Free Bombshells by T. Elliott Brown Page A

me off.”
    I yank my hand back and slap him across the face.
    He’s stunned. His mouth hangs open and he has a fish face to match his fish-white belly. But only for a second. His expression hardens and he stands beside the bed, his balled fists tight against his legs. “If I leave now, I won’t be back.”
    “Good. I don’t want you back.”
    Stan pulls on his trousers and grabs his sport shirt. “You can’t bitch at me in front of my pals and then not put out. You tease.”
    I grab the ashtray from the bedside table and throw it at him. It shatters against the wall, leaving a trail of ashes and lipstick-stained butts trailing across the white sheet. “Go. Now.”
    “Where are my goddamn car keys?”
    “In the goddamn car.”
    “What? Somebody could steal it.”
    “That’s what I was hoping. For it to be stolen with you in it.”
    “Bitch.”
    The front door crashes, then his car roars to life, tires squealing down the street.
    Careful not to spill the cigarette mess onto the floor, I roll the sheets up and take them to the bathroom. I get the broom and turn on the overhead light in the bedroom.
    Slivers and chunks of the glass ashtray glitter like diamonds on the wood floor. I sweep them up. Dump them in the kitchen trash.
    It seems like there should be more garbage to clean up. Everything was so dirty just a few minutes ago.
    At two a.m. I finish putting clean sheets on my bed and climb back in to sleep. I wish I never had to wake up again. I think of Michael. I think of Mama.
    I have to get up at five.

Tuesday, September 4, 1962
    Jacksonville, Florida
     
    FLOSSIE
     
    It’s gonna be another hot day for sure. Last evening’s brief thunderstorm didn’t do a thing to cool the weather down. There is barely a breeze coming in the open bus windows. Sweat’s beading up on my lip. By the time I walk to the Adams’ house, I’ll be soaked through.
    Usually on Tuesday, I’m working at the Samuel’s house. They’re on vacation, and since yesterday was a holiday, Miz Adams asked if I could help her out today. I don’t need four days in row off work, that’s for sure, so I told her I’d be happy to help out.
    Getting off the bus, I adjust my hat and shopping bag, ready to walk two blocks to the house. About halfway there, shiny, white kids start pouring out the front doors, kissing their mamas, and marching down the driveways like little soldiers going to a parade in their glossy new shoes and stiff new clothes. That first day of school is always a happy day, isn’t it? Lots to learn, new friends to make, nothing bad to carry forward with you.
    ’Course, Birdie is starting first grade with a clean slate. Don’t think it’ll take her long to have stories to tell. I swear she’s gonna be the star trouble-maker.
    A red-haired boy about Birdie’s age busts out of his front door, his mama running behind him with a comb. “Tommy, come back here. Your cowlick is standing straight up.”
    The boy stops dead still and stares at me. “Mama. There’s a nigger.”
    The mama grabs his arm and drags him back toward the open front door, lookin’ over her shoulder at me. “Don’t use that word. She’s a nice colored lady, probably going to clean somebody’s house. Get back in here so I can fix that cowlick.”
    ’Course, I smile and keep walking with my head high. Words is words, like they say.
    Words is words.
    I still got a block to go to get to the Adams’ house. Now, what was I thinking about? Oh, yeah. Wondering if Mellie is excited about starting her new school. Last week, she seemed a little nervous.
    Now, she’s a smart girl, that Mellie. Once she got to know me, she wasn’t very shy about things, either. Last week, they were pestering me to tell them stories while I was ironing. So I told them the story of my old slave granny who ran away up North, but hated it so much, she came back home when she could.
    Mellie, she’s so smart and sensitive, she asked me how I felt about that. Nobody ever