Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  Charlie found his voice. “There’s puppies under the porch. They live there.”

  The man shrugged. “They going to have to find another place to live.”

  Birdie had no wine for three days, but she remembered it was there. On the fourth day she came home from the luncheonette and opened a bottle. “Just a glass,” she said as she poured, as if anyone was there to hear.

  The next day she awoke with a headache, the alarm clock as piercing as a drill. In the kitchen the empty bottle sat on the counter. She found the last two slices of bread and dropped them in the toaster, one each for Charlie and Jody; her queasy stomach wouldn’t mind going without. In the living room the children were already awake, watching a woman do exercises on television.

  “Mummy!” Jody squealed.

  Birdie winced. “Quiet, button. Mama has a headache.”

  She carried Jody to the bedroom and dressed her in a playsuit, squeezed her feet into sandals. Birdie sniffed.

  “Lord,” she said. “What’s that smell?”

  She ran to the kitchen, Jody toddling behind her. Inside the toaster the bread was perfectly black. “Damnation,” she whispered.

  The children had followed her into the kitchen and were sitting at the table, waiting.

  “Butter?” said Jody.

  “No, button,” said Birdie. “No toast today. We can’t eat it.” She grasped the black toast with a tea towel and brought it to the table. “See? It’s burnt.”

  “Burnt,” Jody repeated.

  Footsteps on the back porch, a brusque knock at the door.

  “Whodat?” said Jody.

  “Hush,” said Birdie. She wasn’t afraid, exactly; the county woman wouldn’t use the back door. She peered out through the curtains. A colored man in workman’s greens stood with his back to the window. Relief warmed her; if she were in trouble, they wouldn’t send a colored man. She opened the door.

  “Morning, ma’am. I’m from the gas company.” He glanced at a clipboard in his hand. “I read your meter just now—you’ve barely used any gas all summer. I thought maybe something was wrong with the stove.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Birdie.

  “If you like, I can have a look. It’ll only take a minute.”

  Birdie stepped back and let the man into the kitchen. He bent down and opened the drawer beneath the oven. Birdie tossed the charred bread in the trash. With a white man in her kitchen, she’d never have done this. With a colored man she was not ashamed.

  Jody climbed down from her chair and clung to Birdie’s leg, staring silently. Birdie didn’t understand at first. She thought nothing of having a colored man in her kitchen. She’d been raised by Ella Mabry, her family’s Negro housekeeper; Ella’s son Curtis had been like a brother to her. But Jody had lived her whole life inside the small house; she had never seen a colored person. She stared at the man in wonderment. Then, finally, she spoke.

  “Burnt,” she said.

  Birdie flushed. The man glanced at the child and smiled. He pointed at his chest pocket, at the letters stitched in white thread.

  “That’s right,” he said pleasantly. “That’s my name. Bert.” He smiled at Birdie. “She’s a little one to be reading already.” But Birdie’s face gave them away, the redhead’s flush radiating out from her hairline. Jody was a slow talker. So far she knew only a dozen words, which she repeated incessantly.

  “Burnt,” she said again, distinctly. She reached out to touch the man’s dark forearm.

  The man’s smile faded. He straightened and turned on the gas, took a lighter from his pocket and held it to a burner. A blue flame appeared.

  “The pilot light is on,” he said. “Everything looks fine.”

  “Thank you,” said Birdie, her cheeks burning.

  She closed the door behind him.

  BIRDIE LEFT the children at the Semples’ and took the bus to work, a bottle of aspirin in her purse. At the luncheonette she drank ice water; the smell of coffee nauseated her. She leaned gingerly against the counter, letting the fan blow cool air on her face. Fay watched her closely but said nothing.

  At the end of the lunch rush, Buck Perry appeared. He sat in his usual spot at the end of the counter. Birdie ducked into the back room and checked her hair in the mirror. Fay poked her head in the door.

  “I’m out of smokes,” she said. “Come keep an eye on things while I run across the street.”

