The Calamity Club by Kathryn Stockett - 12

W hen 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.

Why, you afraid an orphan might get out? Miss Birdie says and they both glance at me. It’s five inches. Meg, see can you squeeze through there.

I go sit in my chair. I will be staying out of this, thank you. I wonder what Miss Frances would say if she knew there was a portrait of her under this desk called The Asskisser .

Put the board back, please, and just do your assignment , Miss Frances says. You’re supposed to ask Garnett before you go and do things like that.

Miss Birdie rolls her eyes. Fine, I’ll go find a hammer and nail it back on. I’ll see you in the lounge in a minute.

When her sister is gone, she studies the wonderful part-open window. I can smell a summer storm coming in.

I reckon Miss Garnett knows best … she says and sets the board up on the sill so it only looks boarded up but a little air is still coming in. But what she don’t know won’t hurt her now, will it?

Maybe this lady has more sense than I thought.

When I am back from lunch, all that good air has made a difference. Of course, when Miss Garnett passes by in the hall, she looks over. She knows something has changed in here. Better. Cooler. When she cannot set her finger right on it, she moves along.

Thunder rumbles outside. The storm is almost over our heads. The house falls dimmer, and I yawn and Miss Birdie yawns. She sneaks the bottom board off again. Those tin cans set around the big girls’ room will be filling up with rain soon. I write out more cards to pass time and wonder could I skip the next View Day since I am headed to the cannery anyway? Not have to see a mama I sent one of these cards to hold a baby or toddler, look her deep in the eyes like she was hers all along.

Did somebody bring you here? After your mama disappeared?

Miss Birdie asks me this out of the clear blue.

You said she went to the store, she asks soft. And she just didn’t come back?

I open my mouth but … doesn’t she know? How long it has been since somebody asked me a soft question like that? The only thing these ladies ask is, What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?

That you could ask me a different question?

How about that?

Behind Miss Birdie, rain blows in through the window opening. It’s a shame when she has to get up and close it.

Look in the drawer, Miss Birdie says the next several mornings. Sure enough, waiting on me are two biscuits, yesterday with strawberry jelly, the day before with blueberry, and today with actual ham . She has also brung in a day-old newspaper and, without my even asking, hands me the funny pages. Like I am just a regular person. She eases her feet up on the desk and spreads the paper open. So I lean back and do the same. The first biscuit I got to gobble up quick, but the second I like to make it last until Miss Garnett gets in here to ruin my day.

I hear a hiss and look to the hall. There is mean ole Dorella sticking her tongue out at me. That letter I gave her a few days ago is already a thing of the past.

Hey, Nutmeg, whatcha doing, Nutmeg? Why ain’t you in school with the other girls?

Miss Birdie’s face is behind her own part of the newspaper. Lord, I feel like I have been waiting my entire life on this. Behind the funny pages, I show Dorella my second biscuit. Then I take a bite and chew it ve-ry slow-ly with my mouth open so she can see every morsel. She is so jealous—oh her eyes turn to slits! I know I will get me a Indian burn for this later, but sometimes the crime is worth the punishment. I heard that on the radio.

By eight thirty, our newspaper is put up, those biscuits ate up, and that bottom board set back flat to the window. Here she comes , Miss Birdie whispers, and we get the dull look on our faces. I am pretty sure Miss Birdie only does this for my fun. She has not figured out Miss Garnett is a big phony, since when you get grown, you sort of lose a ability to see that kind of thing. Like the monster under the bed or waiting on you in the closet. When my mama looked, she saw nothing, but oh I knew it was there.

Miss Garnett comes in Glory be to the Lord -ing and How we coming along?

We , she says.

I’m not exactly sure what some of these expenditures were for , Miss Birdie says.

Miss Garnett stands with her back to the window, looking over Miss Birdie’s shoulder, and starts to prattle how that was fabric to have new gowns made for the toddlers … this was to have the nursery painted, it was getting a little dingy , and this one’s carpet cleaning in the lounge. Miss Garnett smiles like they got a secret between them. We have to keep them comfortable or we won’t have any volunteers, will we?

Huh , Miss Birdie says and glances at the wall with mold crawling down it.

Before she goes on, Miss Garnett tilts her head. Does it feel a bit cooler in here today?

