Birdie (13 page)

Birdie

“
You and the mayor’s
kid, huh?”

Esther lights a cigarette and blows the smoke away from our ring of chairs in a long, fast line that let its tendrils meander away from us slowly once released into the air. There are three of us this evening. Patti Jo from B5 is rounding out our trio but at the moment she’s two trailers down shouting into her phone at her boyfriend. Her door is open and we can hear pieces of it – the juicy bits since those are what makes her irate and causes her voice to swell.

“Well, bring the whore who turned your dick into a lollipop on by and I’ll show her some of my goddamn hospitality!” we can hear after a stretch of silence. “She can put her feet up on my couch and help herself to my fridge. She’s already helping herself to my goddamn boyfriend!”

Esther glances over her shoulder briefly but then focuses her attention right back onto me. She’s heard similar versions of this fight long before I ever moved here and they no longer satiate her thirst for drama. She stares at me pointedly.

“Yep,” I finally say. It’s still odd voicing it and I scratch my elbow absently. But in true Esther form, she reads my discomfort and instead of continuing a direct approach to the topic, she launches into advice and home remedies that will drive him wild in a disturbing tangent.

“And if you rub it down with mayonnaise after, it takes away the sting,” she finishes after explaining how to bikini wax myself with honey and candle wax. I wrinkle my nose in disgust but part of me considers it. I know I can’t go to the salon in town without every occupant of Shenoah knowing I’m prettying up my nether regions for the youngest son of the Lott dynasty.

Not that my nether region needs trimming. It’s still unchecked, but Wesley hasn’t made a move for it again since the night I told him I loved him. His hands haven’t even roamed underneath my shirt. I would have been worried but I otherwise can’t keep him off me. His lips are always finding new places to kiss, his hands absently move over my shoulders or arms or rub my lower back when we’re in close proximity to each other, and when we sit together or lounge or even on Tim’s roof when we talk, there’s no longer any space between us. He draws me to him, tucking me in the spaces against him and murmurs how he feels about me in my ear when silence stretches between us and I can feel our connection heavy in the air but I’m too self aware to say what’s thrumming through me and he can’t keep it in.

I did ask him about it, breaking one of our silent moments on Tim’s roof. His breathing had gotten so even, I thought he may have fallen asleep on me and only then did I feel brave enough to whisper the question.

“Why haven’t we had sex again?”

He wasn’t sleeping. I felt him stir, startled, coming out of a lazy lull.  He pushed some of my curls away and kissed me on the temple instead of answering, which made me feel worse so I turned my face towards him to look him in the eye. He had a smile on his face. Not the mischievous grin I’m used to seeing him wearing because life is amusing and fun to him and he likes to share it with me to balance my seriousness. Not the charming smile he flashes at people to get his way or make them feel included. It was a small smile, free from motives, just there hanging like a sweet afterthought.

“Was it not good?” I asked, biting my lip nervously. I knew it wasn’t the answer. I could tell from his smile it wasn’t the answer but I didn’t know what else to say since he was still quiet.

He smile grew a little wider. “It was perfect,” he finally said. “Even though it embarrassed the hell out of me. Even your reaction afterwards. It was so you. Both times we went further together were perfect. And it was because you were ready. You wanted it. I’m never going to go there unless that’s the case.”

I pushed him in the shoulder, huffing indignantly. “How could you even know? You don’t even test the waters.”

“I can read you like a book. Since the first day I saw you at the diner. Trust me. I know.”

I still wasn’t satisfied. I tried to push images of Wes and Rachel going at it like rabbits from my mind. They’d dated for almost two years. Surely, he must be used to a regular diet of it. “But don’t you think about it? Doesn’t it cross your mind?”

He laughed softly. “All. The. Time. But I’m good, Birds. You cause me to have a lot of thoughts, horny and otherwise. I’m not a one track mind kind of guy. And I’m not going to fuck this up. I can wait.”

