Though I detest laying forth so bluntly such a despicable fact as that which I am about to reveal, I feel strongly compelled to do so, to set down the whole truth in words that my eyes can see. My grandfather developed a methodical system for the scheduling of his nocturnal visits to my bedroom; he kept a chart, actually a small calendar, with certain dates circled.
On the Sunday following my Saturday evening with Joan, during which I had let slip the black secret of my past, I felt as if something had gnawed itself free from my soul, some vile and voracious rodent perhaps, leaving a ragged hole but a welcome vacancy. It puzzled me at the time that the mere process of verbalizing a disaster could serve a purgative function, and I suspected it to be only temporary. It puzzles me now that the recording of such facts in writing, as I am presently doing, has a further cleansing effect. This happened to me, I am saying. I ask no pity; it is merely a fact of my life that cannot be changed or forgotten.
I had slept more heavily than usual on Saturday night and awoke late that Sunday morning to the sounds of Thomas singing “The Riddle Song.” At seventy, Thomas still has a strong voice, true to pitch, though he rarely sings at home in my hearing. More often he whistles. However, he is still pressed to sing at his family reunions each summer. The words of the song that he was singing that morning were these:
I gave my love a cherry that has no stone.
I gave my love a chicken that has no bone.
I gave my love a ring that has no end.
I gave my love a baby with no cryin’.
I lay in bed and listened as verse by verse he unraveled the riddle. The cherry without a stone was a cherry blossom; the boneless chicken was one hatching from its shell; the ring was endless because it was rolling; and the quiet baby was asleep. It was a soothing song that I had known for many years. My mother had often sung it to me. I was only five or six when I recall her first singing it, at which time I felt a presentiment of fear instead of comfort. Coupled with the somewhat mournful tune, the last line suggested calamity to my childish mind; I believed the baby to be dead. I remember my mother holding me in her lap when I told her this. “No, no, Margaret, the baby is sleeping,” she said over and over.
When I put on my robe and walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, Thomas was standing at the counter eating a bologna sandwich. On weekends he often eats sandwiches in lieu of traditional breakfast foods. He appeared startled upon seeing me. “What…? Why, I thought you was out on one of your walks. You been sleepin’ all this time? I never thought to peek in your room.”
“I was tired,” I said. “Joan brought me home at twelve o’clock last night.” I removed the small pork loin from the refrigerator, where I had set it to thaw the day before, and began preparing it for roasting.
I remember that September Sunday as a mellow day. Thomas and I spoke very little, and we both lay down to rest after our midafternoon dinner. Thomas rested by sleeping on the sofa. My rest consisted of reading in my bed. I was currently reading a book by two elderly black women, Sarah and Elizabeth Delany—or Sadie and Bessie, as they call themselves—titled Having Our Say.
As I reported earlier, I had taken on the project over the past months of reading books featuring African-Americans as the main characters, and by September I was still interspersing these books regularly among others whenever I heard of one that interested me. In August I had read The Women of Brewster Place by Gloria Naylor and I Been in Sorrow’s Kitchen and Licked Out All the Pots by Susan Straight, both of which I consider worthy fiction. Having Our Say is different in that it is nonfiction, a collection of memories and observations rather than a novel.
I mention my reading on Sunday only because it became relevant on the following Monday in the lunchroom at Emma Weldy. It was a few minutes past 10:30 that Monday morning when Algeria was mixing the mashed potatoes for the children’s lunch. Birdie had just returned from the kindergarten rooms, to which she had delivered the morning snack of cheese and crackers, and Francine was removing a large pan of baked chicken legs from the oven and transferring it to the warmer. I was filling out the Production Sheet for the day’s breakfast items. These forms and scores of others must be completed and filed daily by all lunchroom supervisors. Much of my time is taken up with such paper work.
Birdie stopped at my office door and called out cheerily, “Oh, those little children sure enjoyed their snack this morning! I think they were hoping for cookies, but they got over it real fast and dug into those crackers lickety-split. They’re so cute. One little boy told me that the round crackers make him think of faces with freckles.”
