“Here’s the mail,” Birdie shouts, startling me back to my task. As I carry the tea to the living room and put it on the coffee table, Birdie tosses the mail onto the table with a thump, sending the envelopes sliding to a stop against the side of the tray.
“Gotta go, gotta go bad.” The bathroom fan whirs on and the door clicks shut. Sometimes Birdie is just plain embarrassing.
DC squirms and cries. Cherie hands him back to Mama. I glance at the mail and see, right on top of the
Life
magazine, a letter addressed to me.
From Robert.
My heart stops for a second, then begins to kick against my chest. I snatch up the envelope and tear open the back flap. A snapshot slides out from between the folded sheets of notebook paper. I swoop down to snatch it, but it lands at Cherie’s feet.
She picks it up. “Oh, it’s Robert Taylor and Brooke Mayfield. I haven’t seen her since her father got stationed in Cuba last year.” She holds the photograph so Mama can see and then Cherie studies it some more.
I’m dying to grab it away from her. Anger surges through me. It’s my picture. It came in a letter addressed to me. Me. Not Mama or Cherie, but me.
“Robert looks good, doesn’t he, Norah?”
I stiffen. Since when does Cherie call my mama “Norah,” like they are best friends?
Cherie seems oblivious to the anger I direct at her. “And Brooke looks so cute. I was just thinking about her the other day and wishing she’d been able to stay here instead of going to Cuba with her parents. We were really good friends, remember?”
Cherie’s voice has changed once again, from pretend woman to sad teenager who misses her best friend. Finally, Cherie hands the picture to me.
I don’t hear anything else they say. My whole world focuses on the image of Robert and Brooke, posed side by side on a golden beach. Their bronzed skin glistens with oil. Brooke’s corn silk hair is lifted by the breeze. Both of them smile so brightly, they seem to outshine the sun.
I’m so jealous, my stomach burns like I drank a Coke too fast. I hate seeing them together like this.
But, Brooke looks like I remember her—pretty in a soft, frail way. Her thick, pale hair makes her skin seem fragile, even though she has a tan. Her eyes are still so big behind her black-rimmed cat-eye glasses. I really don’t like her anymore.
But Robert has changed a whole lot. His hair is buzzed short. He seems bigger. Well, he is bigger.
His arms bulge with new muscles, and his chest looks different from when he mowed lawns during the summer. A beer bottle dangles from the hand he has draped over Brooke’s shoulder. He pinches a cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. I’ve never seen him smoke before.
I swallow. Robert looks like a man, completely different from the boy who bought me a banana Popsicle and told me he was a little scared.
This Robert looks like he would have followed Mrs. Winston home from his going away party, instead of walking with me.
This Robert would have never kissed me.
Tears sting my eyes, but I remember I’m standing in the living room with Mama and Cherie watching me.
“So, what does Robert have to say?” Mama sits her glass down and picks up the plate with slices of pound cake. She offers some to Cherie.
“No, thank you. My stomach’s still queasy sometimes.”
“Eating something helps that. Are you sure you won’t have some?”
Cherie shakes her head. “Does Robert say whether he likes the Navy or not?”
“Uh, I haven’t gotten that far yet.” I haven’t even read the letter’s first line. All I want to do is go to my room and close the door so I can read every word by myself. Instead, I scan the page quickly so I can answer Mama and Cherie. “He says he’s fine and likes what he’s doing.”
The telephone rings, and Flossie picks it up. “Adams residence.”
Birdie skips through the living room, stopping to grab a piece of cake from the plate.
Mama catches her wrist. “Did you wash your hands, young lady?”
Birdie rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mama.”
“Well, what do you say then?”
“May I have some cake, please?”
“Yes, you may. Stay in our yard. You’ll need to come inside soon.”
“Okay. Bye, Cherie.” Birdie slams the front door behind her, this time waking DC and making him scream.
Cherie jumps to her feet. “I think I’d better go now. Mother didn’t want me to stay gone too long.”
