Bombshells (24 page)

The girls join us. Birdie kicks off my high heels, grabs Lola’s hands, and moves like a washing machine agitator. Steph and Melanie are concentrating too hard to be having fun.

“Keep doing this and you’ll get your figure back real soon.” Lola smoothes her hands over her slim, no-baby hips.

A snide remark is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. Because, surprise, surprise, I’m having fun. Real fun. I put my shoulders back, which pulls my blouse tight across my breasts. The top button pops open. I glance down, taking in the magnificent cleavage that’s purely functional. I lean toward Clay, giving him a peek. I crook my finger and he joins me, dancing close in the small area we’ve cleared. His eyes are dark, and I know that if DC were more than a week old, Clay would be leading me back to the bedroom pretty darn quick. I miss that look.

It makes me feel good that he wants me. But I’m also glad I’ve got doctor’s orders to follow. Clay will have to wait a few weeks.

When the record stops, we all head for our drinks. The faint chill of the brief cold spell is gone, and we’re hot and thirsty. I flap the hem of my shirt to move some air. “That’s it for me, kiddos. I’m taking another shower and joining DC.”

“C’mon, Baby.” Clay finishes his drink and sets the glass on the table. He locks his fingers behind my neck and puts his forehead against mine. He smells warm and spicy. “We just got started.”

“You have a good time.” I take his face in my hands and kiss him. He tastes like beer and liquor and orange juice. It reminds me of those early days when we drank and danced and made love over and over. Sometimes I wish we could go back to that time, before we had children. When our focus was on each other, and all we worried about was saving enough money so we could go dancing on the weekends. I wonder if he’d do anything differently? I know I would.

I’d demand more of what
I
want from life. This vague notion that there’s something better nags at me, though I can’t put my finger on what it is I’m missing. I know it’s more than just dancing on the weekends. I shouldn’t waste precious energy thinking about it; it’s too late to change anything now.

I end the kiss, hoping he can’t taste my frustration. “Sorry, but I’m tired.”

He gives me another quick kiss and I slip away, closing the hall door behind me.

Another record starts as I walk the dark hallway. Lola’s voice follows me. “Melanie, you’re hopeless.”

In the shower, the hot water sprays over me for the second time in one day, and I feel like I’m at the gates of heaven. Heaven itself will be my nice, soft bed and deep sleep. Toweling dry, I’m so relaxed I feel boneless. I pull a clean nursing gown over my head and step into the bedroom. Clay sits on our bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

He can’t be serious.

“What are you doing? You should go back out there with the girls.”

“What if I want to stay in here with you? Lola’s watching the kids.”

“It’s only eight-thirty, Clay. You’re not ready to go to sleep.”

He grips my hips and pulls me between his legs. He kisses my breasts at the top of the gown. “You smell so good.” He buries his face in my cleavage. His voice low and muffled, he says, “Who said anything about sleep?”

I push him away. “I did. I need some sleep before DC wakes up again. And besides, you know we can’t do it. It’s too soon. The doctor said so.”

“But we could still have some fun.”

“You mean
you
could have some fun. No thank you.” Wiggling free of his grip, I walk to my side of the bed. “I’m going to bed to sleep and you should go back to the living room.”

I’m not sure if I’m angry or ashamed. I snap the bedspread back, and he stands up. I say, “You can end the party whenever you want. Come back when you’re ready to
sleep
.”

His lips tight, he buttons his shirt again as he heads for the bathroom door. “Goodnight, Norah.”

Suddenly, I feel awful. I didn’t set out to send a message I wouldn’t follow through with. I was just having a good time. Feeling a tiny bit of the woman I used to be. And now I feel like the worst kind of tease.

“Goodnight.”

LOLA

I swallow the shot of straight vodka I poured when Clay and Norah left the room. Putting the glass on the table, I say, “C’mon, Mellie.” I grab Melanie’s hips to show her how to move. “You’ve got to relax and feel the music. This is supposed to be fun, not dental work.”

Clay comes back in, closes the hall door behind him, and goes straight to the pitcher of screwdrivers, pouring himself a tall one. I didn’t expect him to come back and join us.

His shoulders are rigid and his jaw clenches. I’ve known Clay for almost as long as Norah has. It’s always been easy for me to read his moods. Right now, he’s frustrated and tight with tension. Sexual tension, it seems to me. It must be tough on a guy to be on the abstinence wagon for a couple of months.

Pulling my gaze away from Clay, I focus on the girls again. “Steph, bend your knees and keep twisting.” I’m giving a lesson on the low twist, showing the girls how to bring their bodies closer to their feet and then slowly rise back up. “This is the move that I won the last contest with.”

I feel Clay’s gaze on me. “C’mon,” I say to him. “Let’s show these kids how this is done.”

He puts down the glass and rolls up his shirtsleeves. “All right.”

I’m surprised at the flutter of excitement I feel when he stands just inches away from me. It’s crazy. He’s my brother-in-law. We’re just dancing with the kids in his living room.

But when the music begins and we start to move together, I suddenly see that things could have been different. Clay could have been my husband, and these beautiful girls and that darling baby could have been mine. I could have had this life that seems to make Norah mad.

It’s not fair. When we all met, Clay was up for grabs. But Michael caught my attention with his dangerous good looks and his bad boy attitude. Clay was so ordinary. Boring.

Look at us all now.

Michael is dead from that awful car crash. Norah is sleepwalking through life. And Clay isn’t boring at all. He’s a good husband, a good father. A very handsome man.

I move closer, almost close enough to “dirty twist.” His gaze locks with mine, and I see that he’s feeling vulnerable. Maybe he’s thinking about the newscast, realizing that we all might be close to the end. That there may not be many more chances to really live.

I back away a bit. “You still haven’t taken my car out for a spin.”

