Bombshells, page 2
Please God, let it be a brother, I pray. Then I continue what I’m doing. Slap, slap, slap-slap. “Oh.”
“What are you doing anyway?”
“Singin’.” Slap, slap, slap-slap. “Oh.”
“You have to sing words to be singing, you idjit. You’re just slapping your butt and saying ‘Oh’.”
“Not if you’re singing Bingo. And Mama said not to call me idjit no more. I’m telling.” I unknot myself and somersault to the end of the bed and stand up, bouncing a couple of times before I land on the floor with my arms straight up in the air. I would be good in the circus.
Since I’m only six years old, I have time to work on my act some more. Heck, I’ll probably be ready to run away and join the circus by the time I’m as old as Mellie. Maybe I can be a clown, too. I look in the mirror, roll my tongue and stick the whole thing through the gap where I’m missing four front teeth. I don’t even have to open my jaw. When I do that in front of people, they laugh like it’s the funniest thing they ever saw.
Yep. I would be a great addition to the circus. Birdie, The Acrobat Clown ‘Tortionist. I pick up the hairbrush and run it through my hair. Even after brushing, it stands out like a yellow cotton ball. “Why are we having cake for breakfast?”
Mellie frowns at me. “Cause it’s my birthday.”
“Nuh-uh. Yesterday was your birthday.”
“But we forgot.”
“I didn’t.” I cross my eyes and look at the freckles on my nose so I won’t have to look at Mellie. I know she’s frowning real hard at me like a grown-up. It’s not my fault she forgot her own birthday.
“You remembered? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Besides, I didn’t remember until after we went to bed. Then it was too late. I was scared for Mama and the baby. Yeah, it wasn’t my fault. It was the stupid baby’s fault.
I balance on one leg, and do my special one-legged dance as I hop right through the door. Over my shoulder I say, “Well, it wasn’t my birthday, idjit.”
MELANIE
Gosh almighty! Isn’t that just like a bratty little sister to let you forget your birthday? I brush my hair into a ponytail and stretch the rubber band around it while I count to ten to keep from yelling at her.
When I reach the number twenty and finally calm down, I remember Mama saying, “What goes around, comes around.” I’m sure something like this will happen to Birdie someday, and she’ll see how it feels to be invisible.
In the kitchen, the percolator hums and gurgles, filling the house with new coffee smells. Birdie turns on “Captain Kangaroo,” adjusts the long silver rabbit-ear antenna to get rid of the static, and sprawls on the couch. The toilet flushes, and I hear Mama singing as she comes down the hall.
“Mama, which plates do you want to use?”
“We’ll use the good china. After all, this is a birthday party.”
“No, it’s not!” Birdie sings from the living room sofa. “Yesterday was her birthday.”
“We know, Birdie. But we’re going to celebrate today.” Mama pours two glasses of milk and fills the cream pitcher. She carries the creamer and sugar bowl to the table, placing them next to the cake plate.
“But it’s not a real birthday party. You can’t have a real birthday party if it’s not your birthday.” Birdie’s voice sounds kind of whiny, like she’s about to cry. Or maybe throw a tantrum. And she would, too, just to spoil my birthday.
Birdie’s tantrums are awful. Sometimes she collapses to the floor, screaming and kicking until you think the world is ending. I’ll do almost anything to avoid Birdie’s tantrums. Mama just ignores her and goes about her business. She says that’s what the pediatrician told her to do.
Easy for him to say. Dr. Withers has never seen one of Birdie’s tantrums.
“Okay. Calm down. We’ll just have cake.”
“Well, as long you know it’s not real. Nobody’s allowed to have two birthdays.” Birdie sounds calm now.
Thank goodness. I sure don’t want to have my almost birthday completely ruined.
Outside, the brakes on our old blue Ford squeal. Mama drops the cake knife. It clunks when it hits the floor.
“There’s Daddy.” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. I just have a feeling that Daddy will do something special for me.
The front door opens, and he stands there with the sun shining behind him. Both his hands are behind his back.
