Bombshells (31 page)

“Thanks, Brooke. That’s awfully thoughtful.”

“There’s probably more happening at the laundromat, anyway,” she says, spoiling her nice gesture. “When did you say Cherie usually visits her mom? I just can’t get over the fact that she’s married. Gee.”

The doorbell rings. “That’s probably Steph,” I say, adding “Cherie usually visits her mom on Wednesdays to do laundry.”

Brooke sighs. “Imagine that. Washing your husband’s clothes.” She looks dreamy as she leans against the refrigerator, sipping a Coke.

I open the front door. Over Steph’s shoulder, I see the Mayfield’s car pull into the driveway. Kevin gets out of the passenger side. I wonder if Steph is as amazed as I am at how tall he’s gotten in just a year.

Mrs. Mayfield shouts, “Hello, girls. You both look good enough to eat.”

Steph leans toward me. “Gee whiz. He sure did grow,” she says under her breath.

“Yeah.” When he’d left the year before, Kevin had been short and pudgy with freckles all over his face. The boy standing beside the rental car is tall, with new muscles clustered on his wiry arms. His hair and eyebrows are thick and dark. The freckles are gone, replaced by a smattering of acne across his chin.

Kevin smiles at us. His smile is still kind of cocky, kind of know-it-all. Almost a bully smile, but I know Kevin isn’t a bully. He’s a nice guy.

After tucking his plaid shirt into his navy slacks, he waves. “Hi, Melanie. Hi, Steph.”

“How are you?” Steph says with a huge grin on her face.

“You girls just can’t understand how happy we are to be here. Well, not happy. No, these aren’t the happiest circumstances, at all.” Mrs. Mayfield grabs my shoulders and pulls me to her chest. She smells like stale cigarette smoke and hairspray. I don’t recognize the cologne she’s wearing, but it rivals the hairspray in strength.

Releasing me, she turns to Steph. “And look at what a pretty girl you turned out to be.” She takes Steph’s shoulders and spins her around, giving her a head to toe inspection. “Norah, our babies are growing up.”

Mama stands in the doorway and smiles. “They sure are. I still can’t believe how tall Kevin is.” Mama glances at Brooke standing beside her in the doorway. “And Brooke is practically a woman.”

Brooke preens at Mama’s compliment, but Mrs. Mayfield shoots a glare her way. I interpret the look to say
don’t think you’re such a big shot, missy.

Isn’t this great? We start out living together with tension between Daddy and Mama, Brooke and her mom, and me and Brooke. I can’t help thinking that if we don’t get comfortable with each other pretty soon, we won’t be using all the food Mama bought. Or maybe I’m just being hopeful.

Thursday, October 25, 1962

FLOSSIE

When Birdie opens the door for me, the Adams’ house is as busy as the downtown bus station when all us maids are going to work. It seems like there’s people everywhere, making the house seem tiny.

“Good mornin’, Miss Birdie.” I pat her back and pry her arms from around my legs. I notice that woman, must be Miz Mayfield, is frowning at me. Long time ago, Miz Adams relaxed with me and she’s never said a word about Birdie hugging me every morning when I arrive and every evening when I leave. It’s clear from the sour look on this Miz Mayfield’s face that she doesn’t like the touching, much less the affection, between me and Birdie, that’s for sure. So, I ease away from Birdie, but I give her an extra big smile.

Miz Adams steps out of the kitchen with the baby in her arm. “Hello, Flossie. This is my friend Mrs. Mayfield, and her children, Brooke and Kevin. From Guantanamo. I told you they’d be staying with us for a while.”

“Yes’m. Sorry you folks had to leave your home and all, but it’s nice to meet you.”

Miz Mayfield steps forward. “I’ve put some laundry beside the washer. Make sure to wash the delicate items by hand.”

Miz Adams looks at the woman like she’s from another planet. Miz Adams has never asked me to wash anything by hand. In fact, she usually puts the clothes in the washer herself, and even hangs them on the line most times. Miz Adams and I work more like a team than other women I work for, ’cause she’s still not quite used to having any help. Sure seems that Miz Mayfield is used to having help, though.