I placed my finger under the line upon which I had just written 106 4-ounce cartons Vita-Fresh apple juice and lifted my head. As I opened my mouth to suggest that she busy herself with lunch preparations, Birdie laughed and said, “The little fellow went on to explain that the little holes were the freckles. And then another little boy said maybe they weren’t freckles, maybe the cracker had the chicken pox.” Before I could speak, she added quickly, “Well, I’ve got to wipe off these trays, then finish up the last two pans of biscuits for lunch,” and she swiftly left.
It could not have been more than ten seconds later when I heard a tremendous clatter and a loud outcry in the kitchen. Springing from my chair, I looked through the side of my Plexiglas cubicle and saw Algeria half-sitting, half-lying on the floor with great clumps of mashed potatoes splattered across the bib of her plastic apron and her white T-shirt beneath. Her face was frozen in disbelief, and from her chin hung a pasty white goatee of mashed potatoes. In an instant I took in the large pan that lay overturned beside her and the small bog of mashed potatoes on the tiled floor.
Her hands clutching either side of her head, Birdie stood speechless in front of Algeria, and Francine looked on, her mouth agape. As I hurried out into the kitchen, all three women began to talk and move at once. Algeria, who is muscular and tall, began struggling to arise, and as Francine stepped forward, Birdie reached down and took Algeria’s hand, apparently believing that she possessed the strength to assist a woman of Algeria’s size to her feet. The whole time Birdie was crying, “Oh, Algeria, honey, what have I done to you? What have I gone and done? Oh, honey!”
Could I have halted the action and given warning, I would have told Birdie to let Algeria rise from the floor on her own. As it was, a great flailing of arms and legs ensued, with ill-fated results. In her attempt to help Algeria, Birdie stepped into a dollop of potatoes and lost her footing. Algeria extended her hands to break Birdie’s fall, and the two of them fell together on the floor, this time with Birdie seated squarely in Algeria’s lap. At some point in her fall, Birdie’s head had evidently been pressed against Algeria’s apron so that half of her face was now covered with a sticky poultice of mashed potatoes.
For a moment there was complete silence except for the hum of the ventilators. I hastened toward the scene and stood in front of Birdie and Algeria with my arms folded. Birdie informed me later that I looked exceedingly angry. The truth was that I was torn between sympathy and annoyance. That it was an accident was evident, yet there was the waste of food and time to consider, not to mention the soiled floor. The first class of children would be arriving in less than thirty minutes.
Birdie spoke first. Tugging her dress down over her knees, she looked up at me and boldly stated, “It was all my fault, Margaret, every single bit of it. Algeria is not to blame one iota. I was the cause of the whole thing.” Then she turned to Algeria and looked directly into her eyes. “I don’t know how in the world you’re ever going to forgive me for this, Algeria, but I’m just so sorry I don’t know what to do. I wasn’t watching where I was going!” She bowed her head and shook it remorsefully. Francine was still standing behind the two of them, and she had by now covered her mouth with the hand on which she wore a large, padded oven mitt. I should have told her that such contact of the mitt with her mouth undermined our standards concerning the sanitary handling of food and equipment, but I did not.
> It was an embarrassing moment for all of us. I believe that we were all taken back by Birdie’s prompt and unqualified apology. I had not witnessed the prelude to the accident, of course, and Francine, if she had seen it, seemed presently incapable of speech. Algeria’s face registered a conflicting blend of distrust and bewilderment, as if she were trying both to decode the words she was hearing and to reconstruct the steps by which she had come to be sitting on the floor with Birdie Freeman in her lap.
As Birdie had been the first to speak, so she was the first to laugh. Carefully she eased herself out of Algeria’s lap and stood to her feet. She reached up and touched her own face, then shook her head in mock exasperation. “Well, at least if I was going to be the cause of all this mess, I got some of it on myself, too!” She chuckled at her sticky hand. “I’ve heard of those facial masks women use for pretty complexions, but this is a new one.”