  “Coming,” said Birdie. She slipped off her wedding ring and tucked it into her pocket.

  Perry sat hunched over his plate. “Can I get a refill?” he asked.

  She approached him with the pot. He’d finished his meatball sandwich, a messy construction of bread and tomato sauce. The plate was as clean as if he’d licked it. He sat back on his stool and watched her fill his cup.

  “How you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine, thank you,” said Birdie. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows; his blond forearms were thick and suntanned. A flush built in her chest and washed over her throat, her face, up to the roots of her hair. Perry’s eyes followed the same path.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “You ain’t Rose. I know that.”

  Her heart quickened. “Birdie.”

  “You’re new.”

  “I started last week.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two women come into the luncheonette and sit at one of the tables, their chairs scraping the linoleum. The sound seemed very far away.

  Perry chuckled. “I bet Fay’s happy. Since Rose left they been working her to death.”

  “Did you know her?” said Birdie. “Rose.”

  He grinned. “Why? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing,” said Birdie. “I just wondered where she went, is all.”

  Perry shrugged. “Got married, I guess. All the pretty ones do.” His eyes went to her left hand. “You’re not married?”

  “No,” she said, her heart pounding. She could not hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to his hands, his thick fingers gripping the coffee cup. His fingernails were perfectly black. She turned away quickly.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I have customers.”

  She left him sitting at the counter.

  The car started with a great rumble. It smelled the same inside, old leather and peppermint and his father’s hair cream. The smell engulfed Charlie like a warm bath. He’d forgotten the distinctive odor, the hollow tinkling of the turn signal.

  “Can I turn on the radio?” he asked.

  “Hold your horses,” said his mother. “Wait until we get on the highway.” She had a spot of red on each of her cheeks, like a giant rag doll. She frightened him, the floppy bonelessness of her, as if at any moment she might slump over the wheel or flop over sideways, her head lolling out the open window. But the car, his father’s car, rolled smoothly down the hill. In the backseat Jody clapped her hands and squealed.

  “What’s that light?” Charlie asked. He pointed at the dashboard.

  His mother looked down. “How should I know? Isn’t it always on?”

  “No’m,” said Charlie. The light looked important, a glowing square of red.

  “Never mind about that,” said his mother. “First things first.” Ahead of them a traffic light turned yellow; she stepped hard on the brake. Charlie lurched forward, then fell back into the leather seat. He knew you only had to stop on red, but he didn’t say so. He could see that she was nervous.

  “We need bread and milk,” he said instead.

  “Whatever you want,” said his mother.

  Charlie made a list in his head: cereal, hot dogs, bologna for sandwiches. He didn’t trust her to remember.

  The A&P was cool and bright inside. The glass doors opened as if by some magic force. Charlie ignored the gumball machines, the wire cage of bright rubber balls. He led the way down the first aisle, grabbed a bunch of bananas and placed them in the shopping cart. His mother didn’t seem to notice. She stood at the front of the store looking all around, blinking.

 
Charlie kept on. The sacks of potatoes were too heavy for him. He looked back. His mother stood near the cash registers, flipping through a magazine.

  “Mama!” he cried.

  She looked up, startled.

  “Are you coming?” He’d tried for weeks to get her inside a store; now that they were here, she seemed to have forgotten how to buy things. He felt the first tears behind his eyes.

  “Hold your horses,” she said. But she put the magazine down and pushed the cart up the aisle.

  Charlie raced down the next aisle. He wished he could carry more. He picked up a loaf of bread and a box of cookies. Then he saw the man.

  He was at the back of the store, reaching into a refrigerator case of raw meat. His back was turned, but Charlie recognized the white shirt, the long hands, the wristwatch with the stretchy gold band. The man put down the meat and walked away quickly, his dark trousers moving with long steps.

  Charlie followed him. The next aisle was crowded with mothers and children and babies in strollers. The man was already at the other end of it. He turned the corner and disappeared.

