Bombshells (6 page)

Of course, we all got things to be mad ’bout. Yeah, I hope that one day soon I’m gonna eat my Saturday lunch at the counter in Woolworth’s instead of havin’ to get my hot dog at the backside of the store. One day I’m gonna sit wherever I want to on the city bus.

That day isn’t here yet, but I’m not gonna let the mad burn the joy outta my life. No, sir.

I just hope my nephew can find some peace in his soul.

And here I am at the Adams’ house. Neat as a pin, it is. That grass so green and trim, it looks like it was painted on. The windows, though, seems to need a cleaning. Lord, I hate those jalousie windows. Those slats of glass catch all kind of dust and my big old hand hardly fits between them. They got the whole front of the house full of ’em, and the front door, too. Lord.

A woman’s voice sounds through the open front window. “Birdie, I told you to make sure the Tinker Toys were picked up. She’s going to be here soon.”

Sure enough, sounds like Miz Adams went and cleaned her whole house up for me. Laws o’ mercy. I walk up the driveway and give a knock on the door.

A little girl with hair that’s almost white opens the door ’bout soon as I knock. She grins so big, her face nearly splits open. Cute as a button she is, with her two front teeth missin’ and a big ol’ cast on her arm.

“Mama! The colored lady is here,” she shouts, like there’s a mile between her and her mama.

Miz Adams rushes up behind the girl and holds onto her shoulders like she gonna get grabbed or something. “Hello, Flossie.”

I give her my best smile. “Howdy do, Miz Adams.”

We study each other for a minute before it dawns on Miz Adams that she’s gonna have to let me inside if I’m gonna do any work for her. It’s like that sometimes when I start a new job. Sometimes I wonder what they’re thinkin’. They gonna change their mind and decide they don’t want help? But no, that doesn’t happen.

“Oh,” Miz Adams says, like she just realizes all this. “Come in. Birdie, finish picking up those toys.”

The little girl grins even bigger then ducks around her mama. Miz Adams says, “That’s Beatrice, but we call her Birdie.”

“Miss Beatrice.” I nod hello and step inside. It feels so good to get out of the heat. Even though it’s only nine o’clock, the sun is beatin’ down. There’s a fan blowing and the air is cooler in the house. I sit my shopping bag down on the floor and reach up to take off my hat. Miz Adams closes the door behind me, rattlin’ those dreadful jalousie windows.

The kitchen door is straight ahead of me as I stand there. Another girl peeks out from the kitchen. She’s older, somewhere around eleven or twelve. She got that look of a girl about to bust into the teenaged years. I smile at her and she gives me a shy smile back.

Miz Adams turns to look at what I’m smilin’ at. “This is Melanie.”

Holding my hat in front of me, I say, “Well it’s nice to meet you, Miss Melanie and Miss Beatrice. You can call me Flossie, if that’s okay with your mama.”

“You can call me Birdie,” the little one pipes up. She’s got a pile of Tinker Toys scooped up in her shirttail, like eggs collected in an apron.

“I’ll be happy to, Miss Birdie. Miz Adams, is there somewhere I can put my things?”

“Oh, sure.” She steps aside and opens a small coat closet. “Will it fit in here? I can clean a space up for you in a bit.”

“No need to clean up for me. There’s plenty of room for my bag right here on the floor.” I shut the closet door and turn to look at Miz Adams. She’s just staring at me.

I know she don’t mean nothin’ by it. She just don’t quite know how to handle this situation. It’s up to me to help us get settled in. “Well, Miz Adams, what can I do for you today? My brother, Max—he works with your husband—said you needed some help, so you wouldn’t be hurtin’ your feet and legs.”

She looks over her pregnant belly to her feet like she expects them to be giving her a problem. They do look a little swollen for so early in the morning. But she doesn’t say anything.

“Why don’t I start with the breakfast dishes and you can think on whatever you want me to do next? I can hang out the laundry, make up the beds, do the ironing, and then sweep up, probably all before lunch. Then we can decide what to do this afternoon. How does that sound?”

