Bombshells (25 page)

Okay. They aren’t dancing anymore. I can rest. The silence lulls me back toward my dream of Robert. We sit on a porch, eating banana Popsicles and watching the waves roll up on the golden sand. There are no missiles, no roaring jets, no crying babies, just Robert’s voice, rich like melting ice cream.

But there’s a baby crying, pushing me out of the dream. It’s DC.

I bolt up from the couch. The living room is dim and empty. The record player’s needle popping and scratching is the only sound. Daddy and Lola are nowhere to be seen.

DC cries out again.

I close the hall door behind me and then tiptoe toward Mama’s room, hoping Daddy is there to get DC before he wakes up Mama. But their door is still closed and no light shows beneath it.

When I swing it open, Mama’s curled on her side, facing away from DC’s bassinet, so tired she doesn’t even hear the baby. Her lips puff with each snoring breath.

Tiptoeing to the bassinet, I lift DC and grab a clean, cloth diaper from the basket beside it. He quiets a little and snuffles against my neck, looking for his milk. We slip out of the room.

I change him on the sofa bed Aunt Lola uses. The overhead light glares, and I rub my eyes to clear away the sleep fog. Lola’s red satin pajamas lie across the spread, and her black satin pillowcase gleams in the light. The room smells like her perfume and cigarettes.

DC squirms a little while I change his diaper.

Holding him close, I say silly words to him like Mama does and head to the kitchen to get him a bottle. I open the hall door and freeze.

What I see explodes through me as savagely as a bomb.

Daddy’s kissing Aunt Lola.

He holds her tight in his arms. His hands push her blouse up and he fingers the black lace of her bra.

Lola’s hands disappear into the waistband of Daddy’s slacks, sliding around to the belt buckle.

All of this registers in a split second. I tense and squeeze DC. He wails, sending Daddy and Aunt Lola skidding apart.

They stare at me, eyes wide and slightly unfocused. Their lips glisten, red and damp. Their hands, at first dangling at their sides, flap into business. Daddy tucks in his undershirt and straightens his pants.

Lola adjusts her bra and blouse.

Aunt Lola speaks first. “We thought you’d gone to bed.” Her words, low and husky, break the spell that froze me to the hallway floor.

The fear that was always outside my home, the fear of whistling missiles destroying my family, has been replaced with something more terrifying.

President Kennedy and the Navy can’t defend me against this. No guns can stop it. No peace treaty can change it.

Daddy shoves his hair back and comes toward me. I tuck DC closer, hunching my shoulders to protect him from this new, terrible danger.

I can’t look at Daddy or Aunt Lola. It hurts too much, like looking at the sun too long. The sight of them kissing seems burned into my vision, because when I close my eyes, there they are, bright against my eyelids.

“I’ll go check on Norah,” Daddy says, and starts toward the hall, but Mama meets him at the half-opened door.

“What’s happening?” Sleepily, she looks from Daddy to Lola to DC and me.

When no one answers, she strides through the room to the kitchen where I stand with DC wailing on my shoulder.

“Mel, why do you have DC?” She takes him out of my arms, automatically checking his diaper. “You already changed him?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I duck my head and focus on setting up the bottle warmer. “I’m heating the bottle like you showed me this afternoon.”

She holds DC and glances from me to Daddy, then to Lola. Lola drains the last of her drink. Mama looks like she’s working hard to figure out what’s going on, but she’s awfully sleepy.

Finally, she nods. “I still need to nurse him a little, but bring the bottle back to my room when it’s warm. Thank you for your help, Mellie. I can always count on you.” She shuffles down the hall, patting DC on the back.

The three of us stand in the kitchen. We stare at each other.

I feel like words, horrible, hateful words—curses—the nastiest things I can think of, are shooting from my eyes like sparks. I wish I could do that. I wish I could burn both of them with the bolts of hate and anger blasting through my brain. They need to be punished.

But I don’t know what to do.