“I’ll save all of DC’s things for you, Cherie. Take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Norah. Good-bye, Melanie. Flossie.”
After the front door closes Flossie says, “Was she in trouble like we thought?” She’s covering the phone’s receiver with her hand.
Mama nods.
Oh. That’s why Cherie seemed so grown up and why she was acting like Mama’s friend. Running away to get married and being in trouble means one thing: Cherie’s going to have a baby. I wonder if Steph knows?
“Told you she’d be in trouble ’fore Christmas. Turns out, way before.” Flossie shakes her head sadly and lifts the phone toward Mama. “This is for you Miz Adams. Want me to take the baby?”
Mama pushes up from the sofa with a sigh. She takes the phone from Flossie and hands over the crying DC. “Hello?”
Flossie carries the baby back to Mama’s room to change him. I flop on the couch, letter in one hand and snapshot in the other.
While I stare at the blank television screen, digesting this new information that Cherie is in trouble, Stephanie appears at the back door. “Can I come in?”
“Sure. You left your math book on the table.”
“Mellie, you’ll never guess what just happened.” Stephanie sits next to me on the couch and preens like the cockatoo I saw at the zoo, stroking her ponytail with her fingers.
You’ll never guess what happened either
. Some news is better coming from home, I decide. I’ll let Cherie or her mother tell Steph she’s going to be an auntie.
“Well, aren’t you going to try to guess?” Steph asks.
“No. Tell me.”
She leans over. “Marvin kissed me.” She stretches like a cat, nodding at me like she’s trying to convince me it’s true.
“Really?”
“Yes. No wonder they write songs about it. You can’t imagine how wonderful it is.”
Yes, I can. I know how wonderful it is. But I wonder if I’ll ever have another kiss from Robert, especially this new Robert in the photo.
Mama comes back into the living room. “Oh, hi, Stephanie. Your sister just left.”
“Cherie’s back?” Stephanie’s voice squeaks with surprise. She looks happy and a little frightened. She gives me a dirty look that says I should have told her.
I shrug. I’ve got other things on my mind. Like why is she so sure she’s the only one who’s experienced a kiss?
“I’d better get home then. I’ll call you later.” She grabs the math book off the table and darts through the back door.
Mama sits next to me on the sofa and props her feet on the coffee table. She rests her head against the back of the sofa. “Turned out to be a busy afternoon, didn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I stare down at my letter, which I still haven’t read completely. “Who was on the phone, Mama?”
Her eyes drift closed. “Aunt Lola. She’s coming down tomorrow after work. She’ll be here about midnight.”
“Midnight? That’s awful late. Are you going to be able to stay up that late?” Mama’s been going to bed at the same time Birdie and I do, and she’s still tired all the time.
Mama sighs her breath out. Right now, it sounds like she’s almost too tired to suck one back in. “Yeah, it’ll be good to see her.”
“I know. I miss her, too.” I lean over and kiss Mama’s cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll help out with the extra work. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
A smile lifts the corners of her mouth, but Mama doesn’t open her eyes. “I know. You’re a big help to me.”
As Flossie sings a lullaby for DC, her voice drifts through the house. Soon he quiets down, and Mama’s breathing settles into a steady rhythm as she dozes off, too.
I slip off to my room. Finally, I can read Robert’s letter again, slowly this time, and savor every word. But I’m bothered, thinking of Stephanie and Marvin kissing. It makes me feel a little queasy, because I know Stephanie doesn’t really like Marvin. Sure, she thinks he’s interesting because he plays the guitar and stuff, but she still makes fun of him. If she thinks she’ll get a laugh from the crowd, she’ll mock him by pretending to be a beatnik.
I guess that kissing Marvin was just a new experience, so it was exciting to Stephanie because she wanted to be kissed so badly. How can she think a kiss from someone she doesn’t really like is wonderful?
I know what wonderful really is. I just haven’t told Stephanie about it.
