Bombshells (13 page)

“Are you going to tell Mama I told Robert a lie?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

Mellie frowns like she’s thinking really hard about something. I get those rolling waves in my stomach. I wonder what I can do to make her not mad at me. “How about if I make up your bed in the morning?”

“Okay.” She opens the front door for me. “And you have to do a good job.”

I run in and tell Mama, “Robert thought we were painting graf-a-tee-tee on the road. Isn’t that funny? He also said he was going to have ice cream and cake at his going-away party. Hi, Flossie. Is it time for you to go home?”

Flossie nods her head and unties her apron. I go over to stand by her. I want to say something about her being so nice to me after school, but I’m not sure what to say. Instead of talking, I hug both of her legs. She drops the apron over my back and rubs between my shoulders. “It’s okay, Sweet Baby. Tomorrow will be better.”

I nod against her white dress. She smells good. Warm and sweet, like those white flowers that turn brown if you touch them. Just like she did at school today when we were in the janitor closet. She pats my back and lets me go.

Behind me, I hear Mellie say, “He joined the Navy. Did you know that, Mama?”

“Yes,” I say. “Robert joined the Navy.” I’m holding Flossie’s shopping bag for her to put her apron in.

Mama nods. “When’s the party?”

Mellie puts the jar of paint on the kitchen counter. “Next Saturday.”

“How would you like a new dress to wear, Mellie?”

“Really?” Mellie sounds a little out of breath. Is she excited about a new dress? I guess so. Maybe I should have a new one, too.

“I want a new dress for the party, too.”

“I’ll see what I can do about that. I have some purple fabric that will work for you, Bird-girl.”

“Yay! I get a purple dress. I get a purple dress.” I dance around the kitchen, watching Flossie put on her straw hat.

“Mellie,” Mama says, “what do you think about a jumper made out of that polished navy cotton? You can wear it without a blouse under it for the party, and then still get some use out of it during the winter.”

“Yes, ma’am. That would be nice.”

“Navy blue always looks sharp and neat, Miss Mellie,” Flossie says. “It sure does. Well, Miz Adams, I’m gonna be headin’ to the bus stop, now. Y’all have a good evenin’.”

“Okay, Flossie.” Mama gets up from her chair and shakes Flossie’s hand. “Thanks for everything today. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

“No trouble. No trouble at all. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

We stand at the door and watch Flossie until she gets to the end of the driveway. I’ve got a knot in my chest from thinking about how awful the end of school was. “I wish Flossie could live with us, Mama.”

Mama closes the front door, and goes in the kitchen to wash her hands. “Where would Flossie sleep? We’ll be out of room when the baby comes.”

That darned ol’ baby is messing up everything. Mama takes a head of cabbage out of the fridge. Oh, no. We must be having coleslaw for supper. Yuck. “Flossie can sleep with me in our room, right Mellie?”

Mellie just wrinkles her nose at me, and I can tell she thinks that’s a bad idea. Well, I don’t care. I think it’s a terrific idea.

“Mama, can I wash my hair?” Mellie tugs on her ponytail. “It smelled bad all day today.”

“You have to wait three days unless you want frizzy hair.” Mama motions for Mellie to come stand beside her while she grates the cabbage. Even though I don’t like slaw, I like to watch the cabbage turn into little specks of whitish green. The shush-whush-shush sound is like an instrument we played in school today. I forget what it’s called, but it makes me want to wiggle in a little dance.

Mama sniffs Mellie’s hair. “It doesn’t smell bad. You’ll be fine.”

Gee. Mama’s smeller must be broken, because Mellie’s hair does smell bad. Almost as bad as cabbage.

Thursday, September 13, 1962

NORAH

The girls have been in school for almost two weeks now, and everything seems to be settling down. Birdie hasn’t had another accident, and she seems to be adjusting. The only thing I’m worried about with her is she’s chewing on her bottom lip. It’s red and raw. Something must still be bothering her, but she won’t tell me. I’m going to send a note to ask about having a parent-teacher conference. I need to do that before the baby comes in a few more weeks.

Right now, Birdie seems happy enough. She’s coloring and humming a new song.

Melanie comes through the door, looking hot and tired, like she has every day since school started. “Hi, Mellie. How was school, sweetie?”

“Okay, I guess.” Melanie leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I’m resting on the sofa with my swollen feet propped up on two bed pillows. The doctor told me to make sure to put my feet up for at least an hour every morning and an hour every evening. My blood pressure is still running high and my feet stay swollen.

Having Flossie coming to help me out was strange at first, but honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s noticed how wilted Melanie looks and is heading to the kitchen in my place, so I can stay here with my feet up.

“Melanie, would you like some iced tea?” she asks. “I made some for your Mama’s lunch today.” Flossie words sound round, like bubbles floating up from her throat then drifting through the air. Her voice is smooth, with no sharp edges at all.

“Yes, ma’am. I’d love some iced tea,” says Mellie, my good girl.

Flossie hands Melanie a cold glass of tea and then resumes ironing Clay’s shirts. I haven’t had to iron anything for several weeks now. She does a real fine job.

“Do you have homework, Mellie?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am. I need a current event.”

“The newspaper is on the end table. I noticed there was a big article about President Kennedy’s visit to Cape Canaveral yesterday. They say we won’t be behind the Russians in the space race much longer. That should be good for current events, right?”

Melanie picks up the paper and spreads it on the dining room table. “I have some more forms for you to fill out.”

“I thought I’d already filled out all those forms the first day of school.”

“There are some different forms this year.”

“Put them on the buffet, okay? I’ll fill them out later.”

She takes some yellow papers from her notebook and studies them. With a frown, she says, “Mama, are we C or P or J?”

“What?”