Daddy’s expression looks shattered. His shoulders slump and his body seems to shrink right before my eyes. His fingers stretch and curl like he needs to shake off the feel of Lola’s skin.

I imagine—I hope—that the words bubbling in his mind are,
I’m sorry. I didn’t want to.
But he doesn’t say anything.

Aunt Lola looks like she does when she’s about to cut a donut while driving her convertible. If Lola does it, it can’t be wrong. Her expression says she was just having fun. She doesn’t seem to understand what all the fuss is about.

She picks up her cigarette case from the counter and lights one. Exhaling a stream of white smoke, she plucks a loose shred of tobacco from her tongue. I know she thinks she never does anything dangerous enough to hurt anybody.

This time she did, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive her.

Finally, Daddy says, “You both go on to bed. I’ll take the bottle to Norah and clean this up.”

Aunt Lola touches the corner of her mouth. Her lipstick looks old and faded. “Well, goodnight, then.” She crushes the just-lit cigarette in the ashtray and starts toward the bathroom.

Daddy leaves with the baby’s bottle. I watch his bent back and caved-in shoulders as he passes through the door.

Licking my lips, I taste the gooey remains of Aunt Lola’s Pink Passion lipstick. The image of our faces, side by side and identical in the hand mirror, flashes in my mind.

She did this. Like a rock dropped in a pond, the damage seems to grow in bigger and bigger circles. How will Mama bear the hurt and betrayal? Nothing will ever be the same.

Another surge of pure hatred flares through me.

I tear the pins from my hair and toss them on the kitchen counter, then scratch my fingers across my scalp to destroy Lola’s ratting. Leaning over the sink, I splash water on my face. I rip a paper towel from the roll and scrub at the eye shadow and mascara, scour the lipstick from my mouth, until my lips feel raw. The white paper oozes with black and blue and faded scarlet.

I’m still in the kitchen when Daddy comes back. “Go on to bed,” he says, like nothing happened. Like the whole world hasn’t changed.

“Why?”

He sighs. “Because I said so.”

Only a few minutes ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated to do what he told me to. But everything’s changed. Something has clicked inside me that tells me I don’t have to do what he says any longer. He’s lost that right.

I look at him, knowing my own face looks like a horror show. I feel
like a horror show. Grimly, I say, “No.”

Daddy stares at me. “What?” His face appears broken, but I can tell he’s working hard to put the pieces back together. “I said go to bed, young lady.”

I pick up the pitcher of orange juice and shove it in the refrigerator. “Why did you do that, Daddy?”

He braces his hands on the sink and hangs his head. He reminds me of a building in the movies about Germany after the war. You can tell it was once a building, but you can’t decide what it looked like before the bombs.

He straightens and turns around, swiping his hand through his hair. “You’re too young to understand, Melanie.”

“Daddy, you did something wrong.” I decide that since things are never going to be the same, I should say what I think.

“Listen, you can’t understand this. There are things that happen that a man just can’t control. Forces of nature.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re just a kid. Things happen between a man and woman. A man can’t help himself. It’s in his nature.” He slams his hand against the edge of the sink. “Damn it, I didn’t want to do it.”

There! Those are the words I need to hear. But it doesn’t help. It doesn’t change anything. I just stare at him, trying to make sense of it all. If he didn’t want to do it, then what happened? Is he blaming this all on Aunt Lola?

I know she can be cruel, even when she says she loves you. I know that from personal experience. But he could have stopped her. In my heart, I know that Daddy could have stopped, if he’d wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to.

That thought breaks my last restraint. I need to lash out at him, to hurt him like he hurt me. Like Mama will be hurt.

Tears burn my eyes. “Are you saying this is all Aunt Lola’s fault? That Aunt Lola did that all by herself?”

“Melanie, Lola just kept pushing and pushing. A woman who wears tight pants and rubs up against a man wants one thing. Like that damned red underwear: it’s a signal, a sign. She’s real damn lucky I didn’t give her what she asked for.”

