Bombshells (14 page)

When I find my house, I open the front door and see the familiar shapes of our furniture, now only ashes waiting to blow away in the howling wind that comes roaring down the street.

I jolt awake. I stare with wide eyes, trying to recognize the shadowy shapes of furniture. The blinds stripe the windows, letting in the soft blue night. Birdie sprawls on my bed, her wet thumb glistening in a strip of moonlight.

It was a dream, a horrible dream. My breathing slows and my hands relax their death grip on the sheets. I listen until I hear my father’s snores.

I go to the closet and dig in the box of toys hidden there. Heidi, my stuffed rabbit, is crushed on the bottom of the box. I tug her out. Her fur is matted and flat in places. She smells musty, but feels so comforting.

Back in bed, I keep her clutched against my chest. I’m afraid to close my eyes.

I’ll just wait for morning.

NORAH

“I’m surprised Birdie went to sleep so soon. I expected to be up with her most of the night,” Clay says, as we fold back the bedspread.

“I peeked in. Birdie’s in Melanie’s bed and they’re both asleep. At least Birdie is. But she has her thumb in her mouth.”

Clay is pulling his undershirt over his head. “Our little Birdie has had a lot to adjust to.”

I tug the hairbrush through my hair, lifting it up off my neck so I can cool off a bit. “She was just getting back to her old self.”

“Those damn jets.” Clay’s belt snaps as he rips it through the belt loops. “I sure wish the Navy would stop them from breaking the sound barrier every time they come and go.”

“Rachel Winston told me the pilots do that to signal to their wives they’ve made it home safely from another mission.” The attic fan is still pulling a strong breeze through the open windows, and I wait for Clay to turn off the lights so I can open the blinds and curtains to let in more air. “She wouldn’t tell me what missions they were running, or why the wives might think they wouldn’t make it back. It’s not like we’re in World War Two.”

“I’m sure there are things going on that we don’t know about.” Clay stretches out on the bed with a sigh. “Hell, there’s enough to worry about with what we do know. Last week, the newspapers were saying the reservists are going to be called to active duty, and tonight, Kennedy had a press conference about how he’s going to do whatever it takes to protect our security.”

“What do you think that means?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not even sure I want to know, but it’s got to be serious.”

I lie down next to him and curl against his side, even though the night is still warm. I just need to feel him there, the solid certainty of him. “The president won’t let anything happen, will he?”

Clay’s shoulder moves beneath my head. “He’s got some hard decisions to make. Castro and Khrushchev are bullies, and you can’t let a bully win. Ever.”

I shiver, recalling the
Times-Union’s
many headlines about Castro preparing to defend against a U.S. invasion, about missile launching sites in Cuba, about the Army trucks rumbling through Jacksonville with supplies to build nuclear fallout shelters. “What do you think I should do about ordering those dog tags for the girls?”

“You should probably order them, sweetheart.” He kisses my forehead. “Goodnight.”

That’s my cue to move so Clay can roll over onto his side. I stare at the ceiling, trying to round up my scattered thoughts. The girls were so scared tonight, they were shaking. Crying and shaking, yet Clay and I didn’t really do anything to make them unafraid.

The fear pulls us together, and at the same time, sets us apart from each other. We want to huddle in each other’s arms and feel safe, but if we do, then we have to admit that we’re scared.

So I stay on my side of the bed. Clay remains on his.

MELANIE

“Melanie, wake up.”

Mama’s voice slips through the heaviness in my head.

I jerk upright, expecting to see the grayness of my nightmare. Instead, living color floods every surface, from the muted cabbage roses on our bedspreads to the bright white eyelet of our curtains. Our bedroom walls glow pink in the brilliant, early sunlight. The humid air hums with a melody of normal.

Relief pours through me.

Mama kisses my cheek. “What happened here? Were you playing musical beds last night?”

Fingering the sheet, I think about telling Mama my dream, but that would make the nightmare more real. My heart races just thinking about it. “No, Birdie had a hard time getting to sleep.” I sit up. “I let her come to bed with me, but then my bed was too crowded.”

