She swears by baby oil and iodine, and she ought to know. I don’t like getting my hair and suit greasy, or sticking to my chair. I see her through the kitchen window, rubbing down her legs and arms, the fiery red ember of a Winston as she takes a hard drag, and I remember suntan lotion, go back for it because I cannot stand oil of any kind. I raise the window in the kitchen and find a station we like on the radio, turn the volume up, pour a glass of tea, and refill the ice trays.
I carry out a bag of chips and Little Debbie cakes, even though Mama cautions that girls can’t eat this way forever. She will finish her cigarette before I get everything in order to suit me, my blanket spread out in case I feel the urge to switch. “Your belly is going to be white as a fish,” she says, and I think, More like a whale, you mean. I wear my track shorts until Mama makes me take them off, but I refuse to wear a two-piece. A thin white scar peaks out of her bikini, but her stomach is flat and her waist is tiny. Then she lays the chair flat, spreads a towel over it, and strips down. Mama aligns her chair with the sun and adjusts both ends the way she wants: feet down, back up so she can peer out over the subdivision while she sips her coffee and enjoys her first cigarette. She is wearing a white terry cloth strapless jumper she will peel off when she’s ready and flip-flops. Mama has her baby oil and iodine, a cup of coffee, and her cigarette case.
I carry a blanket, sunglasses, a hat, a towel for each of us, and an armload of homework on my first trip. The lawn chairs are still cold when we carry our stuff out at ten sharp.
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