3
Sep
Chapter One
On the first day of summer, 1962, I turned twelve.
On the second day of summer, 1962, I remembered my birthday.
It was going to be a different kind of year. I could feel it with that shaky feeling you get deep inside, in your stomach. Or maybe someplace deeper, like your soul.
I’d only recently connected with my soul, so I was real aware of it. Just like I’d recently gotten breasts, and I was constantly aware of them. They tingled and ached and seemed to change shape throughout the day. Besides that, all my clothes seemed to have arrows pointing to my new breasts. Anyway, I felt like everybody looked at them all the time.
Thank goodness no one could see my soul.
That’s why I was so glad I finally found it. It’s like having a secret hiding place that’s so secret you don’t even have to go anywhere to hide. I could go there whenever I needed to, and no one knew I’d left.
So anyway, I woke up on June 22, 1962 and realized that I was already twelve. I’m not sure how we all managed to forget. I know Mama had a doctor’s appointment and her blood pressure was high, so they were worried about the baby. The doctor made her stay in the office for a long time. We were scared.
When the doctor finally let us go, we did some quick grocery shopping. That made Mama tired. We’d gotten my birthday present, a new red bathing suit, the day after school let out, a week and a half before. And my best friend, Stephanie, was in Philadelphia on vacation with her family. So my birthday ended up as just another day, filled with the usual worries and work.
Until now that I’d remembered it.
My feet slapped against the speckled tile floor as I walked to the kitchen. The tile was cool and slick, and because of the humidity, my warm feet left foggy footprints, that faded away quickly. The pale green curtains at the kitchen window fluttered in the breeze and ruffled the edge of my baby doll nightie. I could smell a little bit of salt the air picked up from blowing across the ocean.
Wet laundry hung on the clothesline in the backyard, making it sag so low in the middle that the pink bath towels almost touched the ground. Mama always hung the clothes in order of size and color, starting with my sister Birdie’s little white socks.
But Mama wasn’t there.
The sun glinting on the aluminum cake plate caught my eye. I walked over to the buffet where it always sat and lifted the cover. Immediately the rich dark smell of chocolate bloomed around me, erasing the bacon and coffee scents left over from Daddy’s breakfast. Smooth, shiny frosting swirled over the top of the cake like waves breaking against the jetty on the St. Johns River. The temptation to take the tip of one chocolate wave off with my finger nearly overwhelmed me.
Mama never really forgot my birthday.
“Mornin’, Mellie.” Mama’s voice startled me, and I dropped the lid over the cake, snuffing out the sweet smell with a metallic clang. Saved from temptation.
Mama set down the wicker laundry basket and wiped beads of sweat from her upper lip. She arched her back and rubbed her hands back and forth across her hips. “You’re up early.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mama reached for her glass where it rested on the windowsill over the sink. She filled it with tap water and put it to her lips.
I went to stand beside her and rubbed my hand across her huge belly, stretched beyond belief by the baby. “Is the baby moving a lot today?”
Watching Mama’s mouth through the bottom of the glass was like looking through a magnifying glass. Her lips were all puffy and pink, and her teeth looked like the keys on Birdie’s tiny toy piano.
I shivered and leaned over to kiss my new baby brother or sister.
Please, God, let it be a brother. I can’t take another sister. And I know Daddy wants a boy. That was one of my morning rituals. To kiss Mama’s tummy and pray.
Scooting back a little so I could see Mama’s face, I asked, “Guess what?
Mama put her glass back on the windowsill. “What, sweetie?”
“No, you have to guess.”
“Ummm, let me see. Birdie lost another tooth?”
I tried to keep from rolling my eyes. “No, Mama.” Sometimes it’s really hard to be the oldest.
“Well, you might have to tell me. I can’t think fast enough to imagine what kind of trouble Birdie’s gotten into now.”
“It’s not about Birdie at all. It’s about me.”
“Oh, sweetie, no! Don’t tell me you . . . “
Good grief! Was that what she thought? She had given me the ‘time of the month’ talk the week before because my birthday was coming up. I was still waiting for the one about the birds and the bees. Stephanie had already heard that one. Of course, her sister, Cherie, was sixteen, and told Steph anything she wanted to know.
