I picked up a cup and held it in the palm of my hand, tracing my finger around its smooth, hard rim. I turned my head and looked at Birdie, whose body inclined toward me, whose eyes shone like brown quartz, whose lips were parted as if wanting to speak yet knowing not what to say. I glanced down at the cup again, then back at Birdie, and at last I spoke. “Why are you doing this?” We both knew, I am certain, that my question encompassed more than this culminating act of generosity. It included the entire three and a half months of our acquaintance.
Her answer was swift and unflinching. “Because I love you, Margaret. That's why.”
I made no reply, yet, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, I must report that at the sound of her words I felt a sudden wrenching within my heart, a nearly visceral sensation, like a great healing stab of pain that brings long-awaited relief. And I knew that, were I given to displays of emotion, I could at this moment fill the cup I held in my hands with tearsâtears of sorrow that a friend had been so long denied me and tears of joy that she had at last arrived. I did not weep, however; I merely stared into the cup.
I saw no vision, I heard no voice from heaven, I spoke not in tongues; yet in that instant I recalled a verse from the Bible, a promise I had thought broken, along with others, many years ago: “And thou shalt be like a watered garden.”
Birdie had reached across the now-empty box and laid her hand upon my shoulder. “Oh, I'm so happy, Margaret. I hoped so much you'd like them. I was so glad Thomas talked about your dishes that night you ate supper with us. I'd been trying to think of something to get you, and that gave me the idea. Of course, I got this pattern because I knew you already had one of the extra serving dishes, but now you've gone and given
that
to me. Isn't it funny?”
It was not a question that needed an answer, and she did not pause to receive one. “You really bought them yourself, though, did you know that?” When I knit my brow in puzzlement, she laughed. “Oh, yes, you did! I just put aside the money you kept leaving on my piano after every lesson and saved it all up till I found something I thought you'd likeâyou
do
like them, don't you?”
“Yes,” I said, turning my face to hers. “Yes, I like them very much, Birdie.”
December 17 was pivotal, therefore, because on that afternoon I was washed ashore, so to speak, by the tide of Birdie's goodness. It was not so much the magnitude of this latest gift, though its cost and size, in truth, very nearly overcame me, but it was Birdie's perseverance. She had worn me down. I knew that I could withstand the floodwaters of kindness no longer.
After emptying the large box in the living room, Thomas and Mickey transported the stacks of dishes into the kitchen and set them upon the counter. I then filled one side of my kitchen sink with hot suds and the other with clear, scalding water, and Birdie and I stood side by side. I washed each dish and handed it to Birdie, who first dipped it into the clear water for rinsing and then wiped it dry with a large white dish towel, the very dish towel, in fact, she had given to me. It was made of flour sacking and bore in one corner an embroidered assortment of colorful vegetables: carrots, corn, tomatoes, and the like. After drying each dish, she placed it upon the countertop. We proceeded at a leisurely pace.
“I hope I haven't complicated things for you,” she said at one point. “Do you even have room to store all these dishes in your cupboards?”
I had already considered the matter, of course, and told her of my plans, nodding toward each cupboard as I explained the necessary adjustments to be made. I have never been one for accumulating items or for retaining ones that have fallen into disuse, so my few kitchen cupboards afford adequate space.
“I will donate our old set of dishes to the Salvation Army,” I said, and Birdie nodded approvingly.
“That's a real thoughtful thing to do, Margaret,” she said. “Not everybody would do that.” She paused and then added, “I sure hope it won't be hard to give away your old ones, though. I'd feel bad if I knew you were attached to them.”
“I do not attach myself to things,” I said at once, then lest I seem ungrateful for her gift, I attempted a qualification. “Of course,” I said, handing her a plate to rinse and dry, “I have never owned a set of dishes to equal these.” I lifted my eyes briefly to meet hers, then turned aside quickly.
In the living room our husbands were keeping up a continuous flow of talk. It appeared that they had discovered a mutual interest in the old
Andy Griffith Show
and were testing each other's knowledge of characters and plots. Mickey called into the kitchen, “Birdie, you'll never guess. Thomas here knew the answer to the pretzel question!”
