suspected, however, that she had anticipated my dissent and had wanted to relieve herself of the business of countering my protests. The thought of being considered predictably prickly rankled me somewhat, I suppose.

In addition, what I viewed as Thomas's burgeoning assertiveness vexed me further. As I have said, ever since my frightened dash to the hospital emergency room in October, a subtle change had crept into our interaction with each other. Perhaps he had detected a shift of attitude on my part, though I toiled diligently, and I believe successfully, to conceal any trace of the self-consciousness arising from the awareness of my feelings on that day. Nevertheless, since that time he had gradually begun in his dealings with me to put himself and his ideas forward with more confidence. Whereas once he had been reliably timid in the face of my displeasure, he now varied in his responses from teasing parries to earnest expostulations to near reproofs. I felt as though I were being driven into corners on a fairly regular basis. This, of course, called for new reactions on my part. I was not accustomed to backing down.

The ritual of vacuuming at last worked its steadying influence upon my composure so that by the time I was ready to begin on the kitchen floor, I was reconsidering my course of action concerning the appointment with Joan at the Field Pea.

As I was disengaging the power nozzle to attach the brush for hard surfaces, Thomas reentered the kitchen through the back door. By now it was twenty minutes past five o'clock. I suppose that during his absence he had been puttering in the storage shed in the backyard, for his truck had never left the driveway. Without speaking, he stepped over the vacuum cleaner in the doorway and proceeded into his bedroom, most likely to change his clothes. I noted that his blue flannel shirt was now completely untucked.

I had not telephoned Joan, nor did I mean to, for I would not be coerced into declining an invitation that I had not accepted. If I stayed home, Thomas would have to inform Joan of the fact upon his arrival at the restaurant. Two ideas had already begun to stir within me, however, that would eventually lead to my relenting in the matter of accompanying Thomas to the Field Pea. First was the thought of Joan's disappointment, for I believed that she truly desired my presence, and I further knew that I cared enough for her to weigh solemnly the matter of disrupting her plans, and second was a swelling curiosity concerning the friend who was to be her escort for the evening. Was this the other man, besides her father, to whom she had referred earlier?

In the end, of course, I went. I vacuumed the kitchen speedily and returned the machine to the hall closet. Though I usually mop the kitchen floor immediately after vacuuming it, I decided to postpone the task until the following day. As I closed the door of the hall closet, Thomas emerged from his bedroom, wearing only his loose undershorts and a clean undershirt, and made for the bathroom. After he had closed the bathroom door, I stood outside it and spoke firmly. “Though I do not
wish
to do so, I have decided to go with you.”

I heard Thomas suck in his breath, but he did not speak at once. As I turned toward my own bedroom, however, I heard the sound of water filling the bathroom sink and Thomas's voice above it. “I'll be done in just a minute so you can get in here.” His tone was neutral, neither overly eager nor smug.

At ten minutes before six o'clock we were en route. Thomas was driving my Ford since I will not ride in his pickup truck, which is always liberally cluttered with the appurtenances of his vacuum repair business. We spoke very little as we drove toward the Field Pea, located along Highway 11 between Filbert and Derby—barely a mile, in fact, past Shepherd's Valley Cemetery and Birdie's house.

My aversion to eating in restaurants is long-standing. On
each
of the few occasions of public dining in which I have personally engaged, I have seen overwhelming evidence of a careless disregard for decent standards, both in the handling and preparing of the food itself and in the general upkeep of the establishment. As I told Thomas the last time we patronized a restaurant, which I believe occurred some seven or eight years ago, no one should have to
pay
to be disgusted, as that experience generally comes free of charge. On that occasion, I recall that I ate only a minuscule portion of my dinner and even then suffered from indigestion. The fiasco had been set into motion when I noticed a fly—a common, filthy housefly rubbing its legs together—atop the broccoli florets at the salad bar.

As we passed the cemetery, I glanced toward Birdie's house. There appeared to be no one at home, for there was no car in the driveway and only the porch light was burning. Birdie and Mickey were most likely attending yet another church activity, I thought, such as those that I frequently overheard Birdie describing to Francine and Algeria in the school kitchen.

Only days earlier Birdie had given a detailed account of an upcoming event that she had called “the annual Soupfest” to be held on the Sunday evening following Thanksgiving. “Everybody's going to bring a big pot of soup,” she had said, “and after church we'll have us a soup supper back in Fellowship Hall. Lots of people bring muffin tins to eat out of so they can fill up all the little cups with samples of the different soups.”

