bed and looked around the tiny room, at the giant cans of corn, lard, and beans that were stacked to the ceiling against slatted wood walls, at the lamp he’d made from a Coca-Cola bottle and other bits scavenged from the trash cans behind the hardware store. She began to panic, thinking that she had made an awful mistake. She heard her mother’s voice in her head saying, “I told you, girl. That’s how men are. They get what they want, and then they run.”
The panic fled when Chick tiptoed back into the room, still naked, carrying a big dish of ice cream with two spoons sticking out of it.
Seeing that Barbara Jean was awake, he grinned at her. “It’s my birthday. We’ve got to have ice cream.”
His smile fell away when he saw Barbara Jean’s face. He said, “Are you okay? You aren’t sorry, are you? You aren’t sorry we did—you know, what we did, are you?”
“I’m not sorry. I just thought for a second that you’d left, that’s all.”
Chick sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her. He tasted like vanilla and cream. “Why would I go anywhere? You’re here.”
She took the ice cream dish from him and placed it on the bedside table he had made by stacking old fruit crates. She kicked off the blankets and pulled him toward her. They both laughed as she sang, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” into his ear while he settled his weight on top of her again.
Barbara Jean and Chick were sharing melted ice cream when they heard the back door of the restaurant open. Someone rattled around in the kitchen as they listened. Then the radio came on and they heard Miss Thelma humming.
Barbara Jean knew she should have been frightened of being discovered there with Chick. And she knew that she should have thought she had done something wrong. She had learned at least that much from Sundays at First Baptist Church. But she couldn’t manage to feel the slightest bit bad about the best night of her life.
They stayed there in bed together listening to the clanking of pots and pans and enjoying the sound of Miss Thelma’s out-of-tune vocalizing. They finished the melted ice cream and kissed, silently celebrating their new lives on a planet all their own.
An old-timey blues song came on the radio and Miss Thelma began to sing along: “My baby love to rock, my baby love to roll. What she do to me just soothe my soul. Ye-ye-yes, my baby love me …”
Chick threw back the covers and hopped out of the bed. He stood beside the bed and began to dance, slowly moving his narrow hips in a widening circle while turning away from Barbara Jean to wave his tiny ass in her direction. He grinned back at her over his shoulder, mouthing the words of the song as he moved.
Barbara Jean had to pick up the pillow and press it against her mouth to keep Miss Thelma from hearing her laugh as Ray Carlson, the King of the Pretty White Boys, danced for her. She laughed so hard she cried. All the while her spinning, seventeen-year-old brain replayed the same thoughts: My Ray. Ray of light. Ray of sunshine. Ray of hope.
Barbara Jean thought of her mother. But now, for the first time ever, thinking of Loretta didn’t make her feel bad. She thought about what Loretta would say if she had been able to tell her about this night. Her mother would have said, “Well, it looks like you are your mama’s daughter after all. Your stuff was so good you done made a white boy jump up naked and dance the blues.”
Chapter 20
I didn’t exactly sail through my treatments the way I’d fantasized, but the side effects weren’t as bad as I’d been warned they could be. My stomach was a mess sometimes, but mostly I was able to eat like I always had. My skin dried out, but didn’t crack and bleed. I was tired, but not so weary that I had to quit my job or even miss a Sunday at the All-You-Can-Eat. Though it was brittle and broke off with the slightest tug, I kept a fair amount of my hair. Best of all, I celebrated Christmas week without a single visit from Eleanor Roosevelt. By the time of our New Year’s Day party, I was full of optimism and ready to kick up my heels.