Some of my insides melted at his words and I knew the heated effect was evident in my eyes because his smile softened and his hand came up to rub my stomach before fisting in my shirt with a low groan.

“I’m ready now,” I said, knowing he could read it but solidifying it with words anyway to make sure it was loud and clear.

He closed his eyes and turned his head up to the sky. “Yes, I saw that,” he confirmed. “I have absolutely nothing on me.”

He knew what I knew. Scampering off the roof to drive to the nearest convenience store for a pack of condoms would sour the air of what made this the right moment. It would cheapen it and make it ordinary and probably fun but less than perfect. And I knew then what I was. I was delicate, tiptoeing into this new territory of surrendering pieces of myself to him, carefully and when the moment was right. He felt that and he only took exactly as he described. When he saw I was ready.

But I was still ready and I was not finished and I knew I could give him another piece without running into a Seven Eleven.

I leaned in closely to him and kissed his neck, trailing my way to his chin. His eyes closed and he sighed, deep and frustrated.

“So your response is to torment me, Woman?” he asked in a teasing voice.

I was not teasing and when my mouth met his, he realized it and his kiss faltered a little in shock. I just deepened it and then the teasing was completely gone and his hand cupped the back of my neck as his body pressed into mine. We were lying now side by side with my hand clutching his moving hips.

He broke away reluctantly and sighed into my hair. “Birds,” he whispered.

I reached down between his legs and felt the bulge in his jeans. His breath hitched at my contact and he stilled. My hand rubbed the denim there, lightly at first. And then the rubbing grew harder until it became more of a kneading and he was squeezing his eyes shut, his fingers underneath the hem of my shirt pressing into my skin.

I pulled down the zipper and worked the button until I was able to pull the length of him from his white cotton briefs. I examined it for a moment, looking down at it and moving the skin over it up and down slowly beneath my fingers. He continued to lie completely still, allowing my exploration with restrained pleasure.

I flicked my eyes up to his face and found him looking back at me. Deliberately, my exploration turned into long strokes within the palm of my hand. My eyes didn’t leave his gaze as the strokes increased in pressure and pace. He bit his bottom lip and his breathing began to turn ragged.

I watched his face as I did it and my heart lurched inside my chest. All the pleasure I was inflicting on him, the expressions moving through his eyes – I was the cause of that and it made me feel good.

I leaned in and kissed him as my hand moved faster and that undid him. He stiffened, clutching me to him with his arms, his lips unmoving but pressed against mine desperately as sticky wetness covered my hand and spilled on my leg.

When he released a little of his hold on me, he was breathing hard and fast, our foreheads pressed together.

“Your turn,” he said and I shook my head.

“No. Please just lay with me for a bit up here.” And he looked at me a long moment before nodding. He surrendered his shirt so I could clean him off of me then angled himself so I could tuck my arm next to his side and use the crook in his shoulder as my pillow.

And though I didn’t say anything, and he didn’t say anything, we didn’t have to say anything. I could read him perfectly.

I look at Esther now, describing how much mayonnaise to use after a bikini wax and what brand is best when I interrupt her with a stupid smile and say, “I love him, Esther.”

She regards me for a moment while taking another long drag on her cigarette.

“Love is something else entirely,” she finally says, snubbing it out on the ground in between our chairs. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I don’t.

Wes

I look at my mother
with unflinching anger. She sees the new development in my eyes and her head starts shaking in support of her argument.

"She's a nice girl," she starts and my hands clench, infuriated at what's coming. Mom continues quickly. "But slow down is all we're saying. It's fine that you're friendly, Wes. But don't put ideas in her head, don't make it hard when the two of you go off to your colleges."

This is the conversation that greets me after dinner tonight. Usually, I’m called into the study to discuss my future plans, namely Bowman. Tonight, I got caught off guard. Apparently, some do-gooder from Mom’s hospital volunteer board took it upon herself to inform my mother of my new girlfriend.

