Bombshells (3 page)

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.”

I look toward the door, waiting for Mrs. Starr to come in, but then I remember she’s having coffee with the other Navy wives at Mrs. Shultz’s house. Steph’s sister is on the telephone in the living room.

Stephanie stomps her feet. “Hellfire!” She looks at me with a big grin. “What do you think?”

“That’s pretty dramatic. When do you think you’ll use it?”

“Oh, all the time. Like when I stub my toe, I’ll whisper
hellfire
.” She walks to the dresser and pretends to bump her foot against it. “Ow! Hellfire,” she mutters, and hops on one foot.

“I see.”

“So, what’s your word?”

“I don’t know yet.” I pick up the dictionary and thumb through a few pages. “I need something simple and elegant. A word that won’t get me into too much trouble if Mama hears me.”

“Well, while you’re reading the whole dictionary from front to back, be thinking about another thing. We need to fall in love.”

I close the book. “Damn. What did you say?”

“
Damn
. That’s a good word for you, Mellie. In fact, it’s perfect.”

“No, what did you say about love?”

“We need to have some experience with being in love. We don’t want to be complete babies in the seventh grade.”

“Okay,
damn
can be my word, but I don’t know anybody I want to fall in love with.” The only boy our age I can think of is Marvin Gordon who lives on the next block. With his surly attitude and pimply face, only his mother could love him. Absolutely not me.

“The boy doesn’t have to be someone you really
know
.” Stephanie rolls her eyes at me like I’m the biggest dope in the world. My confidence takes a hit. If my best friend thinks I’m hopeless, how will I ever make it through seventh grade?