  Charlie ran. He pushed through the shopping carts, the pocketbooks dangling from ladies’ arms. What if the man had already left? What if he was in the parking lot, ready to leave without him, not knowing his boy was in the very same store?

  Charlie scrambled around the corner, crying now. At the end of the aisle was his father, carrying a carton of eggs.

  “Wait!” Charlie called. He could remember his father breaking eggs into a bowl for pancakes. He ran.

  The man turned around.

  “Daddy!” Charlie cried.

  The man looked down at him, startled. “What’s the matter, son? Are you lost?”

  “Daddy,” he said again, but something was wrong. The man was too old, his face too fat. He had brown eyes instead of blue.

  “Son,” said the man. His voice was grave. “Have you lost your father?”

  In the morning Birdie drove downtown. She tried not to look at the dashboard, the engine light an alarming red. Cars passed her on both sides; horns blared as she stopped at a traffic light. When the light changed she made a left turn from the righthand lane; the driver behind her yelled something out his window.

  She found the garage at a busy intersection, not far from the luncheonette. “They won’t charge you an arm and a leg,” Fay had told her. “They’re the only honest mechanics in Richmond.”

  Birdie parked in front and went into the office, a dirty little room redolent of cigarette smoke. On the wall hung a calendar, dating to the past December: a woman lay on her side at the foot of a Christmas tree, propped on her elbow, her other arm crossed beneath her large breasts. She was naked except for a Santa hat. From a radio somewhere, a sad male voice sang “Every Fool Has a Rainbow.” Behind the counter a swinging door led to the garage.

  “Hello,” Birdie called out.

  She waited. A cigarette burned in the overflowing ashtray. The phone rang, then stopped. A man in coveralls appeared through the swinging door. His bald head was smooth and glossy, like the plastic body of a doll.

  “Keep your shirt on,” he grumbled. He saw Birdie and reddened. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Birdie cleared her throat. “I’m having trouble with my car. The engine light is on.”

  The man glanced out the window. “That Pontiac there?”

  “Yes.” She was still shaky from the drive; her blouse stuck to her back like a bandage.

  “Have a seat,” said the man, “and I’ll take a look.”

  The room was sweltering, the morning sun streaming through greasy panes of glass. She’d never been inside a garage before; her husband had handled the repairs. She had a sudden urge to walk down the street to the bus stop, leaving the car for the man to do with as he pleased.

  She hated the car. Driving had been an ordeal from the start. She’d gotten her license four years before, after failing the test twice; Ken had insisted she keep trying, though she didn’t see the point. He was an excellent driver; she was a happy passenger. She’d never imagined anything would change.

  Birdie glanced out the window and saw Buck Perry coming up the sidewalk, keys dangling from his finger. He seemed to be looking right at her. She waved, but he couldn’t see her behind the glare from the window. Hidden, she watched him come toward the garage. He was shorter than her husband, heavy through the arms and shoulders. His powerful thighs seemed ready to burst out of his blue jeans.

  Perry disappeared around the side of the building. He must work here, she thought; the luncheonette was a few blocks away, an easy walk on his lunch hour. She thought of his thick arms in the denim shirt. Her husband had been slender and delicate; twice he’d wrenched his back and spent a week in bed, expecting his meals on a tray. Buck Perry looked strong as a horse. He looked like he could carry her on his shoulders.

  The door to the garage swung open and the bald man emerged, wiping his hands on his coveralls.

  “Looks like the transmission is about to go,” he said.

  Birdie blinked. She didn’t know what a transmission was and didn’t care; all that mattered was how much it would cost.

  “Is it expensive?” she asked.

  “You’re looking at about three hundred dollars.”

  A lick of sweat trailed down her back. Three hundred dollars was what she earned in a month. Yet the car was the only thing of value she owned, the only thing her husband had left her.

  “Parts and labor,” said the man. “Give or take.”

