It is early June, and Thomas has made no sign of noticing the change in my nightly occupation. I still sit in my rocker after our evening meal, but instead of reading, I now write. Perhaps Thomas has noticed but remembers how strongly I dislike being asked what I'm doing. He posed this question to me one night sixteen years ago after we had been married only a week, and I replied, “When and if I wish to yield my privacy to the scrutiny of others, you will be the first to be invited to the exhibition.” He laughed good-naturedly, his brow creased with puzzlement, but he never again asked what I was doing.
I cannot say why Birdie Freeman's face lingered in my mind in the months following Mayfield's funeral, nor why I asked Mr. Hawthorne, when he called on us again two weeks later, “Who was the woman who played the organ at the funeral?” That was when I learned her name. Thomas and I were civil to Mr. Hawthorne during this visit, Thomas's manner perhaps even approaching cordiality, but we informed him unequivocally that we were not interested in finding a “home church,” as he referred to it.
When the preacher asked if we had considered our dwelling place for eternity, Thomas answered, “Naw, I can't say as I've given it more than a passin' thought, and even that might be stretchin' it.” When ill at ease, Thomas often assumes a slightly more ignorant, countrified style of speech than is his wont.
To this Mr. Hawthorne soberly replied, “Well, you should. You will have to spend eternity somewhere, and eternity is a long, long time.” He went on to describe the two options open to all men.
So vivid was his portrayal of hell that Thomas told me later, “I was starting to feel like the seat of my John-Brown britches was on fire.”
As Mr. Hawthorne discussed the pleasures of heaven, I tried to imagine his look of astonishment were I to begin quoting the entire fourteenth chapter of the gospel according to John, which my grandfather had required me to memorize as punishment for what he called my “unwavering willfulness” one Saturday when, at the age of thirteen, I had balked at his suggestion that I attend a teen singspiration at church. Though I had lived with my grandparents only a few months, my doubts about the Bible were already well planted by this time, and the fourteenth verse of John 14 served to water my skepticism, for I had repeatedly asked that my grandfather die, in the name of Jesus as the verse stipulated, but to no avail. With the thinnest thread of hope, I tried to cling to verse eighteen, in which I was promised comfort, but once again fulfillment was denied.
I have laid aside a number of novelsâdismissing them as unworthy of my timeâfor their overuse of coincidence at critical points in the plot. I must tell the events of my story as they happened, however, and I will neither omit nor apologize for what is to follow.
The memory of Birdie Freeman's firm lips and steady gaze as she sat at the organ remained with me during the months to come. I cannot explain this. I even reread the entire book
Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier
, something I rarely do, in an effort to rid myself of her ghost, though perhaps subconsciously I was hoping to acquaint myself with her more intimately. I was reminded in this second reading that Sarah Jayne Oliver, the nineteenth-century kinswoman I had appropriated for Birdie, was a wife and mother of sturdy character who had adapted herself to the rigors of frontier life with uncomplaining gallantry. She was noted for her careful planning of the family's menu, shunning heavy fried foods and pastries. She also played a small reed organ called the melodeon, a fact that, in addition to the physical similarities between her and Birdie, provided another striking parallelâthough this is not the coincidence to which I alluded. Let me continue.
Mayfield's funeral was on the fourth day of January. Five months later at the beginning of June, almost exactly a year ago now, Vonnie Lee, another of my lunchroom workers at Emma Weldy Elementary School, told me she would not be returning to her job the following fall. Actually, her exact words to me were, “Buddy says he's sick and tired of me having to come to work so blasted early an' says I gotta quit and try to get me a job at the R. C. Cola plant, same shift he works.” Buddy was her husband, whom Vonnie Lee both liberally praised and maligned in the cafeteria kitchen.
I met this news of her leaving us with outward stoicism but inward distress. In spite of her infuriating loquacity, Vonnie Lee was a fast and careful worker, possessing an artistic flair with institutional food, which, although adding little in nutritional value or actual palatability, nevertheless contributed enormously to its appeal in the eyes of the children. It was Vonnie Lee's idea, for example, to toss a boxful of raisins, cornstarch, honey, and brown sugar into a simmering pot of water and ladle a small portion over each serving of ham. The results were such that I felt the additional expense to be justified. Later she even experimented with chopping instead of slicing the ham so that the younger children could eat it more easily with spoons. Vonnie Lee was a culinary innovator.
