Through the wall, I hear Norah and Clay’s muffled voices. I can’t tell what they’re saying. Maybe Clay is complaining about the gifts I brought the girls.
It doesn’t matter what the words are. Norah is so blessed to have someone to talk to in the soft hours of the night.
Their bedsprings give a deep sigh, and I imagine them settling into each other’s arms for the night. In my mind’s eye, I see Clay holding her. It’s too soon after the birth for sex, but he’ll rub her aching shoulders, kiss her temple as she falls asleep. He’ll make sure she knows he loves her.
I roll to my side, stuffing the pillow under my head. Soon the pillowcase is damp from my sideways tears.
The next morning, we sleep as late as DC lets us, which means Norah and I are up at six a.m. I start the coffee while Norah feeds the baby. We are still in our nightclothes. I have my hair wrapped in toilet paper. My hairdresser, Davina, at the
Salon de Paree
, swears the toilet paper in combination with my satin pillowcase keeps my set neat until my next appointment.
Norah looks like an old dishrag in her faded nightgown and stringy hair. She seems so much older than she did when I saw her at the beginning of this pregnancy. I feel kind of obvious in my red satin pajamas and black slippers decorated with feathers. Oh, well, this is what I sleep in. I’m not going to spend good money on flannel just to live down to my sister’s wardrobe.
Clay comes into the kitchen, fresh from his shower. He looks handsome as he grabs a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. If he wasn’t married to my sister, I could just sop him up with a biscuit, because nothing’s sexier than a good husband and father.
He gives Norah a kiss and leaves for the plant. Ignoring a stab of jealousy, I crush my cigarette in the ashtray and get another cup of coffee.
After a few minutes, Norah is dozing on the sofa, nursing the baby. When he turns away from her breast, I take him, covering Norah with the extra blanket she keeps handy.
He smells like sweet cream, warm and rich. My arms are full and happy as I rock him gently back and forth. I close my eyes and hum softly, soaking in the feeling of a baby in my arms. For an hour, I’m so happy.
Saturday, October 20, 1962
MELANIE
“All right, Davina, I’m ready.” Birdie sits in a dining room chair like a queen waiting for her servants to work their magic. We’re playing Beauty Shop with Aunt Lola, who’s gathered her rat-tail comb and hair lacquer.
“Can I have some make-up, too?” Birdie asks.
“You have to check with your mama.” Aunt Lola finishes ratting Birdie’s crown of fluff into a smooth bubble about twice the size of her little-girl head.
“I guess you can have a little lipstick,” Mama says.
“I’ve got just the color right here.” Lola digs in her gigantic cosmetic case. I can’t believe she’s got so much stuff. Mama only has two lipsticks and a compact.
“Pink Cotton Candy,” Lola croons. “A sweet color for a sweetie-pie.”
Birdie bounces from the chair, begging Mama for some perfume. “Please, please Mama? Just a little? An itty-bitty dab? I’m so pretty, all I need is perfume.”
“If it will hush you up, go ahead. But just one short, short spray.” Mama wrestles with DC, trying to give him a bath in the kitchen sink while he’s screaming. “He’s hungry, and I’m about to explode with all this milk.” Her voice sounds tight and tired. DC screams again and Mama’s hand slips. Water sloshes from the sink and soaks her blouse.
Lola steps up to the sink. “If you’d stop squeezing him like a rubber duck.”
“Leave me alone. I’m almost finished.”
“Norah. Stop.” Aunt Lola wraps her arm around Mama’s shoulders. “You’re angry. You don’t want to be this way. Let me finish.”
They look at each other, and something passes between them. Their eyes get sad together and Mama rests her head against her sister’s. With a sigh, she says. “Okay. I’ll go change and take a breather.”
Mama hasn’t let anybody else bathe the baby since they came home. Something isn’t right. I’m getting worried about her, but I don’t know what to do. That’s the hardest thing, when you see a problem and have no idea how to fix it. All of us are tired from DC’s middle of the night crying, but Mama has it the worst. I wish she’d get DC started on the bottle so Daddy could help her out. Even I could get up in the middle of the night on weekends. But she keeps putting it off.
