The kitchen smelled of toasted bread. Charlie glanced toward the stove: an empty pot, nothing more.
“Mother’s out enjoying the sun,” said Miss Semple.
They went out the back door to the screened porch. Sun streamed through the striped awnings, a hot green light. Mrs. Semple lay on the wicker sofa, her head propped with pillows, her bottom half covered with a crocheted afghan. She was old and enormously fat; through the afghan Charlie could see the outline of her thighs, round as hams. In front of her a tray table held a half-empty bowl of soup. Beside her a radio played organ music.
“Mother,” said Miss Semple, touching her hand. “Look who’s here. It’s Charlie and Jody.”
The old lady blinked. She was nearly blind. Miss Semple nodded at Charlie, his signal to speak. She had taught Sunday school.
“Hello, Mrs. Semple,” said Charlie.
The old lady reached out to touch his face. She smiled, showing shiny pink gums.
“She’s glad to see you.” Miss Semple sat on the old glider, covered with flowered cushions. “Come sit next to me,” she said to Charlie.
Jody dozed in Miss Semple’s lap. The organ music ended and another program began, a man who believed the world had turned its back on Jesus.
“This is the Reverend Poundstone,” said Miss Semple. “He’s Mother’s favorite.”
Charlie watched the old woman and wondered how you could tell: Mrs. Semple appeared to be asleep. Finally Miss Semple got up from the glider. “I’m going to make us some tea,” she said, lifting Jody in her arms. “Charlie, you keep Mother company.”
Time passed. The Reverend Poundstone grew angry: grace would not wait forever. Between the two panels of the awning Charlie could see a narrow strip of sky.
Miss Semple reappeared carrying a tray. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. She set the tray on the table and settled back on the glider. The tray held a china teapot, three cups, and a plate of cookies.
Charlie considered. If he refused the tea, he might not get a chance at the cookies.
“Okay,” he said.
Miss Semple poured the tea and added milk and sugar.
“Thank you,” said Charlie. The tea burned his tongue and tasted like soap. Inside the scratchy pants his legs were slick with sweat.
Miss Semple offered him the plate. “Would you like a cookie?”
“Yes’m.” He took one and put the whole thing in his mouth. It was small and hard, covered with powdered sugar. Once the sugar melted away it tasted intensely of lemon.
Miss Semple lifted Jody onto her lap. She grimaced. “Oh dear,” she said. She looked down at her dress, now smudged with wet. “Somebody needs a change.” She set Jody on her feet and took her by the hand, into the kitchen. “We’ll be right back.”
Charlie glanced at the old woman. Her eyes were closed, her lips wet with saliva.
“Wait no longer,” urged the Reverend Poundstone. “The moment of salvation is at hand.”
Charlie reached for the plate. He set it on his knees and ate the cookies two at a time. He ate until his teeth hurt and his lap was dappled with sugar.
TO BIRDIE, Harry Doyle looked large and wealthy. His hands were soft and clean. His fat pink face was impeccably shaved, the smooth skin of his neck pinched by a white shirt collar. He reminded her of her father.
“How do you do,” said Birdie.
She let him shake her hand. She was more nervous than she would have imagined. The mere fact of dressing herself, riding the bus downtown. She hadn’t worn stockings in months. In her wallet she carried three dollars.
“Have you done secretarial work before?” he asked. He was director of classified advertising at the paper.
“Yes.” She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. “My husband had a parish in Missouri for two years. I was the church secretary.” It was largely true. She’d typed up the church bulletin each week, kept track of who sold raffle tickets in the spring.
“Minister,” said Doyle. “He have a church now?”
“He’s an assistant chaplain at the college.” She allowed herself a smile. She’d had a little wine before she came, to help her relax. It was her first glass in two days.
Doyle looked down at a piece of paper on his desk. “You ever studied typing in school?”
“High school,” said Birdie. That was an actual lie. She’d disdained the commercial classes, chosen art and music over bookkeeping, French over shorthand. She’d learned typing on her own, on an old manual her father kept in the basement.