“This form.” She waves the yellow paper in the air. “It says: Religious preference, choose one. And then there is a C or P or a J. But there’s no B for Baptist.”

I laugh. “C stands for Catholic.”

“So we can only choose between Catholic and Presbyterian? What’s the J stand for?”

Rolling off the couch, I go stand beside her. “P is for Protestant. If you’re not Catholic, you’re Protestant. And J is for Jewish.”

“But what about us? What about the Baptists?”

“Baptists are Protestant. What is that form for, anyway?”

“We have to order identification tags to wear to school. Mrs. Wallace, my social studies teacher, said they are real dog tags, like the GI’s wear.”

“What in the world?” I snatch the yellow paper out of her hands. “Flossie, would you ever in your life believe this? They’re going to make my girls wear dog tags to school. Dog tags.” My head starts to pound as my blood pressure climbs. “What is happening to this world?”

Flossie shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “I don’t know, Miz Adams. I swear, I just don’t know.” Flossie sets down the iron and the steel plate hisses.

I pick up the second form and sit down. “Good Lord. Mellie has to have canned food, like rations, and a blanket to leave at school. A gallon of store-bought water.”

My hand trembles as I scan the third form. “This is an evacuation notice.” Hysteria bubbles up from deep inside me. “They want permission for Mellie to be transferred from school to an approved bomb shelter in case of attack!” I jump up from the table and knock the chair over. Before it stops making a racket on the tiled floor, I have the phone in my hand and am dialing Clay’s office number. “Clayton Adams, please.” I’m out of breath.

Flossie hums as she irons. If I can just concentrate on those sounds instead of the panic welling inside me, I’ll be okay. The phone line rings again and Shirley answers.

“I need to speak to Clay right away.”

“One moment, please.” Shirley pauses, and I think she’s putting me on hold. Then she comes back on the line and says, “Norah? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” But I’m not, not at all. The hold-tone sounds in one ear and Flossie’s voice floats up and down and all around me, like ripples on a pond, calm and peaceful even though something has fallen out of sky and disrupted the still surface.

I take a deep breath. I realize that Clay can’t do anything. There’s no point in asking him to come home. He can’t change the forms. He can’t change the reason for the forms.

Unsettling news stories come to me, chaining together with frightening solidarity: Cuba, Russia, missiles. Navy patrols. Sailors getting sea orders when they were supposed to be on long shore duty. The jets roaring over all day and all night. Our safe little world seems to be slipping away, one link at a time.

I hang up the phone before Clay comes on the line. Trying to steady my hands, I take my time fixing myself a glass of tea. I have to get control of myself. The girls don’t need to see me go to pieces.

MELANIE

In bed, I toss and turn until the sheets wrap around me like a mummy cloth.

Seeing Mama’s reaction to those
damn
yellow forms made me realize that there is something to worry about. That shaky feeling is back. Thinking of the forms and what they might really mean keeps me awake.

On the other side of the nightstand, Birdie lies snug in her twin bed, her breath huffing in and out, sleeping softly. Finally, I flop onto my back, fold my hands across my chest and force my eyes closed.
Come on sleep, sleep come on
, I chant in my head.

Just as the edge of sleep begins to slide over me, a jet roars so low the windows seem to crash in their frames and my bed shakes from the vibrations. I bolt up, clutching the sheet against my chest. Birdie screams and leaps out of her bed, pulling the sheet with her until it twists around her feet and drags her to the floor.

I untangle her and we rush out to the living room where our parents sit watching television. Birdie flies into Mama’s arms and I land in Daddy’s lap, sobbing.

I see the worried look on Mama’s face before she buries her face in Birdie’s hair.

Daddy pats my back. “Hush, it’s all right, Mellie. It’s just one of those Navy jets.”

Sobbing in a breath, I manage to say, “But it was so loud this time.” I can’t stop crying, even though I know it’s silly. Those jets fly over all the time. They’ve been flying low like that for months now.

It’s those dumb forms.

Birdie sits on Mama’s legs, straddling her bulging stomach. Mama rests her chin in Birdie’s fluffy hair and closes her eyes. The television murmurs in the background, but Daddy’s heart beats strong and steady beneath my ear. He smells warm and spicy and I want to stay there. Maybe forever.

But eventually, we have to go back to bed. Mama straightens my sheets and smoothes them over me. She kisses me. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t really need to.

I know she feels the same way I do.

As soon as Mama leaves, Birdie slips into my bed. She doesn’t say anything. I just tuck her in the crook of my arm. She puts her thumb in her mouth and rubs my pajama top between her fingers. I haven’t seen her suck her thumb for more than a year.

The television clicks off. The lamps go out. My parents’ voices are soft as they go to bed. I stay awake for a long time, watching the wavering lights of night float through my room. Finally, I slip into Birdie’s bed, leaving her sound asleep on mine.

The room seems different from her bed, a little out of balance. Sleep finally comes.

The roaring comes loud. Long and low, followed by a high whine and then a ka-boom, just like in a cartoon. I run through the halls of the Junior High. Instead of School Board green and beige on the walls, ash gray covers everything. Only black, charcoal, blue gray, and white ash. None of the walls reach the ceiling because the ceiling has disappeared and black and gray clouds hang low enough to touch the walls. Stephanie is gone. The teachers are all absent, lost in the whine and ka-boom.

Only me, by myself.

I run until, finally, the crumbling cinder block walls of the school are behind me. Going home, I run past the stark skeletons of leafless trees and grass burnt to dust. My street is a long tunnel of black smoke. The smoke has to be hiding the houses. I can’t see them. Can’t find my home.

“Mama, Daddy, wait for me. I’m almost home. Wait! I’ll be there soon!” I cry and cough from the smoke. Tears stream down my face, tasting salty and ashy in my mouth.