Bombshells (5 page)

I stand in the front yard with Robert and watch until our car disappears. I pull the neck of my shirt up to wipe the sweat off my upper lip, then remember Mama yelling at me about leaving a dingy mark smack dab in the middle of all my shirts. I pretend I was just straightening my shirt after the motorbike ride, but I still rub by face with both hands, just in case any tears leak out.

Robert soft-punches my arm and says, “Want a Popsicle, squirt?”

I nod. “I think we have some in the freezer.”

“No, my treat. Here comes the ice cream truck.”

I hadn’t even heard the jangle of the music. I always hear the ice cream truck, even blocks away.

“You go on in the house. What flavor do you want?”

“Banana.”

“Hey, you’ve got good taste. Banana’s my favorite, too.”

The ice cream truck clangs to a stop at the curb, the music sounding scratchy. I turn and head toward the porch. I just want to get inside my cool house where everything can get back to normal. The doorknob is hot and slick under my hand, and it won’t budge. Mama must have locked it when she slammed it closed. I walk across the front of the house to the screened porch on the side. I don’t slam the screen door, but there is no one here to scold me, anyway.

“Damn,” I mutter. Tears burn behind my eyelids again. Louder I say, “Damn it all.” That feels better, but the tears are building, and it feels like they’re going to burst free any second. It’s all too much. Birdie is hurt, maybe dying, who knows? Mama is so PG she can barely fit into the car anymore. And Robert is being nice to me because he knows how pitiful I am.

“Here’s your Popsicle, pipsqueak.”

“Hey, I’m no pipsqueak anymore. I’m starting junior high in case you don’t remember, scooter boy.” I hope Robert understands that I’m trying to be cool like he is, because I’m afraid I sounded kind of rude.

But he smiles at me.
Whew
.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” He shoves the Popsicle at me and drags the other folding chair next to my flattened chaise lounge. “You nervous about it?”

I peel the paper away from my Popsicle and watch the melted syrup make shiny strings down the sides. I shrug and stick both halves of the two-stick Popsicle in my mouth. I can’t think about anything right now except Birdie.

“C’mon. You can level with Scooter Boy.” Robert bites off a big hunk of frozen yellow ice and squints his eyes against the sudden freezing feeling I know is seeping into his teeth. Crunching on the ice, he says, “It’s okay, Mellie. Everybody’s scared.”

Impossible
, I think. Not Robert. Not Cherie. Not even Stephanie. They all seem to be perfectly content with themselves and the way their lives are going. Happy even. No one can be as miserable as I am.

I suck on one side of the Popsicle and then the other. All of a sudden it seems really important to keep the twin pops even. “I don’t think everybody’s scared, Robert.”

“Call me Rob.” He breaks his Popsicle in half and puts one stick in his mouth while he holds the other away from him to keep it from dripping on his jeans. “Yeah, they’re scared. Even me. Okay? I’m scared.” He looks me right in the eyes then. He lowers his voice a little and says, “But don’t say anything, all right?”

I figure he’s trying to make me feel better, make me stop worrying about Birdie, so I play along. “Sure thing. But what are you scared of? You’re almost out of high school.”

“I am out of high school.”

I laugh because I know Robert has a couple of years of school to go.

“Don’t go nuts on me, like my mom, okay? I turn sixteen in a few weeks and I joined the Navy. I’m shipping out the end of September.”

“You quit school?”

“I’m not all that great at books and things, you know. I’m good at fixing stuff, like my scooter. I don’t need a diploma for that, but I do need someone to train me. That’s what the Navy’s gonna do for me.”

“But what about college?”

“Caroline’s the one who should go to college, not me. I know what I want to do. I want to work on jets. They’re the future, you know.”

He sticks the other half of his Popsicle in his mouth, like he needs some time to think.

“Besides, this whole Cuba situation is pretty serious. We don’t really know what those Russian commies are doing these days. And I got to thinking about what President Kennedy said. I can do this for my country. My old man is Navy. It’s not a bad life, he says.”