“No, Mama. Thank God, it’s not that.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady.” Mama pointed her finger at me. “Nice young ladies don’t talk like that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But, thank God, that’s not what it is. I don’t think I could cope with that just now.”
“Mama, why can you say ‘thank God’?”
Mama pulled out a chair and plopped into it like she couldn’t hold herself up anymore. “Like I told you, do as I say, not as I do.”
I frowned. “Okay. But guess again.”
Resting her chin in her palms, she stared at the table. Suddenly she jerked upright and looked at me like I was a ghost.
“Lord have mercy! We forgot your birthday, child.” She pulled me to her and hugged me up against her chest.
No matter how old I get, I don’t think anything will feel quite as good as a Mama hug early in the morning. She smelled like bath powder and sunshine and just a little bit of sweat. Her body was warm and soft against mine and that shaky feeling that had been in me all morning faded away. If I were my new brother or sister, I would try to stay inside Mama forever.
“How could we forget your birthday, Melanie Adams?”
I grinned and snuggled closer to Mama. A thought zipped through my brain, quick as a flash of lightning. Maybe I didn’t want to have my twelfth birthday. Somehow, I wasn’t so sure I was going to like being twelve. But instead, I said, “I don’t know, Mama. Maybe I’m getting old.”
Mama chuckled deep in her chest. The rumble went through me too. Deep and soothing.
“Hey now, you can’t steal my excuse. How does cake for breakfast sound?”
“Yummy!”
Mama turned me around and patted my backside. “Well, you go get Birdie up, and I’ll call Daddy to see if he can come home and have some cake with us.” She picked up the telephone and looked at me over her shoulder. A little frown creased her brow. “Put some clothes on, sweetie. And don’t forget your bra.”
You know, I hated that.
Lately, Mama looked at me and frowned. It seemed like Daddy tried not to look at me at all. And Birdie always had to get into the bathroom while I was taking a bath. It was like I was the new act in a freak show.
The snicking sound of Mama dialing the telephone followed me as I ran through the kitchen, the tile cool against my feet with every step.
“Birdie, wake up,” I called from the hallway. “We’re gonna have cake for breakfast.”
“Uh-uh. Mama never lets us have sweets for breakfast.” Birdie’s voice sounded muffled, like she had her head under a pillow.
If only, I thought. Then quickly asked for forgiveness. I needed to protect my soul from such horrible thoughts.
“Well, we are today.” I threw back the door to the bedroom we shared, and saw why Birdie’s voice sounded funny. She was in the middle of her twin bed with both of her feet tucked behind her head.
She slapped her butt with her hands four times and said, “Oh.” Slap, slap, slap-slap, “Oh.”
“C’mon, Birdie, get up.” I pulled my favorite shorts and shirt out of my drawer.
Slap, slap, slap-slap. “Oh,” came from Birdie on the bed.
My new bra, snowy white with a little pink rose bud in the center, lay in the drawer next to my old, dingy panties. I turned my back to Birdie and tugged my baby doll nightie over my head. After I slipped my arms through the bra straps, I struggled to fasten the hooks into the eyes. How in the world did Mama do this? Especially since her breasts were absolutely gigantic now that she was so PG. I finally gave up, slipped my arms out, and put the thing on backwards, sliding it around after I hooked it.
Slap, slap, slap-slap. “Oh.”
“What are you doing anyway, pipsqueak?”
“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.” Birdie moved her feet from behind her head and did somersaults to the end of the bed. Standing up, she bounced a couple of times before she landed on the floor.
Birdie was six years old. She had four teeth missing right smack in the middle of her mouth. She looked in the mirror, rolled her tongue and stuck the whole thing through her teeth without ever opening her jaw. Her nose scrunched up, and her freckles bunched together. When she does that around people, everyone laughs like it’s the funniest thing they ever saw. She practices in front of the mirror a lot.
I’m sure I could have done something stupid like that when my teeth were missing, but I never did. I try never to be stupid on purpose. Too many stupid things happen without me even trying.
My shirt slipped down over my chest like an old friend. I tugged on my shorts and shot the zipper up with a snap.
Birdie picked up the hairbrush and ran it through her blond hair. Even after brushing, it stood out like a cotton ball. “Why are we having cake for breakfast?”
“Cause it’s my birthday.”
“Uh-uh. Yesterday was your birthday.”