“Well, almost,” Thomas called. “I knew it was pretzels, and I knew it was Lydia somebody, but I couldn't remember her last name.” The question, Birdie explained to me, concerned a character on an episode of the
Andy Griffith Show
, whose excuse when declining the offer of a pretzel was “They lay on my chest.” Lydia was Goober's date in one episode, Birdie went on to say, and her last name, which Thomas could not remember, was Crosswaithe. Though I was tempted to point out Lydia's confusion between the verbs “lie” and “lay” and, furthermore, to ask of what possible use was such inconsequential knowledge of obscure television characters, I said nothing.
“Ask him the one about the Smithsonian!” Birdie called back.
In the living room we heard Mickey pose the question to Thomas. “Okay, okay, here's a good one. You know how Barney always gets words mixed upâwell, what did he call the Smithsonian Institute in that episode where he bought the motorcycle and sidecar?”
“Easy,” Thomas said. “The Smith Brothers Institution.”
“Oh, he's good, he is. Yes, he's
really
good,” Mickey said, to which Thomas replied, “That's the best imitation of Floyd Lawson I ever heard!”
“Listen to them in there,” Birdie said to me. “In lots of ways those two are like peas in a pod, aren't they?” Indeed, it had already occurred to me that, were our lives a work of fiction, Mickey and Thomas could never reside as primary characters in a single plot for this very reason: They were too much alike. There was a want of conflict between them, which would render their coexistence bland and static or, rather, redundant. Many physical differences separated them, of course, as well as a wide gulf in matters of religion. In temperament and personality, however, they were cut from the same bolt.
“They do seem to have a great deal in common,” I said, easing the rest of the plates into the sudsy water. Neither one of us spoke for several moments as we listened to Mickey and Thomas quiz each other on Mayberry trivia. “Who taught Aunt Bee how to drive?” “What did Andy call his best fishing rod?” “What brand of gas did they sell at Wally's station?” “Who was Barney's favorite waitress at the diner?” “What was Mayberry's largest department store?” “What three things did Opie wish for from the fortune-telling cards?” and the like.
“Mickey just loves that show,” Birdie said at last. “He used to watch the reruns every evening when they came on at 6:30. They moved things around, though, and now I think it comes on in the morning sometime. When he thinks of it, he'll set the machine to record it, and then we'll both watch it after supper. I like it a lot, too. Do you?”
“It is better than some programs,” I said. I imagined Birdie and Mickey sitting side by side on the couch in the basement watching
Andy Griffith
reruns, laughing together. I wondered briefly if Mickey worked on his latest cross-stitch pattern as he watched; then I remembered that Birdie had once said they sat upstairs in their recliners when they did needlework. Perhaps, instead, he put the finishing touches on his nut people while keeping one eye on the television. Or perhaps he did nothing else as he watched. It was not difficult to picture him mesmerized by the antics of the Mayberry hayseeds, leaning forward to catch every word and gesture, storing away questions to share with other fans.
“â¦and I told him I didn't know,” Birdie was saying.
Not having heard what preceded this, I did not respond. I immersed a small stack of fruit bowls beneath the soapy water and then stirred the water a bit with my dishcloth.
After a pause, during which Birdie hummed lightly as if to cover an awkward silence, she said, “It doesn't really matter, though, and I can sure understand if you'd rather not talk about it. We all have things we don't like to discuss.”
Though I had not heard her question, I felt sure that she was correct, that indeed I would rather not discuss whatever it was, and so I said, “I would prefer not to.” I did not speak brusquely, however, and she smiled as she took a bowl from me with no sign of having been affronted.
“Wasn't that what that man in the story always said?” she asked, drying the inside of the bowl with great concentration.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“The man who always said he'd prefer not to do whatever anybody asked him to do? Mickey and I read that story together a while back, but now I can't remember the man's name. It was a funny name. I keep thinking of Barney, but that's probably because I keep hearing the men in there talking about Barney Fife. It's not Barney, but ⦔ She raised her voice and called to the next room. “Mickey, what wasâ”
“Are you referring to Bartleby the Scrivener?” I asked.
