Bombshells (8 page)

Yeah, I’m glad it’s just us this weekend, too.

MELANIE

“Your hair will hold a set and look so much nicer when you begin junior high,” Mama says. She’s putting the mustard and pickles back in the refrigerator. “After all, you’re a young lady now, Mellie.”

I’m beginning to hate that phrase. “But Mama, I don’t
want
a permanent. My pony tail is fine.” I smash pieces of hamburger bun into the dollop of potato salad left on my plate.

“Come on, Sweetie. You’ll look so pretty.”

Daddy picks up the big bowl and grabs the ketchup bottle by the neck to carry them to the kitchen. “Norah, maybe you should listen to Mellie. She doesn’t want a permanent, and
you
should rest.”

“
You
listen to me, Clay.” Mama clutches the jars in her fists like she’s put on boxing gloves. She’s getting riled up, and that can’t be good for me.

Still gripping the jar, Mama pokes her forefinger at Daddy’s chest. “I know how important that first day at a new school is, and I am not going to let my daughter down because I happen to be pregnant. This won’t take long if we get started right now.”

The last thing I want is to start a fight between Mama and Daddy. “Mama, please. I’m fine with my hair just like it is. Why don’t we wait until next weekend to put in this permanent?” I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping that Daddy and I will win this time. But it doesn’t look good.

Mama’s mouth is clenched tight and she has that little line between her eyebrows. When her face gets like that, I think about a pot sitting on a hot stove burner, right before the water starts to boil. The lid gives a little hiss and settles down real tight on the pot just before it begins to dance around from all the bubbling heat inside. I don’t think it’s good for Mama to get upset, so I decide right then that if she doesn’t give up on doing my hair, I’ll have to give in.

She doesn’t budge.

Instead, she marches to the hall closet and pulls out towels and the box of curlers. Before she even tells me to, I turn on the water so it can get hot.

Daddy turns on the TV and sits down to watch the news. On the television they’re talking about how the Russians are going to send weapons to Cuba and how Congress wants the president to attack. I shiver even though the water is hot on my fingers. Talk about Russia and Cuba makes me think about what Robert said about joining Navy. I put my head under the faucet.

Soon I have water in my ears and eyes when all I wanted to do when I got back from the pool was to finish my Nancy Drew book. Instead, here I sit on the last evening before school starts with my sweaty legs stuck to the vinyl chair and my nose pinched closed to keep from gagging on the smelly curling solution.

Birdie comes by every few minutes holding her nose to remind me how awful I smell. My eyes sting so bad, I have to squint to see the clock on the back of the stove. I’m determined not to let Mama forget to rinse the solution out on time. All I need is to start junior high with frizzy hair.

Besides, I really need to go to Stephanie’s so we can discuss what we’re going to wear and make plans for our first day of school.

But Steph calls instead. We talk for a few minutes before she has to leave to go to the Officer’s Club for dinner with her parents.

So, for the last twilight of summer, while thunder rolls in the distance, I sit on the back porch all by myself, with my stinking curls and my nervous stomach.

Atlanta, Georgia

LOLA

“Stan, you don’t need another beer.” I take the icy brown bottle out of his hand and put it back in the ice chest. He’s already so drunk he can barely stand up. We should’ve left his boss’ barbeque hours ago, before we were both so unsteady on our feet.

My excuse is that I didn’t eat enough. I subscribe to Scarlet O’Hara’s Mammy’s philosophy that ladies don’t eat much in public, especially at barbeques. Of course, that doesn’t apply to drinking, as long as the lady doesn’t get nasty drunk. And I’m never a nasty drunk. I’m happy, happy, happy, until I’m not anymore. Then it’s time to go home.

It’s time to go home now.

Scowling at me, Stan takes the beer bottle out of the cooler. Holding it up like a trophy, he scans the small audience of his co-workers. “Bitch thinks she can nag me.”

The women gasp and tug on their pearl necklaces or expensive dangling earrings, then as one body close their circle, leaving me on the outside.

This isn’t unusual. Women aren’t always nice to me, and I don’t give a damn what these snooty priss-pots think. But it hurts like hell to hear Stan call me a bitch.

Stan turns his icy glare on me. “You’re not my wife.”

He drives the knife even deeper. I’m not his wife. Now, I know that I won’t ever be his wife. I swallow the lump in my throat and raise my chin just a bit. They won’t make me cry.

The men move forward, arms outstretched to keep their comrade from keeling over, to protect him from further nagging.

I’m left standing alone on the pristine lawn in the orange glow of the late afternoon light. The aromas of sizzling beef and seared chicken swirl in the smoky air. My belly cramps. With a palm pressed against my stomach, I make my way to the bathroom.

Locked inside the beautifully wallpapered powder room, I lean against the door. The hurt has become rage. How dare he call me a bitch in front of his friends, his boss?

His boss who flirted with me so nicely, telling me I looked like Ann Margaret with my strawberry hair and my stylish strapless playsuit with its sexy overskirt. He even tapped the end of my nose and called me sweet.

Of course, now I realize he meant cheap, not sweet. I don’t really care. I don’t.

I just want to go home. After rinsing out my mouth, and checking my hair, I go to the guest bedroom where we all left our purses. Fishing through my straw bag, I find a lipstick and smear some on. Fire engine red. Suddenly I feel like Scarlett being shoved into Ashley’s birthday party by Rhett.

Clark Gable’s movie voice roars through my head: “If you’re going to behave like a tramp, you should dress like one.”

Dropping the lipstick back in my purse, I remember Stan gave me his car keys. Well, thank you, God, for small favors.