“Maybe in the morning.”

“Sure. There shouldn’t be many cops out on a Sunday morning when all the fine folks are in church.”

“Are you planning for us to go drag racing?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “A little time in the fast lane is all.”

He smiles. I’ve made Clay smile, despite all his worries.

When the song ends, Birdie flops on the sofa. She’s asleep in minutes. “Look. Li’l Bird is gone. Such a party pooper. It’s only nine o’clock.”

“Nine?” Steph says. “I’ve got to go home, too. Curfew stinks.”

“Can I walk her halfway home, Daddy?”

“Sure, Mellie. I’ll put Birdie to bed.” Clay scoops his child up and carries her through the hall door.

When he returns, I’m fanning myself. “God, it keeps getting hotter in here.”

“It does.” Clay unbuttons his long sleeved shirt. His chest muscles are outlined beneath his white undershirt.

Mellie comes back in through the front door and cool air streams in behind her. I say, “Maybe we should leave the door open for a while.

"We still have mosquitoes here, Aunt Lola. Mama doesn’t want DC to get bites.” Mellie closes the door behind her.

“I hope you don’t mind, Lola, but I’m going to take this shirt off.”

“Go right ahead, Clay.” I pour more vodka and orange juice into the pitcher. When I turn back to hand Clay a glass, I freeze for a second.

Clay’s gaze drops from my eyes, roves slowly over my breasts and drops to my hips. The air changes. It seems thinner, compressed somehow, like it feels just before a storm.

Clay shoves his hair back from his forehead and sips his drink. Focusing on his daughter, he asks, “Are you hot too, Melanie?”

I know what he’s doing. He’s reminding himself that he has a family.

Mellie yawns. “A little. I think I’ll rest for a minute.” She grabs the folded newspaper from the floor and lies on the couch, fanning herself slowly.

Downing the rest of my screwdriver, I shuffle through the records. “Maybe we should slow things down a little. How about a samba, Clay?”

Clay walks over to Mellie and strokes her sweaty hair from her forehead. She gives him a sleepy smile.

“I should turn in now,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”

He’s reminding himself again. Power surges through me. I make him
need
to remember.

I don’t want him to go to Norah. Not yet. “It’s still early. You can’t leave me to finish a whole pitcher of screwdrivers by myself.” I put the record on. The music will make him stay for one more dance, I know. One more song I can pretend through. “Maybe if we turn some of these lights down it’ll cool off a bit.”

I switch off the lamp and the kitchen light. Only the TV lamp, the small light behind the horse statue, remains on. With its greenish glow and the softer music, the room does feel cooler.

I take his fingers in mine and stroke my other hand up his arm, finally resting my hand on his shoulder. Sighing, Clay puts his palm on my waist. I step closer until his heat surrounds me. My eyes drift closed, and I sway against his firm chest, his flat belly, his hard thighs.

MELANIE

I stop fanning myself with the folded newspaper. It doesn’t really help. Since Lola turned out all the lights, I can’t read the paper, either. I know from looking at it earlier in the day the words Castro and Cuba take up almost the whole top half of the front page. There are grainy photos of an island, supposedly taken by our spy planes. I can’t believe the jets we see flying over us can take a picture from so far away. But, there’s proof in black and white. The caption says the long tube-like things are missiles.

Bombs.

Just ninety miles from Florida’s coastline. Only three hundred and fifty miles from my home.

I close my eyes. The sighing rhythm of the saxophone music almost lulls me to sleep. I open my eyes every few seconds to keep from nodding off. Flickering snapshot impressions of the room mix with the half dreams in my head.

In the first image, Daddy looks like a man I don’t know. His tight, sleeveless undershirt sticks to his damp skin. The muscles in his arms and shoulders glisten with sweat. As he moves to the jazz tune, his hips sway in the pleated slacks he wore to work today.

I blink, and that snapshot changes to reveal Aunt Lola, her head tipped back, her lips moist and parted. She strokes her fingers up and down Daddy’s arms, dragging her fingertips as if she can’t bear to lose the feeling of his skin under her fingers.

I doze, and those glimpses give way to images of missiles resting in dark metal cradles beneath green palm trees. Brooke and Robert walk between the huge, sleeping monsters on their way to the beach. I can tell they’re heading for a swim, because they trail beach towels behind them in the sand.

I don’t want Robert to be with Brooke the same way I don’t want Daddy to be with Lola. It’s not right, but I can’t do anything about it.

The music changes, and my eyes open a slit to see the next snapshot. Daddy and Lola stand so close together, no light shows between their bodies. They’re a shadowy silhouette against the greenish light behind them. Lola’s head rests on Daddy’s shoulder; her lips brush his bare neck. Her hands trail up his arms until her fingertips slip into the short hair on the back of his head.

Daddy’s hands rest low on the top of Lola’s hips, his fingers making gentle indentations where he pulls her tight against him.

I struggle to stay awake but my heavy eyelids slide down again and again. The image of Daddy and Lola pressing against each other doesn’t make sense, I think sleepily. What I want is Robert. My eyes close and my mind chases after him.

I want to see the Robert who sat on the porch with me. The Robert who walked me home and kissed me softly, like a real boyfriend. I know it wasn’t real, but I want it to be, more than anything.

Love seems to be both real and imagined. After all, how do I know it exists? I mean I know I love my mother and father. I even love Birdie, most of the time, anyway. Maybe I love Robert. I
want
to love Robert.

I know Mama and Daddy love each other. What does it mean that my father is holding Aunt Lola so close? Letting her kiss his neck?

It isn’t love.

I blink again, trying to keep my eyes open. I know this is important. I have to pay attention.

Lola eases away slightly, allowing the tiniest bit of space between her and Daddy, and whispers something I can’t hear. Daddy nods. The music stops.