Some Wildflower In My Heart (34 page)

“I told the folks at the store,” Thomas said, “that I wanted somethin' with lots of different songs in it that wasn't too hard to play on the piano, and they went and got this off the shelf. Said it was real popular.”

As he flipped through its pages, I saw that it did indeed contain a wide variety of songs, from “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” to “Home on the Range” to “Seventy-Six Trombones.” Though I did not say so, I was pleased to note that the piano parts were simple enough that I could play many of them now and many more in the coming weeks as my lessons with Birdie continued. At once I made plans to work on some of the songs during my practice time the next afternoon.

“But look here, this is what made me buy it,” Thomas said, turning to a page that he had dog-eared. Though I deplored his abuse of the corner of the page, I said nothing. “See this song here?” he said, pointing. “This used to be my aunt Prissy's favorite song in the world. She'd sing it over and over when I was a youngster.”

Though I am certain that I must have stared at the title of the song as if beholding a freak of nature, I forced myself to ask calmly, “She was the aunt who read aloud
David Copperfield
, was she not?”

“Sure as shootin'!” Thomas said. “How'd you ever remember that?” Not waiting for a response, he rushed on. “The rumor amongst us kids was that Aunt Prissy had been dumped by a beau when she was a girl. But my mother never would talk about it, and 'course none of us dared ask Aunt Prissy if it was true. But many's the day I heard her out on the porch in the summertime or settin' in her rockin' chair by the coal stove when nobody was around singin' this very song right here. Funny thing was, even though it's a right sad song, she always sang it real cheerful. And I've never heard of it before or since. Fact is, I'd almost forgot all about it till I was flippin' through the book and ran across it.”

Here follows the irony: The song was titled “Wildwood Flower.” Labeled simply “Folk Song,” with no credit given to either composer or lyricist, its words were those of a melancholy young girl twining flowers into her raven black hair. And with the more cultivated varieties of flora, such as roses, lilies, and myrtle, she was weaving “a pale wildwood flower with petals light blue.” As I read the second stanza, I was taken back as if from a dashing of cold water.

Oh, he taught me to love him, he promised to love,

And to cherish me always all others above.

I woke from my dream and my idol was clay,

All my passion for loving had vanished away.

And the ending lines of the third stanza further caused my mind to reel.

I will live yet to see him regret this dark hour

When he won and neglected this frail wildwood flower.

Tell me, reader, that I am not stretching for parallels, that you, too, see the analogy that came upon me with such force, though your failure to grasp it would make no less powerful its impact upon me. Surely the unknown composer of this folk song telling of a girl's betrayal at the hands of a trusted suitor—a simple tune sung for many years by many people, including Thomas's spinster aunt, and now found notated within a book in the 1990s—had given no thought to the meaning that now leapt at me from the page, compressing into its lines, in a sense, my entire life: Had I not been badly used, and, upon awaking as if from a dream, had I not discovered an idol of clay and had not my heart ceased to love?

I speak not of my grandfather, but of him whom my mother had proclaimed faithful and almighty, ready to deliver. I speak of God. He had proven as traitorous as my grandfather—no, more so by far. He had won me as a child but had heartlessly rejected me. He had taken my mother—my father, also, if one were keeping strict account—and had replaced her with my grandfather. He had taken my son and replaced him with nothing. He had made of my life an unending tragedy.

Recalling Birdie's words “
You remind me of a wildflower in a lot of ways yourself, did you know that, Margaret?
” my eyes once again sought out the line that encapsulated what I thought to be God's offense toward me:
He won and neglected this frail wildwood flower
. Had I been honest with myself at that moment, I would have acknowledged, as I do now, that like the young woman in the song I had for many years nursed a spirit of vengeance, longing to “see him regret” my “dark hour.” The word
grudge
is too mild a word for what I had felt against God since the age of thirteen. And part of my anger was that I knew my own powerlessness to do battle with him.