Algeria, still seated on the floor, said nothing. She was wiping potatoes off her apron and slinging them into the pan, her brow deeply furrowed. “I guess we can be thankful these were going to the oven instead of from it,” Birdie continued. “They could’ve been hot!” She took another swipe at her cheek and said, “I bet I’m a sight!” Then she laughed again, but lightly, tentatively.
Knowing Algeria’s volatile nature when riled or offended, I could not predict her response. I had once seen her wrench apart a pair of tongs during an argument with Vonnie Lee about Martin Luther King. She had stoically and sullenly endured a severe reprimand from me afterward and had subsequently purchased a new and better pair of tongs, which she brought to work the next day. She had always been quick to imagine injustice, to interpret innocent remarks or actions as insults to her or her race. But now as I stood watching, Algeria’s face slowly relaxed, and though she puckered her lips and thrust them forward, her expression was closer to a smile than a frown. “We both of us in a sorry fix,” she grumbled.
“Here, Algeria, let me help,” said Francine, removing her oven mitt and coming around in front of them. “And for goodness’ sake, let’s watch what we’re doing. No, Birdie, you stand back. I sure don’t want all three of us to end up down there in all that mush.” She laughed and extended both hands. “Y’all are something else, you know it?” Although Algeria tensed and attempted to shrug her off, Francine finally succeeded in helping her to her feet. “Now, flex yourselves, both of you, to see if anything’s broke!” Francine said. “I knew a boy once who walked around for a week with a cracked tailbone before he went to the doctor to see why his rear end was hurting so bad.”
For a moment neither Birdie nor Algeria moved. Very likely they knew they were not injured in any serious way. But Francine had found her tongue and seemed bent on exercising it. “Come on, check yourselves! See if everything still works right.” To demonstrate, she flapped her hands as if shaking off water. “Y’all sure need baths!” she added. “You got that mess all over your clothes and face, both of you. Birdie, you’d have it all in your hair, too, if it wasn’t for your cap.” Then she doubled over with laughter, slapping her knees in exaggerated fashion and pointing at both of them. “Oh, I wish y’all could just see yourself!” As I have said before, Francine is inclined to overreact.
It was at this juncture that I spoke. “There is a great deal to be done, ladies. May I suggest that you reserve your jollity for a more convenient time and set about at once making things right?” For some reason, this remark set Francine off afresh, and as I wheeled about to return to my office, her laughter was punctuated with shrieks. I heard her gasp, “You just landed right smack in her lap, Birdie! That was something else!”
In reporting the details of the accident and its aftermath, perhaps it may seem to have happened slowly. The truth is that it passed with such speed that I was again seated in my office not more than five minutes after my alarmed exit. Five minutes is hardly worth noting, one might think. It was, however, a radically significant five minutes in our lunchroom, for within that small space of time the last arm’s length of distance between Algeria and Birdie closed. Though Algeria had treated Birdie with a certain measure of politeness during the previous four weeks, she had nevertheless maintained an aloofness from her, an attitude almost of suspicion, as of waiting for inevitable proof of falseness.
I pretended to be busy with my paper work when I returned to my desk, but I frequently glanced out into the kitchen to see whether my help might be required. I was ready to give it but did not want to appear eager to do so, for I feel strongly that my workers must accept responsibility for their errors. Algeria disappeared for a few minutes into the rest room, and while Birdie stood at one of the big double sinks and wiped her face with a wet cloth, Francine posted herself by her side and attempted to scrape the potatoes off her white polyester jumper with a spatula. I had heard Birdie tell Francine earlier that morning that she had made the jumper over the weekend “to give me another uniform for work.” Though some supervisors now allow a great variety of colors, I always make a point in our opening meeting of stressing my preference for white uniforms.