“That's it! Bartleby! Never mind, Mickey, Margaret answered my question.” She looked up at me with the admiring eyes of a child. “I should've known you'd come up with it, Margaret. I bet you could really help us out with our reading. We're justâ” She broke off abruptly and lowered her eyes as if from sudden shame.
“With your reading?” I asked, puzzled. Frankly, it surprised me to find that Birdie was acquainted with Melville's tale of Bartleby.
She fluttered her fingers. “Oh, you'll probably think it's silly, and it probably is, but we've been trying to read different books and stories and things together for the past few yearsâ¦.” She paused, emitting a nervous glissando of laughter. “And then we talk about them. It's just a little project we thought might ⦔ She did not finish the sentence but shook her head and clamped her teeth upon her lower lip as if wishing she had not spoken of the matter.
Was there nothing that Birdie and Mickey Freeman did not do together? I wondered. It struck me as a severely confining way of life.
“It is a commendable project,” I said. “I do not think it silly.”
Birdie laughed again. “Oh, heavens, I'd be embarrassed for you to hear us talk. We know so little about what's really good. But still, it stretches us and makes us think, I guess. We didn't do a whole lot of reading as children, neither one of us, so we've got a lot to make up for.” She stepped back, opened up her dish towel, and waved it about as if to dry it out. “We've started taking turns picking what we'll read next,” she continued, “and we try to have a little variety. When we first started, I think we read three books in a row by Louis L'Amour until I finally told Mickey I was ready for a change!” She stepped forward and took another bowl from me. “I need to ask you sometime for a list of things you'd recommend. We're trying to raise our level a little bit as time goes along.”
She went on to extol the virtues of a novel that they had recently finished, a book that I myself had read ten years earlier, shortly after its publication in 1984:
Cold Sassy Tree
by Olive Ann Burns. “Oh, but I was so upset at the ending!” she exclaimed. “Why that author had to go and make Mr. Blakeslee die I'll never understand. That was the most disappointing way for things to turn out just when everything looked so hopeful!” We worked in silence for a while, and then she said, “But, really, I guess that's the way it goes in real life, too, lots of times. Things are going along just fine and then all of a sudden they turn upside down.”
“That is true,” I said. I could not help thinking of a book I had begun reading to Tyndall on his fourth birthday, a book that, because it was too advanced for him to grasp with full appreciation, I had paraphrased for him. In an early chapter of the bookâ
The Wind in the Willows
by Kenneth GrahameâMole, Rat, and Toad ventured from the narrow country lanes onto the highroad, where “disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang out on them.” I have never forgotten the words. I have reminded myself of them often, for they have so aptly described my life.
“Mickey thought it was funny the way I took it so to heart,” Birdie continued. “He tried to make me laugh and get over it, but I wouldn't listen. He kept saying, âIt's just a made-up story! It's not real!' But I just pulled the covers over my head and, like I said, wouldn't listen.” By this I surmised that their reading sessions must take place at bedtime.
She went on to discuss another book they had read earlier:
Selected Short Stories of O. Henry
. I was somewhat taken back, in a pleasant sense, by her assessment of the writer, whose given name, as the reader knows, was William Sidney Porter: “He could tell a good story, all right,” she said, “but for some reason I got a little tired of them before we were done. They all had a funny little twist at the end, and none of them seemed very
natural
somehow.” I would have expected her to adore O. Henry's gimmicks.
“Of course,” she added, “I guess things like that happen in real life, too, don't they? Take what just happened right here in your house, for example. Who would ever have thought that we'd both give each other dishes in the very same pattern?” This remark sent a small tingle through me, for had I not, upon opening Birdie's gift some thirty minutes earlier, seen certain comparisons to O. Henry's “Gift of the Magi”?