Bombshells (2 page)

Grabbing the phone receiver from the wall mount, I dial the factory’s number. I hope Clay can come home from the office for a few minutes, like he used to. When did he
stop
coming home for lunch, anyway? I can’t remember, but it’s been a while, I guess. Maybe he got tired of bologna sandwiches.

I wait for the switchboard at the office to pick up.

“Reynolds Aluminum, Jacksonville. How can I help you?”

“Clay Adams, please.”

“May I say who’s calling?”

Shirley’s authoritative tone makes those five words sound like a political speech. I answer in the same precise manner. “His wife.”

“Oh. Norah. He’s on the floor. Everything okay?”

Sighing, I rub my aching back. Shirley and everyone else at the plant knows I’m expecting. She’s not really being nosy. “Yes, everything’s fine.”

“He’s really busy this morning. A machine went down. Do you really
need
to talk to him?”

So now Shirley decides if I’m important enough to talk to my husband? I don’t think so. “Yes, Shirley. I
need
to talk to him now.” Our daughter’s birthday is important, too.

“All right. Hold on.” The phone clicks, and I know she’s connecting and disconnecting lines, paging Clay on the factory floor, and answering other calls. I know all this because that was my job once. Two babies ago. A lifetime ago.

Staring out the window at the laundry hanging dead still on the line, I grab the folded newspaper and fan myself while I wait for Clay to pick up the line.

It gets under my skin that Shirley, and every other woman in that office, knows where my husband is eight or ten hours of the day, and I don’t really know anything but that he leaves me at seven-thirty every morning and comes home at six o’clock every night.

Then I think how ridiculous I am. Of course, I know where Clay is. He’s working to support his family. So what if Shirley knows
exactly
where he is.

It’s the hormones, I guess, making me illogical like this.

I’m thankful he comes home each evening. That he doesn’t go out for drinks with the guys. That he only rarely brings home a can of beer in a paper sack. Like he says, we don’t have the money for extras like that these days. But he has money for lunch every day? I’ve got to talk to him about that. We can’t afford lunch at a restaurant every day. Even the cost of Krystal burgers adds up.

“He’ll be right with you, Norah. Just stay on the line.” And Shirley is gone again.

Holding the phone against my shoulder, I turn on the hot water to add to the sink full of dirty breakfast dishes. Not waiting for the water to turn warm, I plunge my hands into the dishwater. The ickiness of slimy eggs and bacon grease makes my stomach roll. The dishrag slips out of my fingers and I close my eyes. How will I endure eight more weeks of this pregnancy?

“Norah.” Clay’s voice on the line startles me. “What’s wrong?”

“We forgot Mellie’s birthday yesterday.”

“What?”

“Mellie’s birthday was yesterday. I had the cake made, but we forgot all about it. I promised her cake for breakfast this morning. Can you come home for a little while?”

“I shouldn’t. We had a machine break down this morning.”

“I know. Shirley told me. Mellie’s already twelve. This is important.”

“So’s my job, with another child on the way.”

“You don’t have to remind me of that.” I blink against the tears stinging my eyes. Just as quickly, anger simmers up from my gut. “But let me remind you that you were there when we made this baby, just like the other ones.”

“Norah.”

I hear the frustration in his voice and for a moment I want to take it back. But I don’t. I won’t apologize, either. “How about coming home for lunch, then? It’s been a while since you’ve had lunch with us.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Is he wondering when I noticed he stopped coming home for lunch? “The broken machine is causing production to drop. It’s my job to make sure it’s fixed and we’re rolling again. I should stay until it’s done.”

“We’ll be fine without you.” I’m so upset my words pop like snapping gum. Yes. Yes, we will. “Don’t worry about it.”

“C’mon, Norah,” he sighs.

“Bye, Clay. Guess I’ll see you tonight.” Trying to contain my hurt and anger, I hang up the phone softly, straighten the long, curly cord, then reach for a tissue to blow my nose.