Miss Birdie straightens up like she is just now noticing it. Why, I believe it does.

Well, we can thank the Lord for that, can’t we?

When she has walked out, Miss Birdie says, Or you can thank me.

Even though Miss Birdie is a grown woman, she doesn’t talk down to me. She talks to me like I am near grown too. She says her sister is difficult . Her mama worrisome . Her meemaw—

Hold it. What is a Mee. Maw? I have got to ask.

Your mama’s mama, or your daddy’s mama. Sweet and scary is how I’d describe mine. You didn’t have one, Meg?

When my mind drifts back, the folks I see most are my mama, old Ophelia, some cute puppies, a man shaking his head and saying, We need to get you somewhere, get you something to eat …

Meg, I told you to sit up straight , Miss Garnett says, nosing by.

Does she always talk to you like that? Miss Birdie asks.

I inform her yes. In fact she does.

The hours go faster with somebody chatting. How often do y’all hold this View Day? she asks. Miss Birdie’s questions come out of thin air and she always has her a opinion.

I tell her, Three or four times a year.

And how many folks usually show up?

Six or seven sets. Most we got was maybe ten. We had a fair amount of babies.

Why haven’t you gotten adopted?

Ha. What does she think, folks stroll in here like Daddy Warbucks from the funny pages? Asking for a eleven-year-old girl, too small to work and too big to cuddle? Miss Garnett says I am—

dirty filthy

better off going to the cannery.

The cannery always gets her goat. She says she does not truck with little girls working in factories , and it does not add up , and have I seen a picture of one of those places in the newspaper before?

No, but they pay real cash money, so do the math on that. I wonder if I will get it for back-talking; after all she is still a volunteer lady. But Miss Birdie just chuckles. She has a little gap between her front teeth like mine.

Another good part to having Miss Birdie here is Miss Garnett thinks twice about coming in and fooling with my hair, calling me names.

You can drop the Miss if nobody’s around. Just call me Birdie , she says. In her opinion it sounds stuffy and conventional, and why should we have to follow the rules in a place that won’t even get a window fixed or properly repair a roof?

That afternoon, after Miss Garnett announces she’s going to get the mail, Birdie says she needs to stretch her legs. Can I come? I ask. If I promise to be quiet? She says sure.

I follow her upstairs to the big girls’ room, where she looks at our old rusty cots, eyes that ugly ceiling. If you stare up at those water stains enough, laying in bed, you will start to see things you don’t want to see. A angry woman’s face saying You’re fired , a runny nasty oyster from a jar, a fat man asking who is respons’ble for letting those puppies die in the freeze. It is a wonder I sleep at all with that going on up there.

After that I follow her down to the kitchen. It is not office hot in there; kitchen hot is something else. Kitchen hot sticks black to your lungs. I do not know how Lucinda can stand it. Birdie wrinkles her nose down in the pots boiling any kind of damn taste out of our food. When she tastes our mushy peas, she says Oof . Leaning against the counter, she and Lucinda talk easy, the way Mama and Ophelia used to.

How long you worked here ?

Coming on fie year. Wherebouts you from?

Warren County, down in the Delta .

Law I got people down in the Delta, sho nuff do.

The kitchen could be on fire and the other white ladies would not come in here and talk to Lucinda. I hunt for a corn pone to steal, but they are still getting baked in the stove.

Birdie wonders should she make a list of what all Lucinda could use, maybe Garnett would—

They ain’t enough paper in the wuld for that , Lucinda says and spits snuff in a little can. I hear the words bland and chalky and no meat or butter to speak of . Words you do not want to hear in a kitchen.

Since she come on, she don’t let me feed ’em nuttin good, say it’ll spoil ’em. Lucinda waves her wide hand. They orphans . How you spoil a orphan?

Did things used to be different around here? Before Garnett showed up? Birdie asks.

Yessum. Lass couple years things done change a fair piece around here. And Lucinda goes back to chopping carrots like she is done talking about that.

When we get back to the office, Birdie looks up at the mold. She squats down and peers in the hole behind my chair. Says, I know you’re in there. She takes my pink eraser and smudges at a mildew spot on the wall—

Birdie, stop, you’re making it worse , Miss Frances says. She has come in holding sleeping Ella Jane. She is cute asleep like that, but wait till she starts screaming.