The next time I looked out, Birdie was down on the floor with two large spoons, nimbly scooping up the potatoes and depositing them into the pan from which they had spilled. When she finished, Francine emptied a bucket of water over the area and together they washed the residue toward the drain, then laid down towels and rags and set about mixing more potatoes.
Algeria joined them, and I watched the three of them work as a team around the large mixer, adding pitchers of water, potato flakes, dippers of melted oleo, then more water and potato flakes until the consistency pleased them. Algeria spooned the mixture into a large roasting pan and then brushed it with melted oleo while Birdie wiped off the mixer and took the beaters to the sink. Francine tore off a length of waxed paper and one of aluminum foil, which Algeria then placed over the potato mixture before setting the pan in the smaller oven to warm. With relief I noted that three other pans of the same size were already in the warmer. The accident, therefore, had fortunately occurred with the last batch.
By the time the children arrived, the only signs of the morning’s impeded schedule were the towels on the floor and the damp, starchy stains on Algeria’s and Birdie’s clothing. After the final class was served, Birdie took on the task of giving the floor a thorough scrubbing to remove the last traces of the spill, and I heard her say to Francine, “I’ll take these towels home tonight and give them a good washing.”
As I counted the ticket stubs, clipped them to the register tape, and then totaled the money from the children who had paid with cash, I was aware of the usual postlunch activity in the kitchen. I heard Algeria call, “That pizza dough’s gotta come out the freezer ’fore we leave!” I heard the squeaky wheels on the cart of dirty pots and pans that Francine wheeled past my door, as well as the swish of fabric between her ample thighs with every step that she took, and I heard the later clunking and spraying from her work at the dishwasher. Birdie was everywhere, wiping down surfaces, tying up garbage bags, stacking empty boxes by the service door.
Francine left first, a few minutes before two o’clock. I had just placed the cash in the bank deposit pouch and zipped it when I saw Birdie disappear into the walk-in pantry with the leftover box of potato flakes.
I saw Algeria quickly gather up the unused packets of salad dressing and follow Birdie into the pantry, ducking her head to clear the low entrance. Though I do not, as I have said before, consider myself a meddlesome person as regarding the affairs of others, I could see that Algeria had business on her mind other than the returning of the packets of dressing, and I could not suppress my curiosity.
The refrigerator, which is actually the size of a large closet, occupies one corner of the kitchen, next to which is the pantry. I took a pen from my desk drawer, walked out of my cubicle, and approached the refrigerator door, on which is posted a chart for notating the temperature of the unit. Twice each day I must check and record the temperatures for each of the two freezers
, the large refrigerated storage room, and the smaller cooler. Standing before the chart, my pen poised as if to write, I could distinctly hear the voices of Birdie and Algeria in the pantry a few feet away.
“…the blame for it all?” Algeria was saying. Her tone was gruff but not hostile.
“Well, now, no. I don’t remember it that way at all,” Birdie said. “I was in such a hurry to get my little jobs done that I wasn’t remembering there were two other people working just as hard, and I whirled around and scooted off without even checking to make sure the way was clear.”
“Don’t matter what you say, you know we was both of us whirlin’ ’round at the same minute headin’ off different ways. Wasn’t you any more’n it was me. We had us a head-on what wasn’t nobody’s fault, or else was both of us’s.” I heard a soft scraping like boxes moving on a shelf. Algeria continued. “No need you going on that way to Margaret like you just come over and push me down or somethin’. Wasn’t that way ’n you know it.”
Hearing Birdie talk but being spared the distraction of seeing her, I realized what a gentle, agreeable voice she had; it could be called melodious. She replied pleasantly but firmly, “Well, it seems funny, doesn’t it, that you were the one who ended up on the floor? If we both ran into each other, it looks like I would have been the one to get knocked down. You’re a whole lot stronger and taller than me, Algeria. No, you see, I was the one who took off pell-mell and had time to work up a little steam, and you just innocently turned around when I”—I heard a clapping of hands, which I assumed to be Birdie’s—“ran right into you. And that’s the way it was.”
Some Wildflower In My Heart Page 13