Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “My husband has already left for work,” Birdie told her; but the girl hadn’t come to see Ken. She looked Birdie right in the eye. Her confidence was unnerving.

  She’d come to tell Birdie that she and Ken were lovers.

  COOKING SMELLS floated through the open window; next door Mrs. Gleason was preparing dinner. Birdie glanced at the clock. The children, she thought. I have to get the children. She stepped clumsily into her shoes.

  The sun hung low in the sky, the feverish end of a hot afternoon. Birdie emerged squinting from the house, her legs soft and unreliable. In front of the house, the trash had piled up. Six, seven bags were heaped at the curb, ripening in the heat. Birdie looked up and down the street. At each neighbor’s house sat a single neat bag.

  She crossed the street to the Semples’ and knocked at the door. Miss Semple answered, holding Jody by the hand.

  “We were expecting you an hour ago,” said Miss Semple.

  Birdie smiled. Her teeth felt thick, her breath fruity. She’d forgotten to rinse with Listerine.

  “I’m a little late,” she confessed. “Did they behave themselves?”

  “We-ull,” said Miss Semple, her voice trailing off. She stepped back and let Birdie inside.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Charlie is under the weather,” said Miss Semple. Behind her Birdie could see through to the sunporch, where a scrub brush sat in a pool of water. “We put him in the parlor.”

  “Goodness.” Birdie followed Miss Semple down the dim hallway.

  “It was very sudden. I don’t know what came over him.”

  The parlor was dark and crowded with furniture: an ornate love seat, a highboy, an old Victrola draped with doilies. In one corner sat a cabinet full of china thimbles. Charlie lay on the brocade sofa holding a metal bucket.

  “Sweetheart,” said Birdie. “What happened?” She sat next to him and lay her hand on his forehead. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  Charlie looked up at her with watery eyes. “Sick,” he said. His breath was hot and sour. Birdie flushed. She turned to Miss Semple.

  “I hope he didn’t.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Miss Semple. The hem of her dress was wet, her face as white as Charlie’s. Nothing in her ordered life had prepared her for the mess of a little boy’s vomit.

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was ill.”

  Miss Semple’s mouth tightened. “I need to check on Mother. She’s a little upset.”

  She went out to the sunporch, her man’s shoes silent on the carpet.

  THEY CROSSED the street, Charlie holding Birdie’s hand, Jody grasping the hem of her skirt. Once inside, Birdie sat Jody on the sofa.

  “Come on,” she told Charlie. “Let’s get you out of those clothes and into bed.”

  “But I’m not sick anymore,” he protested.

  She looked closely at him. His color was back, his eyes bright; he seemed perfectly fine. Yet a boy didn’t throw up for no reason.

  “Charlie Kimble, what has come over you? Was it something you ate?” She bent down and untied his shoes. “You get right to bed. Later on we’ll give you another bath.”

  She tucked Charlie in and went into the kitchen. The heat was oppressive; the empty wine bottle stood alone on the table. An engine rumbled in the distance, growing closer: the garbage truck. Finally, Birdie thought. She peered out the window just in time to see it cruise past her house and stop in front of the Gleasons’. “For heaven’s sake,” she said aloud. She ran out to the front porch and hurried down the street. A colored man reached for the Gleasons’ trash and tossed it into the back of the truck.

  “Excuse me,” she called. “I think you forgot my house.”

  The man turned to her, shading his eyes from the sun.

  “I live at 507.” She pointed to the house. “No one has picked up my garbage in weeks.”

  He squinted at her. “You paid the bill?”

  Birdie thought of the basket on top of the refrigerator. “Of course.”

  The truck began to move. The man shrugged apologetically and broke into a slow trot behind it. Birdie followed him, her heels sharp on the pavement.

  “I can pay you now,” she called, though she couldn’t. “If I pay you now, can you go back for it?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to wait until next week.” He hopped onto the back of the truck. His uniform was the same dark green as the trash bags. The truck accelerated and turned at the bottom of the street.

