Some Wildflower In My Heart by Jamie Langston Turner Page A

I called her into my office. I stood behind my desk to address her. “Here at Emma Weldy, your duties are to be confined to the kitchen,” I said. Even as I spoke, I was aware that my words sounded cold and sodden.
    â€œOh, I understand that, Margaret,” Birdie said with a sprightly nod. “I was just saying a word to little Jasmine.” I had never thought of the child as “little Jasmine,” considering her hefty size and her malicious temperament.
    â€œYou were hired to prepare and serve the meals here,” I said, “and anything that distracts you from those duties will be a detriment to the success of your employment.” Birdie looked up at me quizzically, turning her head slightly as if straining to hear an inflection by which she would know that my words were in jest.
    I continued. “Each pupil here at Emma Weldy has ready access to a teacher, a counselor, and a principal, all of whom are professionally equipped to deal with the problems of children. Your concern must be in the refining of your kitchen skills. When serving the children, you will no doubt see the wisdom of keeping silent so that we can all make better use of our time.”
    I stopped and looked past Birdie into the kitchen. Algeria and Francine, though pretending to be busy, were casting surreptitious glances in our direction.
    At the same moment that I saw Algeria lift the cauldron from the stove, I realized that Birdie was shaking her head. “Oh, Margaret,” she said, and she continued to shake her head quite briskly. “My heart would just shrivel up inside of me if I couldn’t talk to the children.”
    â€œNevertheless,” I said, averting my eyes.
    She reached out and touched the cuff of my blouse. “You don’t mean this as strict as it sounds. I know you don’t. I can see it in your eyes, Margaret. You just mean for me to be sure to put my work first, and I understand that. I really do—and I will, too. You can count on that.”
    â€œI do not say things that I do not mean,” I said. I took one step back, and her hand fell from my wrist.
    Birdie’s expression tightened, and as her front teeth clamped over her lower lip, two deep, dimplelike indentations formed on either side of her mouth, though she was not smiling. She glanced down at her shoes—she had exchanged the black canvas sneakers that she had worn the first day for white ones—then again brought her eyes to mine, lifting her chin just slightly. With astonishment I saw that her eyes were rimmed with tears.
    â€œIf you want me to leave my job, I will,” she said. Her voice did not quaver, but from the corner of one eye a tear overflowed messily.
    â€œI was not suggesting that you resign,” I said. Acutely peeved over her show of emotion, I am sure that I must have raised my voice.
    â€œOh, but I’ll have to if I can’t be friendly with the children,” she said, wiping her cheek with the flat of her hand. She spoke softly, but her tone was resolute. I knew that she was not staging a performance merely to get her way. I was certain that, if pressed, Birdie Freeman would remove her hairnet and white plastic apron at this very moment and take her leave.
    â€œYour primary duties here at our school are to be confined to the kitchen,” I repeated firmly, yet I realized that I had added what amounted to a qualifier.
    â€œI know that, Margaret.” The pool of tears had already begun to recede, I noticed. Only the one had spilled over. The two of us gazed at each other for several moments, during which time I noted that one of her brown eyes contained a fleck of amber, like a tiny shard of bottle glass embedded into the iris. Birdie spoke at last. “I give you my word that I won’t let my interest in the boys and girls get in the way of doing my job.”
    â€œTake care that it does not,” I said, and turning my back on her, I picked up the weekly