did not press her to go on, being more interested in the silver than in George’s mismatched parents. She put a question mark on the card for the rattle, stretched, and suggested a lunch break. Birdie agreed, though she had just snacked on coffee and the last of the buns an hour ago.
The day turned strange when George’s car came up the drive. Birdie shrugged and raised her eyebrows to show she had not expected his company for lunch either. He plunged in the door with two long loaves in white paper bags under his arm, smiled without looking at Birdie or Suzanne, and said, “Savoy’s had hot French bread. I thought you ladies would like some for lunch.”
“Nice of you, Mr. George.” Birdie took the loaves and began opening another can of soup to put in the saucepan. “We just having a little chicken noodle today.”
“Great. My favorite.” George smiled inanely again, and stretching his long legs out into the kitchen, took a seat. Birdie eyed him as if he had gone insane.
“I thought my gumbo was your favorite.”
“My favorite of the canned kind, I mean. Look, I brought the mail. Two for Miss Hudson, one for occupant, and three bills for George St. Julien.”
When he looked at his utility bill, the flood of pleasant conversation stopped. Suzanne tried to renew the flow by remarking she’d seen robins, a sure sign of spring. George glanced at her blankly through those heavy glasses, then informed her otherwise.
“No. We only see robins around here in December or January, sometimes February. Then, they all fly north. Robins winter around here.”
She sighed. He had spoiled her joy in the flock, hopping and worming across the lawn. Ignoring George, Suzanne rudely opened and read her letters in front of him while Birdie served the soup. Of necessity, Birdie took hers out to the dining room to eat among the polishing rags since George had taken her chair. She would have offered to eat in the other room, but Birdie, quick to see the situation, moved out. Her speed came from years of practice in coping with the whims of white folks, Suzanne assumed.
Her mother’s letter, long and chatty, began by asking why a week had gone by without so much as a quick e-mail or a phone call. Since she had taken care of that complaint, Suzanne ignored the paragraph, just as she continued to ignore George who kept fidgeting with his soup spoon and knocking his fingers against the kitchen window to startle the robins. The letter ended with a postscript saying that Paul Smith had called to get her new address because he wanted to write and had lost the one Suzanne had given him.
Suzanne had told Paul that she would send him her address when she got to Port Jefferson, but hadn’t done so. No sense in prolonging the relationship since she was one hundred percent sure Paul didn’t want to “be friends.”
Naturally, the second letter came from Paul. After reading it, she allowed her soup to get cold and carried the bowl half-finished toward the sink. No longer ignoring George but simply forgetting he existed, she tripped over his big feet. The yellow broth sloshed on the sleeve of his white shirt as he reached out to catch her. With a strong grip, he steadied her with one hand. For a second, she wondered if George could or would protect her from Paul if the threat in the letter came to pass.
Printed very neatly in heavy lead pencil across a single sheet of computer graph paper, Paul wrote:
Dearest Suzanne,
If you do not return, I am coming to get you.
Your Loving Fiancé,
Paul
The words chilled with their directness. Mentally, she felt frozen, and physically, her arm numbed where George gripped her elbow.
“Is something wrong?” he asked with genuine concern.
She should have told him then, but George was only her employer, a quiet and sometimes bumbling one, not a man whom she could expect to take on her problems or do anything about them. In fact, having a threatening ex-boyfriend might jeopardize her job.
“No.
The day turned strange when George’s car came up the drive. Birdie shrugged and raised her eyebrows to show she had not expected his company for lunch either. He plunged in the door with two long loaves in white paper bags under his arm, smiled without looking at Birdie or Suzanne, and said, “Savoy’s had hot French bread. I thought you ladies would like some for lunch.”
“Nice of you, Mr. George.” Birdie took the loaves and began opening another can of soup to put in the saucepan. “We just having a little chicken noodle today.”
“Great. My favorite.” George smiled inanely again, and stretching his long legs out into the kitchen, took a seat. Birdie eyed him as if he had gone insane.
“I thought my gumbo was your favorite.”
“My favorite of the canned kind, I mean. Look, I brought the mail. Two for Miss Hudson, one for occupant, and three bills for George St. Julien.”
When he looked at his utility bill, the flood of pleasant conversation stopped. Suzanne tried to renew the flow by remarking she’d seen robins, a sure sign of spring. George glanced at her blankly through those heavy glasses, then informed her otherwise.
“No. We only see robins around here in December or January, sometimes February. Then, they all fly north. Robins winter around here.”
She sighed. He had spoiled her joy in the flock, hopping and worming across the lawn. Ignoring George, Suzanne rudely opened and read her letters in front of him while Birdie served the soup. Of necessity, Birdie took hers out to the dining room to eat among the polishing rags since George had taken her chair. She would have offered to eat in the other room, but Birdie, quick to see the situation, moved out. Her speed came from years of practice in coping with the whims of white folks, Suzanne assumed.
Her mother’s letter, long and chatty, began by asking why a week had gone by without so much as a quick e-mail or a phone call. Since she had taken care of that complaint, Suzanne ignored the paragraph, just as she continued to ignore George who kept fidgeting with his soup spoon and knocking his fingers against the kitchen window to startle the robins. The letter ended with a postscript saying that Paul Smith had called to get her new address because he wanted to write and had lost the one Suzanne had given him.
Suzanne had told Paul that she would send him her address when she got to Port Jefferson, but hadn’t done so. No sense in prolonging the relationship since she was one hundred percent sure Paul didn’t want to “be friends.”
Naturally, the second letter came from Paul. After reading it, she allowed her soup to get cold and carried the bowl half-finished toward the sink. No longer ignoring George but simply forgetting he existed, she tripped over his big feet. The yellow broth sloshed on the sleeve of his white shirt as he reached out to catch her. With a strong grip, he steadied her with one hand. For a second, she wondered if George could or would protect her from Paul if the threat in the letter came to pass.
Printed very neatly in heavy lead pencil across a single sheet of computer graph paper, Paul wrote:
Dearest Suzanne,
If you do not return, I am coming to get you.
Your Loving Fiancé,
Paul
The words chilled with their directness. Mentally, she felt frozen, and physically, her arm numbed where George gripped her elbow.
“Is something wrong?” he asked with genuine concern.
She should have told him then, but George was only her employer, a quiet and sometimes bumbling one, not a man whom she could expect to take on her problems or do anything about them. In fact, having a threatening ex-boyfriend might jeopardize her job.
“No.
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