“I’ll bet. Birdie’s a rambunctious sleeper.” Mama crosses to the other bed to wake Birdie. She leans over and kisses her on the forehead. “Wake up, Beatrice, darling.”

Mama always uses our given names to wake us. It’s like she has enough energy in the morning for our full names, but soon after breakfast she’s back to calling us by our nicknames. Sometimes they become even shorter as the day goes on.

I wonder what she’ll call us after the baby’s born.

Birdie opens her eyes. After a second, she latches her arms around Mama’s neck and holds on for dear life. Mama giggles and falls down on the bed with her. Mama stands, yanks the sheet off Birdie and tickles her. “Get ready for school now.” She pats Birdie on the bottom and heads for the door. Over her shoulder, she says, “Hurry, hurry.”

Birdie jumps up and runs to the closet. “I’m going to wear my green dress today.” Tossing the dress onto the bed, Birdie spins around three times before she tugs her pajama top over her head. She spins three more times and pulls her bottoms off.

“Why are you spinning around, Birdie?”

“’Cause.”

I stretch my arms over my head and swing my feet over the side of the bed, feeling the sleepy pull in my calves. “Okay, I’ll play along. ’Cause why?”

“Jeepers, Mellie. Don’t you know anything?”

“More than you.”

“Well, you don’t know that spinning in the morning will take away bad dreams, do you?”

I stare at Birdie. Did I scream in my sleep? Maybe she had her own nightmares last night. “You’re just making that up.”

“Am not.”

Birdie stands with her hands fisted on her waist and her white cotton panties ballooning over her skinny thighs. She looks like a fluffy little chick ready to fight. I just don’t feel like arguing this morning. My fighting energy might be needed for something more important.

I shrug. “Okay, you’re not making it up. Thanks for telling me.”

“Well, it probably won’t work for you, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re not in the magic world anymore.”

Birdie pulls on her green dress and dances out of the room like a fairy, her feet skipping so lightly they hardly touch the floor.

Sometimes Birdie makes no sense at all, and sometimes, even when she shouldn’t make any sense, she says things that are too true.

Saturday, September 29, 1962

Jacksonville, Florida

MELANIE

“Stupid hair,” I mutter, throwing my comb into the bathroom sink. “Damn, I’m never going to be ready for Robert’s party.”

My reflection glares back at me from the mirror, my hair just as lopsided as it was five minutes before. The right side flips perfectly, a beautiful curve and curl that rests on top of my shoulder, but the left side hangs straight, with no hint of a curl anywhere. My Toni has failed in less than a month. That has to be a record.

“Melanie, come on. We need to leave now,” Mama calls out from the kitchen.

Birdie stops on her way to the living room and leans against the bathroom door. “She’s still staring at herself in the mirror.”

My eyes burn like I’m about to cry, but I won’t. Birdie doesn’t understand why I cry all the time anymore than I do. Mama says these spells will pass, but I feel like I live every day with a flash flood of tears ready to spill at the least little thing. And sometimes—no, a lot of the time—Birdie is the “least little thing” that sets loose the waterworks.

Mama and Daddy come to stand by Birdie. They all stare at me in the bathroom. Trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, I turn and shout, “Can’t y’all just leave me alone for a few minutes?”

Like a group of dancers, they all take a giant step backward. Daddy clears his throat. “Mellie, don’t talk to your mother like that.”

Mama pats his arm and then steps into the bathroom. “It’s okay, Clay. This is Mellie’s first big party.” Daddy and Birdie slip away.

I close my eyes and wait for the scolding I know I deserve, but Mama just hugs me. That’s the thing that makes me cry and cry.

Mama rubs my back and whispers, “Shush, baby. It’s all right.” Then she holds me at arm’s length.

“Wash your face, sweetheart, and come on down to the Taylor’s in a few minutes. We’ll go ahead and take the dish of beans. Can you bring the cupcakes?”

