Some Wildflower In My Heart (59 page)

Many books that I have read are clean and symmetrical, nearly seamless—Anne Tyler's
Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant
, Terry Kay's
To Dance with the White Dog
, Gail Godwin's
The Good Husband
, Shirley Abbott's
The Bookmaker's Daughter
. This is not to say that these are
perfect
works. I am reminded, for example, of a faulty assumption concerning marriage that Shirley Abbott lays down: “The gap between two bodies can never be permanently bridged”—an assumption refuted, I believe, by the marriage of Birdie and Mickey.

Other stories move in fits and starts—Mary Morris's
Songs in Ordinary Time
, Amy Tan's
The Joy Luck Club
, Laura Esquivel's
Like Water for Chocolate
, all of which are nevertheless compelling, although again not perfect, works. I do not prefer Laura Esquivel's mixing of realism with phantasmagoria, for instance.

I acknowledge that my extended tale of Birdie is patched and irregular, like a beginner's badly pieced quilt. I am loath to display it, fearing that by deficient workmanship my story is neither lovely nor serviceable.

Had I known Birdie longer, I could have presented her in a more convincing light. I would have seen her flaws of character, for undoubtedly she had them, and I would have woven them into the whole. As extremes are rarely believable, there are readers who will accuse me of selective and slanted reporting, but to them I shall answer that I have told all that I have seen.

Perhaps Birdie Freeman, out of my sight and hearing, screamed with defiance at police officers, kicked small animals, and spoke ill of her fellowman. Perhaps she exceeded the speed limit, slipped merchandise unpaid for into her pocketbook, or lied on survey forms. Perhaps she answered Mickey in a waspish manner, saved the best slice of dessert for herself, or made much of minor aches. Had I observed such human frailties, I would have included them in the record. I have no stomach for Pollyannas and Little Lord Fauntleroys. I am quick to spot cheap veneer, whether in furniture, literature, or character. Therefore, to the naysayers and cynics among my readers—with whom I sympathize, for I am of the same nature—I repeat in my defense: You have seen Birdie Freeman as I saw her: gentle of spirit, high of principle, unfaltering in kindly demeanor. I have added nothing and have omitted only more of the same.

Birdie gave me much. No mortal can convict of sin, offer atoning grace, or restore the faith of another, yet God can use a man or woman to hold a lantern so that others may find the way to truth. Birdie was my lantern. Her light shone with great conviction. That she was sent to me from God I know without question.

The best stories leave the theme unstated. A competent writer communicates through suggestion. His message rises unspoken from between the words of his narrative like music from another world. Its bold announcement would fall upon the ear as discord. As I am a novice, however, I doubt my powers, and lest I should have wasted these many pages, I must set down, for my own peace, the distillation of my tale. Herein lies the sum of my words: “
And now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love
.” Given sun and rain, a flower
will
bloom. To the human heart love is irresistible. Though I have not solved the mystery of suffering, I have felt the healing work of love.

I have rambled long past dark, and daybreak is at hand. I have before me three telephone numbers, which I shall dial after the sun is up. My decisions have been made. And after I make my three telephone calls, I will inquire at a nearby private college concerning a course of study. I will seek instruction in piano and organ, in music theory, in vocal technique. I also wish to survey the history of music. I may attend classes in the afternoons, evenings, summers. Perhaps someday before I die I may compose a sonata. I will also study poetry.

But first, my telephone calls. I have before me the telephone number of the Lena Lansford Home for Girls in Mount Chesney. I will ask the administrator whether I may serve as friend and mentor to a girl who has suffered, perhaps to several. I am ready, as Mickey expressed it, to “put my pain to good use.” I have laid aside a sum of money that may serve to relieve some small burden from a troubled girl.

The second number is that of Pastor Theodore Hawthorne of the Church of the Open Door in Derby. Some weeks ago he came to our home one evening after having telephoned first. He asked Thomas and me that night if we had given any thought to the things we had heard during our visits to the church. We told him that we had. He did not push or pry but told us that he would consider it an honor to answer any of our questions or counsel us in any way. We put him off, kindly, but Thomas told him that we would “be back in touch.” I shall call him, and we shall meet with him, perhaps this very night.

I find that I want very much to be among the just, who live by faith. And, though a late-blooming wish, I want also to show my faith by my works, as Birdie did. To this end, perhaps tomorrow I shall cook a dinner of fried chicken, creamed potatoes, buttered carrots, and garden peas. I shall make yeast rolls and peach cobbler, and Thomas shall drive me to Algeria's house to help me carry in the dishes. This could be a small start.

The third telephone number is Joan's. I will give her my manuscript to read, for I feel that I must not keep it. I will talk to her of her church attendance and will ask her about Virgil Dunlop. When describing Joan, I want to be able to say, “She is my friend” rather than simply “She is my husband's cousin.”

After these and many other matters are settled, I shall ask Theodore Hawthorne whether I might practice the hymns for an upcoming service and sit in Birdie's place at the organ. My hands shall touch the keys that she once played, adjust the stops, and turn the pages of the same hymnal. My feet shall press the same pedals.

Strangely, it is Birdie's feet of which I have often thought of late. Her footsteps in my life were quick and soft, busy about their work, seeking direct paths yet careful to avoid treading upon new sod or trampling
some wildflower in my heart
.

I look out my window and see that the sun is rising, spreading its colors over the world. Rain has fallen during the night, the lakes are full, and the rivers flow to the sea.