as the liquid raced down her throat. She remembered that she hadn’t sweated this much since she’d tried to dance the Macarena at an all-black after-hours club back home in California. It was before she’d joined any church.
This heat is affecting my mind. She’d almost forgotten about that fiasco. Earlier, on the dance floor trying to do the Electric Slide, she’d already stepped on toes and turned in the wrong direction. Birdie learned quickly that black folks could get downright nasty when someone messed up the Electric Slide. She recalled that when she’d felt brave enough to return to the floor to dance the Butterfly, she’d ended up with bruised knees from trying too hard. She’d worked her knees like they were wings.
On her third attempt at blending into the sea of black faces Birdie accidentally slapped a young woman when she tried to coordinate her Macarena arm movement. The woman, whose complexion was so pale she looked like she spent all her time inside the dark club, quickly placed her hand on the bright red spot where Birdie had decked her on the cheek. The woman inched slowly closer to Birdie while the sea of black faces parted.
With the crowd chanting over the loud music, “Fight, fight,” the perspiration of fear poured from Birdie like she’d been shot with buckshot. She wanted to die before the woman killed her. Still caressing her bruised cheek, the woman leaned over and hissed in Birdie’s ear, “Take your no-dancing behind off this dance floor before I mop it with you—”
Birdie didn’t realize that if that woman could’ve fought she would’ve fought. She sold Birdie a wolf-ticket at a discount and Birdie bought it.
“I’m so sorry.” Birdie’s halting apology cut the woman off as the smell of alcohol and cheap cigarettes accompanied the woman’s whisper.
“The only reason I don’t return the slap is because I’m white, too. You can’t dance and you’re messing it up for us.”
Us. Birdie thought. What us? She’d been to that club a few times before, enjoying the sounds, the smells and the company of blackness. Had she been too absorbed to notice other whites? She strained her eyes and suddenly saw, even with the low lights, pale faces sprinkled in among the other dancers. Each of the pale faces squinted their eyes and gave a quick head nod towards the door to tell Birdie all she needed to know. She almost slipped in her own puddle of sweat as she dashed out of the club without as much as a goodbye to anyone.
This didn’t stop her from going to after-hours clubs in the Compton area, it only made her determined to learn the Macarena. It was shortly after that awful experience that she’d found God to be more important to her, but every now and then she still felt the urge to do the Macarena; sometimes even as she shouted in church.
“Just give me a few more minutes. It’s so hot everything I put on is clinging.” The high-pitched voice coming from Needy’s bedroom suddenly interrupted Birdie’s bad memories, replacing them with a smile.
What you really mean is that you’re so big and that’s why everything you try to put on is clinging. Squirts of water spurted from Birdie’s mouth as she laughed at her observation, which she’d never make to Needy’s face. “Not a problem,” Birdie replied. “I’ll just make myself comfortable.”
Birdie took the liberty of adjusting the old air conditioner. She reset it twice, trying to get it to blow out colder air. When nothing but a rattling sound happened, she made up her mind that Christmas was coming early to Needy’s house—whether Needy wanted it to or not—or they’d have to hold their singles meeting elsewhere.
Birdie sat down on the sofa. It was her first opportunity to look around Needy’s living room without the constant chattering of the other women distracting her.
It was the old, broken cat-shaped clock that first grabbed Birdie’s attention. She compared it to the grandfather clock in her mother’s home when they were back in California. Her mother’s house was filled with antiques handed down from her mother’s parents, who never found anything they wanted to throw away.
Birdie was so absorbed in her thoughts that she almost didn’t hear Needy call out again.
“I’m almost done putting my clothes on,” Needy yelled. “I just need to do something in the bathroom and I’ll be right with you. At least it’s closer to my living room and I won’t have to shout for you to hear me.” Needy wanted to stop shouting because it was making her sweat more. She also didn’t want to be a bad hostess by not paying attention to Birdie.
“Birdie, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since you joined our church and our singles club,” Needy said as she waddled down the hallway to the bathroom with her slip riding up her hips. “I know we’ve known each other since college, but I don’t know a lot about you—the real you.” She stopped speaking and waited for Birdie to reply.
Birdie said nothing.
“It’s been a while and I can’t remember where you’re originally from.” Again, Needy heard nothing. She continued the pressure. “Where are you from?”
“Really?” Birdie finally replied. “I thought everybody knew everything about me since my money seems to be so well known.”
“Well, you know I try and stay out of folks’ business,” Needy lied.
“I’m from Old Money,” Birdie said, proudly.
I knew she had a ton of money! Needy thought with excitement riding her like a Saturday morning bill collector. “Is that so? I would’ve never thought that,” she lied again. “You’re from Old Money? That must be so nice.” It’s going to be wonderful to have a friend who is financially stable. I’m so tired of the poor, living from paycheck to paycheck crowd—
“It’s wonderful,” Birdie replied, interrupting Needy’s delusional thoughts.
Suddenly Birdie started feeling a little homesick. The small community of Old Money, California would always have a place in her heart no matter where or how far she moved. She’d been happy there for most of her younger years. It’d only taken one unfortunate incident for her to leave the comfort of her mother’s eclectic home, piled high with a vast assortment of memories. The memories, some good and most bad, were jammed haphazardly between crumbling pages in numerous leather-bound scrapbooks that cluttered every corner.
Despite the chaotic décor inside, outside the two-story house the one-acre ground was well-kept, dotted with orange, lemon and palm trees that always seemed to bear fruit when others on the tree-lined street did not. Her mother, Kanair Ree Tweet, worked diligently to keep some semblance of order outside. It seemed to help Kanair Ree cope with her confused life.
Unlike her mother, Birdie lacked any of life’s gardening skills to help her cope with her surroundings. So there was one innocent error in judgment and the next thing she knew, she was on a plane, that time headed for South Carolina. It was about as far away from the West Coast as she could get with limited funds in her hands and unlimited embarrassment at her back.
Coming to South Carolina where she knew no one was the only option Birdie thought she had. After all, besides living in Old Money, she’d only gone to Hampton University in Hampton, Virginia.
Her mother was against her leaving Old Money to travel across the country for an education. Birdie’d tricked her mother by having one of her then-best-friends, Muffy Brewington, say that she too was going to Hampton to seek fame and fortune. That’s all Birdie’s mother needed to hear.
Kanair Ree considered the Brewingtons to
