Some Wildflower In My Heart (44 page)

From the living room came the sounds of sustained laughter. “And the one where he gets Gomer to go with him to the haunted house!” we heard Mickey say. “Oh, and the Fun Girls—you ever see that one?”

“Yep, that's a good one all right,” Thomas said. “And the one where he joins the choir—that's my all-time favorite I think.”

Birdie smiled. “Mickey sure gets a kick out of Barney Fife. You know, there used to be a man who went to our church who looked just like—but what am I thinking of? You would know all about that, I guess, seeing he was related to you. It's sure been nice to see his daughter at our church a couple of times lately.” I did not know that Joan had attended the church more than once. “Tell me,” Birdie went on, “did other people see the resemblance or just us?”

I knew of course that she was speaking of Thomas's uncle Mayfield Spalding. “It was a fact that attracted frequent notice,” I said. Indeed, Mayfield had often complained about the number of people who regularly accosted him with inquiries: Was he related to Don Knotts? Was he Don Knotts's father? Was he Don Knotts's brother? Was he Don Knotts? One time, when Mayfield was younger, he was waiting to cross a street and a man had leaned out a car window and yelled, “Hey, Barney, where's Andy and Opie?” I decided to tell Birdie this and did so. She laughed with delight.

By now I had begun washing the cups and saucers. We would soon be finished with the set of dishes.

“You know, people looking like other people reminds me of something,” Birdie said. “Maybe I shouldn't tell you this because some people don't like to be told that they favor somebody else, but I said to Mickey the first time I met you that I thought you looked like that actress…you know, the one who's had all those husbands. What's her name—Elizabeth something or other. Her name's on some kind of perfume, too. I sprayed some on once in Belk Simpson, but it's way too strong for me.”

I pretended that I did not recognize the woman's identity. “Well, anyway,” Birdie said after I shook my head and assumed a blank expression, “she used to be a real pretty woman when she was younger, so it was meant as a compliment.”

I handed her a cup, which she rinsed and began to dry. “High praise indeed,” I said, “to be likened to someone who used to be young and attractive, who cannot keep a husband, and with whom you associate an overpowering odor.” I suppose I meant these words, which were spoken without a trace of levity, to be a test of sorts. If Birdie read them one way, our friendship would remain as it was now—tentative and polite; that is, if she hastened to clarify and apologize, I could keep her at arm's length. Had I been permitted at the time to choose her response, I would perhaps have preferred this one. By reading my words in another light, however, she could nudge our relationship into something closer to sisterhood.

There was the briefest of pauses, and then she spoke without looking up, continuing to wipe the cup, which was already so dry that the dish towel made small squeaking sounds against it. “Of course,” she said, “she's overweight, too. Did I mention that? Yes, she's gone downhill something awful. In fact,” and here she broke off, frowning slightly as if searching her memory, then opening her mouth in feigned dismay, “now that I think about it, that woman might even be
dead
by now.”

Neither of us laughed outright, but as our husbands began whistling the theme song of the
Andy Griffith Show
in the next room, we exchanged the smallest of smiles.

It was a few minutes after five o'clock when we finished with the dishes. Thomas had turned on the television, and he and Mickey were chuckling over a ridiculous program of which Thomas was fond, a program called
Mystery Science Theater 3000
. He had tried to entice me to watch it one day by telling me that it was too funny to try to explain, and I had replied that as soon as my hands fell idle on a Saturday I would accept the invitation. By this I meant, of course, that I would never watch the program.

“Well, I guess we're all through,” Birdie said with satisfaction, hanging the damp dish towel on the metal rod from which she had taken it earlier. “Could I help you switch your dishes around and get these up in your cupboards?”

“No,” I said. “I will do that myself.” I had loosened the stoppers in both sides of the sink, and the water drained out with great sucking noises. With my dishcloth I was wiping down the porcelain.

Birdie nodded at me. “I understand perfectly. There are just some things nobody can help you with, and I guess rearranging your kitchen cupboards is one of them.” She put a hand to the top of her head and patted in a small circle as if checking for loose hairpins. “My, we've got to get on home,” she said, looking at the clock on the stove. “I never dreamed it was already five. Oh, and look at your bread,” she said, pointing to the stovetop. “I hope I haven't thrown your baking schedule off.”