Daddy doesn’t seem to notice that Mama’s temper is getting shorter each day. He doesn’t seem to care that until Lola got here and said something about it, Mama hadn’t washed her hair in more than a week. In fact, just now he doesn’t seem to care about much of anything except the beer that Lola bought at the liquor store this afternoon.
He holds the brown bottle by its neck between two fingers and stares at the television news like none of us are even in the house. Actually, I think it’s weird that he can shut things out. How can he ignore the baby crying, Birdie’s screeching, Mama’s anger, and Lola’s noise? Seeing and hearing it all makes me exhausted.
Lola wraps DC in his towel and carries him to the bedroom. In a few minutes, Mama and Lola come back. Mama’s wearing a clean white blouse and Lola is carrying DC, smiling and baby talking to him. Mama settles on the sofa, and Lola hands her the baby.
“Norah, I really wish you’d let me give him a bottle tonight and let you sleep. You look so tired.”
“Okay. You’ve convinced me. We’ll give him a bottle tonight.”
“Great. It makes me feel good to help you out.”
It seems like all the tension of last night is forgotten. Mama and Lola and have been laughing and having a good time today. Maybe I need to get over it, too. After all, Aunt Lola said she’d send me another present. I’m sure whatever it is will be better than that awful underwear. Still, I kind of wish I’d had a chance to put it on, just to see how the red satin feels.
Aunt Lola flaps the white bath towel she’d put around Birdie’s shoulders. “Next?”
With a sigh of resignation, I sit in the dining chair. Lola clips the towel behind my neck. “What will it be this time, Mel? How about a nice beehive like mine? Your hair is perfect for that.”
I scoot against the chair’s back. “I don’t care.”
“Oh, but you have to care about your hair. It defines you, gives you style, pizzazz.”
“If you say so.”
Lola drags the brush through my thick hair. The brushstrokes pull at my scalp. I watch in the hand-held mirror as she teases every hair until it stands out from my head and I look like a character in a monster movie who’s frightened out of her wits. I even open my eyes wide and shape my mouth like a scream to see if I could play the part. Oh, definitely.
But, when the ratty mess is sprayed and smoothed into a twirling high style, it does look nice. Then Aunt Lola pulls out her make-up case and does my face.
My eyes look larger with the blue eye shadow and mascara. Aunt Lola finishes the look with a lipstick that’s called Hot Pink Passion. If passion were a color, I guess it would look like this. Or maybe red satin.
I wish Robert could see me all done up. Maybe he’d forget about Brooke and kiss me again.
Lola looks over my shoulder and the mirror reflects both of our faces. She made me into a duplicate of herself. Only the years etched into Lola’s face make us look different behind the make-up and hair. She grins and removes the towel with a flourish. “Voilà!”
Birdie claps her hands. “You look so pretty, Mellie. Almost as pretty as me.”
“Thanks. I think.” I stand up and push my slacks down my calf with my foot.
“Norah, what do you think about your young ladies now?” Lola asks, as she carries the chair back to the dining room.
Mama opens her eyes and lifts her head off the back of the couch where she’s been resting while DC nurses. She smiles at Birdie. Then Mama looks at me. Her smile turns down, and her eyes, focus on my face, fill with tears. Silently, they run down her cheeks while her lips tremble.
“Very pretty.” She wipes her face with the back of her hand and looks back at DC. “Very pretty.”
Seeing Mama tear up makes me want to cry too. I don’t know why. Mama thinks I’m pretty. I can see the truth in her gaze. But somehow, it hurts her. And I don’t want to hurt her. Helpless, I just stand there.
Back in the kitchen Aunt Lola cracks open ice trays. “Let’s liven things up after all that Cuba mess on television.” She cuts her gaze to Daddy like he shouldn’t be watching the news. Like he should just ignore it.
But now I want to defend Daddy. I’m glad he pays attention to what’s happening. He needs to be able to concentrate on the news and not worry about the ordinary stuff happening in our house. If he knows what’s happening with Cuba and the missiles, he’ll be able to take care of us. He’ll be able to make decisions like letting Birdie and me stay home from school so we’ll be safe.
Daddy turns the TV off. “The news is over now. Whether you like it or not, Lola, things are happening and I need to keep up with them.”