  Birdie closed her eyes. “A transmission,” she said. “Is it absolutely necessary? Can I run the car without one?”

  The man howled. “Did you hear that?” he called into the back. “She asked can she run it without a transmission!” He turned back to Birdie and grinned; his teeth were bad. “Well, ma’am, let’s just say I wouldn’t advise it.”

  His rudeness stunned her. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. “Well, what do you want to do? Do you want me to replace it or not?”

  “I can’t afford three hundred dollars.” Her eyes went to the calendar above the desk. The woman’s nipples were the size of silver dollars, rouged to match her mouth. The door swung open and Buck Perry stood in the doorway.

  “Are you the transmission?” he asked.

  Birdie nodded yes.

  “I think I can help you,” he said.

  There was only dirt where the house had been, a silent patch of bare ground. All afternoon a truck had hauled away bricks and boards and sharp slices of window glass. Charlie hid in the woods, knowing that the men, if they saw him, would chase him away. Crouching, he watched them load the truck. When it was full it would drive away and the men would stand in the shade, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices, until the truck returned.

  Finally the truck came back for the last time; the men piled into the rear and drove away, raising dust. Charlie got to his feet and walked through the woods, in a wide circle with the demolished house at its center. “Here, boys,” he called softly. But the puppies didn’t come.

  He approached the crumbling foundation, half filled with splintered boards and chunks of plaster. He located the spot where the porch had been, the dark earth littered with nails and flaked paint and bits of glass. He reached into his pocket. That morning he’d gone back to the Hogans’; his pockets were full of kibble he’d taken from Queenie’s dish.

  “I’ll leave it right here,” he said loudly, piling the kibble into a neat mound. Though by then he knew the puppies were gone.

  Somebody’s watching you,” said Fay.

  Birdie looked up from the tray of water glasses she was filling. At the end of the counter, Buck Perry waved and smiled.

  “Go take care of him,” said Fay. “He needs a warm-up.”

  Birdie took the pot from the burner and refilled Perry’s coffee cup. His blond hair, she noticed, was thick and wavy. (Her husband’s had begun to thin.) It curled softly at the nape of his neck.

  “How
’s the transmission doing?” he asked.

  “Just fine,” said Birdie. Perry had a friend who rebuilt transmissions on the side; he’d gotten Birdie one for almost nothing. He’d explained patiently what a transmission did, but Birdie didn’t care. The car ran beautifully; the troublesome engine light had been extinguished.

  “He’s a card, that Jenks. The one that fixed your tranny. He plays drums in a dance band.” Perry bit into his hamburger, half the sandwich in one bite; ketchup oozed out the other side. He seemed not to notice. He ate fast and intently, like a hungry dog.

  “They’re playing at the Vets this Saturday night,” he said. “You want to come and hear them?”

  Birdie’s heart quickened. A date, she thought. He’s asking me out on a date.

  “That sounds lovely,” she said.

  Perry laughed. “Lovely it ain’t,” he said, “but it’s a pretty good time.”

  It was nearly dark when Charlie got home, heavy clouds low in the sky. A wind had started. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He’d been playing in the woods; the house felt small to him, hot and airless. His sister sat in front of the television, stacking wooden blocks.

  “Where’s Mama?” he asked.

  “Where Mama?” she repeated.

  He knocked at the bathroom door.

  “Come in,” his mother called. She stood in front of the mirror in a pale yellow dress. Her face looked strange to him: mouth painted red, eyebrows plucked thin. An empty glass sat on the edge of the bathtub.

  “Do I look pretty?” she asked.

  “Yes’m,” said Charlie.

  She sprayed a cloud of perfume into the air and walked into it; Charlie tasted it, flowery, in his mouth.

  “A little scent goes a long way,” she said.

  The doorbell rang. “That’s Dinah,” she said. “Button, go and let her in.”

  Charlie ran to the door. He’d forgotten she was coming. They hadn’t had a baby-sitter in a long time.

  “Remember what I told you,” his mother called after him.