Birdie and Beletta
By: Barbara J. Savage
Copyright 2012 Barbara J. Savage
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“The wind is messing up my hair-do.” Mother complained as she patted the back of her shellacked French-twist. She found a stray bobby-pin and pushed it in deeper.
We cranked our windows up without being told. Dad turned the air-conditioner on. Goosebumps bubbled up on my legs, and I wished I had worn pants instead of shorts. Ruth’s heels dug into my thigh. She stretched out more on the back seat and squashed me into the door. Mother lit her first cigarette of the journey, and my eyes began to water from the acrid blue smoke that filled the station wagon. I didn’t bother to complain. It wouldn’t have done any good.
My father, Tom Noble, turned onto the highway that led out of town. He adjusted the knob of the air conditioner and turned on the radio. He listened for a couple of seconds and then turned it off.
“Do you drive a car like you fly a helicopter?” Mother broke the silence.
“What?” Dad looked at her quickly and back to the road.