It was with no small degree of pessimism, therefore, that I awaited the opening of school at the end of that summer and the arrival of a new employee. In my twenty-two years at Emma Weldy Elementary School, I had suffered my share of unsuitable cafeteria workers, several of whom had failed even to complete the opening preparatory week before resigning. Three of them had tried to lay the blame at my feet, calling me various unflattering names and complaining of my demands for perfection. I have no use for whiners, though I am always fair with a worker who shows stamina and a modicum of intelligence.
The reader can well imagine my astonishment when I walked into the cafeteria at 7:50 on Monday morning, the twenty-eighth of August, and found seated in one of the bright orange plastic chairs none other than Birdie Freeman. She looked at me pleasantly, her child-sized hands folded gently over a large tan purse in her lap. She wore a green cotton jumper, a white blouse, black canvas sneakers, and white socks. Her hair appeared to be quite long, but it was neatly braided, coiled, and pinned to her small head. As I noted this, I felt a sudden chill run through me, for I recalled that Sarah Jayne Oliver, pictured in my book about pioneer women, had worn her hair in much the same arrangement. I recognized Birdie instantly but of course refrained from acknowledging the fact.
“May I help you?” I asked. She informed me later that I was frowning when I said this. Besides the surprise of recognizing her, perhaps I was a bit chagrined by her excessive punctuality, for I was always the first of the cafeteria crew to arrive.
“Yes, thank you, I'm here to work,” Birdie replied, smiling but remaining seated. As I was her superior, I felt that she should have stood to talk to me.
“Let me direct you to the office in that case, and the secretary will escort you to the proper location,” I said.
“Oh, I've already checked in at the office,” she said, “and Mrs. Cameron brought me on down here.”
“Am I to assume then that you are our new cafeteria employee?” I asked. She claimed later that I spoke these words in a tone that conveyed a total absence of faith in her aptitude for kitchen work.
“That's right,” she said, still smiling and standing now, at last, to offer her hand. “My name is Bernadetta Freeman, but my friends all call me Birdie. And you must beâ¦?”
“Good morning, Bernadetta,” I said, keeping my distance. I do not make a habit of shaking hands with people. Even as I do not imitate the speech of southerners, I do not participate in their loose frequency of physical touch. Though I do not consider myself
rude
in the strict sense, I do not deny that I am highly reserved, a characteristic that others most often translate as rudeness. However, if the general public understood the degree to which germs are transferred by means of casual contact, I believe that the custom of handshaking would be allowed to die out. Birdie took a quick step toward me nonetheless and clasped my hand in a firm hold that I neither expected nor desired. Her hands were much smaller than mine, but they were surprisingly strong.
“Oh, pleaseâit's Birdie,” she said.
As her smile broadened, I saw the severe extent of her overbite.
“I know we're not friends
yet
, but I sure didn't mean you couldn't call me by my nickname. I'd feel a lot more at home if you would call me Birdie.”
She laughed, for no reason that I could see, and I noted that all of her teeth were unusually large for the size of her mouth. It was hard to imagine what she would look like without the conspicuous dental defects, for her smile completely overtook her features. It was as if a weed had suddenly produced a grotesque bloom. I nodded and pulled my hand from hers, quite forcefully, she told me later. Just then Francine burst into the cafeteria whistling. She stopped when she saw Birdie and me.
“Hey, hey, hey, everybody,” she said. Then she saluted me and spoke in the staccato fashion of a serviceman to his officer. “Here's Francine, reporting to duty,
sir
! Ready to fill up the bellies of all the little starvin' children of Filbert,
sir
! Forward, march!” Francine's attempts at humor are invariably weak and ill-timed.
Birdie smiled at her, however, and said, “How do you do,” at which point Algeria wandered in, silent and surly as is her morning custom.