“Myra, Flossie won’t have time to do any hand laundry. We’ve got so many towels and diapers to get on the line today, and there’s ironing, too.” Miz Adams turns to me. “I was hoping you’d help me with some cooking this afternoon, too. Melanie said your fried chicken was so good, I thought maybe you’d cook some up for us. Of course, I’ll help.”

Miz Mayfield is looking at us like she’s never heard folks talk before. She gives me a look. “I suppose every maid works at a different pace. I’m glad my girl manages the hand laundry as well as everything else.” With her nose in the air, Miz Mayfield gathers her purse and coat. “Well, Norah, you can tell Flossie where to put our clean laundry, then. I’ve got a meeting on base this morning, and then I’m joining my old bridge club for lunch this afternoon. I’ll see you tonight. Have a good day at school, kids.” She leaves while her children still sit at the breakfast table.

Miz Adams stares as the front door closes. Under her breath, she mutters, “Well, I never.”

Miz Mayfield’s attitude might be something new for Miz Adams, but it isn’t new to me. No, ma’am.

With the baby still in her arm, Miz Adams stalks back into the kitchen and slams the top down on Birdie’s lunch box. “Does everybody have their lunch money?”

“I’ve got mine, Mama.” Melanie kisses her mama’s cheek. “Bye. Time for us to go, Kevin.”

He doesn’t say a word as he walks out the door with Melanie. Birdie grabs her lunch box, hugs Miz Adams, and plants a big wet kiss on the baby’s head. “Bye-bye, Mama. Bye-bye, DC.” She hugs my legs one more time. “Bye, Flossie. I’ll show you my pictures when I get home today.”

Now it’s just me, Miz Adams and the baby, and the older girl, Brooke. She’s sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper through her fancy eyeglasses. At first, I think she must be a real serious girl, but then she turns the paper over and I realize she’s reading the funny pages.

I walk into the kitchen and fill up the sink with hot water. “Miz Adams, I’ll put the breakfast dishes in hot water and then I’ll go start the laundry. You want me to heat up a bottle for the baby?”

“Would you, please? His diaper needs changing again.”

I get busy with things in the kitchen and sneak a peek at Miss Brooke every now and then. “Don’t you have school today, Miss?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but, no, I’m not in school here.” She pushes back from the table and tosses her paper napkin onto her plate. “I’m playing golf with some friends on the base today. They’re picking me up in an hour.”

Hmm. Seems to me like Miz Adams started running herself a hotel. Miz Mayfield off to play bridge, Miss Brooke off to play golf, and Miz Adams here to take care of their boy when he gets home from school, then put dinner on the table.

Lord have mercy.

These Mayfields must be the kind of white folks who think everybody, most especially colored folks, are alive to make their life easy.

That Brooke’s expression is downright nasty. It’s not a stretch for me to imagine this mean girl roaming with a bunch of hateful boys carrying baseball bats and ax handles.

I shiver and push that memory to the back of my mind.

There’s work to be done, for sure. I gather up the piles of dirty towels and head out to the washing machine.

After a nice, quiet workday, all those folks come home about the same time. Birdie comes in first, happy as always to be home again.

“Flossie, look at the picture I drew for you. You can take it home with you.”

I’m ironing Mr. Adams’ dress shirts, but I put the iron on the resting plate and hold that crayon picture like it’s a priceless work of art.

“See? It’s you and me, Flossie. Do you like it?”

I’m about to cry, ’cause she’s drawn a big woman colored with a brown crayon and white dress and a little girl with yellow hair and a big smile.

They’re holding hands.

“Well, Miss Birdie, this is about the most beautiful picture I have ever seen.” I hope that the tears don’t run down my face. “Let me put it in my shopping bag so I won’t forget it.” While I’m bent over in the closet, I take a minute to pull myself together, act like I’m just blowin’ my nose with my handkerchief. Then I’m back to the ironing.

By the time I finish the last cuff on the last shirt, Mellie, Birdie, the boy, and that Miss Brooke are all back in the house because a little rain shower came up. The noise of Birdie’s cartoons in the living room and the loud radio coming from the middle bedroom is nearly enough to drive me crazy, but I go ahead and get the fixin’s for the chicken ready.

