Bombshells (9 page)

No. We don’t want any brats. Certainly not your brat, Stan.

But if Michael were here, I’d be crying for a different reason. I wanted Michael’s baby so terribly. I still do. I wish I had a little of him to hug and kiss, to make cookies for, to have dinner with.

Stan rolls on top of me, his erection hard, pressing against my belly. Pushing himself up on his arms, he says, “I’d be happy to get you off. Help those cramps.” He starts peeling away the protective layers I put on in the bathroom.

I can’t stand it. Suddenly my life is so ugly, narrowed down to rutting like a bitch in heat. I shove him off me. “Get out.” My voice is low, steady, determined.

“I said I’m sorry. C’mon. It’ll help with the cramps.”

“You don’t care about me. All you care about is getting your rocks off. Get out, you bastard.”

He sits up, moving backward to lean against the headboard. I hear him fumbling on the nightstand. “You don’t mean that.” He flicks the lid from his lighter and the flame shows his face in shifting yellow light and dark shadows. Inhaling deeply, he studies my face before closing the lighter.

“Damn right I mean it. I want you out of here. Now.” I hear a hissing breath, and tobacco smoke winds around me.

“Shit. It’s okay, doll. I’ll give you a pass.”

I shove at his shoulder. “You’ll give me a pass? What the hell does that mean?” I turn on the lamp and glare at him as he sits there, naked, in my bed, against my headboard. His lean belly is fish white. His erection seems to be gaining a second life. Just like the sick bastard to get turned on by yelling.

“When I say no, I mean no. You don’t
give
me a damn thing.”

He grabs my hand and wraps it around his woody. “Okay. You can just get me off.”

I yank my hand back and slap him across the face.

He’s stunned. His mouth hangs open and he has a fish face to match his fish-white belly. But only for a second. His expression hardens and he stands beside the bed, his balled fists tight against his legs. “If I leave now, I won’t be back.”

“Good. I don’t want you back.”

Stan pulls on his trousers and grabs his sport shirt. “You can’t bitch at me in front of my pals and then not put out. You tease.”

I grab the ashtray from the bedside table and throw it at him. It shatters against the wall, leaving a trail of ashes and lipstick-stained butts trailing across the white sheet. “Go. Now.”

“Where are my goddamn car keys?”

“In the goddamn car.”

“What? Somebody could steal it.”

“That’s what I was hoping. For it to be stolen with you in it.”

“Bitch.”

The front door crashes, then his car roars to life, tires squealing down the street.

Careful not to spill the cigarette mess onto the floor, I roll the sheets up and take them to the bathroom. I get the broom and turn on the overhead light in the bedroom.

Slivers and chunks of the glass ashtray glitter like diamonds on the wood floor. I sweep them up. Dump them in the kitchen trash.

It seems like there should be more garbage to clean up. Everything was so dirty just a few minutes ago.

At two a.m. I finish putting clean sheets on my bed and climb back in to sleep. I wish I never had to wake up again. I think of Michael. I think of Mama.

I have to get up at five.

Tuesday, September 4, 1962

Jacksonville, Florida

FLOSSIE

It’s gonna be another hot day for sure. Last evening’s brief thunderstorm didn’t do a thing to cool the weather down. There is barely a breeze coming in the open bus windows. Sweat’s beading up on my lip. By the time I walk to the Adams’ house, I’ll be soaked through.

Usually on Tuesday, I’m working at the Samuel’s house. They’re on vacation, and since yesterday was a holiday, Miz Adams asked if I could help her out today. I don’t need four days in row off work, that’s for sure, so I told her I’d be happy to help out.

Getting off the bus, I adjust my hat and shopping bag, ready to walk two blocks to the house. About halfway there, shiny, white kids start pouring out the front doors, kissing their mamas, and marching down the driveways like little soldiers going to a parade in their glossy new shoes and stiff new clothes. That first day of school is always a happy day, isn’t it? Lots to learn, new friends to make, nothing bad to carry forward with you.

’Course, Birdie is starting first grade with a clean slate. Don’t think it’ll take her long to have stories to tell. I swear she’s gonna be the star trouble-maker.

A red-haired boy about Birdie’s age busts out of his front door, his mama running behind him with a comb. “Tommy, come back here. Your cowlick is standing straight up.”

The boy stops dead still and stares at me. “Mama. There’s a nigger.”

The mama grabs his arm and drags him back toward the open front door, lookin’ over her shoulder at me. “Don’t use that word. She’s a nice colored lady, probably going to clean somebody’s house. Get back in here so I can fix that cowlick.”

’Course, I smile and keep walking with my head high. Words is words, like they say.

Words is words.

I still got a block to go to get to the Adams’ house. Now, what was I thinking about? Oh, yeah. Wondering if Mellie is excited about starting her new school. Last week, she seemed a little nervous.

Now, she’s a smart girl, that Mellie. Once she got to know me, she wasn’t very shy about things, either. Last week, they were pestering me to tell them stories while I was ironing. So I told them the story of my old slave granny who ran away up North, but hated it so much, she came back home when she could.

Mellie, she’s so smart and sensitive, she asked me how I felt about that. Nobody ever asks me how I feel about anything much. I had to think for a few minutes how to put it in words. Finally I said, I didn’t like it much, but what could I do about it? What could my Granny do about it?

Mellie sat up straight and said, “I don’t know, but I would do something about it.”

I had to say, “Melanie Adams, you’re a good girl, and a smart girl, too. I know you gonna look around and see what’s wrong and try your hardest to make it right. A body can’t ask for more than that.”

The poor thing looked like she had the whole world on her shoulders. She’s too young to be thinking she’s got such burdens. There will be plenty of cares and woes for her to carry later on in her life, sure enough.