“S-s-sure, Mama.” I gulp back another sob and kiss Mama’s soft, powdered cheek. “I’ll bring the cupcakes.”

“Okay.” She leaves me alone in the bathroom.

Birdie’s voice trills through the house. “Mama, why is she crying this time?” The front door clicks shut behind them, muffling Mama’s answer.

I’m really alone. I put a washcloth soaked in cold water over my face and sit on the closed toilet. The cool cloth takes all the steam out of me. I grow quiet inside. The trembling stops and the tears slip back to their hiding place.

When I take the cloth off my face and look in the mirror again, I know what to do with my hair. I pull the straight side up and sweep it over to the right, stab a couple of bobby pins in to hold it while I dig around for one of Mama’s old hair combs. I put the comb in without looking, and hope that I won’t be right back where I started, only more lopsided.

I look up and see a young lady, not a scruffy little girl. The upward sweep of hair makes my face look soft. My cheeks glow light pink and my lips look…well, I guess they look like they are ready to be kissed. I run my tongue over my lips and think about what it must feel like to be kissed by a boy. Not a parent.

In Mama’s room, I open her precious bottle of Chanel No. 5. Dabbing my finger to the top of the bottle, I gather just a circle of the golden scent on my fingertip, and touch it behind my left ear, where the skin is exposed by my upswept hair. Then I dab behind the other ear. The last touch I sweep across the skin at the top of my dress.

Carefully placing the perfume on Mama’s dresser, I remember when Lola gave it to Mama for Christmas, saying, “Coco Chanel herself says to wear Chanel No. 5 if you want to be kissed.” And I definitely want to be kissed. Tonight. By Robert. So I don’t have to worry about that stupid pact with Stephanie anymore.

From the Taylor’s backyard, music and laughter roll in waves like the rhythm of the breakers at the beach, first loud, then soft, then loud again. I weave through the cars lining the driveway, but stop when I hear voices coming from the carport.

“C’mon, Mrs. Winston.”

Robert’s voice, but not melting and smooth like usual. He sounds tense, maybe excited. I wonder what he wants from Mrs. Winston.

“Rob, my name is Rachel. Say it.” Mrs. Winston sounds like she’s out of breath. Or whispering. She’s standing really close to him.

“No.” Robert’s moves backward and Mrs. Winston tilts forward, leaning into him.

I don’t want to hear anything else. I don’t want to see anymore. I back down the driveway, and crouch behind a big, red Chevy, balancing the tray of cupcakes on my knees. The waxed paper covering the plate shimmers with iridescence in the early evening light. I squint at the shifting colors and try to make sense everything. They’ve stopped talking and I can’t resist looking over the hood of the red Chevy to see what’s happening.

Mrs. Winston puts her hands on Robert’s chest and pushes him back against the wall with a slight thud. Robert’s palms flatten against the rough gray cinderblock wall on either side of him.

“Well, when you get back from training, then.” Mrs. Winston lifts Robert’s hand and leans up against him, her breasts pressing into his chest. She kisses him right on the mouth. As she pulls away from him, she takes his hand and places it on her breast.

Robert’s eyes grow huge and his mouth gapes like a drowning man gasping for air. Just as suddenly his lids droop and he leans toward Mrs. Winston. His mouth closes slightly.

Mrs. Winston draws one finger over Robert’s lower lip and squeezes his hand on her breast. “I’ll miss you while you’re learning to fight those horrible Commies.”

Then she walks away, leaving Robert alone on the carport. Is that how a woman gets kissed by the man she likes? She just takes it?

Robert pushes away from the wall and tugs on his navy blue slacks a little before looking up to see me peeking over the red car’s hood.

I clear my throat and stand. “Hi, Robert.”

Sweat dampens the hair at his temples and his face glistens. He wipes his hand across his brow and then drags it across the leg of his trousers. “Uh, hi, Melanie.” His voice sounds thick and the exposed skin at the collar of his shirt is blotchy red.