“This here’s your typing test,” said Doyle. “You type eighteen words a minute.”
Birdie smiled again.
“I’m afraid I can’t hire you,” said Doyle. “Fifty words a minute would be the minimum.”
Birdie leaned forward in her chair. The vinyl seat made a rude sound beneath her. “I’m out of practice,” she said. “I could go home and practice and come back in a month or two.”
“That’s fine,” said Doyle. “You do that, Miz Kimble.”
AT THE CORNER she caught the bus, deserted at that hour, just her and an old colored woman who blew her nose in a checked handkerchief. Oh well, Birdie thought. Better not to dwell on it. Better to enjoy the remarkable feeling of riding alone on a city bus in the middle of the afternoon. She couldn’t remember the last time she was truly alone, no baby tugging at her, no little boy asking where the bathroom was. A week had passed since the county woman’s visit, yet Birdie still looked over her shoulder each time she left the house, wondering if the neighbors were watching. She’d taken a chance leaving the children with the Semples—who knew what Charlie might say to them?—but it was already done. She might as well take her time.
The bus stopped at an intersection; Birdie stepped down and crossed to the five-and-dime. Window signs advertised the specials: charcoal briquettes, roasted cashews, Breck shampoo. Through the glass she saw the long counter of the luncheonette. For the first time in weeks, she felt hungry. She went inside and sat at the counter, ordered coffee and pie.
“You want ice cream with that?” said the waitress, a thin, stooped woman with dyed hair and deep lines around her mouth. Ice cream cost a quarter more. Birdie reached into her purse and felt the three bills in her wallet.
“Yes, please,” she said.
At the other end of the counter, two men in shirtsleeves were finishing their lunch.
“Whatcha doing for the Fourth?” asked the older one, a fat, bald man in a striped tie.
“Going to the shore,” said the other. He was young and nice-looking. “I got a trunk full of firecrackers for the boys.”
The men pushed away their plates. In a moment they would go back to one of the buildings on Canal Street, to do whatever men did in offices. Birdie had only the faintest notion of what her father called “bidness.” Her grandfather had owned a vineyard that produced a sweet, cloudy white wine he called Tidewater Tea. Her father ran the vineyard as a hobby but made his living as a lawyer for the local school district, walking a mile each day to his office in town. Birdie’s mother had never had a job, nor had any white woman she’d ever known.
Birdie looked out the window. Across the street a girl went into the hardware store. She wore shorts that barely covered her bottom, a man’s shirt knotted at her waist.
“Will you look at that?” said the young man, the one with the firecrackers.
The waitress shrugged. “I think a woman ought to dress like a woman, myself.”
“Those don’t look like any man’s legs to me,” said the young man.
“They sure don’t,” said the old man. “But still.”
Men’s talk, Birdie thought: not intended for her ears. Still, it made her wonder. What would they say about her when she got up to leave? She looked down at her baggy skirt and shapeless blouse. Nothing, she realized; they would say nothing at all.
She hadn’t bought the clothes herself. They had been chosen for her by Ken’s mother, who hadn’t considered Birdie’s summ
er dresses fit for church or anywhere else. They’d spent a Saturday at Ferman’s department store in Pullman, which sold tractor parts and animal feed as well as clothing. Ken’s mother, enormously fat, wore dresses as big as tablecloths; she seemed to feel Birdie should wear the same size. She picked out skirts that hung nearly to Birdie’s ankles, a billowing shirtwaist dress striped green like a porch awning.
Once, their first summer in Missouri, Ken had come home to find Birdie weeding the garden in a pair of Bermuda shorts. “What do you think you’re doing?” he’d hissed. It was a small town; there were things the minister’s wife simply couldn’t do. She was not to wear shorts or leave the curtains open during the day or play the radio while she did housework. She could be friendly with the parish women, but not too friendly: she couldn’t invite a particular one over for coffee, for example, or the others would feel snubbed. Above all she couldn’t drink alcohol, not even the homemade wine her father sent at Christmas.