A jet roars over us, causing the windows in the back door to shake.

“See,” Robert—Rob—continues, “those guys need help. I’m going to train to work on the jets on aircraft carriers. I’ll probably end up in Gitmo with the Mayfields. Anyway, I’ll get to see the world.”

He would be in Guantanamo Bay with our old neighbors. Probably cuddled up on a Cuban beach with the beautiful Brooke Mayfield. He’d been kind of sweet on her before she moved. All I can think is that I won’t get to see Robert mow lawns anymore. Life really does stink.

“Gitmo, huh? You can tell Brooke and Kevin I said hi.”

“Sure thing, pipsqueak.” Robert chews on his empty Popsicle stick for a minute before breaking it in half. “So, ’fess up. What’re you scared about, Mellie?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m worried about the baby and Mama.” Robert’s looking at me with his big blue eyes, and I know I can tell him the truth. “I’m scared about being twelve. I hate it.”

I wish I could suck those words back into my mouth like I stop the juice dripping down my Popsicle. Here, Robert is about to join the Navy, and I’m whining about being twelve. Damn, I’m such a goon.

But he just looks at me as though I said something that made sense. “Yeah, I know. It’s tough. But, Mellie, you’re a good kid. You’ll make it fine.”

Robert rolls his Popsicle sticks in the wrapper, the broken and whole one together. I suck the last bit of ice from mine. Robert tells me about the good teachers and the bad ones at the junior high. I’m dying to ask him some really important questions, like how do I get a boy to like me? I think Robert would tell me. He’s that kind of guy. But I don’t have the guts. I don’t want him to think I’m a stupid kid.

For a little while, we just sit together on the porch. Steph walks up the street in her going-out-later head scarf and I call to her.

She doesn’t even look at my house. I wonder what’s wrong with her. In the distance a train whistle sounds. Must be the five-thirty run crossing Beaver Street. Dogs bark and blue jays sing and the sun slips lower in the sky, turning the clouds into spun pink frosting. Marla and Paula, the twins who live behind us, sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and try to cover all the parts.

It’s nice sitting here with Robert.

Then I think, gee, this must be what it’s like when Mama and Daddy sit on the porch. I always thought it was so boring for them. That they couldn’t think of anything to do, so they just sat here. But now I know that they are doing something. Being together.

Our blue Ford pulls into the carport. I jump up and run to Mama’s side of the car.

“Is Birdie okay?”

Mama nods and opens the door.

“How’s Birdie, Mr. Adams?” Robert asks as he holds the Ford's door open while Daddy gets Birdie out of the back seat.

Birdie’s arm, tucked against her belly, is in a white cast and covered with a navy blue sling. The white strap is loose, draping off her shoulder. Her eyes blink open as Daddy picks her up. She snuggles her head against his chest.

She looks like a soft little baby, not my aggravating sister. My throat swells, and I look away.

“She’s asleep, but she’s fine. A little fracture is all.” They walk through the porch and Mama opens the door with her key. Daddy carries Birdie inside.

Robert stands beside me on the carport. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“Hey, we’ll splurge and have a Nutty Buddy when I get back from basic training, okay?” He ruffles my bangs and goes to his motor scooter.

Mama comes back to the carport to stand beside me. “Thanks, Robert. Tell your mama I’ll call her.”

The motor scooter sputters to life and Robert waves. Shredded blades of grass spit out from the back tire.

Mama opens the screen door and I follow her in. She sits on the chaise lounge, making the webbing sag and groan. She picks up my rolled up Popsicle wrapper and sniffs. “Banana?”

“Um-hum. Did Birdie cry at lot at the hospital?”

Mama smiles and pats my back. “Yep, but she was excited about the cast. I’m sure that won’t last.”

I watch Robert and his beautiful white t-shirt disappear. “I feel so bad for Birdie, especially since Aunt Lola’s coming next week, and we’ll be going to beach.”