"Maybe she's going to Bowman," I say sulkily. We're in new territory, my mother and I. Usually I'm at odds with Dad. That I know. That I can navigate. We dance well, knowing how far to push each other without eroding the relationship beyond repair. I look at him now but he's staring into his scotch, perfectly happy to let Mom take the punches. My gaze swings back to Mom and she looks as lost as I feel.

She sighs. "What happened with Rachel, sweetie?"

"Nothing happened. That was the problem. I didn't realize how empty the two of us were together until I met Birdie. I love Birdie."

"Fine, but what about college? That's when your political career starts. People are more forgiving of high school but everything  you do in those college years is subject to scrutiny."

My voice is as even as I can make it though inside my anger is climbing. "What exactly about Birdie is there to forgive?" I ask, challenging her to say it.

"Come off it," Dad finally pipes up. "How many Republicans in office do you know with a black wife? It would hurt your chances running for office. If things were different..."

"You'd still be a bigot," I finish. Dad shoots out of his chair and we glare at each other over his desk. "You assume I'm going into politics," I say dredging up our old argument.

"I hope one day you will grow up and become a man worthy of the Lott name, yes."

"I don't have to be a politician to be worthy. I’m not going to Bowman." The admission feels good to voice. I almost smile at the relief and have to school my features so not to feed my dad's point.

He slams his fist on the table. "How could you not apply? The deadline ended two weeks ago. Now I'm going to have to pull favors. This is the kind of irresponsible behavior I'm talking about, Wesley."

"I won't be applying to Bowman. I'm not going there."

"What do you mean not going there? We already settled this."

"Yes, I'm aware that you mapped out my entire life, Dad. My fetus got the memo."

“You shut your smart ass mouth!”

“I’ve been working extra shifts at the diner and saving up every dollar,” I cut him off. Determination steels my voice and I feel my back straighten as my eyes lift to meet his. “I won a couple of smaller scholarships to the University of Texas. I am going to study history and I am going to teach and I am going to do it without Daddy’s money. You gave up on Stephen-“

“Don’t you say his name!”
              “You gave up on Stephen!” I yell, making sure to be heard. “You have Grant filling your every political dream. I am not a washed out druggie and I am not your golden boy. I am something in between and if you can pull your head out of your ass and look at me, maybe you can see the man I’m becoming. And be proud of him.”

Dad takes another sip of scotch and keeps his hard eyes on me but says nothing more. Mom sits shakily down in the chair next to me.

“I can do this without you but it doesn’t have to be that way,” I continue in a more level tone. “But it will be that way if you damn the decisions I make about my own future. Or if you try to bend me to be just like you. Or if you ever speak that way again about my girlfriend. I am not wrong, Dad. Mom. I’m just different.”

Mom’s sigh draws slowly out of her mouth. “Let’s not decide everything right now,” she says and I’m so frustrated I could punch a wall. I throw my hands up in the air and pivot on my heel. My fingers pinch the bridge of my nose. “Let’s at least meet her. This girl you’re so taken with,” Mom compromises. I open my eyes and look sideways at her and she shrugs. “Bring her to dinner.”

“And you’ll be nice?” I ask. Dad grunts so I repeat my question more clearly. “And you’ll
both
be nice?”

“It will be a lovely dinner,” Mom promises.

Birdie

It’s just dinner.

That’s the mantra I keep repeating to myself as I walk up the large stone steps to the Lott mansion. The stairs wind in two half circles from the rounded drive to large, thick doors much taller and with more clearance than any human being could possibly require.

My knock feels small and insignificant and I wonder if it can be heard in the massive home. My eyes roam the porch but nothing on it looks like a doorbell.

The wait stretches. I turn my head towards the drive and shield my eyes from the setting sun. My truck looks horribly out of place. I wasn’t sure where to park it so it sits a ways back on the gravel, trying to be inconspicuous with its tires partly in the grass on one of the curves.

The door swings open and some of my nervousness ebbs. Wes stands there in a maroon V-neck sweater over pressed khakis. His hair is slightly wet and he smells of crisp ivory like he just showered.