“But we forgot.”
“I didn’t.” Birdie crossed her eyes and looked at the freckles on her nose.
“You remembered?” I couldn’t believe it. Birdie remembered it was my birthday and didn’t even remind us so she could have cake? What was wrong with her? “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Birdie started doing her one-legged dance and hopped right through the door. Over her shoulder she said, “Well, it wasn’t my birthday, idjit.”
Gosh almighty! Isn’t that just like a bratty little sister to let you forget your birthday? I bit the inside of my cheek and counted to ten to keep from yelling at her. At this rate, I was going to have a hole in my face by the time school started in September, Birdie aggravated me so much. When I reached the number twenty and finally calmed down, I remembered Mama saying, what goes around, comes around. I’m sure something like this will happen to Birdie someday.
I brushed my hair and stretched the rubber band around it just as a Navy jet zoomed over. Startled, I jerked my arms and had to start all over with the ponytail.
I can tell Navy jets from regular planes because they make a special low roar and sometimes they break the sound barrier. When they do that, the windows rattle, and it sounds like the sky has cracked and is crashing down on us. It makes me just about jump out of my skin.
Jacksonville is a big Navy town. In fact, when we moved to Florida from Atlanta, Mama said it didn’t seem like we were still in the South. Except for us, every family on our street is in the Navy and from someplace else, mostly northern states. Jets fly back and forth from the three Navy bases: Mayport, where they keep the aircraft carriers; Cecil Field; and Naval Air Station Jacksonville, where they store the airplanes. Stephanie’s dad is a chief, and he says the Navy has been doing a lot of training this summer. That’s why the jets fly over all the time.
Sometimes, when we’re outside playing kickball, a jet will zoom over. We all stop and look up, wondering whose dad is the pilot. Except for me and Birdie. Our daddy is a foreman at the Reynolds Aluminum plant. We’re glad Daddy isn’t in the Navy, except when we want to go swimming on the base.
The littler kids always wave, thinking if the pilot is their dad, he can see them and wave back. I think the planes are going so fast the pilots don’t see anything at all.
To them, it’s like we’re not even on the earth.
In the kitchen, the percolator hummed and gurgled, filling the kitchen with new coffee smells. Birdie turned on Captain Kangaroo, adjusted the rabbit ears to get rid of the static, and sprawled on the couch. The toilet flushed, and I heard Mama singing as she came down the hall.
“Mama, which plates do you want to use?”
“We’ll use the china. After all, this is a birthday party.”
“No, it’s not!” Birdie sang from the living room sofa. “Yesterday was her birthday.”
“We know, Birdie. But Daddy’s on his way home, and we’re going to celebrate today.” Mama poured two glasses of milk and filled the cream pitcher. She carried the creamer and sugar bowl to the table and placed 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 sounded kind of whiny, like she was about to cry. Or maybe throw a tantrum.
Birdie’s tantrums were awful. Sometimes she collapsed to the floor screaming and kicking until you’d think the world was ending. I would do almost anything to avoid Birdie’s tantrums. Mama just ignored her and went about her business. She says that’s what the pediatrician told her to do. Easy for him to say. Dr. Withers had never seen one of Birdie’s tantrums.
Even though I was excited that Daddy was coming home from work in the middle of the morning to have birthday cake with me, I didn’t want Birdie to get all worked up and throw a fit. “Okay, okay. We’ll just have cake. Everybody knows it’s not really my birthday.”
“Well, as long you know it’s not real. Nobody’s allowed to have two birthdays.” Birdie sounded calm now.
Thank goodness. I sure didn’t want to have my almost birthday completely ruined.
Outside, the brakes on our old blue Ford squealed.
“There’s Daddy.” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. I just had a feeling that Daddy would do something special for me.
The front door opened, and he stood there with the sun shining behind him. Both his hands were behind his back.
There it is. There’s my real surprise. I tried not to show how excited I was.
“Where’s the birthday girl?” he shouted.
“It’s not her birthday!” Birdie yelled from the couch. She jumped up and turned Captain Kangaroo louder.
Uh-oh, I thought. Here comes the tantrum.
Daddy just looked at her. I’ll bet every Dad has that look. You know the one that doesn’t need any words at all, but says everything.
Birdie, still standing next to the television, snapped the switch off and went to put napkins on the table. She knew exactly what Daddy’s look meant.