Outside, I walk past the women, who don’t say a word to me. I hear the hissing whispers behind me. Ignoring them, I walk over to Stan and his group of friends. Maybe the men are leering at me a bit more, but I disregard them. Their looks can’t touch me.
They
can’t touch me unless I let them. Nobody can say I’m not choosy.

Holding my head high, I stop beside Stan. He looks at me like I’ve been gone for days. “Aw, dollface. I missed you. You look so pretty.”

I jingle the keys in his face. “Ready to go home, big guy?” I put a hint of smolder in my voice, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I sense the other men inching closer. Standing on tip-toes, I kiss Stan’s cheek. Better to put on a good show than to let these creeps know Stan’s words got to me. Since they expect a tramp, I’ll be the best damn tramp they’ve seen in a while.

I lean into Stan and slide my fingers between the buttons on his sport shirt, nibble his earlobe.

Stan gulps down the last of his beer and leans heavily on my shoulder. “Good-bye, suckers,” he says to the salivating men. Stan’s weight makes me stumble like I’m as drunk as he is. I stiffen my back and we lurch out of the backyard, leaving the party behind.

Stan falls asleep as soon as we’re in the car, another small favor from above. I don’t have to talk to him for the forty-five minutes it takes for me to drive home. I have time to build a sound argument, to put together a solid thrashing for the son of a bitch.

It’s dusk when I pull up in front of my little rental house. The yard is trim, the result of Stan’s mowing on Saturday, when he was sweet and we played house so nice. The night-blooming jasmine is just opening up; its fragrance teases the warm air.

So serene. So peaceful and clean.

Exactly opposite from the way I feel: hot and restless and dirty.

“Stan. Wake up.” I nudge his shoulder. He moves his head and his snore deepens to a low rattle. “Stan.” Nothing.

Well, I don’t give a goddamn if he sleeps out here all night and is carried away by mosquitoes. I’m not about to lean across him and roll up his window. I slam the car door and go inside.

The house is still and hot, the air stuffy. I step out of my high-heeled red sandals in the living room. I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and pour a glass of ice water from the pitcher in the refrigerator, gulp it down, and drop the playsuit’s overskirt on the kitchen floor. With a full glass of ice water in one hand, I go through the house, pushing up the windows to let in the slight evening breeze, stopping in every room to take a sip of water and strip off another piece of clothing.

No lamps, no lights.

I know where I’m headed.

In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s light red-blonde seems harsh in the light of the 100-watt bulb over the sink. The hair-do that looked so fresh and keen that morning is limp and weighed down with hairspray and humidity.

Grabbing the cold cream jar, I slather it thickly over my face, changing my features to a white, greasy blur. Using toilet paper, I scrub at my skin, taking away the colors and camouflage until my face is naked and bare. Pale under its tan.

Dark circles beneath my eyes.

Eyebrows plucked in severe, arching lines.

Lips dry and wrinkled from constantly wearing lipstick.

I brush my teeth, hard, scraping the stink of liquor and cigarettes from my mouth.

God, I’m awful.

In the shower I shampoo twice and stand in the warm spray for a long time, letting the booze ease out of my pores and down the drain. Turning off the water, I step out and stand on the bathmat, dripping. I don’t even bother with a towel, except to dry my hair a bit before setting it.

The wafting air dries my body drop-by-drop, tender touches that seem unnatural to me. What feels natural is the hard stab of the bristle rollers and the gouge of the pick that holds them in place. Every two rollers, I drink more water, trying to stave off the hangover I know I’ll take to the factory floor with me in the morning.

Soon my hair is set, covered with the black silky hair net, and my skin is dry. I fluff on the scented bath powder Stan gave me for my birthday, three months ago.

After turning on the window fan in my bedroom I slip on a cotton nightgown, the kind my mother always wore. So soft and thin, it feels like a cool whisper.

I lie on the bed and light a cigarette, the red tip the only spot of color in the dim bedroom. Stan is still asleep in the car, and he can stay there all night for all I care.

Bastard.

Aren’t we a pair? The Bitch and the Bastard.

Mama, you’re probably rolling over in your grave. I never meant to be this way. But you know what happened. You know how it all changed. I’m just glad that you see me through the gauze of heaven instead of the bright light in the bathroom. I hope you know that on the inside, I’m still your girl, no matter what the outside is like.

I stub out the cigarette and arrange my pillow so the hair rollers aren’t so prickly.

Later, I wake with horrible cramps and a hot rush between my legs. I stagger to bathroom and turn on the light. My nightgown is stained red and my legs are caked with drying blood. The cramps are worse this time than ever. Maybe because I’m more than a week late. I was beginning to wonder. But no. Norah’s having the baby. Not me.

Thank God. Not me. Right?

I clean myself up and put my gown in the sink full of cold water to soak, dig out the belt and the pads from the little linen closet. Leaving on the bathroom light to find another gown, I see that Stan has made his way to bed. He even woke up enough to take off his clothes. He’s lying naked on top of the sheet and snoring like a freight train. I’m surprised his snores didn’t wake me before the cramps.

The cramps hit with another wave and I head back to the bathroom to take a couple of aspirin and a Seconal.

I lie down, careful to arrange myself just so, making sure my hair curlers aren’t shifted, making sure my legs are together. Careful not wake up Stan.

No child, thank God. No Stan’s baby. No my baby.

Stan rolls over and nuzzles my neck, his breath hot and sour. “Doll, you okay?”

My face is wet and I swipe my hand over it before pushing him away. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, doll.”

“Yeah, sure.”

He cups my breast and throws his leg over my belly.

“Stan, no. I started my period. Go to sleep.”

“Oh.” He props up on his elbow to see my face in the dim room. His hot breath makes my belly knot up. “It was late, right?”

I nod.

He kisses me on the lips and whispers in my ear. “Thank God, huh? We don’t want any brats.”