I smile and give a half wave. “I’m here,” I announce unnecessarily. I still feel out of place.

Wes steps onto the porch and gathers me into a thick, ivory-scented hug.

“Let’s get most of those jitters out of you here on the porch,” he says as he squeezes. “What can I do?”

I breathe him in and relax a little. “You’re doing it.”

He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me into the house.

It’s different when it’s full of people. The last time I was in here (I glance to The Couch as we pass by the open study), I came in through the back garage and most of it was dark. Now every hallway is illuminated and it brings the mansion’s grandeur into full effect. Tiny specks in the marble capture the light and brighten every painting, every carved surface, every brass knob. My heels click on the floor and sound my presence. It’s not a confident sound but more of a nervous clacking as I change my pacing to take it all in and keep up with Wes.

We enter the formal dining where everyone is already seated. I throw a wild look at Wes. I came early. He pulls my chair out for me and whispers in my ear as I sit, “We just sat down. You’re fine.”

“Welcome,” Wes’s mom says with a large smile. “I’m Bunny Lott and this is my husband, Donald.” Despite her expression, the greeting does not come off as warm and I can feel the tension in the room. She gestures around the table. “This is Grant, Wesley’s older brother, and an old friend of the family, Darren Hughes. Business ran a bit late so I invited him to stay for dinner. Gentlemen, this is Birdie Clements. Wesley’s friend.”

My smile is equally forced. “Thank you for having me,” I manage to say. Wes puts his arm around the back of my chair and lightly rubs my shoulder, his eyes never leaving his mom’s in some sort of challenge. I look back and forth between the two. Mr. Hugh coughs uncomfortably.

Grant, who is sitting on the other side of me, holds out a handshake. “Nice to meet you,” he says and the warmth in his voice is evident. I let go of a small breath and shake it back. My smile turns genuine.

Dinner is a beef stew and small side salad. As it is dished out, I dart my eyes around the table. After the awkward introduction, Wes’s dad and Mr. Hughes lapsed into more business talk and Bunny poked silently at her spinach. I decide to brave the Lotts and offer a flag to break this silent stale mate.

“This dinner is delicious, Mrs. Lott,” I compliment and she pauses in her bite.

“Thank you. Greeta, our housekeeper and cook made it. I’ll pass along the compliments.”

We eat in silence after that. I don’t know what to talk about with these people and they’re not offering any conversation. I see Wes about to say something, maybe liven up the dinner when Mr. Lott suddenly breaks in with a question.

“Tell me, Birdie, you are a senior at Shenoah High School, correct?”

He has finished his business conversation with Mr. Hughes and now has his attention focused on me.

“Yes, sir.”

“As I understand it, you arrived in the second semester.”

“Yes, sir. I moved here from Houston.”

“Odd. Why is that?”

“Family reasons.” I drink some water, making the explanation final. I do want to impress them but a line is a line and I will not divulge any more than that.

“I see. So you’re living with your uncle?”

“Yes. Sheriff Dobson.”

Mrs. Lott’s mouth turns down. “Sheila Dobson is your mother?”

My dislike for this woman takes root as I note her expression. Despite my own anger at my mother, my defenses flare. “Yes. She is,” I say clearly and in a voice that lets her know I don’t like her disapproval.

“And what does your father do?” Mr. Lott asks.

My nerves prickle. I hate this question. How to answer? Which father to go with? The rapist or the adoptive father who kind of half-assed the commitment my whole life?

I choose. The half-asser.

“He works in commercial real estate.”

Mr. Hughes breaks in. “Out of Houston?” he asks. The conversation takes a business turn and the family friend suddenly wants in on the discussion.

“Mostly Houston but the company has expanded to Dallas, Austin, and San Antonio as well.”

“What’s his name?” Mr. Hughes leans forward.

“Howard. Howard Clements.”