They lived in the parsonage with Ken’s parents; his father had been Pullman’s pastor until his stroke. He took over his father’s duties; Birdie taught Sunday school and made covered dishes and sang in the choir. Twice a week she listened to Ken preach. My husband, she thought, wishing her old schoolmates were there to see her, the girls Reverend Kimble had not chosen. At school she had enjoyed their jealousy; she felt as though she’d been singled out for a prize. Now no one envied her. She spent her days caring for Ken’s paralyzed father, bathing and feeding and reading to him. She and her husband slept in his boyhood room, the wallpaper printed with pictures of cowboys. They ate at the family table like two grown siblings.
The waitress sat at the counter and lit a cigarette. “Lord,” she said to no one in particular. “It’s good to sit.”
Birdie smiled. She’d never learned how to strike up conversations with strangers. Her father did it naturally, casually; he made friends with every waitress, cashier, and salesman in the county. Her mother had been more reserved. Without anyone telling her so, Birdie understood that certain things, while fine for men, were unbecoming to women.
“Lord,” the waitress said again. She was a different type of woman, the kind who talked to strangers all day long. It occurred to Birdie that the world was full of these women: girls who stood behind candy counters, shoveling cashews into tiny bags with an aluminum scoop; salesladies in lingerie departments, who wrapped up your new underclothes in layers of tissue. She had never paid much attention to such women; but suddenly, inexplicably, she envied them.
She glanced at the luncheonette window, at the HELP WANTED sign affixed with yellowed tape, the letters barely discernible, faded by the sun. She tried to imagine herself smiling at customers, taking down their orders with a pad and pencil. It seemed almost possible.
The men got to their feet. The older one took out his wallet and left a bill on the counter. “Take it easy, Fay,” he called over his shoulder.
The waitress stubbed out her cigarette. “See you Monday,” she called back. She stacked their dirty dishes on a tray, then reached for the bill the man had left and tucked it into her apron. No, Birdie thought. She could learn to take orders and serve food, but she hadn’t been raised to take strange men’s money. Her mother, if she weren’t dead already, would have died from shame.
Birdie finished her pie and left a dollar on the counter. Outside the sky was bottle-blue, clear as glass; the sidewalks were busy with shoppers. She caught the bus, crowded now, at the corner. She found a seat next to a stout woman in a flowered hat.
Birdie settled into her seat. The bus was stifling; next to her the woman radiated heat. Across the aisle sat a young couple: the girl buxom and olive-skinned, like an Italian; the fellow blond and husky, a college boy. He leaned over and whispered something in the girl’s ear, making her laugh. His hand rested on her suntanned thigh.
Birdie looked away, at the pedestrians waiting for the light to change, the mannequins gesturing in shop windows. She could almost feel the boy’s hand warming her thigh, his mouth at her ear, his warm breath activating the nerves beneath her skin. Her husband had never touched her in public. He came to her silently at night, careful not to wake his parents on the other side of the wall. She remembered his cold hands under her nightgown, his breath hurried and shallow. Eyes shut tight, he seemed to disappear inside himself like a turtle retracting its limbs. The first few times, at Hambley, he’d withdrawn from her, making a mess on the floor; once they were married he simply left the mess inside her. Afterward he collapsed on the bed, exhausted, his skin perfectly cool and dry. She was mystified by his persistent interest in the act, which amounted to five minutes of intense concentration and a brief spasm that didn’t appear pleasurable. She decided it was hopelessly beyond her, like geometry or algebra, yet another part of life she had failed to grasp.
Birdie glanced back at the couple. They were kissing now, the boy’s hand tangled in the girl’s dark hair. Birdie had never seen, up close, what kissing looked like. She watched, fascinated by the boy’s clutching hands, the soft chewing movements of his jaw.
Next to Birdie the stout woman was looking too. “Heavens to Betsy,” she murmured.
The bus trundled to a stop; a few passengers filed past. The boy and girl hurried to the front of the bus, flushed and giggling, the girl tugging at her short skirt.