Doesn’t this room bother you? And the big girls’ room upstairs? Birdie asks her. The rest of the house doesn’t look like this.

It’s still bound to be an improvement over where they came from , Miss Frances says. These girls are lucky to have a roof over their heads.

Have you seen the roof? Birdie says. And there’s a rathole behind Meg’s chair.

It’s a charity, Birdie. We’re doing the best we can with what we have.

Alright, alright. But it’s only how the dang bubonic plague started.

After that, they get to talking about Miss Frances’s big birthday dinner coming up, how she hopes her husband will give her a extra-special gift this year since he will not take her on a trip. I do not find it appropriate to discuss in front of a orphan who gets zero squat. That is just damn manners.

Miss Frances nuzzles Ella Jane’s hair with her chin. Would it be awful of me to say I hope Ella Jane doesn’t get adopted next week?

Yep , Birdie says.

If Rory’d let me, I’d bring her right on home with me. I look away. I do not need to hear that either.

Later on, when Miss Garnett comes back with the mailbag, Birdie tells her, I could probably get somebody in to fix the holes and paint the walls. Least give you an idea of how much it would run you to fix that roof.

The Phony nods like isn’t that a interesting idea. I do appreciate that, Birdie. So much. But as I’ve said, all we need is for you to get these books ready. What she is really thinking is this lady ought to mind her own damn beeswax.

What would it hurt to have him come look? I always say, water’s worse than termites—

Miss Garnett clasps her hands like she is begging, praying for this lady to shut up. Because if we don’t have the means to pay for it, wouldn’t we just be wasting the poor man’s time? So please, just finish the books so we can get our funding.

Alright , Birdie says and sighs.

If that’s all, back to work, girls!

I’m not a girl, Garnett , Birdie mumbles when she is out of earshot. I’m a grown woman with a Blanton Bookkeeping Correspondence Course certificate, and you don’t need more drapes and throw pillows, what you need is to fix the dang roof.

Finally I think she is smelling a phony.

After more frowning up at the mold, she gets her a wet cloth and rubs it on the wall.

That mess does not come off, I tell her. I have tried my own self.

She gives up and sits back down and starts going through the mailbag. Mrs. Garnett Pittman. To Whom It May Concern … She hands me a couple envelopes. It is always the same. They are all looking for a baby girl.

Something wrong? she asks.

Generally I do not trust these ladies farther than I could throw them, but I take a chance since she does not seem like those other ladies. My friend Ava went down at the cannery. I know it’s not allowed, but I was hoping she would send me a letter.

Well, she’s probably busy. Canning things. A little girl. She frowns her forehead. Do you have a choice to go there, or can you stay here if you want to?

I look at her a minute, so she can hear what she just said.

You’re right , she says. Who in their right mind would want to stay here.

Guess who ain’t giving you dirty looks today?

When Birdie tells me who, I say it my own self: Well glory be to the Lord.

Yesterday afternoon, Miss Mildred hollered out in the hall, Garnett, another toddler just threw up. And anybody with brains knew what was about to happen here. One vomit and you can expect a couple volunteers to sneak out the door. Two vomits and they do not sneak, they herd like buffalo, saying they cannot afford to get their own kids or husband sick at home. By five o’clock, Miss Garnett’s hair was frayed loose around her head and she looked green as a pea.

Today Birdie has on the blue dress with the white buttons again, so I know she has come in seven days now. There is the one with the black buttons, the one with the white buttons, and the one with the imitation mother-of-pearl buttons, and she wears them on a rotation basis. When I predicted which she would wear next, she called me clever .

Looks like we’ve about got the place to ourselves today , she says while I eat my biscuits. Her sister and a few ladies have shut themselves up in the toddler room and nursery so as not to get the whole house sick. All I got to do is think the word vomit and I can damn smell it. That does not work with bacon or blueberry cobbler , but who can explain the mind.

It is hardly nine o’clock when Birdie shuts the ledger and pushes it aside. I straighten it. I’ve had it, Meg, I can’t look at that dirty wall another minute , she says and walks out and comes back with a apron on and a rag and a bucket of something stronger smelling than soap. She starts scrubbing the moldy wall behind my chair in circles. It just smears the ugly brown around. But she lets it sit a minute. When she circle scrubs it a second time, look at that, it makes a area of clean yellowy wall.