“
The
Howard Clements of Clements Commercial Real Estate? You’re Jackson and Marjorie’s granddaughter?”

I squirm. “Yes.”

Mr. Hughes lets out a low whistle. “Take notes kid,” he said, pointing his fork at me. “Top notch entrepreneurs, those ones. Worth a ton.”

“How did Sheila get mixed up with that family?” Mrs. Lott mutters under her breath. But not too low because I catch every word and bristle.

“Birdie, how do you like Shenoah?” Grant asks, abruptly changing the course of the conversation. Wes shoots him a grateful look.

The rest of dinner is more even keeled and when it’s over, I start to help Greeta clear the plates. Wes places a hand on my arm to stop me but on this I resist. I’m not comfortable being served.

“It’s in my nature,” I tell him.

“Housekeeping?” Mrs. Lott asks, astonished.

No. Mrs. Lott and I will not get along. Not even for Wes’s sake. With this goal squashed, I’m free to give her a hard look. “To clean up after myself.”

“That’s what we pay Greeta for.”

“Fine. She cooked a lovely meal. I’m going to help her clear the table. You may employ her to cook and clean, but there’s a line for me. I don’t need her to wipe stew off my chin and I can carry my dish to the sink. I’m not an invalid.”

Mrs. Lott draws in a breath to bite back but Grant puts his napkin down and steps between us. “Let me help, Birdie,” he says brightly and he, Wes, and I gather the plates under the glares of Mr. and Mrs. Lott.

Mr. Hughes can’t help a burst of laughter as we carry them into the kitchen.

“I like her,” I can hear him exclaim as we round the corner.

Away from Mr. and Mrs. Lott, I lean over the sink and sigh deeply. Wes rubs my back.

“How am I doing?” I ask.

“Poorly. They hate you.”

I nod.

“But that’s in reference to them. For me, you’re coming along swimmingly. The Birdie I know and love in every way.”

“Sorry. I know you wanted us to get along.”

“Hardly. That would have required a miracle. They’re eternally mad at me so you didn’t have a shot in hell. I just wanted to them to acknowledge you. Accept that you’re in my life.”

Grant comes to the other side of me, a beer in hand.

“I like you,” he states proudly. “So tonight’s not a total waste.”

I suffer through some after dinner brandy where Mr. Lott shows off Grant’s work at school to Wes and Mr. Hughes in his study. Mrs. Lott and I sit stiffly in the formal living room, she sipping her liquor and me clutching a glass of iced tea.

“Wes is quite fond of you,” she says after some silence.

Not what I expected for an opener, but I nod cautiously.

“You seem like a nice girl, Birdie,” she continues. “I’m sure we would get along just fine in any other situation.”

I resist the urge to snort.

“But think long and hard about what you’re doing. I see a fire in you. One I would have envied in another life. When Wesley is passionate about something, he’s all in. He rides it out for the long haul. Will you?”

I don’t answer. I hate that she’s honed in on the one thing about us that clenches my stomach.

“A political life as an interracial couple would be a difficult one. It’s already hard enough on the wife. She has to set aside her own career and goals because politics may take him in several directions. A wife supports.”

“It’s a bit early for that kind of thinking,” I interject and she sets her glass down.

“It’s something to consider. Yes, this relationship may run its course or it may get more serious. Will you go to Bowman in the fall? Will you drag him on longer before cutting it off? I love my son and I’m very protective of him. He may not see the hardships ahead, but I see them clearly and if you’re not ready to face them, well…” she picks her drink back up and takes a short sip. “…that makes you my enemy.”

The boys come back from the study then. Wes is carrying my purse which he hands to me. His face looks exasperated which means he just got several minutes of Grant-rocks-and-you-don’t comments in the study and I take his hand in sympathy.

“Ready?’ he asks and I try not to nod too vigorously but I’m pretty sure I sprained my neck giving my response.

“Thank you again for dinner,” I say formally. And I look directly at Grant when I say, “It was absolutely lovely to meet you.”