“Oh.” She looks so relieved. “That sounds wonderful. Melanie was washing the dishes, but if you can finish that up, she can help me fold these clothes.” Miz Adams waves to a pile of laundry on the couch. “I’m just not used to having anybody else in the house.”

“I understand. After a few of my visits, this will be just like it was always goin’ on. You just get off your feet and relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

She sighs and gives me a big smile. “Yes, I’m sure I’ll get used it. Thank you. Thank you for coming.”

The older girl, Melanie, is standing in the kitchen door listening to all this. She smiles and slips past me to stand by her mama.

I take about ten steps and I’m in the kitchen. These new houses sure skimp on kitchen space. There’s no room for a table, but the dining table is just through the other kitchen door. I suppose that’s easy for servin’ if a family has to eat in at the big table for every meal. I guess I’ll be standin’ up for my lunch.

I get to work, scrubbin’ at the plates in the sink. Miz Adams and Melanie start folding the laundry. Pretty soon, Birdie joins me at the sink.

“Can I help?”

“You sure you want to help me?”

She nods her head real fast.

“Do you help your mama wash the dishes?”

She nods her head again.

I ’spect she doesn’t. She only wants to help me because I’m new. She wants a chance to study me, like. “Okay, then. I’ll let you rinse.”

“Thank you,” she says, nice and polite.

“Birdie, come in here and don’t be bothering her.” Miz Adams raises her voice a bit, but we can hear her just fine through the open doors. Really, the kitchen, dining room and living room are one big space, with just a corner wall kind of stuck in the middle so you can put a Frigidaire behind it.

Birdie glances up at me and grins. “But Mama. I’m helping.”

“She’s not botherin’ me, Miz Adams, if you don’t mind her rinsing the dishes. It’ll keep her busy, don’t you think?”

“If you’re sure she won’t be in your way. And Birdie, you’ve got to keep that cast dry.”

The girl tucks her arm against her tummy, like she needs to remind herself not to put it in the water. “I will Mama.”

“Don’t worry, Miz Adams. We’ll be fine. Birdie here will most likely get tired and want to go play soon, anyway.”

“You’re right,” Miz Adams says. “Birdie doesn’t stay interested in anything very long. I suppose when you’ve finished with the dishes, you can hang out the laundry. I’ve got some mending I need to take care of.”

“Yes’m. I’ll do that.”

Me and Birdie settle in nice at the sink. Maybe it won’t be hard to teach this family how to have some help after all.

Saturday, August, 25, 1962

Atlanta, Georgia

LOLA

“
C’mon a my house, ah, my house. I’m gonna give you candy.
” I splash my hands in the dishwater and sing along while Rosemary Clooney croons the last phrase.

The record player in the living room slaps down another forty-five.
Scratch, scratch, scratch
. The needle is stuck again.

Wiping my hands on my shorts, I go to start the record. Peggy Lee croons “Fever” as I dance back to the kitchen. I have to have music while I finish up the dishes.

Stan is outside mowing the lawn for me. This little house I rent is cheap, but I’m supposed to keep up the yard. Good thing I met Stan shortly after I moved in here. He does a good job with the lawn and other handyman chores. In fact, he does a very good job with any
manly
task.

I light one of his Pall Malls and watch him through the kitchen window. When is he going to pop the question and make this playing house the real thing? We’re pretty good together.

Unlike that last guy I dated, Claude. What a stick in the mud he was. Of course, Norah and Clay thought Claude was the cat’s meow. All sticks in the mud together.

But sometimes I think I’d be real happy with the life Norah has. She stays at home doing a few little chores, and Clay takes care of everything else.

I almost had what Norah has. Almost. But I won’t think about Michael now. I only think about Michael when I’m alone and in the dark like he is. It’s been five years since the car crash that killed Michael. It didn’t kill me.

No. I’m alive, with a bad back and a broken heart.