NORAH

“Birdie, please. Just stand still for two seconds.” I swear this girl is going to drive me insane. To provoke me, Birdie starts hopping, first on one leg, then on the other. Calmly, I set the red hairbrush on the back of the toilet. What I want to do is flush the damn thing. “Okay, have it your way. You can do your own hair.”

Birdie places her palms on the sink and pushes up so that her feet dangle an inch off the floor. Smiling at her reflection in the mirror, she says, “My hair is just the way I like it, Mama. It’s free!” She shrieks and runs from the bathroom waving her arms in the air.

I hear Melanie muttering in her bedroom. Taking a deep breath, I stand in the doorway of the bedroom she shares with Birdie. The sight of her at the dresser in her crisp white blouse and plaid skirt takes my breath away.

My God, she’s almost grown.

Her little breasts push against her shirt, a gentle curve in contrast to her ramrod straight back. The skirt’s waistband nips her waist and the pleats flare over her hips. Her legs are beautiful—smooth and tanned, shaped like an athlete’s.

Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. She already thinks this pregnancy is making me crazy. Maybe it is.

Mellie tugs her blue brush through the glossy, extravagant waves the permanent gave her dark, straight hair. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”

She drops the brush to the dresser and turns to face me with a hand on her tummy. “I
feel
sick, Mama.”

“Got a few butterflies this morning?”

“Feels like a whole herd.” She frowns and rubs her hand in a circle at her waistband. “Do butterflies travel in herds?”

Smiling, I pull her into a hug. “I don’t know. But I do know you’ll be fine.”

She rests her head on my shoulder for a few seconds and I wonder how soon she’ll decide that she doesn’t need my hugs anymore. Kissing the top of her head, I assure her again. “Sweetie, you’ll be fine.”

The doorbell rings and Birdie yells, “I’ll get it.”

Mellie pulls out of my embrace. “What time is it?”

“Early still. That’s probably Flossie.” We both walk into the living room as Birdie lets Flossie in the front door.

“Good mornin’, good mornin’. Don’t you girls look pretty as a picture? Ready for school?” With a big smile, Flossie removes the prim little straw hat she’s wearing over her slicked back hair.

Melanie responds with a shrug. Birdie with a bounce, shouting, “I don’t want to go to school
ever, ever, ever
!”

“Birdie, calm down,” I say. “You’re going to wear yourself out before the day even starts.”

Mellie snorts. “Mama, you know she
never
tires out.”

“That’s true.” I sigh. “Let’s get pictures of you both, Birdie’s first day of first grade and your first day of junior high. Now, where is the camera? I got it out last night.”

Birdie runs to the buffet in the dining room. “Mama, here it is.” Grabbing the camera’s strap, Birdie careens around the table and heads back toward the front door.

I hold my breath as the camera swings wildly in her wake. “Slow down, Birdie. Be careful with that.” As she passes me, I grab her and catch Clay’s Argus C-9 before it whacks into the end table. If this camera ends up broken, we won’t be able to replace it. I don’t even want to think about how disappointed Clay would be.

Me, too. There’d be no way to take photographs of the new baby.

Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, I realize we don’t have much time before Mellie has to leave. “Come on, girls, let’s go outside. Bring your lunch box, Birdie, and Mellie don’t forget your notebook and purse. You’ve got your lunch money in your wallet, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. You already asked me that three times.”

“Well, just make sure.”

The girls get their things and file through the door Flossie holds open for them. “Why don’t I take a picture of all three of you together, Miz Adams? That would be a nice one.”

“Okay, thanks Flossie. We’ll do that first.” I’m glad I put on something decent this morning, though I hadn’t thought of having my picture made. I just hadn’t wanted Birdie’s teacher to think I was a sloppy mother. You never know how first impressions affect the way a teacher treats a pupil.

Outside, I tell the girls to pose so I can set the focus and get the dials where Clay told me to put them. I just hope these pictures come out. “Flossie, all you have to do is push this button. Make sure you hold the camera still until it finishes clicking.”

"Yes’m. I think I can do that.”

The girls and I line up in front of the bushy green azaleas we always use as a backdrop for outdoor photos. The cloudless blue sky is crisscrossed with the white trails left by the Navy jets. The sun is high and bright, making the reds and greens in Mellie’s plaid skirt look like woven jewels. Birdie’s pink-checked dress looks like strawberry ice cream: cool and sweet in a shiny white bowl. But the real beauty is in their faces, their skin glowing with health and youth.

Oh heck, those tears are welling up in my eyes again. I swipe at my cheeks, pretending to fix my hair.

Flossie studies the buttons on the camera. “Everybody say
cheese
when I get to three.” Squinting one eye closed, she aims the camera our way. “One, two, three.
Cheese!
”

MELANIE

The day I’ve dreaded all summer has finally arrived. Here I am, standing in my front yard, forcing a smile on my face while first Flossie and then Mama snap picture after picture of Birdie and me. Birdie keeps sticking her tongue out, so Mama tells her to move. “Birdie, stand by Flossie so I can take Melanie’s picture. She has to leave in a few minutes.”

Thank goodness this will be over soon.

Flossie has her hands on Birdie’s shoulders, like she’s keeping her from floating up like a balloon. Flossie smiles at me. “Oh, that’s a nice one, Miss Mellie. Real nice.”

Mama studies the camera like she thinks she can see the photograph inside. I wish Daddy had bought a Polaroid Instant camera instead of the big one he got. But he said the thirty-five millimeter can shoot slide film, and they’ll last longer than the Polaroid photos.

I don’t know, but at least with Polaroids you can see them right away and don’t have to have a slide projector or a hand-held viewer. Right now, we don’t own either one of those.

Hmm. I might never have to look at these snapshots I don’t want to have made.