Read Online Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jennifer Haigh
Ads: Link
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.
B IRDIE 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
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.
B IRDIE 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
Similar Books
