Some Wildflower In My Heart by Jamie Langston Turner Page A

“Good-bye.” As the sound of the children’s footsteps grew fainter, I realized that neither I nor Mrs. Edgecombe had told them my name.
    In my subsequent conversation with Mrs. Edgecombe in her office that afternoon, I noted that she appeared to be quite distracted, yet having been in her presence only briefly by this time, I was not certain whether this was her usual state or whether the events of the afternoon had overtaxed her. She asked me a number of questions that day about my past employment, my education, and my interests and seemed to be putting forth considerable effort to listen to my answers, which were succinct and unembellished. Before I left, she told me somewhat apologetically that she could offer me no monetary compensation for the assistance I had given that day, but that she would be happy to recommend me for a position in the lunchroom, to replace, I presumed, the distraught young woman whom I had encountered at the office door earlier.
    â€œOf course everyone has to be approved officially through the superintendent’s office,” she said, “but Mr. Parker has always taken my recommendations before. You’ll have to fill out an application, then go to the county office for an interview, but really, I don’t foresee any problems.” She gave me a feeble smile, lifted her eyeglasses with one hand, and pinched the bridge of her nose with the other.
    The processing of my application was amazingly simple and my interview with Mr. Parker satisfactory. Though he seemed to me inordinately, but I must admit understandably, curious about my reasons for coming to Filbert, he waived the requirement of personal references after a prolonged silence, which had been preceded by my statement that for private reasons I sincerely wished all ties with my former life to remain severed. “We will hire you on a provisionary basis,” he said at last, and I merely nodded, choosing not to press him concerning the exact nature of the provisions.
    Within a week—an exceedingly busy week, during which I made arrangements to purchase a duplex in a neighborhood outside the city limits of Filbert—I was employed in the lunchroom of Emma Weldy Elementary School under the supervision of an aging woman named Mrs. Lola Tyler, whose hands shook so badly that she could not operate the meat slicer, pour liquids, or write legibly. She spent most of her time watching the others of us perform our work while she circled the kitchen, conversing with herself. Mrs. Tyler was relieved of her duties the following January.
    Mrs. Edgecombe remained grateful to me for my small contribution in her time of need and never failed to greet me courteously during the ensuing months. Our acquaintance was limited, however, not only in depth but also in length, for she resigned at the close of that school year. It was rumored that a certain parent had complained about her treatment of his son, a boy with severe learning disabilities, and had circulated a petition among other parents, finally taking his grievances to the board of education. I wondered later if the meeting in her office on the afternoon of my service in the library was in any way related to the trouble that led to her resignation. I do not know the particulars of Mrs. Edgecombe’s reassignment to another school and her eventual departure from South Carolina, but I shall always remember her warmly. She extended to me her trust at a time in my life when mistrust could have been especially damaging.
    During my first year at Emma Weldy, I saw the auburn-haired boy of the playground daily as he came through the cafeteria line with his classmates, and while I always felt an initial surge of delight at the sight of him, my pleasure was invariably clouded by a scrim of sadness as I imagined his life snuffed out and his mother bowed with grief. I had learned early in my life that conceiving of the worst was one means of preparing myself for its frequent