I hop up and tell her, I could help, you know. I am good at cleaning. Lord, anything to get me out of this chair, even scrubbing a thing.

She gets me a rag from the kitchen, and I scrub at the low parts, she scrubs the high. The smell makes my nose tickle.

Don’t touch your eyes, there’s bleach in here. Frances’ll get snippy with me if I blind an orphan.

When the smell gets very strong, she looks around the hall. Left and right like it is a busy street she is trying to cross. Then she goes to our window and wiggles off the second-to-bottom board without me even helping and pushes the window up another five inches.

Ah. More fresh air blows in, we can both breathe better now.

While we clean in circles, I ask how long she expects to stay before she has to go on back home. I am keeping count of how many biscuits are in my future. She says in about two weeks, after her sister’s birthday. She is up here in the first place to ask her sister’s family for money—

How much? I have always had a interest in money. I forgot my mama said it was rude to ask.

More than a little and less than a lot , she says.

She tells me her sister’s husband has plenty to spare and even a private telephone line, but Miss Frances is still cross with Birdie on account of a goose picture she drew about a hundred years ago. Well, I tell her, I would like to see that. She steps off the chair where she was scrubbing high and draws a lady’s face on a card with cheekbones and a sharp beak nose that really does favor Miss Frances, and then she draws a neck down five whole View Day cards lined up together, with a teeny-tiny goose body down at the bottom. I am laughing. Lord, it looks just like her.

Shhh, they’ll hear us , but she is laughing too. If they think we’re having any fun in here, they’ll separate us.

Ain’t that the truth.

Next she lays yesterday’s newspaper on the desk and stands up on her chair with the mop, reaching and groaning to get to the ugly brown spots. Mopping a ceiling instead of a floor, now that is hard labor, especially when you cannot stop laughing. Sure enough, the toddler room door flings open.

Birdie, what—what are you doing up there? Miss Frances asks.

Just cleaning. This ceiling. She might as well’ve said just robbing this bank , she looks so guilty. I’m almost done with the books.

Miss Frances frowns at me, she knows I should be at the desk, drooling. But when you’re done, you’ll go back to working on the books, right?

Right. Soon as I finish the ceiling.

Miss Frances eyes the clean wall and says, I didn’t really realize how dirty it was in here.

By eleven, is my arm tired. But I keep on scrubbing circles.

Birdie? I ask. What exactly is a feebleminded woman ?

She draws the mop down off the ceiling and thinks it over. I guess somebody that’s … touched in the head.

As in crazy?

I reckon, but you know, crazy’s relative. That means we all are a little, but we think everybody else is. Like a one-way mirror. But there is actual crazy out there.

I believe the only actual crazy person I have seen with my eyes is that Old Miss Rondo who used to sit and beg on the square. When I asked Mama what happened to her to make her that way, she said, Sometimes people just have a bad day.

After lunch, it is looking a lot better in here.

Good job, Meg , she says. You are good at cleaning.

I tell her thank you and I get that from my mama.

She ran a tight ship, huh?

Oh yes, I tell her. When she was cleaning, it was like a tornado blowing through town.

That right?

When she cleaned, it was cleaner than before you even used it.

Lord, I have not thought of that in years.

What else do you remember?

She— Oh, you.

Birdie has a way of getting you to talk when you do not want to. She could probably get criminals to confess the crimes.

It might help you to talk about her , Birdie says. But I shut my mouth. Ava said it is best to get her out of my mind.

When we are done cleaning, we are both tuckered out. Everything is dripped on, including us. We wipe the drips off the floor and that old file cabinet leaning like the Leaning Tower of something. I got to say, the walls do look better. Not perfect where the mold stained hard, but better. It is a shame, though, that paint is such a unfortunate color. The shade of something a old sick person would cough up.

Miss Mildred walks by, damp and soggy from buying more castor oil in town. She takes one look and says, Well, it’s about time. That is it, no questions asked. By the way, sounds like Garnett’s gone be out sick another day. She sneaks Birdie a smile.

Glory hallelujah.