“Good riddance,” said the woman in the hat. She shifted indignantly in her seat. “There used to be such a thing as privacy, at least in our day.”
Birdie looked closely at the woman. Her face was heavily powdered; she looked fifty, maybe older. She thinks we’re the same age, Birdie thought. Birdie was twenty-six years old.
The bus stopped at the bottom of the street; the doors opened, admitting a blast of fresh air. Birdie got to her feet and stepped down to the curb, crossed the street, and climbed the hill. The sun heated the dark crown of her hat. She thought of the bottle of wine chilling in the refrigerator, so cold it would make her teeth hurt.
She glanced at her watch. She’d told Miss Semple she’d pick the children up at four. She had another ten minutes.
DRINKING, SHE THOUGHT of Evelyn Luck.
She hadn’t thought of Evelyn in years. It was a special gift of hers: the ability to rewrite past disasters, to unhappen them in her mind. The worst debacles, her memory simply refused to record, so that there were periods of her life she barely recalled at all: her mother’s illness, the long months after her death. Birdie’s memories of Missouri stopped after the first year, when the gossip about Ken and Evelyn Luck started.
Birdie had never met Evelyn, but she’d seen her around: a small, narrow-shouldered woman with smooth dark hair and a sad, beautiful face. Evelyn and her husband were schoolteachers in the town; the year after Charlie was born they came to Ken for marriage counseling. It was a part of the pastor’s job that Birdie couldn’t fathom: strangers telling him their most intimate problems, asking his advice. She often wondered what Ken said to them, how their own short union could have given him any insight into other people’s marriages. Most of the time she didn’t feel married at all. They were apart all day; at night they slept in twin beds, Birdie in the bed that had belonged to Ken’s dead brother.
Ken saw the Lucks twice a week at his office behind the church, a tidy room full of his father’s old books. After a time he started seeing them separately. Once the Lucks had divorced, Evelyn continued to come for counseling, spending hours at a time in the pastor’s office.
At first Birdie ignored the whispers at choir practice, the conversations that stopped when she came into the room. Then, little by little, she retreated. She quit the choir, the Sunday school, the church suppers and rummage sales. Pregnant again, she had a perfect excuse. She was in her fifth month when Ken was called before the parish council and asked to resign.
He never told her what was said at the meeting, and she never asked. He made vague references to wagging tongues, vicious gossip. She nodded sympathetically. That spring he wrote to an old seminary
friend who’d become the dean of Pennington College. His parents would get along fine, he explained. By summer they were on the road to Richmond.
Life was different at the college, at least for Ken. He taught two classes a week, theology and Scripture; the rest of the time he spent in his campus office, counseling feuding roommates, arranging tutors for those failing math. He no longer comforted the sick and dying; instead he served on the Student Life Committee, planning prayer breakfasts and homecoming dances. He grew his hair, bought colored shirts to replace his old white ones. He became friendly with Walter Whitacre, the college president; they sang together in the faculty choir, and Whitacre’s daughter Dinah sometimes baby-sat for Jody and Charlie.
Birdie spent the days alone. To her surprise she missed Ken’s father, the helpless old reverend who’d watched her adoringly while she fed him. She found city life unsettling; walking alone downtown, the sheer volume of strangers intimidated her, the endless parade of faces she’d never seen before and would never see again. She rarely left the house; she had no one to talk to except the students who phoned each day to ask Ken’s advice. Birdie began to recognize certain voices: the stammer, the Texas drawl. A particular girl called often, first several times a week, then every day. “This is Moira Snell,” she announced each time, as if Birdie should recognize her name. Her husky voice became as familiar as that of the weather girl, a plump little blonde who stood in front of a Virginia map on television.
Then one morning the husky-voiced girl came to the house. She looked nothing like the weather girl: she was tall and thin, her eyes rimmed with dark liner, her hair the color of molasses, hanging straight and shiny down her back. She wore blue jeans and a blouse that left her shoulders bare. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Mrs. Kimble Page 4