There it is. There’s my real surprise.
He looks over my head toward the kitchen where Mama is, puckers his lips and blows her a kiss. Looking back to me, he shouts like an announcer in a parade, “Where’s the birthday girl?”
“It’s not her birthday!” Birdie yells from the couch. She jumps up and turns Captain Kangaroo louder.
Uh-oh. Here comes the tantrum.
Daddy just looks at her. That look. The one that doesn’t need any words at all, but says everything.
Birdie, still standing next to the television, snaps the switch off and goes to put napkins on the table.
“Here’s something for the young lady of the house.” He smiles and shoves the door closed with his foot. “Well, come over here and get it.”
I run to him, wondering what kind of surprise he might have for me.
“Oh, no. I get a kiss first.” He lowers his cheek for me to kiss. Daddy’s face is smooth and smells good, sweet and spicy, with a little tang of cigarette smoke blended in.
“Happy birthday, young lady.” He draws his hand from behind his back and hands me a rose, a beautiful, red rose with a long, straight stem. The fragrance, so heavy and rich, seems to hang in the air around the flower. I lower my nose right into the center of the bloom. The petals are like cool velvet on my skin.
The shaky feeling slips into me along with the sweet smell of my “young lady” gift. This is nice, but what happened to skates or records? Even a book?
“I’ve got surprises for everyone this morning.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a candy bar. “Birdie, this is for you.”
“Oh goodie! A Baby Ruth!” Birdie skips up to Daddy and hugs his legs.
Mama stands in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. She raises one eyebrow. “Glad you could make it after all, Big Shot.”
Daddy goes over and wraps his arms around Mama, kind of bending over so he can reach around the baby. They look at each other.
Daddy whispers in Mama’s ear and kisses her cheek. She smiles and murmurs, “I’m sorry, too.” Then he really kisses her.
I always feel invisible when they do that, when they look deep into each other’s eyes. I glance at Birdie. She scrunches up her nose at me, but looks back at Mama and Daddy standing there, hugging each other, and I know Birdie feels the same way. For a minute, there’s nobody in the world but the two of them, holding each other.
Somewhere inside, that one little speck of me that is looking forward to growing up and becoming a woman tells my brain that this is what love looks like. Aunt Lola always points to Mama and Daddy and says, “Don’t you settle for anything less than what you see there.”
Isn’t it funny how you can have all of this stuff happening in your head and heart while you stand in the dining room, holding a rose and watching your family do everyday stuff?
Daddy holds Mama’s face in his hands. “You’re going to like your surprise best, Norah.”
“Oh, really?” Mama pushes away from Daddy and bends to pick up the knife from the floor, but Daddy beats her to it. He puts it in the sink and gets a clean one out of the drawer.
Mama lifts the lid to the cake plate and says, “You can tell me while I cut the cake.”
“C’mon, girls.” Daddy pulls out a chair and motions for me. “Miss Melanie, for you.”
I sit down, and he pushes my chair in for me. I lay the rose on the table, and, all the while, the scent drifts up to me, reminding me that it’s a grown-up gift, not a kid’s gift.
Mama puts twelve candles in a circle around the middle of the cake. Daddy takes out his silver cigarette lighter and lights them. Everyone sings “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!”
Then Birdie climbs in her chair and shouts out, “You look like a monkey and you smell like one too!”
We all laugh, and Mama cuts the cake.
“Remember when I told you about Max’s sister?” Daddy asks, while he stirs milk into his coffee.
“The one who does housekeeping?” Mama slides a big wedge of cake onto a plate and hands it to me.
“Yep. Well, she has an opening on Mondays and Thursdays until Thanksgiving.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sure she needs the work.”
“No, she has work.”
Mama cuts the last slice of cake for herself. “Good.”
Daddy grins really big and grabs Mama’s hand. “Yes, it is good. She’s working for you.”
Mama’s fork clatters onto her plate. “What?”