“We’ll manage.” Mama tugs my ponytail. “How did you like riding on Robert’s scooter?”

I look at her, and I can’t think of a blessed thing to say. Everything that happened this afternoon whirls around in my head. I just keep thinking about how an awful thing like Birdie getting hurt, and a wonderful thing like riding on Robert’s scooter happened together.

How am I supposed to feel? I shrug.

A few seconds later, I say, “Mama, you locked me out of the house.”

She pats my back and tucks a stray hair into my ponytail. “I know, sweetheart.”

“But, why? We couldn’t get in.”

“You can’t be alone in the house with Robert. It wouldn’t be proper.” Mama pushes herself up and rubs her back for a few minutes before she walks to the back door.

“Why not? What wouldn’t be proper?”

Mama looks up at the porch ceiling. “We need to wash this ceiling before too long.” Without looking at me she says, “You’ll understand one day, Melanie. It’s never too early to protect your reputation.”

Thursday, August 23, 1962

FLOSSIE

The city bus stops with creaks and groans at the entrance to the Adams’ neighborhood. I step up on the curb and wait for the bus to leave before I take a good look around. I never worked in this area before, and I can tell by the houses that these folks aren’t used to somebody like me bein’ about.

I start walking. It’s a nice place, neat little houses, probably ten years old or so, all concrete block with square yards and hardly a tree around. They ripped out nearly every tree to put up these houses. No shade trees at all, only a skinny pine tree here and there. I have a shade tree in my back yard, for sure.

No, these aren’t the kind of white folks who hire help. They do the work themselves unless something is happening, like bad health or a baby on the way, like Miz Adams.

Most likely, today I’ll be breaking in another white woman who never had a colored woman in her house. Won’t be the first time. Most times, it just takes a couple of visits until a white woman relaxes and lets me do my job.

I wonder if Miz Adams has gone and cleaned her whole house today. First time I went to Miz Grant’s house, that’s what she did. Plum wore herself out, too. Her son was fit to be tied when he came to visit his mama that afternoon and gave me my check. He finds her stretched out on the sofa having heart palpations. He gave his mama what for, sayin’ that’s why he hired me in the first place, to keep her from workin’ herself to death.

I sure do miss Miz Grant. Once she relaxed, we had a good couple of years. Even got to the point where we’d sit at the table and eat lunch together. Not that either one of us would tell anybody ’bout that.

I don’t expect that Miz Adams and me’ll be getting too friendly. My brother Max says this job is just ’til Miz Adams gets back on her feet after the baby comes. She’s already got two girls, so she’ll be wantin’ to make sure she sets a good example for the children: whites and coloreds keep separate.

No matter. We’ll work things out. I’m glad for the work. I tug my handkerchief out to wipe the sweat off my face. The street is already bakin’ hot in the sun.

Since Miz Grant died two months ago, I’ve had every Monday and Thursday to myself. At first, it was fine. I got my garden going real good, and for the first time in a long while, my own house is as clean as I want it.

Thing is, my pocketbook didn’t like me bein’ that free. I started sitting in the dark with only my fan blowin’, so’s to save on the electric. Don’t want to use up any more of my savings. Yes, sir, I’m glad for the work.

I check the paper Max gave me with the address and directions on it. I walk up this street and then turn onto Parade Drive. Then, the Adams live on Victory Lane. Seems like strange street names to me, but I’m thinkin’ they must be called like this ’cause of the Navy base over here. I don’t guess Cecil Field is too terribly far from this neighborhood, but I don’t really know this side of town. I work mostly on the Southside, ’cross the river from here.

Some boys carrying baseball bats come walking out of a house on the corner. I can’t help but shiver at the sight. Of course, they’ve got gloves, too. They’re just going to play some ball.

Two years ago, a bunch of white folks took bats and ax handles to those colored folks doing the sit-ins at Woolworth’s downtown. Max’s boy was downtown that day, and got hisself beat up pretty bad. He’s gone off to college now, but the mad in that boy gonna burn him up one day.