The next morning after breakfast, I get a whiff of something strong. All I can report is it is not the smell of something you want to eat. I walk fast up the hall, curious— No running, young lady . Even when Miss Garnett is not here, I hear her talking in my brain.

Miss Frances is standing in the door of the office, with her hands on her stylish hips.… can’t just go assigning your own assignments, Birdie! I round the corner to see.

Birdie has started to paint the ugly sick walls of the office a very attractive baby-blue-egg color. Well, I just love it.

Meg shouldn’t have to sit in a room full of mold. I found a little extra money for the paint in the books. It was supposed to go toward the baby room.

There is a protocol you’re supposed to follow, Birdie. Couldn’t you at least have asked Garnett before you did it?

I could’ve.

I slip into my chair. Try and look like a innocent party. I see there is a can of slick white paint on the floor too.

Why wouldn’t Garnett be happy about it? It’ll be done just in time for the inspector. Birdie dabs her brush in the can of blue. Remember when we painted our room when we were girls this same color?

I remember , Miss Frances says flat. I knew you were up to something when you left the house so early. Now everybody’s gonna think my sister’s a house painter.

I still don’t understand why Garnett let it get so bad in here in the first place , Birdie says. When she gets back, I’m gonna ask her—

Please don’t, Birdie. Miss Frances looks at her serious now. Your assignment is to do the books, not to ask questions. Or paint walls.

When Miss Frances is back in the toddler room, Birdie shakes her head and keeps painting. Not my assignment to ask questions? She blinks her big brown eyes over at me. My entire life’s assignment is to ask questions. Why else are we even here?

That might be the most logical thing I have heard in years.

I myself am dying to get my hands in this project. I ask can I help, I promise to be careful. Since I am short, we decide my job is to paint the bottom trim the shiny white while she paints the walls the baby-bird blue. She calls it a complementary look .

Here is how you paint a room proper:

First you wrap yourself up good in a apron because painting is a messy and fairly permanent business. Then you tuck the newspaper against the floor like so … dip the brush in the paint, be sure and dab it to remove the excess, then run it smooth along the trim, back and forth, do not jerk or let it drip … and wallah . You have learned a handy skill that is bound to be more fun than putting food in a can.

She says she will touch up my mistakes after, which is a relief. We better be quiet so we do not get in any more trouble than we are already in.

I find laying on the floor eye level is what works best for painting trim. We get us a rhythm. Birdie whistles soft to herself. The tune she calls “Danny Boy” that tends to make me sleepy.

Of course she slips in a question or two between refrains.

The man who brought you here, did you know him? she asks.

While I dip and dab and run it along smooth, I tell her no, I had never seen him before.

How did he know you were out there all by yourself?

I explain that he just showed up and gave me a apple. I have never tasted a apple so good.

Sounds like you were pretty hungry, huh? she asks.

Oh you better believe it. Hungry to where I felt like I had ate up my insides. And cold? I could see my own breathing right there in the house.

I remember that cold snap. It was unusual.

And when I finished gnawing the hambone and eating that old jar of slimy oysters, which I threw up, I tried to eat—

What?

I feel embarrassed to say it.

I tell her I tried to eat a book .

Birdie asks, Which one?

I tell her it was called You Liss Sees. But spelled—I do not recall the spelling.

How’d it taste? she asks.

Well, I got to laugh. Boring , I say. Boringest book I ever ate.

Sometime before lunch, Miss Pripp, the Fatass, waltzes in the front door. She is wearing a big flapping yellow dress, hunting for somebody. Yonder you are! Out in the hall, she says to Miss Frances and Miss Mildred that thank the Lord her own kids didn’t get it, but she can’t say when Garnett’s coming back, so here are the big keys, Mildred, she’s got a roast in the oven— She stops yapping. Looking at the office.

Well. What’s all this?

It was Birdie’s idea , Miss Frances blurts out. I stop painting. Wonder if the Fatass is going to tell me to get my rear in my chair.

But—I think it looks better, don’t you? Miss Frances asks.

You mean Garnett didn’t approve this? She just went on and did it?

In the hall I hear Miss Mildred chuckle, but all Miss Frances says is Ummm.

The Fatass moves into the office. Her eyes are lit up at Birdie. She looks like somebody has gave her a damn present. Excuse me, Birdie, but you can’t just go and do something like this. You got to get it approved by Garnett first.