BIRDIE

“Birdie, wake up.” Mellie yells at me. “We’re gonna have cake for breakfast.”

“Nuh-uh.” I lift my chin off my chest and take a deep breath. “Mama never lets us have sweets for breakfast,” I yell back.

“Well, we are today.” Mellie throws open the door to the bedroom we share. She stares at me for a few seconds, then says, “C’mon, Birdie, get up.”

Mellie stares at me because I’m in the middle of my twin bed with both of my feet tucked behind my head. She’s jealous because she can’t do this. Mellie thinks she can’t do it because she’s so grown up, but that’s not true. She
never
could do this trick.

We used to have regular contests to see who could do the funniest tricks, before Mama, she got ‘xpectin’. We’d stand on our heads, or do cartwheels. Mama can do the best cartwheel. Daddy can do the best handstand. But only I can put my feet behind my head. Daddy says I should join the circus and be a ’tortionist.

He told me a ’tortionist is someone who can move her body all kinds of ways and look like a human knot. Maybe I’ll get to wear a sparkly costume when I’m in the circus.

Just to aggravate Mellie, I stay put. I slap my butt four times and sing real loud, “Oh.” Again.
Slap, slap, slap-slap
, “Oh.”

From my ’tortion knot on the bed, I watch Mellie take her new bra, snowy white with a little pink rose bud in the center, out of the drawer. She turns her back to me and tugs her nightgown over her head. She doesn’t want me to see.

She didn’t used to care if I saw her. We took baths together, got dressed in front of each other, even slept together sometimes. Nothing was a big deal until a few months ago. About the time Mama told us we’d have a new baby brother or sister.

Please God, let it be a brother
, I pray. Then I continue what I’m doing.
Slap, slap, slap-slap
. “Oh.”

“What are you doing anyway?”

“Singin’.”
Slap, slap, slap-slap
. “Oh.”

“You have to sing words to be singing, you idjit. You’re just slapping your butt and saying ‘Oh’.”

“Not if you’re singing
Bingo
. And Mama said not to call me idjit no more. I’m telling.” I unknot myself and somersault to the end of the bed and stand up, bouncing a couple of times before I land on the floor with my arms straight up in the air. I would be good in the circus.

Since I’m only six years old, I have time to work on my act some more. Heck, I’ll probably be ready to run away and join the circus by the time I’m as old as Mellie. Maybe I can be a clown, too. I look in the mirror, roll my tongue and stick the whole thing through the gap where I’m missing four front teeth. I don’t even have to open my jaw. When I do that in front of people, they laugh like it’s the funniest thing they ever saw.

Yep. I would be a great addition to the circus. Birdie, The Acrobat Clown ‘Tortionist. I pick up the hairbrush and run it through my hair. Even after brushing, it stands out like a yellow cotton ball. “Why are we having cake for breakfast?”

Mellie frowns at me. “Cause it’s my birthday.”

“Nuh-uh. Yesterday was your birthday.”

“But we forgot.”

“I didn’t.” I cross my eyes and look at the freckles on my nose so I won’t have to look at Mellie. I know she’s frowning real hard at me like a grown-up. It’s not my fault she forgot her own birthday.

“You remembered? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Besides, I didn’t remember until after we went to bed. Then it was too late. I was scared for Mama and the baby. Yeah, it wasn’t my fault. It was the stupid baby’s fault.

I balance on one leg, and do my special one-legged dance as I hop right through the door. Over my shoulder I say, “Well, it wasn’t
my
birthday, idjit.”

MELANIE

Gosh almighty! Isn’t that just like a bratty little sister to let you forget your birthday? I brush my hair into a ponytail and stretch the rubber band around it while I count to ten to keep from yelling at her.

When I reach the number twenty and finally calm down, I remember Mama saying, “What goes around, comes around.” I’m sure something like this will happen to Birdie someday, and she’ll see how it feels to be invisible.