At some point I was aware that Thomas had begun singing the song for me, tracing his long forefinger under the words as he did so, but his voice was as a strong, aimless wind swirling about me, and the words and notes upon the page were as dust being carried far away. He must have stopped when I turned and fled the room, but I cannot recall. In my bedroom I regained my composure and emerged some short time later to resume supper preparations. Thomas had set the book of songs, closed, upon the piano by this time. Later, he observed me surreptitiously as we ate, and though he talked at great length, he did not trouble me with questions.

Perhaps you will see why I felt as though I were suddenly being smothered in a great drift of wildflowers, for in addition to the preying of the poem of Archibald Rutledge upon my mind, Birdie's remarks to me concerning wildflowers, and my husband's serendipitous discovery of an old familiar song about a wildwood flower, I further espied as I drove to school the next morning, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, something of which I had taken no previous note, though I am certain it must have been clearly visible at other times as I had driven this route over the years.

No doubt you sense what is coming, ironies piling upon one another as they are. Here is what I saw alongside the road on the bank of a shallow ditch early one November morning: a stand of wildflowers with pale lavender-tinged petals.

While I consider myself an astute observer, I did not recall having seen these clusters of flowers before this day, though I could only assume that they had been growing there for some time. My initial response was of irritation. It was November, well past the time for the blooming of flowers! Yet there they grew, visible to all who traveled that way.

I am not a superstitious person, nor a believer in signs and wonders. I knew that there was no sinister force at work bent upon driving me mad. However, though I straightway attributed to coincidence the repeated encounters with wildflowers, I nevertheless felt an involuntary shiver pass over me as I continued on my way to school that morning. I stopped as I drove home that afternoon and picked one of the roadside flowers—stem, leaves, and all. In the book of wildflowers that I acquired a short time later, I found its scientific name:
Gentiana villosa
. Its common name is the pale gentian, and it blooms in the Carolinas, Georgia, Tennessee, and West Virginia from September through November.

Enough of wildflowers. I determined to put them from my mind. The atmosphere in the school kitchen that day, the day before Thanksgiving, was festive. Though the entire morning was one of unceasing effort—the kind of day that Francine called “hairy”—yet there was a nearly tangible spirit of comradeship among Algeria, Francine, and Birdie.

The menu called for turkey, of course, with rice, gravy, applesauce, rolls, and pumpkin pie. Although I had often pointed out to the regional ARA office that the serving of turkey on the day prior to Thanksgiving evidenced poor planning in that we were duplicating the exact meal that would be spread before the great majority of our schoolchildren the very next day, the tradition nevertheless continued, those in the ARA office obviously unconcerned with such details. Too, I suppose the point could be made that a number of our students would not sit down to a turkey dinner on Thanksgiving Day. Many would be fortunate to eat hot dogs.

Throughout the morning the merry crash and bang of pots and pans could be heard in the kitchen, bringing to mind a phrase from Anna Quindlen's second novel,
One True Thing
, in which the narrator refers to the similar metallic clanks of her mother's kitchen activities as “the tympani of my childhood.” I, too, can still hear the percussion of my mother's cooking utensils in the early morning, for this was the sound to which I awoke each day for the first thirteen years of my life. My mother was fond of breakfast, routinely preparing eggs, bacon, toast, and pancakes before leaving our apartment for her job.

Intermingled with the cymbals of the pots and pans in the school kitchen that morning was Birdie's flutelike laughter. At one point I heard her exclaim, “Oh, I just
love
this time of year!” Because of her affection for the season and for the schoolchildren, I suppose, she had brought to school, unbeknownst to me until later, five large bags of what I believe are called gummy worms—soft, brightly-hued candies shaped like worms and of a rubbery texture.

“Won't they get a kick out of finding these little worms in their applesauce?” I heard her say to Algeria as I exited my office to take my place at the cash register before the first class filed through. Her remark alarmed me, of course, for I feared at first that the worms of which she spoke were real ones she had found inside our jars of applesauce—the result of careless processing—and I was ready to investigate the matter and to rebuke Birdie for treating such a circumstance so lightly.