“Here’s something for the young lady of the house.” He smiled and shoved the door closed with his foot. “Well, come over here and get it.”
I ran to him, wondering what kind of wonderful surprise he might have for me.
“Oh, no. I get a kiss first.” He lowered his cheek for me to kiss. Daddy’s cheek was smooth and smelled good, sweet and spicy, with a little tang of cigarette smoke blended in.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He drew his hand from behind his back and handed me a rose, a beautiful, red rose with a long straight stem. The smell, so heavy and rich, seemed to hang in the air around the flower and made me lower my nose right into the center of the bloom. The petals were like cool velvet on my skin.
The shaky feeling slipped into me along with the sweet smell of my “young lady” gift. What happened to skates or records? Even a book?
“I’ve got surprises for everyone this morning.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a candy bar. “Birdie, this is for you.”
“Oh goodie! A Baby Ruth!” Birdie skipped up to Daddy and hugged his legs.
Mama stood in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. She raised one eyebrow and puckered her lips up in a pretend pout. “What about me, Big Shot?”
Daddy went over and wrapped his arms around Mama, kind of bending over so he could reach around the baby. They looked at each other.
I always feel invisible when they do that, when they look deep into each other’s eyes. I glanced at Birdie. She scrunched up her nose at me, but looked back at Mama and Daddy standing there hugging each other and I knew she felt the same way. For a minute, there was nobody in the world but the two of them, holding each other.
Somewhere inside, that one little speck of me that was looking forward to growing up and becoming a woman told my brain that this is what love looks like and don’t settle for anything less. As quick as a flash, the thought was tucked away for some future time when all of me would be ready for the thought and the feeling. Isn’t it funny how you can have all of this stuff happening in your head and heart while you stand in the dining room holding a rose and watching your family do everyday stuff?
Daddy held Mama’s face in his hands. “You’re going to like your surprise best, Kay.”
“Oh, really?” Mama pushed away from Daddy and went to the table. “You can tell me while I cut the cake.”
“C’mon, girls.” Daddy pulled out a chair and motioned for me. “Miss Melanie, for you.”
I sat down, and he pushed my chair in for me. I laid the rose on the table, and, all the while, the scent drifted up to me, reminding me that it was a grown-up gift, not a kid’s gift.
“Remember when I told you about Max’s sister?” Daddy asked while he stirred milk into his coffee.
“The one who does housekeeping?” Mama cut the cake and gave the first slice to me.
“Yep. Well, she has an opening on Mondays and Thursdays until Thanksgiving.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sure she needs the work.”
“No, she has work.”
Mama cut the last slice of cake for herself. She pushed her fork through the yellow cake and chocolate frosting and held it up in front of her mouth. “Good.” Mama smiled. She always worried about other people. She slid the fork between her lips and closed them around it.
I did the same. Sometimes, I want to be just like my mama. She always does the right thing, says the right thing, and knows exactly what we all need.
Daddy grinned really big and grabbed Mama’s hand. “Yes, it is good. She’s working for you.”
Mama’s fork clattered onto her plate. “What?”
“You need the help. And Max is good folks.”
She cried and hugged him. “Oh, Clayton.”
So everybody got a present for my birthday. And Max’s sister, Flossie, turned out to be the best gift of all.
*********
After that, Flossie rode the bus to our house two days a week. Her voice was smooth as black coffee when she said, “Good mornin’, y’all,” while she put her hat in the living room closet. Then she pulled a freshly ironed apron out of the shopping bag she carried and pressed out the creases with her shiny brown hands.
While she ironed, we begged her to tell us stories. That was usually during the afternoon thunderstorms, so we would lie on the cool tile with the fan blowing over us. Even Birdie would be still and listen to Flossie tell us about her granny being a slave and all.
But Flossie didn’t seem to hold it against us. You know, I think I might have a problem working for white folks if my granny had been a slave. I asked her about that one day when she was ironing and Mama was getting clothes down off the line.
Flossie looked at me and said, “Melanie Adams, you’re a good girl. And a smart girl, too. I know you gonna look around you and see what’s wrong and try your hardest to make it right. A body can’t ask for more than that.”
Flossie started humming, her voice low and rich. That shaky feeling hit my soul again.