In the kitchen, the percolator hums and gurgles, filling the house with new coffee smells. Birdie turns on “Captain Kangaroo,” adjusts the long silver rabbit-ear antenna to get rid of the static, and sprawls on the couch. The toilet flushes, and I hear Mama singing as she comes down the hall.

“Mama, which plates do you want to use?”

“We’ll use the good china. After all, this is a birthday party.”

“No, it’s not!” Birdie sings from the living room sofa. “Yesterday was her birthday.”

“We know, Birdie. But we’re going to celebrate today.” Mama pours two glasses of milk and fills the cream pitcher. She carries the creamer and sugar bowl to the table, placing them next to the cake plate.

“But it’s not a real birthday party. You can’t have a real birthday party if it’s not your birthday.” Birdie’s voice sounds kind of whiny, like she’s about to cry. Or maybe throw a tantrum. And she would, too, just to spoil my birthday.

Birdie’s tantrums are awful. Sometimes she collapses to the floor, screaming and kicking until you think the world is ending. I’ll do almost anything to avoid Birdie’s tantrums. Mama just ignores her and goes about her business. She says that’s what the pediatrician told her to do.

Easy for him to say. Dr. Withers has never seen one of Birdie’s tantrums.

“Okay. Calm down. We’ll just have cake.”

“Well, as long you know it’s not real. Nobody’s allowed to have two birthdays.” Birdie sounds calm now.

Thank goodness. I sure don’t want to have my almost birthday completely ruined.

Outside, the brakes on our old blue Ford squeal. Mama drops the cake knife. It clunks when it hits the floor.

“There’s Daddy.” I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. I just have a feeling that Daddy will do something special for me.

The front door opens, and he stands there with the sun shining behind him. Both his hands are behind his back.

There it is. There’s my real surprise.

He looks over my head toward the kitchen where Mama is, puckers his lips and blows her a kiss. Looking back to me, he shouts like an announcer in a parade, “Where’s the birthday girl?”

“It’s not her birthday!” Birdie yells from the couch. She jumps up and turns Captain Kangaroo louder.

Uh-oh. Here comes the tantrum.

Daddy just looks at her.
That
look. The one that doesn’t need any words at all, but says everything.

Birdie, still standing next to the television, snaps the switch off and goes to put napkins on the table.

“Here’s something for the young lady of the house.” He smiles and shoves the door closed with his foot. “Well, come over here and get it.”

I run to him, wondering what kind of surprise he might have for me.

“Oh, no. I get a kiss first.” He lowers his cheek for me to kiss. Daddy’s face is smooth and smells good, sweet and spicy, with a little tang of cigarette smoke blended in.

“Happy birthday, young lady.” He draws his hand from behind his back and hands me a rose, a beautiful, red rose with a long, straight stem. The fragrance, so heavy and rich, seems to hang in the air around the flower. I lower my nose right into the center of the bloom. The petals are like cool velvet on my skin.

The shaky feeling slips into me along with the sweet smell of my “young lady” gift. This is nice, but what happened to skates or records? Even a book?

“I’ve got surprises for everyone this morning.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a candy bar. “Birdie, this is for you.”

“Oh goodie! A Baby Ruth!” Birdie skips up to Daddy and hugs his legs.

Mama stands in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. She raises one eyebrow. “Glad you could make it after all, Big Shot.”

Daddy goes over and wraps his arms around Mama, kind of bending over so he can reach around the baby. They look at each other.

Daddy whispers in Mama’s ear and kisses her cheek. She smiles and murmurs, “I’m sorry, too.” Then he really kisses her.

I always feel invisible when they do that, when they look deep into each other’s eyes. I glance at Birdie. She scrunches up her nose at me, but looks back at Mama and Daddy standing there, hugging each other, and I know Birdie feels the same way. For a minute, there’s nobody in the world but the two of them, holding each other.