  Birdie glanced back at the house, the mammoth pile of trash advertising to the neighbors that she hadn’t paid her bill. A curtain moved in the Semples’ window. Birdie walked quickly back to the house, sure that Miss Semple had seen her running behind the garbage truck. Now what? she thought. Now what will I do?

  Charlie made a slow tour of the neighborhood, cutting through backyards, looking for signs of dogs. The Gleasons had two terriers, the Raskins a toy poodle that stood in the window and yapped whenever Charlie crossed their yard, its jaws snapping soundlessly behind the glass. These dogs were no good to him; they were fed indoors. Other dogs—the Fleurys’ German shepherd, the hounds Mr. Pitt kept for hunting—lived outside, chained to doghouses; but they were big and mean.

  He scouted every backyard on his own street, and on the street below. He avoided the Hogans’ yard, afraid Mrs. Hogan would see him through the kitchen window. Finally he approached the Fleurys’ house.

  The yard was strangely silent, the German shepherd nowhere to be seen. Charlie crossed the bare patch of dirt to the doghouse, near it a shiny metal bowl. His heart raced. The bowl was full of kibble.

  Charlie was bending to fill his pockets when he heard a low growl, a deep bark. The German shepherd was inside the doghouse, its large head and shoulders filling the small doorway.

  He ran.

  THERE WAS NOTHING in the refrigerator except a jar of olives; in the freezer, a chicken wrapped in plastic, hard and heavy as a bowling ball. Charlie was near tears. He hadn’t fed the puppies in two days.

  His mother came into the kitchen. “What on earth is that smell?”

  Charlie looked down at his shoes. He had stepped in something as he ran from the Fleurys’ dog.

  His mother looked too. “Go outside and take off those shoes.”

  Charlie went out the back door and sat on the steps. He was sitting there when Mrs. Gleason came out of her house holding a pie tin.

  “Hi, Charlie,” she called across the fence. “Have you seen the cat?” A striped tomcat had been hanging around the neighborhood; every once in a while someone would give it milk.

  “No’m,” said Charlie.

  Mrs. Gleason set the pie tin on her patio and went back inside.

  Charlie waited. When he could wait no longer, he shimmied through the slats in the fence, into the Gleasons’ backyard. Carefully he picked up the pie tin. It was full of milk. He crossed into the Raskins’ backyard and headed for the woods.

  The job was eleven to seven, Tuesday to Saturday. You bused your own tables and got minimum wage, plus tips. Not that tips were very frequent or very good, the waitress warned Birdie. Students were the worst: they complained that the soup was too salty or the malted didn’t have enough chocolate syrup, then paid with exact change.

  The waitress, Fay Burkitt, had worked at the luncheonette for six years. She seemed amused when Birdie came in and asked about the job. The Help Wanted sign had been hanging in the window for months; she’d forgotten it was there. “Sure,” said Fay Burkitt. “Why not?” She took Birdie to the rear of the store to see the manager, Mr. Loomis.

  He was a portly, round-faced man. A few lank strands of black hair lay across his glistening scalp. His lips moved as he scanned her application. “You forgot to put your phone number,” he observed.

  Birdie smiled. She’d left it off on purpose; she couldn’t risk having her new employer find the phone disconnected.

  “I feel so silly,” she said. “I just recently moved and I can’t reme
mber the number. Not off the top of my head.”

  Loomis smiled back. There was a large gap between his front teeth. “We got to have your phone number.”

  “Let me see. I think this is right.” She recited the number slowly, reversing the last two digits.

  Loomis wrote the number down. “See,” he said. “Nothing to it. All you needed was a little encouragement.”

  Birdie smiled again.

  “Tell Fay to get you your uniform.” He filed the application in a cabinet beside his desk. “We’ll see you on Tuesday, Vivian.”

  Birdie flinched. She hadn’t expected him to use her first name.

  “See you then,” she said.