Aunt Lola just stares at him, and says, “I think we should have a twist contest.” Lola twists her hips and looks at me. “Why don’t you call Stephanie and see if she wants to come over?”
“Can I, Mama?”
Mama yawns. “I guess so. But I’m not going to be able to stay up late.”
“I know, Norah,” Aunt Lola says. “You’re completely exhausted. You should turn in early.”
Mama sighs and leans her head on the back of the sofa. She shuts her eyes and nods.
I call Stephanie while Daddy moves the coffee table and chair to give us room for dancing.
Lola motions to Birdie with her hand, holding her cigarette with two fingers. “Honey, dig down in my suitcase and bring me those forty-fives, would you?”
I thumb through the records on the metal rack holding our meager collection. “We’ve got the ‘Peppermint Twist’.” The doorbell rings. Stephanie opens the door and pops her head in.
“Hey, honey, come on in.” Aunt Lola kisses Stephanie on both cheeks. “You know, that’s how they say hello in Europe.”
“Really? Ooh-la-la!” Steph says in a high-pitched voice. “Do they say that, too?”
“
Oui, mademoiselle
,” Lola says with a French accent.
Birdie comes back into the living room with Lola’s forty-fives. She’s slipped on a pair of Mama’s high heels, so she walks slower than normal, the clicking heels announcing her arrival. Daddy brings the box of pretzels and the big, beige can of Charles Potato Chips from the kitchen, and puts them on the makeshift bar next to the vodka and orange juice. Aunt Lola is mixing screwdrivers.
“You girls can have drivers.” She laughs and winks at Daddy. “We have to save the screw for the grown-ups.”
I slip a record onto the fat spindle that holds forty-fives and set the speed adjustment.
Mama scoots to the edge of the couch. “Wait a minute, Mellie. Let me put DC in bed before you start the music.” She groans as she pushes to stand up. “Maybe if I close the door he’ll sleep through this.”
Lola pours drinks into six glasses. When Mama comes back into the room, Lola pushes a drink at her, then one at Daddy. “Girls, get your glasses. We need to make a toast.”
Stephanie sniffs hers and frowns. “It really is just orange juice.”
“Yep.”
“To family. What would we do without them?” Lola grins and clinks glasses with Mama, then kisses her cheek. She taps Daddy’s and kisses his cheek. Then we all clink together.
It seems like we’re all happy for the first time in days.
NORAH
The mix of vodka and orange juice tastes so good—a slow burn and a tart sweetness. It’s a treat, and I didn’t have to make it myself. I drink it too fast because I’m not used to drinking. I forget a screwdriver is not like iced tea.
Still full of energy after a day of shopping and entertaining the kids, Lola spins around and flips the switch on the record player.
The needle hisses on the vinyl for a second, then twist music fills the living room. “Contest begins now!” Lola cheers and moves into the center of the room. “I’ll win, of course, since I am the reigning Twist Queen of American Legion Post 214 in Mud Springs, Georgia. But y’all might learn a thing or two, just by watching.”
The party’s begun. I guess I don’t have a choice but to endure.
Lola puts her foot in front of her and moves in smooth gyrations to the music. “C’mon, Norah.”
“No. I’ll just watch. I’m going to bed soon.”
Lola dances to where I’m sitting on the couch and takes my hand. “You can’t go to bed until you dance.”
"Okay. The sooner I do this the sooner I can sleep.” I’m barely moving, but I’m up and dancing. I’m surprised that it feels good. Lola smiles at me. We move in sync. We’re sisters, after all. Two sides of a coin, like our daddy used to say. We both tilt our hips slightly forward, and our hands are limp at the wrists. Most of our twisting motion comes from our waists. It’s kind of a lazy twist. “You know I’ve only got one dance in me.”
Clay stands by the table with his arms crossed over his chest, watching us. He’s smiling at me with that smile he saves just for me. I lift my hair off my neck and fan my face with one hand, all the while keeping my hips moving in time with the music. I feel my shirt rising, exposing my pregnancy-soft waist, but I don’t care. Clay watches me with that look in his eye. I’m reminded of what it feels like to be a woman. Not a wife, not a mother, not a milk factory. Just a woman.