She had gone on to invite Francine and Algeria to visit her church that night, with their families, of course. Algeria had mutely declined with a shake of her head, but Francine said she would “think it over,” expressing doubt, however, that she could “drag Champ away from the TV set on a Sunday night, 'specially not to go to
church
!” Then she had laughed with a high-pitched whinny and said, “I betcha everybody makes
turkey
soup from their leftover Thanksgiving dinner, don't they?” Birdie had replied that she was not roasting a turkey this year, for she and Mickey had been invited to their neighbors' home for dinner, and that she was planning instead to make chili for the Soupfest.

Birdie had turned only seconds later to see me standing in the doorway of my office, my clipboard in hand. I was notating the location of two fluorescent lighting panels, which, due to their dimness, I was certain were in need of replacement tubes. Having asked Ed Silvester, the janitor, to check one of them a week earlier and having seen no evidence of his attending to the matter, I was now in the process of composing a rather pointed written reminder. Seeing me, Birdie had called, “Oh, Margaret, you're welcome to come, too! I was just telling them about a soup supper at our—”

I interrupted her with a curt “I will save you the effort of repeating it, for I will not be able to attend.”

I recalled the brief, stricken look upon her face and her brave recovery as she called out, “Oh, I understand perfectly! Maybe some other time.”

About a half mile past Birdie's house, Thomas pointed to a collection of deserted wooden tables arranged in three long rows beside the highway. “Keep aimin' to come out here one of these Saturdays and see if that feller from Derby's got his pecans and hickories ready yet. I could sure use a pie.” One of Thomas's favorite desserts is hickory nut pie, which he likes even more than my pecan pie. He is faithful to keep my supply of both of these nuts replenished. “Maybe I'll drive out tomorrow and check,” he added.

We passed a series of hand-lettered neon green signs that were displayed year round:
Peach's! Firework's! Boiled P'nut's! Canalope's! Sno-Cone's!
Only a dilapidated roadside produce stand, empty on this November Friday, appeared at the end of this bannered trail—“a real letdown after all that rah-rah,” as Thomas described it.

Farther on, we passed a Texaco station and a small clapboard house, which was painted the blue of a robin's egg. A sign reading
Dottie's Be-Beautiful Style Shoppe
stood beside the mailbox.

We soon drew within sight of the Field Pea Restaurant, an unassuming structure with all the architectural grace of a warehouse. Having been in operation less than a year, the restaurant had earned for itself a modest but respectable reputation among the folk of Derby, Filbert, and Berea. This had been my impression from overheard conversations at school and recent newspaper advertisements that boldly declared
We Promise Big and Always Deliver
, which seemed to me a slogan more suited to a furniture or appliance store than to a restaurant. I saw that the parking lot was crowded, bringing to mind a simile in one of Josephine Humphreys' novels—
Rich in Love
, I believe—in which she likens the cars pulled up around a diner to creatures at a water hole.

“I certainly hope we will not have to
wait
to be served,” I said to Thomas, and when he did not answer, I added, “I cannot abide waiting in lines.”

“Sometimes there just ain't a choice 'bout it,” Thomas said calmly. I could have argued that indeed we
did
have a choice in this case, but I held my tongue. We pulled up behind a family of seven or eight who had exited the restaurant and appeared to be heading toward their car. There were several boisterously hyperactive children in the family who were darting about and squealing, flailing their arms in a great release of energy. The mother was attempting to shepherd them with the laying on of her hands, but they were far too quick for her. We crept along behind the incontinent horde and stopped when they dashed toward a large and decrepit automobile, an Oldsmobile I believe, of the approximate vintage of my 1967 Ford Fairlane but far more flamboyant in the design of its tail fins.

Thomas waited patiently as the family flung open the doors and piled into their car, a process fraught with noisy delays. I heard them, for I had lowered my window ever so slightly. One of the young children, a little boy, released his hold on a paper that he was flourishing above his head—perhaps a disposable place mat—at which point the wind caught it. The child began to chase it across the parking lot, pointing and shrieking, in spite of his mother's ineffectual pleas of “Here, Davey! Leave it alone! We'll get another one next time! We'll get you
ten
of 'em if you want 'em! Come on back here, Davey!
Watch out for that car!
”

An older child followed to assist Davey, and presently the father of the brood emerged from the car and stood to bellow, “I'm countin' to three, and then we're leavin' ya both here!” When someone inside the car sounded the horn, he stooped down and yelled, “Stop that, you little numskull! Do it again and I'll break your kneecaps!” The world is full of unrestrained parents; balance and dignity are in great want. Apparently, the children, accustomed to their father's idle threats, saw opportunity for sport, and once again the horn emitted a series of low, hooty blasts as the car rocked—I could actually see it
sway
—with small bodies throwing themselves over the front seat to have a turn at the horn.