Read Online Some Wildflower In My Heart by Jamie Langston Turner - Free Book Online Page A

unheroic means. She smiled briefly, I recall, and then said that she had “never been overly impressed with southern men in general.” For my part, I would not have limited the generalization to southern men.
    Mickey Freeman’s address of Birdie passed the test set forth in Kaye Gibbons’ novel. He spoke his wife’s name, followed by a rather quaint term of endearment, then asked a brief question. His tone of voice was patient and respectful. When Birdie looked up to see her husband in the doorway, she smiled and beckoned him to come into the kitchen.
    â€œI’m just finishing this one last thing,” she said, sponging the knobs with clean water. She began polishing them quickly with a rag, then spun around and said, “Oh, wait a minute. I’m forgetting my manners!” She laid her rag aside and steered Mickey in my direction. Motioning to Algeria and Francine, she called, “Can you come over here just a minute and meet my husband?” Birdie made the introductions in perfect accordance with the rules of etiquette. We all seemed to be transfixed, as if Emily Post were in our presence. Even Algeria extended her hand to Mickey and muttered, “Nice meetin’ you.” Mickey shook our hands in turn and had a polite word for each of us. Mine was “Margaret—I’ve always been partial to that name. My favorite cousin growing up was named Margaret.”
    Then, lowering his eyebrows, he looked at all of us and said, “I sure hope Birdie can keep this job. I guess she told you it’s her first one since she’s been out on parole.”
    Before he had finished, Birdie was reaching out to try to cover his mouth with both of her hands, laughing as she did so and saying, “Stop it, Mickey! Stop it! They’re going to believe you!”
    Though Francine let out a great yap of laughter, Algeria looked as if she wanted to pick Mickey Freeman up and wrench his neck. She could easily have done so.
    After she ceased laughing, Birdie looked around at us and said, “He’s hopeless. I can’t do a thing with him!” Then she looked at her husband and shook her head in mock reproof. “Now, you be good, Mickey. These ladies have been so nice to me today.” She beamed at each of us within the small circle before I turned and retreated into my cubicle. Behind me, I heard her say good-bye to Algeria and Francine. Then she called to me, “Thank you, Margaret! I’ll see you in the morning,” and Mickey said, “Adios, adieu, and catch you later, as they say in Nepal!” They laughed as they left, and I heard Birdie say, “Oh yes, it was a delicious sandwich once I got it all put together.”
    I tidied my desk and turned out the lights before exiting. It had been an uneventful day, free of accidents or mistakes, yet strangely troubling also. In past years, Vonnie Lee had filled up time and space with constant motion and with a swift, endless flow of words. Today had seemed quiet in comparison, almost leisurely, although I felt sure that the women had accomplished a great deal of cleaning. It was as though I had lifted the phonograph needle from the “1812 Overture” and set it down on “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.”
    Driving home that day, I saw Birdie’s homely face before me, and I knew for a certainty that her many gentle words of the day were but a shadow of things to come.
    My fingers now ache from the labors of my pen. My spirit is heavy, and my mind divested. I shall pause for the renewal that only sleep can bring. In looking over the novel referred to earlier, A Cure for Dreams , I am struck with the fluidity of the narrator’s voice. The colloquial style, the comic insights, and the stunning appeal of finely created characters—so delightful to me when I first read the book—are somewhat discouraging upon closer inspection, for now that I have embarked upon a written narrative of