“You need help with the housework since your back and legs hurt you so much. I know Mellie’s been a big help this summer, but she’ll be starting school soon.” Daddy gives Mama one of those winks that means they have a secret. “I’m just no good with those gathered skirts.”
Except that’s not a big secret. Daddy’s terrible at ironing. Period.
“Oh, Clayton.” Mama hugs him. “But I’m not sure I’ll be comfortable with anybody else in the house. And a colored woman? Nobody else in the neighborhood has colored help.”
Daddy shakes his head. “You don’t need to worry. Max is a good man. I’m sure his sister is good, too.”
“It’ll be nice to have someone to do the ironing for me. And you say she can help out until November?”
“Yep. She can start August twenty-third.”
“Are you sure we can afford this, Clay?”
He digs his fork into his cake. “Yes, Norah. I’m sure. The budget is tight, but you need help. I’ve got some overtime coming, and I can sell back the rest of my vacation days. So don’t worry, all right?”
Daddy winks at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “And as a special treat, I’m taking all my girls to the movies tonight. The new Elvis Presley movie is playing at the drive-in. It’s Dollar-A-Carload Night, too. I expect y’all to have a grocery sack of popcorn ready and be prettied up by six o’clock.”
NORAH
“But Daddy said we have to do the dishes,” Birdie protests.
“I know what your Daddy said, but Mellie isn’t going to wash her own party dishes.” Plopping down on the sofa, I sigh. “Just put the dishes in the sink, then you can go outside and play.”
“Okay.” Birdie clatters the plates into the sink. “But that’s not what Daddy said.”
Clay not only came home from work for the little party, but he apologized for our spat on the phone, and he surprised me by hiring some help.
I’m still in shock.
When I hung up the phone earlier this morning, I had steam coming out of my ears. And it seemed strange that he couldn’t take a little break and run home. We only live about ten minutes from the plant. He used to come home for lunch all the time.
Now, I’m wondering what’s going on with him.
No, I won’t even think about it.
Besides, he did come home today, and he got us a housekeeper. I can’t help but wonder what it’ll be like to have someone else in the house with me. And a colored woman at that? A new experience, for sure.
“Mama?” Mellie’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“What, honey?”
“Can I put my rose in a vase?”
“Sure, darling. There’s one on the top shelf, over the stove.”
From the sofa, I can see the stove right beside the open kitchen door. Mellie stands on a chair and reaches into the back of the cabinet. She holds up a bud vase from a long ago florist delivery. “This one?” she asks.
“That’s fine.” I pick up the newspaper and scan the headlines. Cuba. Russia. Missiles. Kennedy. Another story about Marilyn Monroe’s recent suicide. The newspapers can’t seem to get over the fact that she was nude when they found her. That poor woman is never going to have any peace, even in death.
If this new housekeeper, Flossie, can just take care of the standing chores for me—the ironing, the dishes, some of the laundry—I’ll feel like a queen. Mellie’s helped out an awful lot over the summer, but she’ll be back in school in a few weeks. That means I’ll be ironing dresses for the girls as well as Clayton’s dress shirts.
My Mellie sits down on the floor beside the sofa, the bud vase on the floor next to her.
I run my fingers through her silky ponytail. She still looks like a younger girl with her hair like that. But she’ll want to look older for the seventh grade, I’m sure. “We need to do your hair before school starts, sweetie. How about a permanent wave?”
“Oh, do we have to?” Mellie picks up a section of newspaper from my lap.
“If you have a permanent, your hair will look so nice when we set it with rollers. Don’t you want to look pretty for junior high?”
She shrugs like she doesn’t care a bit about school starting. But I know that’s not how she feels. Mellie tugs at a loose strand of hair and twirls it around her finger.
Her hair is brown like Clay’s. Really, she looks so much like him. She’s going to be a beauty, but she has no idea of that now.
I wish I could read her mind. She’s quiet so much of the time, and I just can’t tell what she’s thinking.