  Fay took Birdie into the back room and handed her a brown uniform on a hanger. A name, “Rose,” was embroidered over the chest pocket. Rose was the last waitress, Fay explained; she and Birdie were about the same size. “She had a nice figure, like you,” said Fay. “Not so big in the bust, but you’re lucky.”

  Birdie flushed. Through the plastic bag she could see stains on the collar and the bodice.

  “Try white vinegar,” Fay advised. “That’s what I do. Some of them won’t come out no matter what, but you won’t know until you try.”

  Birdie took the uniform and crossed the street to the bank. In her pocketbook was the forty dollars Mr. Loomis had advanced against her salary.

  THE ALARM rang every morning at nine. Each time Birdie awoke in a panic. She got up and toasted three slices of bread, one for each of them; it was the only thing she could choke down so early in the morning. She dressed the children and took them across the street to the Semples’. Then she took the bus to work.

  The first morning she arrived five minutes early, carrying her uniform on a hanger. That morning in her bedroom she’d looked at herself in the uniform and burst into tears. A waitress: the whole world would know she was a waitress. She found herself unable to walk out the door until she’d changed back into her own clothes.

  The store was already open; at the register a young mother bought disposable diapers. Birdie slipped into the ladies’ room and unbuttoned her blouse. The uniform was tight across her chest; it stopped two inches above her knees. She checked her reflection in the mirror, the name embroidered over the chest pocket. Rose, she thought. I’m not me. I’m Rose. She buttoned her own skirt and blouse over the hanger, then walked to the front of the store, to the luncheonette.

  Fay Burkitt was already there, smoking a cigarette at the counter.

  “Right on time,” she observed. She eyed the hanger in Birdie’s hand. “Oh, honey. Why don’t you just wear it to work?”

  Birdie flushed. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Fay shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  She showed Birdie the coffeemaker, the box of paper place mats, how to clip the sheets from her order pad to the metal carousel and spin them around to the Negro cook. She pointed out the location of the ice bin, the bus pans, the rags and ammonia for wiping down tables. Birdie wasn’t to run the register, not just yet; someday, when they weren’t busy, Fay would show her how.

  An old man came in and sat at a table in the rear. “Go ahead,” said Fay. “There’s your first customer.”

  Birdie approached the table, order pad in hand, pencil shaking in her sweaty fingers.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Hello to you too,” said the man.

  “I’m sorry,” said Birdie. “Good morning.”

  “Morning? It’s almost afternoon.” He glanced at the menu. “Hamburg and a Coca-Cola.”

  She wrote it down carefully on her pad and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. It was just as she’d thought; there was nothing to it. She turned away.

  “Miss,” the man called after her. “Don’t I get a glass of water?’

  “Of course,” said Birdie. “I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried to the counter. In the minute her back was turned, three customers had come in. A woman in red sat near the window drinking coffee; at the counter, two men in plaid shirts chatted with Fay. Birdie reached into the ice bin and dropped a fistful of ice into an amber glass, then filled it with water from the pitcher. Nothing to it. She took the glass to the man’s table and set it in front of him.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not drinking that.”

  Birdie blinked.

  “Not after you had your hands all over it,” he said. “You put your hand right in that bucket of ice. That ain’t right.”

  “No I didn’t,” said Birdie.

  “I saw you. Don’t lie about it.”

  “I didn’t,” she repeated. She was near tears.

  He stood up. He was a filthy old man; his cardigan sweater reeked of cigars. “That does it,” he said. His yellowed dentures gave off a fungal smell. “Bad enough what you did, but then to go and lie about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Count your blessings I don’t call the board of health,” he said, shuffling toward the door. “Young lady, count your blessings.”

  Birdie glanced at the counter. The men had stopped talking. The lady looked down at her coffee cup, then pushed it away. Fay looked at Birdie and nodded toward the back room.

  “I’m sorry,” Birdie said as the door closed behind them. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You got to use the ice scoop,” Fay said. “Didn’t I show you the scoop?”

  Birdie nodded. Her chest felt tight. Breathe, she thought. She exhaled slowly, fighting the squeeze.