I stopped abruptly just outside my office door upon hearing Birdie's jolly talk of worms, and from my vantage I observed her as she extracted from a cellophane bag a handful of the soft candies and held them up, separating them like thick yarns from a matted skein, and began placing them, one by one, onto the five empty trays set before her. I then watched her drop a large spoonful of applesauce upon each worm and push the trays one at a time to Algeria on her left, who added a serving of rice and gravy. Francine was just bringing over an enormous tray of sliced turkey from the warming oven, calling out as she did so, “Gobble, gobble, gobble. Here comes old Tom!”

It was too late to halt Birdie's plan, but I was greatly disturbed that I had not been consulted. Although I am permitted by the regional office to make slight alterations in the menus—as in the substituting of light bread for biscuits, for example—such changes are to be carried out at my discretion and in strict moderation. I would never have approved of the sugary treats.

I could not let the offense pass. With a squaring of my shoulders, I approached Birdie just as the first child—an unkempt boy by the name of Roscoe Stokes—led the second graders into the serving line. When I appeared at Birdie's right side, slightly behind her, Francine was just sliding a full tray toward Roscoe. With a soft chirrup of laughter, Birdie addressed Roscoe. “Why, hello there, Roscoe, honey, if it's not one of my favorite little boys in the world. I sure did like that story you wrote about the chipmunk named Spike.” Birdie had distributed to all the classes the second issue of
Sheep Tales
the day before.

Roscoe grinned and wiped his nose against the cuff of his faded red shirt, which was not only too small but also noticeably soiled. As he moved his tray along the silver rails toward the unmanned cash register, I spoke Birdie's name.

She turned with a start. “Why, hello, Margaret, I didn't see you walk up!” she said.

“I cannot fully discuss the violation at present,” I said sternly, “but you have flagrantly disregarded an official policy by distributing unauthorized sweets to the children. I do not recall your seeking my approval for this.” I cast a severe glance at the bag of gummy worms lying open before her but hidden from the children's view by a stack of empty trays. “And furthermore,” I added, “Algeria and Francine should have dissuaded you.” I cast a reproving look toward Algeria.

Birdie's hand, inside its overlarge plastic disposable glove, reached out as if to touch my arm, but I stepped back. “Oh, Margaret,” she said, “I thought…well, I sure didn't mean to …”

Algeria glared at me combatively and uttered a defiant grunt as I turned away and stalked toward the cash register where Roscoe and two other children stood waiting for me. The grin had faded from Roscoe's face, and he stared up at me in fright as if viewing a dangerous animal at close proximity. For the next hour and a half, I tore off ticket stubs with a mighty vigor, furiously flattened wadded bills, and all but threw coins into the proper slots.

Positioned as I was at the end of the serving line, I heard Birdie's voice continually, as I did every day. “Oh, look at Vicky's pretty pink hair bow!” and “Here, Jason, honey, do you think this'll get you through the rest of the day?” and “Mrs. Lucas, I can tell you're a good teacher by the way your children always look so bright and happy!” And I heard the children's greetings to her. “Hey, Miz Birdie! My cousin's comin' from Beaufort today!” and “Can I come back for seconds on rice, Miss Birdie?” and “We gonna sing that song about the cat again?” Miss Grissom, the music teacher, had attended a funeral on Monday and had asked Birdie to direct the afternoon choir rehearsal by herself that day, during which Birdie had taught them a song about a cat called “Don Gato.”

All of the teachers had a kind word for her also. Miss Partridge, a slip of a girl who was a first-year teacher in the fourth grade, said, “The children just
loved
the pilgrim cupcakes, Birdie! They're writing you thank-you notes this afternoon.” Evidently the gummy worms were not Birdie's only donation of sweets that day. I discovered later, as I inquired into Miss Partridge's comment, that once a week since September Birdie had been baking treats at home and leaving them early in the morning on a teacher's desk with a note, such as “To all my little friends in Room 3-C—Guess Who?”