Chapter 11
Meg
When I finish a gray bowl of oatmeal that could probably poison a person, I walk slow as I can up to the office. Not only do I got to watch the rest go to the schoolroom to learn something, now I got some woman sitting across my desk.
Miss Kay Upholstery two dollars … what is that for? Miss Birdie says this to the ledger.
I do not have any business with one Miss Kay Upholstery. I sit my rear down. At least it is cooler in here this time of morning.
And this was … added wrong. She grabs my Pink Pearl eraser and erases, tosses it back down. She has also skewed my row of pencils and scattered my View Day cards all in a mess. I stack them back perfect and use the measuring stick to get it right.
And these are … what? She looks over her black reading glasses at me. Like she has woke from a dream, she says, Morning, Meg.
Morning, Miss Birdie.
She is wearing another plain blue dress, this time with black buttons down the front instead of white.
This woman is not all stylish like her sister, the Asskisser, or as pretty.
Miss Birdie’s cheeks are the staying-red kind and not from something you buy at the store but like she has just run a race.
It is more of what you call a athletic look.
I try and draw her on a View Day card. The way her short brown hair runs a little crooked across her forehead like maybe she cut it herself.
Without a mirror. I give her slitted eyes for sitting in here watching me and some pointy horns for spite.
While I do, I pick up the faintest scent of something …
eatable. Up under the wet-musty-blanket odor, it is something buttery, something fluffy.
I believe there is a baked item here in this room.
You sleep alright? Miss Birdie asks me.
Yes ma’am. I breathe in deeper, but the good smell is drifting off … and I want to get it back.
Good thing it didn’t rain. Almost like you big girls have indoor plumbing up there. She peers at me over the black glasses on the end of her nose. Who’s Lucinda?
The cook.
She any good?
No, ma’am. If she is asking, she might as well know. I think she is trying to kill us. But the thought of food, even Lucinda’s mess, makes my stomach growl. Lord, I stay hungry here.
She must’ve taken lessons from my sister. By the way. She lifts her chin. Look in the drawer there.
I open the top right-hand drawer to see a red checked cloth, and there is that wonderful smell I was smelling.
When I take it out and peek in, wrapped up inside are two golden biscuits.
I lift the top on one; it is buttery with some type red jelly.
Lord, it is even dripping down the side, and I cram it in my mouth fast so nobody can steal it and near choke myself to death.
When I swallow it down, I am mad because I barely even tasted the damn thing.
How long you been living here? Miss Birdie asks, watching me chew.
A year and a half, I tell her when I have swallowed.
You mind your manners, young lady, or she might take this other one away.
The second biscuit I cup in my hand and make myself go slow this time.
Give it a good long sniff. It smells toasty like a biscuit ought to.
Then I take very small bites, one-at-a-tiny-buttery-time.
And after this you go work … where?
The cannery. I take the last delicious bite of biscuit and then it is gone. Forever.
She wrinkles her nose. Huh. What do you expect that’ll be like?
I shrug and say, Fun.
How so?
I did not intend to talk to this woman but maybe if I do she will bring me more biscuits tomorrow.
Well, I get to go to a real school again and we get paid real cash money and my friend Ava is down there already because she already turned twelve, so she is down there waiting on me.
I get a smile on every time I talk about that.
She stares at me from behind her black glasses. And you want to go work in a cannery? But you’re a little girl.
It is a wonderful opportunity.
Yeah, that’s what Frances said. You know, my sister in the toddler room. I nod, oh I know the Asskisser. She’s the one tattled on me for being in the coat closet. Waltzes around here all dressed up, waiting on Miss Garnett to look at her. One of these days I might need to spill something on her.
I’m up here visiting her from the Delta. It’s been nice to see her … she says, and turns to the hall toward the toddler room. Even if she did call me content.
What does that mean? I ask. It does not sound good.
Content means … She crosses her arms over her chest. You’re just happy enough.
You’re not amazed by the world anymore—look, I grew a seven-pound tomato this summer, and let me tell you, it was amazing.
But she thinks just because I don’t live like she does, I must’ve given up hope for a more exciting life. Or something like that.
Hope is the thing with feathers, I say to her.
Miss Birdie looks me in the eye a second. She nods. And then nods again and goes back to writing things in the ledger. I erase her slitted eyes and horns and start her face fresh.