But Garnett wasn’t here , Birdie says and keeps on painting.

Well then, I think you’re about to find yourself in some trouble , the Fatass says, smiling.

Would that make you happy? Birdie asks, looking at her like she is actual curious to hear.

Miss Pripp frowns like she does not know what and goes back out where she came from.

Birdie! Miss Frances says.

Don’t worry, Franny. I’ll take the … blame.

I go back to painting. I have been telling and telling her this place makes no sense.

A project always makes a day go faster. Good job, Meg , Birdie says about ten times a hour. I do not get tired of hearing it.

Even better is when Dorella leans her dirty neck in and sees me doing something funner than drooling.

Lady, don’t you know Nutmeg here is crazy? She talks to people who ain’t even there. I would rather Birdie not know about that Nutmeg business. I do have some pride.

We all do, Dorella , Birdie says. But just so happens, I think Meg here’s pretty smart. And then like icing on a treat: Which is why I’ve made her my number one lieutenant in charge of trim painting.

I am so excited to be the number one in charge of something I can hardly stand it.

When the smell of paint gets very strong, Birdie goes and pries the third-to-bottom board off the window without even checking the hall for traffic. Then she pries off the second. She examines the top board like it is something strange and wiggles that one off too. All the panes are fine but one little triangle of glass in a corner is missing. When she steps back, light rushes in past the green fluffy-leafed tree, and I smile at Birdie—ah, I see now! How it looks in your world.

Well what do you know, just that one little piece of glass is gone, not even a full pane , she says. I’ll stuff it with some steel wool, that ought to work for a while. Up the thing goes and here comes the breeze. It don’t even smell yellow in here anymore.

By afternoon, we have painted it all, even the ceiling. All that is left is the touching up. I say, This is what a baby bird feels like inside a blue egg.

She nods, she understands that. We are both wore out.

Do you think we could paint the upstairs too? I ask. I don’t want the fun to be over, I want her to stay longer than a week and a half. I am already dreading the days where I will be sitting alone again. Six months might just as well be a thousand years.

So I follow her up to the big girls’ room and we stare up at those scary water stains on the ceiling. It is too big of a job for today. Just looking at them makes me a little sad.

Unfortunately, paint can’t fix what’s rotten down deep, Meg.

There is bound to be a life lesson in there somewhere.

We go back downstairs. A word to the wise: It is messy to work right up under somebody painting a wall. Lord, I am shiny white and baby-bird egg all over. Birdie says she will turpentine me in a minute.

I lay my head on the desk as she opens the top drawers to the file cabinet with the big silver key ring. Miss Mildred leans in the doorway and those two talk low. It reminds me of somebody.

I heard a lot of things’ve changed around here , Birdie says.

Oh yeah, there been some changes, that is for sure , Miss Mildred says.

When was that? Would you say? Birdie asks, taking out a file.

When Garnett come on as chairlady. A little over a year and a half ago.

What kind of changes did she make? Birdie asks, peering down through her reading glasses. Birdie knows how to get somebody talking.

Welp. For starters, she separated the big girls from the toddlers. Moved the big girls to sleeping upstairs.

I got my eyes closed but hear a file drawer shut, keys jingle, another drawer open. I think back to my first weeks here. My head was like Swiss cheese, people and time slipping through holes …

Oh, did they used to be all together?

Oh yeah, play together, eat together. Ast me, I think it helped ’em adjust quicker to being gone from their families.

Where did all those memories go? I wonder. Are they sitting in a bucket somewhere? Will I stumble across it one day?

I bet it did , Birdie says.

And don’t say I said so but—Garnett’s the one started covering the big girls head to toe in them hot dresses and quit letting the girls get mail … Preaching that nonsense how big girls are past helping … Gets on her soapbox about legislating, protecting the good Christian line. We’re all Christians here , Miss Mildred says. Ain’t one kind better’n the next.

It is quiet and I hear Birdie turning pages in a file.

Says here her father is unknown … mama was deemed … But I cannot make out what all Birdie says next.

Just ’cause you’re poor and down on your luck don’t mean you’ve lost your wits. That is the last thing I hear Miss Mildred say before I am fast asleep.