Checking the clock, I take a long drag on my cigarette. Almost time for another pain pill. I’ll make it.

Too bad I won’t be able to go to Jacksonville for Labor Day like I usually do. But my back is killing me and that eight-hour drive from Atlanta will just do me in, I know it. Stan could drive, but Norah would probably tick him off by not letting us sleep together at her house. My God, she still thinks I’m a virgin at thirty. So, I’ll go to his boss’ cookout with him instead of going to the beach with Norah and the kids.

Outside, the mower coughs to a shuddering stop. That’s my cue to get the beer mugs out of the freezer and pour Stan a cold one. It’s the least I can do for him.

Stan comes through the back door wiping his face and head with his balled up shirt. His bristly blond crew cut stands right back up after the brisk rubbing. I walk over with his mug. He smiles, plants a big smacker right on my mouth, and then directs my hand with the cigarette to his lips. “Baby, you’re too good to me, you know that?” he says, blowing smoke over my head.

“You’re right. I’m too good for you.” Sweat is running down his bare chest, flattening and darkening the soft gold hair. I trace a pattern with my finger down to his nipple then swirl around it.

He grabs my hips and grinds against me. “Want to get a shower with me?”

“My back is hurting from that twist contest last night.” I open my pill bottle and pop one in my mouth, washing it down with the ice-cold beer. I wink at him. “How about you give me a massage when you get out?”

He slaps me on the fanny and whistling, heads for my tiny bathroom.

In my bedroom, I lie down on the bed. Might as well deliver the bad news about Labor Day to Norah and the kids. I pick up the phone and dial her number.

MELANIE

The phone on the kitchen wall rings as I pass by, so I snatch it up. “Hello?”

“Hi ya, sugar.” A familiar voice sounds like warm syrup dripping over a stack of pancakes. Anticipation grows inside me with that same warm flow.

“Aunt Lola! When are you coming? We can’t wait.”

“Well, sugar, I’ve run into a little problem here.”

“Oh, no.” All the warm anticipation gets cold and sticky, like dirty pancake plates. “What’s happened?”

“Don’t sound so serious, Mel. You always take everything so hard.”

Lola sounds funny, kind of slow and sleepy. In the background, I can hear the slide and click as her cigarette lighter closes and she makes a blowing sound. I picture the way the smoke wraps around her head and her eyelids droop, but don’t quite close. Lola calls it her smoldering look. I think she looks like a smoldering trash fire sometimes, all white smoke and bright colored papers shifting in the breeze while they burn.

“Aunt Lola? Are you all right?”

“I just won a twist contest down at the American Legion Post.”

“Neat-o!”

Aunt Lola wins contests all the time. Mama says her sister ended up with all the luck in the whole family. Once, Lola answered a question right on a call-up radio contest and won a real mink stole. When I tried it on, the fur was silky and the satin lining made me feel rich and grown-up, like I should have my hair in a French twist instead of a ponytail. I got to wear the mink stole for ten whole minutes while Mama did some alterations to a dress she’d made for Lola.

“What did you win this time?” I asked.

“You mean besides the heart of my handsome new beau?” Aunt Lola laughs her deep, throaty laugh. She never giggles.

“A new beau? What happened to the last one?”

“It seems he had a previous commitment. But that’s old news. I won fifty dollars in the twist contest.”

“So, what’s the problem? When are you going to be here?”

“I hurt my back, and I’m stuck in bed for a few days.” She blows out another breath, and I close my eyes. I can almost smell the way Aunt Lola’s “Evening in Paris” perfume blends with the cigarette smoke. It’s a heavy scent that can almost smother you, but somehow Lola makes it seem glamorous. “Looks like I’ll have to pass on the big end-of-summer shindig this year, sugar.”

My heart sinks right to the floor. Labor Day will be a complete flop. Without Aunt Lola, summer is going to close with a whimper and a whine instead of beach parties, sunburns, and shrimp boils. My summer is now officially a total failure.

“Mellie? You still there?”