Mellie is so different from Birdie, sometimes I can’t believe I gave birth to both of them. Birdie is like a flashing neon sign telling everything there is to know about her, while Mellie is like a beautiful book you have to patiently study to understand. Will this baby be like Mellie or Birdie, or someone completely different?
What did I think about when I was twelve? I don’t remember at all, but I do remember that everything seemed important, urgent, overwhelming. So, what is urgent and important to Mellie? Not a permanent wave, that’s for sure.
I guess twelve was when I started learning to dance by practicing with my sister, preparing for the time we could go to the dances at the park.
But, somehow, Melanie seems too serious to be thinking about silly stuff like dancing. In fact, sometimes she seems sad. Am I a bad mother if my child is sad?
That’s the $64,000 Question.
“Honey, I’m sorry about your birthday.”
“It’s okay, Mama.”
“No, it’s not okay. But thank you for understanding. Things are a little hectic right now.”
Mellie turns and rests her cheek against my tummy. “Oh. He kicked me.”
I grin. “Maybe she kicked you.”
Shaking her head, Mellie says, “No. This is a boy. I just know it.”
“Well, we’ll find out in about eight more weeks, won’t we?”
“Are you scared, Mama?”
“About having the baby? No. I’ve done it twice before, remember?”
Mellie smiles and slips a loose strand of hair into the corner of her mouth. Her brows dip into a frown.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“I don’t know.” Mellie shrugs and flips a page of the newspaper.
I catch a glimpse of the ads for back-to-school sales. Maybe that’s why she’s down in the dumps. “Why don’t we go shopping tomorrow? Just you and me?”
“Are you sure you feel like shopping, Mama?”
“Listen to you, all worried about me when you’re about to start junior high school.” I sit up on the sofa. “We’ll leave Birdie with Daddy.” Pointing to the tartan plaid purse and scarf ad in the corner of the page, I say, “Do you like the plaid? Maybe we can find a kilt for you. Wouldn’t that be cute with a white blouse?”
Mellie twists her hair and studies the paper. Is she reading the article about the Kennedy’s vacation in Italy? Maybe she’s thinking about how we didn’t have a vacation this year—or last year. We’ll make it up to her soon.
Beginning with a few new school clothes. “What about that shopping trip?”
Melanie shrugs and turns the page of the newspaper. Now she’s reading the comic strips. I have no idea what’s going on in her mind, but I intend to find out.
Monday, August 20, 1962
MELANIE
I’ve only got two weeks of summer left. Some days I can’t wait for summer to end so I can begin school and see what being a teenager is like. I want to speed things up, to rush through these slow days and get on with my life.
Other days, I want to stop time. I want to keep the days from being sliced away by the cracking lightning in the afternoons. I want the crickets to keep singing at night and the dew to drip off the roof with the same steady beat forever.
This is what I know, this sweet and familiar melody and rhythm.
Stephanie and I count down the days until school starts, making plans and stuff.
“We need to pick out our trademark swear words. Which word do you want?” Steph says, as she reaches under her twin bed and pulls out the dictionary with paper clips stuck in several places.
“I’m not allowed to swear. Mama will wash my mouth out with soap.”
Steph curls her lip into a sneer. “Dummy, we won’t swear in front of our parents. Just when we’re hanging around.” She straightens her plaid bedspread before she sits.
“Oh, okay.” I’ve decided that since I have to be twelve, I might as well try to enjoy it. So, I do pretty much whatever my best friend suggests, since she has her sixteen-year-old sister’s example to follow.
The trouble is, I don’t know many swear words. Daddy only uses one, and then he has to be really mad. I know it’s a really bad word, so I would never use it. And Mama doesn’t swear at all. At least, not out loud. Sometimes I think I hear her say shit under her breath. But she might be saying shoot or sugar. I can’t really tell.
“I like hell.” Steph gets up off the bed and pauses. “No, that’s not dramatic enough.” She throws the dictionary into the pillows stacked at the head of her bed. “Hellfire!” she shouts. “Yeah. That’s better.”