I could not remember a time when I had left a loaf of bread to rise too long. I quickly twisted the oven knob to “Bake” and set the temperature at 400 degrees.

We heard Mickey from the living room. “Birdie, mousekin, you've got to see this!”

“I wonder what they're up to now,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you with anything else in here, Margaret?” When I shook my head, she turned and exited the kitchen. “Well, let's go see what our men are laughing about now,” she said. But I stayed behind to remove the wet dish towel from the rod and take it to the back porch, where I spread it across the top of the washing machine. I finished wiping out the sink, selected a clean dish towel from a drawer and laid it across the rod, and then set the bread in the oven to bake. An idea had suddenly taken shape in my mind, but it unnerved me to think of carrying it out. My heart had begun to pound at the very thought of it.

When I stepped into the living room moments later, Birdie was sitting on Thomas's green ottoman next to Mickey, who was seated in my rocking chair, which he had turned and pulled closer to the television. I stood for a moment surveying the scene. The three of them were watching the television screen, upon which a ghastly, moaning figure draped in white appeared to be stumbling toward a precipice; tremulous violin strains accompanied his melodramatic progress toward doom. “Okay, okay, if you're going to get that upset about it, I'll raise your allowance!” quipped a tiny voice. Thomas, Mickey, and Birdie laughed in unison.

“Shhh!” Mickey tapped Birdie's arm. “You'll miss what they say next.” The camera panned down the side of the cliff to a rocky shore, where a dark-haired young woman in a bathing suit stood scanning the coastline anxiously. “Hey, Annette!” called the little voice. “What's the matter? Did you lose your beach blanket?” Thomas, Birdie, and Mickey laughed again.

The concept of the program, I soon understood, was to exploit outdated substandard movies for a bit of fatuous entertainment—or put another way, to generate from inanity yet more inanity. As the original movie played itself out, a trio of mockers posing as theater-goers were silhouetted in the corner of the screen, and from this vantage offered sarcastic witticisms and droll comments concerning the action and dialogue upon the screen.

At the commercial break, Thomas looked back at me and grinned. “They like my program, Rosie. See? I been telling you how funny it is.” Mickey and Birdie looked at me also, both of them smiling. “Come on in and set yourself down,” Thomas said, waving toward the couch.

“We've got to get going,” Mickey said, springing to his feet. I had seen Birdie tap the face of her watch. “We didn't mean to stay but a few minutes, and here it's already been an hour. I don't have a very good sense of time. Seems like Birdie's always having to tug my leash and drag me away from places, aren't you, dumplin'?” Birdie rose to stand beside him.

This is when the idea that I mentioned earlier made itself known. When I spoke, my voice sounded serrated and metallic, like a rusted saw. “Will you stay for supper?” I asked from the doorway, my heart still thudding within me. What if they accepted my invitation? While I earnestly hoped that they would not, I felt my heart filling with a curious sense of adventure. Thomas swung his chair around and gaped at me, making no attempt to disguise his shock.

Birdie was making signs of protest, shaking her head and moving one hand rapidly from side to side, palm down, as if brushing crumbs from a tablecloth. “Oh no, Margaret, no, that's sweet of you, but I don't want you to feel obligated to feed us just because we don't know when to leave. We'll just take our coats and get on our way.”

Looking at Mickey, she added, “We still need to stop by Marvella's, you know, and pick up those cupcakes she wants me to decorate for the fellowship tomorrow night. I told her we'd come by sometime late this afternoon.” She tilted her head in thought. “And if we wait till later, she won't be home.” Birdie glanced at me and, as though I cared about a total stranger named Marvella, offered, “Marvella's going over to Harvey and Trudy Gill's tonight to help them make a Christmas wreath for their front door.”

“It will be a simple meal,” I said. “Should you want something more substantial than roast beef sandwiches and potato soup, our supper would be unsatisfactory. Should you choose to join us, however, we will eat at six o'clock.”