“Let us begin the preliminaries,” I said, turning to lead the way from the lunchroom into the kitchen. I went into my office cubicle and picked up from my desk a folder, the tab of which bore the label
Opening Staff Meeting
, then went back out into the kitchen, seated myself on a tall stool at the big stainless steel worktable, and waited for the other three women to do the same.
Birdie pulled up a stool next to Algeria, who glowered darkly at her before flinging her keys onto the metal tabletop with a fierce clatter. Francine, smiling blithely, sat down heavily next to me and began picking from her black T-shirt what looked like hairs from a white feline. I leaned over to her and said, “Let me remind you, Francine, that a floor strewn with animal hair is not a clean floor. I will conduct my standard fall inspection on Friday.”
Francine looked at me blankly for a brief second, then carefully, with thumb and forefinger, pulled another white hair from her sleeve, stretched open the top of her T-shirt with her other hand, dropped the hair inside, patted her chest, and grinned at me. Francine has a vulgar streak. “There,” she said. She and Algeria exchanged glances, and Algeria gruntedâa sound she often intends as a form of laughter. I chose to ignore Francine's small act of rebellion.
“As we all know, Vonnie Lee is no longer with us,” I said, addressing all three women. “Bernadetta Freeman will be serving in her place.” I paused and looked at Birdie, whose face wore the expectant look of a six-year-old. Her torso swayed slightly, and it occurred to me that she must be swinging her feet. Pointing to myself, I said, “I am Margaret Tuttle, the lunchroom supervisor. Next to me is Francine Perkins, and across from me is Algeria Simms.”
Algeria's mother had consulted a map of Africa in the naming of her children, eight altogether. I had once overhead Algeria listing for Vonnie Lee the names of her siblings: Cairo, Sahara, Kwando, Nyasa, Karisimbi, Cameroon, and Gomera. Algeria's mother had evidently used no system of selection, for the names she had chosen included names of countries, cities, a river, a mountain, a desert, and an island. Furthermore, it was impossible to identify the sex of the child by the name. For example, Saharaâa name with a decidedly feminine endingâwas Algeria's youngest brother, though Gomera was a sister, as was Kwando.
As I took a breath to continue, Birdie spoke up. “I'm so pleased to meet all three of you,” she said, “and I'd like to ask you all to call me Birdie instead of Bernadetta, if you don't mind.” She looked at me and smiled sweetly, giving no indication that I had pointedly disregarded her earlier request to use her nickname.
“Birdie as in tweet-tweet?” asked Francine, raising her hands and flapping them.
Birdie nodded happily. “When I was just a girl, there was a little boy where I lived one time who couldn't say Bernadetta, so he called me Birdieâand it stuck.” She laughed again, making no effort to conceal her oversized teeth. Algeria flashed her a suspicious look and grunted again.
“You ever worked in a lunchroom before?” asked Francine.
Birdie shook her head. “Not in a lunchroom, really,” she said, “but I did work in a restaurant kitchen in Tuscaloosa for seven years after I was first married.”
She looked down at her lap then, and I could hear her unsnapping and snapping her purse. It is my purpose in our opening meeting to keep our attention squarely focused on business rather than personal concerns and to discourage an atmosphere of time-wasting chitchat. I therefore could not understand, and still cannot, my hesitance at this point to direct our attention back to the agenda inside the open folder before me. In the silence that followed, I realized that Francine, Algeria, and I were staring at Birdie, who continued to snap and unsnap her purse. In retrospect, I know that it could not have been a lengthy pause, but it was a moment full of import as we sought to delineate this new player upon our stage.
Still I did not speak, though barely able to stifle the impulse to slap her hands away from her purse. Birdie looked up at last, swept her eyes around the table, and locked her gaze with mine.
“My husband's out of work,” she said. “That's why I applied for a job here.”
Still no one spoke. Then Algeria, without turning her head, said to Birdie, “Where'd he work at?” This was a historic occasion, for in the ten years during which Algeria had been at Emma Weldy Elementary School, I could not recall her making an intelligible utterance before ten o'clock in the morning.