  “Look at you,” said Fay. “You’re turning purple.” She touched Birdie’s arm. “It’s not that bad. Just don’t do it again.”

  “Okay,” said Birdie. Fay’s hand felt small and bony on her arm, the delicate claw of a bird.

  For two hours they worked nonstop. Birdie wrote orders on her pad and spun them around to the cook. She served tuna melts and egg sandwiches, rice pudding and slices of pie. Over and over she refilled coffee cups; the customers were crazy for coffee. Finally the tables emptied. She cleared the dirty dishes into the bus pan and wiped down the tables with ammonia.

  “Lord,” said Fay, sitting down at the counter. “I got to have a smoke. Come and have a seat.”

  “Is it always this busy?” said Birdie. Her back ached; there was a heaviness in her legs she hadn’t felt since she was pregnant.

  “It’s the lunch rush.” Fay slid open a pink plastic case and pulled out a cigarette. “You want one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Fay tapped the cigarette on the countertop and reached in her pocket for a matchbook. “Good for you. My husband was always after me to quit.”

  “You’re married?” said Birdie.

  “Divorced.” Fay struck a match. “The day I got my papers was the happiest day of my life.”

  Birdie felt her pulse in her temples. “How long have you been divorced?”

  “Four years. Almost five.”

  They stared out the window, watching the cars brake at the stoplight. Birdie had never met a divorced woman before, never seen up close someone who’d lived through it. What happened? she wanted to ask. Where did he go? Why did he leave?

  A big blond man came through the door and sat at the other end of the counter.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Fay called, laughing. She stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. “Why don’t you fill up those sugar bowls,” she told Birdie. “It’s next to the coffee filters, under the counter.”

  Birdie stood and smoothed the uniform over her behind. As she circulated through the tables, she noticed the blond man watching her, his pale blue eyes following her around the room. She was aware of her legs in the nylon stockings, the brown uniform tight across her chest. Her hands shook a little as she placed the sugar bowls on the counter and reached underneath for the sack of sugar, conscious all the time of the ring on her left hand, which her husband had placed there eight years before.

  The counter was Fay’s station; she joked w
ith the man as she brought him a plate of french fries. “Looks like you had a rough night,” she said, setting down the plate.

  “You could say that.” The man stuffed a french fry in his mouth and wiped his hand on his thigh.

  Birdie went into the kitchen for the bus pan and cleared the coffee cups from her tables. She strained to hear their voices over the clattering dishes. The man spoke in a low rumble; Fay laughed sharply, like a crow’s call.

  Birdie carried the bus pan to the kitchen. The man was no longer watching her; he stared blankly out the window. She studied his faded denim shirt, his square, handsome face. His eyes tracked a yellow convertible turning the corner. She saw that his gaze was unconscious, instinctive. He reminded her of a hunting dog.

  “Who was that?” she asked Fay later when they sat down for their coffee break.

  “Buck Perry,” said Fay. “He comes in for lunch sometimes.” She inhaled deeply; smoke shot out her nostrils. In between drags she nibbled at french fries wrapped in a paper napkin, left over from the customers. Birdie wondered if they’d come from Buck Perry’s plate.

  “He’s a charmer,” said Fay. “All the girls love Buck.”

  Is he married? Birdie wanted to ask. The words sat inside her mouth. She gulped and swallowed.

  Charlie stepped carefully from rock to rock, holding the pie tin with both hands. He was getting better. Last time he’d spilled most of the milk. This time he spilled less than half.

  He approached the old house and set down the milk. “Here, boys,” he called to the puppies. Then he heard the noise. Near the house a truck was idling. A fat man leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. Charlie watched him cup his hand to his mouth and hold the cigarette there. In the distance he heard men’s voices, the sound of splintering wood.

  Charlie ran around to the front of the house. A different man carried an armload of boards to another, larger truck.

  “Hey,” said the man. “This ain’t no place for you.”

  Charlie squinted past him, at the porch.

  “This is a demolition,” said the man. “You could get hurt.”