Mickey and Birdie turned to each other for help in deciding the matter. Thomas still sat in his chair as if thunderstruck. Whispering loudly, Mickey jerked a thumb toward me as he addressed Birdie. “Do you think there's any chance she'd let us break in the new dishes if we did stay to eat?”

“‘Break' is an unfortunate word choice when speaking of my new dishes,” I said, and Birdie and Mickey both laughed.

“Oh, now, she's a quick one, isn't she?” Mickey said. “Yes, a really
quick
one, she is.” Though by no means a devotee of the
Andy Griffith Show
myself, I could nevertheless tell that Mickey's imitation of Floyd Lawson, the barber, was indeed quite good. Thomas still appeared to be disoriented. He did not speak but gazed first at Mickey and Birdie, then at me, then back at Mickey and Birdie, then again at me.

It was decided that Birdie and Mickey would drive to the home of their friend Marvella, who lived midway between Filbert and Derby—“right under the shadow of the water tower,” Mickey said—and then return to our duplex by six o'clock to be our guests for supper. Now that it was settled, I found it difficult to believe that I had actually extended the invitation, that it had been accepted, and that, barring unforeseen conflicts, we would be seated at our kitchen table with Birdie and Mickey Freeman within the next hour.

“Could I stay and help you with the meal?” Birdie asked. “Mickey could go get the cupcakes by himself.”

“No,” I said. “I will see to everything myself.”

“You'll help her, won't you, Thomas?” Birdie said, and Thomas smiled distractedly.

“I will get your coats for you,” I said, since Thomas had made no move to do so. Walking into Thomas's bedroom, I heard him emerge from his trance at last to say, “Well, now, we'll sure look forward to seeing you folks back in a little bit.”

As I gathered Birdie's coat and Mickey's jacket into my arms, my gaze fell upon Thomas's blue chenille bedspread. I paused briefly and looked at his bed. Though of only a moment's duration, I was suddenly and unaccountably pierced with a feeling that I knew to be pity, though I had not felt it for many years.

The headboard and footboard of the bed were of oak. The design had a certain sturdy elegance, as if crafted by a colonial cabinetmaker. The bed had belonged to Thomas before we married. Very possibly it was the bed he had shared with his first wife, Rita, though I had never asked about its history. Thomas kept a tidy bed. The bedspread was drawn up and snugly tucked beneath the pillows, its nubby geometric design precisely centered, the fringed edge clearing the floor by an even inch. He had never been one to leave his bed unmade nor to toss articles of clothing upon it.

I looked at the bed now as if for the first time. “This,” I said to myself, “is where my husband”—I rarely thought of him in this way: as my husband—“has lain every night for the fifteen years of our marriage; this is where he has lain alone.” I came into the room only to vacuum the carpet on Fridays, to dust the furniture on Tuesdays, to return clean laundry to his bureau drawers on Mondays and Thursdays, and to hang freshly ironed shirts in his closet on Wednesdays. Since the day of our marriage, he had changed the sheets on his bed each Saturday, though I, of course, had always washed, folded, and stored them on the shelves of the linen closet.

I knew that if I sat down upon the mattress now, the box springs would squeak, for I heard them from my room each night. The thought of Thomas sitting upon the edge of the bed in his nightclothes and then slipping his feet beneath the sheets and the blue bedspread descended upon me now as a frail mist of sorrow.

The feeling of pity had its source, I suppose, in an image registered only minutes earlier but now permanently lodged within my mind. I envisioned Birdie and Mickey Freeman side by side in their own bed, propped with pillows and furnished with mugs of cocoa and a gooseneck lamp. I heard their voices reading aloud and saw their eyes focused intently upon the printed page. I wondered briefly whether they shared a single book or secured two copies. This picture of conjugal harmony stung me, contrasting as it did with the present thought of Thomas lying in silence and solitude.

When one clutches his past bitterness like a prized gem, it numbs him to a great many things; it blinds and deafens him. His thoughts are concentered in self. Though it may seem beyond belief, I had never before this moment given thought to Thomas's life as the husband of a woman like myself. Perhaps this was one of Birdie's most valuable roles as my friend: Besides giving me cause to trust and hope again, she demonstrated to me the ballast provided a man by his wife's open and steady love.