I tuck Robert’s picture under my pillow and settle down to read his letter for the second time.
Friday, October 19, 1962
NORAH
It’s eleven o’clock now. I want to be in bed. But Lola should be here soon. I feel like I’ve been in these same clothes for days. Birdie, snug in her pajamas, is sleeping with her head in my lap, so I can’t really get up. Besides, I don’t want to greet Lola in a nursing gown. Still wearing her rumpled school clothes, Melanie sits between Clay and me. I focus on the television, fighting yawn after yawn.
The local anchorman uses his best Walter Cronkite voice as he shows the photos of the Russian missiles based in Cuba—ninety miles from Miami. Now he displays a map. This is the same map used on the evening CBS news, showing where the missiles might be aimed and how far they might travel. There are big red circles around Miami, Jacksonville, Atlanta, Washington, D.C., and the coast of Virginia. They’ve even got a warning around New York City.
Unease creeps over me. All the things I didn’t want to accept: the dog tags my children wear to school, the constant roar of Navy jets returning from spying, the reasons why Melanie has to worry about having to evacuate her school.
I glance at Clay. The flicker of the TV casts his face in shadows, his eyes dark as he stares at the set. His cigarette sends smoke curling toward the lamp like a fog is settling in. He’s hunched forward with his hands fisted together between his knees. I wonder what he’s thinking. Does he worry like I do?
His fingers knot together, and I realize that he’s feeling the same fear and frustration I am.
Melanie tugs the band from her ponytail and stretches the rubber band between her fingers over and over. She’s biting her lip.
“Daddy?”
“What, sugar?”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I’m not sure. But we’ll be fine. We’ll be safe. You don’t need to worry.”
“How do you know?” Her voice sounds so fragile, frayed around the edges.
Clay stands up and puts his hands in his pockets, and paces over to look at DC, sleeping in his bassinet. Glancing toward the television he says, “I figure the president loves his children, too. He’ll stop this. We have to believe that.”
Mellie leans against my shoulder. She shivers, even though the house is only cool. The weatherman says this rain is bringing in a cold front. I wrap my arm around her and wait for the heater to kick on. For the next two days the temperature will be lower than normal, and then we’ll warm up again, getting back to our usual mild October weather.
Clay walks into the kitchen, and I hear him getting the whiskey bottle from the top cabinet. The liquor was a Christmas gift last year from his boss. Clay’s only had a couple of drinks from it, but I can’t blame him for having a shot now. “Honey, make one for me, too.”
Mellie is still curled against me. There’s a desperate part of me that wants to give her something to make her feel better, something to make everything seem normal. “Want Daddy to bring you a Coke?”
She nods and sits up. She wipes her eyes real quick, like I won’t see. My heart just breaks. I wish she were as young as Birdie, young enough to sleep peacefully through a newscast that declares the world is changing by the second.
Clay comes back and hands me a tumbler filled with a couple of ice cubes and amber liquor. I don’t usually have a taste for it, but it seems the right thing tonight. He hands Mellie a Coke bottle. After going back to the kitchen to get his drink, he changes the channel to
The Tonight Show
.
I’m hardly ever awake to see it. Of course, if it was on at two o’clock in the morning, I’d be able to enjoy it while I fed the baby. At least tonight I’ll get to see the new host, while we wait on Lola.
Why is she so late? I guess the rain has slowed her down. I hope she’s driving carefully.
Melanie puts her Coke bottle on the coffee table and leans against my shoulder again. After Johnny Carson’s monologue, I feel the tension draining out of Melanie. The whisky and the humor are settling my nerves, too.
I wish I could sleep for a couple of weeks. Every day seems to be longer, with more chores left undone, and more demands on me. Sometimes I wonder if I could’ve prepared better. Maybe I should ask Clay if Flossie can come another day a week. But, that’s selfish. She’s already here on Mondays and Thursdays. We don’t have the money, and I don’t want Clay to work more overtime than he’s doing now.