“What was she asking for?” I want to grab the words back into my mouth. My belly tightens and I feel sick. I don’t want to know anymore. I just want to forget tonight ever happened. If only I could.

“I swear, Mellie, I don’t want to hurt your mama. Or you. Let’s not say anything, okay? Some things are better kept secret.” His pleading eyes glisten, like he’s about to cry.

I’ve never seen Daddy cry. Ever. If he cries, I feel like…I don’t know. It will be like day and night changed places. Like the world turned upside down.

He clears his throat and says, “I’ll make Aunt Lola leave early in the morning.” His gaze meets mine. “You need to go to bed, Mellie.” He walks away.

I stand in the kitchen, scrubbing my face with paper towels until my skin feels raw.

LOLA

As I disappear into the girls’ tiny pink bathroom, I wish I hadn’t wasted that cigarette in the kitchen. I need it now. My hands are shaking and cold sweat trickles down my spine.

Oh, God. What did I just do?

The grim disappointment on Melanie’s face haunts me. And Clay’s shattered expression.

My God. What have I done?

I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror, so I gather my hairspray and perfume from the back of the toilet and toss them in the train case. I’ll go back home tonight, after everyone’s asleep. I’ll creep out the front door and roll my car down the driveway so the engine won’t wake anyone. I’ll drive down the road without lights until I’m a safe distance away, then I’ll put my foot down hard on the gas pedal.

I’ll leave like the illicit, immoral bitch I am, skulking away in the dead of night.

I won’t even change clothes. Biting my dry bottom lip, I dump make-up and lotions into the cosmetic case. Grabbing my toothbrush, I scrub at my mouth, brushing out the taste of Clay’s kiss. Maybe I should take a shower to wash away the lingering scent of his cologne.

That would take too much time. I need to get in that spare bedroom and be quiet, so everyone will go to sleep.

Instead of washing away Clay’s scent, I bring my forearm to my nose and inhale the mingling of our fragrances: his familiar Old Spice and my earthy Topaz. The smell of us together is wicked and so tempting. I can’t help wondering what our finish would smell like. What would our sweat and sex together make? Something sinful and beautiful and destructive.

Melanie’s girlish voice penetrates the thin wall between the kitchen and the bathroom. I clutch my arms around my middle to keep it from heaving. I really drank a lot tonight. I’m so drunk.

Clay’s voice, a deep, indistinct rumble, answers Mellie’s. What can he say? How can he defend himself against what I did to him? Well, it wasn’t only my fault. He certainly didn’t push me away. I should go back in there. I should say something to Mellie.

There’s nothing to say, though. I want what I can’t have. There’s no way to explain this to my niece. My sweet, thoughtful, intelligent niece.

After snapping the latches on my case, I turn off the light and slip through the darkness to the middle bedroom. Cranking open the window, I breathe in the clean night air, amazed that anything is clean tonight. In the dark, I lie on the bedspread and smoke a cigarette. My hands quit shaking. A restless quiet slides through the house.

After three cigarettes, I get up and open the window wider. Folding my pajamas, I stuff them into my suitcase. I put the bed pillow over the clasps to muffle the click. Standing beside the crib, I smooth the sheet that waits for the day David Clayton will move from Norah and Clay’s room to this one. I pick up the tiny pillow my mama embroidered for Melanie, the first grandchild. The colors are a little faded and the cloth has yellowed. But the old pillow is as soft as the dreams Mama had for all of her babies.

I press my face into the thin and worn fabric. Instead of Ivory Snow and sunshine, the baby pillow smells like cigarettes and Topaz.

Everything I touch is ruined. I leave the awful leftovers of me—ashy stink and stale perfume—like a trail of glass shards. For the first time tonight, I feel like crying. Why am I like this? Why must I ruin everything? Why do I always want what I can’t have? I crave another cigarette.