At eight thirty, Miss Garnett strolls in. She says, Good morning, and Glory be to the Lord, and Everybody doing alright today? Well I liked to died. The Big Phony hasn’t asked me that in all my years here.
You’re right, there’s a lot to do, Miss Birdie says, but I think I can get you up to date before the inspector comes.
Very good, Birdie, Miss Garnett says like she is talking to a two-year-old, except she’s never said anything that nice to a any-year-old. I tell you, Frances has done us a tremendous favor bringing you in. I’ll be sure she knows how much we appreciate your help.
Miss Birdie smiles. Yeah. Be sure and thank her.
And here comes the mailbag. Miss Garnett sets it on the desk. I watch it close as she tells Miss Birdie to record the new bills that need to be paid and give Meg letters from prospective parents only. Girls are not allowed personal correspondence, she says.
Why not? Miss Birdie asks.
Miss Garnett looks her up and down. Ask me, she looks a little irked Miss Birdie would question her on that.
It is interesting to watch. Because it’s the rule, and then, Believe me, it’s in everyone’s best interest. Now if that’s all— She makes for the door; she knows it will be hot as hell in here any minute.
One thing. This window here, why’s it boarded up? Miss Birdie asks.
The glass was broken. The same storm that damaged the roof. She shakes her head like this sad fact keeps her up nights. I wish we had the funds to get it repaired.
Well, who knows, maybe I’ll find some money left over in here to fix it.
Wouldn’t that be nice. But I’ve got a pretty long list of things to get to before that window.
After Miss Garnett leaves, Miss Birdie opens the mailbag.
Instead of acting all sneaky about it like Miss Garnett does, Miss Birdie just dumps it straight on the desk.
Let’s see … she says. Oxford Electric … Mrs. Welty Pittman, chairlady …
Adoption inquiry … When it is said and done, she has pushed two letters to me from folks wanting to come look. I tear through them quick.
We are baren and want us a baby.
We long for a newborn girl on account of we only got boys.
Neither one looks like a secret code from Ava, plus her handwriting is more awful. I smooth them out flat. Maybe Ava has just not had time to write yet.
I write out the View Day cards.
INFANTS 2 TODDLERS 6
AGE SIX TO TWELVE 9.
THE NEXT VIEW DAY WILL BE ON August 7th, 1933, which is sixteen days from now.
That is all right, I tell myself. I got nothing but time.
Six months, five days, and eight to ten hours’ train travel to be exact.
And anyway, putting together a letter to somebody does require a lot of items—you got your paper, your pencil, a stamp to stick on, a envelope, the means to get to the post office.
Or maybe Ava is just too busy eating delicious foods and learning to smoke. When I think of that, I get a little cross.
As it gets warmer and stickier in here, Miss Birdie leans back and takes deep breaths now and then.
I myself hardly sweat. I have learned it is cooler to be still.
She wipes off those black glasses that keep slipping down her nose and I wonder would she let me try those on?
Though I doubt this place would look any better.
That would take nothing short of a house fire.
The hours before lunch move so slow you wonder if somebody is playing with the clock.
Finally she leans back and says, We gotta get some air in here.
She moves herself between her chair and the boarded-up window. Peering through the sliver of space between the top two boards, she says, Uh-HUH. She squats down to see through the fourth and fifth ones.
Meg, c’mere. Pull on the other end of this bottom board. Careful of the nails.
I check the hall—could I get in trouble for this?
I am pretty sure Miss Garnett cannot send a grown woman to the belt closet, but she can sure send me for fun.
But I go like she says to and tuck my fingers behind the bottom board on my end.
We both pull, wiggle it, pull, and then the bottom board …
pops off! She catches it quick and reaches up in there and pushes the window frame up in the little space she’s made.
It slides up easy. I breathe in through my nose.
Now that is good air, clean, it even smells like the fresh color green.
Helps, huh? she says, and I nod. Even just that little bit.
Birdie, it’s time— Miss Frances peers around the file cabinet and sees the window we have opened. Did Garnett say you could do that? she asks.
No, but the panes on the bottom aren’t broke. They didn’t need to board up the whole dang window, Miss Birdie says.
We’re not supposed to—Miss Frances slips her eyes over to me—open them.