Miz Mayfield gets home about that time, breezing in with a cloud of cigarette smoke behind her. She stops by the kitchen door and says to me, “Make some coffee for us,” just like she’s the boss of the house.

Miz Adams is in her bedroom folding towels. That’s the only space she could find to do it. If she’d heard that order to make coffee, I’m not exactly sure what would have happened. She commented several times today about
hand washing clothes
and
you can tell Flossie where to put our clean laundry
. I’ve got the feeling her patience won’t last too long.

Birdie’s playing with some little cars in front of the TV, not bothering a soul. Melanie and the boy are doing homework at the table. It sounds like Brooke and Miz Mayfield are havin’ words about something. Everybody seems to have a found a place to be.

I put on the coffee pot and melt the shortening in the two skillets it’s gonna take to cook enough chicken to feed this bunch. Since the stove is right by the kitchen door, I can watch Birdie and cook at the same time. She’s buzzing her lips and lining up the cars just so. Having a good time, she is.

I get the skillets sizzling with chicken, then I go over to the sink to wash up my hands and get started on the biscuits. When I step over to the cabinet to get the flour, my foot hits one of those little cars. That foot turns over so bad, I feel like my ankle catches on fire.

I manage to hold onto the counter so I don’t land on my backside, but I know sure as the sun rises that I’m not going to be walking to the bus in a couple of hours.

Birdie comes running up to me. “I’m sorry, Flossie. That car is just too fast.” She snatches it up off the floor and runs back to her little game. She doesn’t realize that I’ve gone and hurt myself.

I don’t rightly know what to do. I’ve never really been hurt on the job before, aside from a little burn or a knife nick. I lean on the counter and think for a minute. Then Melanie looks up from where she’s doing her homework. She sees me leaning on the counter with my foot kind of up in the air. “Flossie, are you okay?”

“Well, I don’t think I am. I’ve hurt my foot.”

She jumps up and runs to me. “Oh, no! Come sit down.” She helps me to a dining room chair, and I’m happy to sit down. She says, “I’ll go get Mama.”

Miz Adams and Miz Mayfield come running to where I’m sitting. By now I’m realizing that the chicken needs turning, or it’s gonna burn.

“What on earth happened?” Miz Adams says. She looks all worried about me. I appreciate that, I do.

“Before we talk about this, that chicken needs to be turned.” I nod in the direction of the stove. The house is beginning to smell like dinner.

Miz Adams turns the chicken in both skillets, then rushes back to me.

I hold out my foot and we all study it for a bit. “I turned my ankle. It’s already beginnin’ to swell, I’m afraid.”

Miz Mayfield puffs on her cigarette and nods. “I’m sure it’s just a sprain. You should put some ice on it.”

“I’ll get the ice,” Mellie says.

“Do you think it might be broken?” Miz Adams is looking really worried now.

“No, ma’am. I don’t believe it is. Probably a sprain, like Miz Mayfield says. Trouble is, I’m not gonna be able to take the bus home tonight.”

Mellie’s here with some ice cubes wrapped up in a kitchen towel. She pulls a chair up so I can rest my foot and places the ice on my foot, careful as can be.

“No need to worry about that. We’ll take you home.” Miz Adams looks like she just had a grand idea. “Could Brooke and Mellie drive Flossie home in your car, Myra?”

Miz Mayfield looks like Miz Adams is talking in Japanese or something.

“Absolutely not. My daughter is not driving into colored town. Frankly, I don’t think it would be safe for any of us women to drive down there. I’m sure she’ll be fine until Clay gets home. All that can be done for a sprain is ice, and you’ve done that.” Miz Mayfield blows a cloud of smoke and goes back to the room the baby will sleep in, once all this Cuban evacuation business is over with.

Miz Adams is studying my foot. Mellie is looking back and forth between me and her mama, waiting for one of us to say something.

“I’ll be fine, Miz Adams. We just need to tend the chicken. Maybe Mellie could help me with that? I can sit here and talk her through what needs to be done, if that’s okay with you?”