The Dry Grass of August (19 page)

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Authors: Anna Jean Mayhew

BOOK: The Dry Grass of August

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“What do you mean?”

“Going off to that colored revival. Anybody knows they shouldn't have done that.”

Mama sat up straight.

“Them being teenagers and walking after dark with a nigger.”

“We do not use that word.”

“You one of those integrators? I wouldn't have thought you'd be political, being such a lady.”

Mama stood, stern and dignified, even in her nightgown with cotton between her toes. “I am not political, but I don't use foul language.”

Davie began to cry.

“Mrs. Watts, please, I didn't mean to offend.”

I picked up Davie.

Mama opened the door. “As soon as our car is fixed, we'll be on our way.”

Mrs. Bishop went out, closing the screen carefully.

I couldn't believe what I'd heard. “We're leaving?”

“When the carâ”

“Without Mary?” I wanted to hit her.

She took my hand and patted the bed. “Sit with me a minute.” We sat. I shifted Davie to my lap and bounced him with my leg.

Mama said, “Bill's urging the sheriff to do everything possible. The car isn't as bad as we thought, and it might be ready Monday.” Davie began to fuss and I moved my leg faster and faster.

“If Mary hasn't turned up by thenâ” Mama said, “I'm sure she will, but if she doesn't . . .”

“We'll leave?” I choked back tears.

“We can't stay indefinitely, honey. We're doing everything we can, but sooner or laterâ”

Davie screamed.

“Check his diaper,” Mama said. “I've got to shower.” She stood and took her robe from the back of a chair.

“Mama!”

“What?” She sounded exasperated.

I rubbed Davie's back. “We can't leave without knowing. . . .” Davie howled in my ear.

Mama tested one of her toenails, then pulled the cotton out. She went into the bathroom and closed the door.The shower came on.

I hugged Davie. “Shhh, shhh.” I walked around and around, holding him close until his crying slowed, breathing through my mouth because his britches smelled so bad. I grabbed a diaper from the stack on the dresser and sat on the bed with him, rocking him back and forth, then lowering him to the spread. “Hush, hush, sweet boy. Gone change your diaper.” I sounded like Mary.

Mama came out of the bathroom in her robe, her hair in a towel turban. A cloud of soapy-smelling steam followed her. She handed me a warm washcloth. “Wipe him good.”

I pulled the diaper off Davie. “What's an integrator?”

“People who want to send you to school with colored children.”

I wadded up the diaper, dropped it on the floor, and cleaned Davie's bottom, sprinkling him with baby powder. He kicked his legs happily.

Mama straightened. “And the word is âintegrationists,' not âintegrators.' Some people are prejudiced and ignorant to boot.” She went in the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Davie clapped his hands and reached for me. “Doobie.”

By next week, he wouldn't remember Mary.

C
HAPTER 23

S
tell Ann was as sad as I was, but her way of handling it was to get busy. When I got to our cabin, she was straightening it, putting dirty clothes in a pillowcase. I wished I could be that way. “Where's Puddin?” I asked.

“I don't know.” Stell's eyes were swollen. She hadn't combed her hair or washed her face, so unlike her.

“Does she know about Mary?”

Stell shrugged.

I ran outside, saw a speck of pink through the trees. Puddin's favorite T-shirt. She sat in a carpet of pine needles beside the outhouse, staring into the distance.

“Puddin?”

“Nobody told me.” She scratched her knee. “Is she dead?”

I dropped down beside her, trying not to breathe in the odor coming from the outhouse.

“She must be dead or she'd come home,” Puddin said.

I put my arms around her, held her. We walked together back to our cabin.

Stell and Mama took the kids to lunch. I wasn't hungry and Mama didn't insist. I put on my bathing suit and went out into the hot noon sun. The concrete apron at the pool burned my feet. I dove in and breaststroked to the far wall before I came up. A woman was settling herself into one of the lounges. “You sure are a good swimmer.”

“Thanks.” I ducked my head, slicking back my hair.

“Are you on a swimming team?”

“Back home.” I swam the length again, coming up near where the woman sat.

“Where's home?”

“Charlotte, North Carolina.”

“Oh, goodness, you must be one of the girls got attacked on Lillington Avenue.”

“How'd you know?”

She reached for her Coppertone. “I live just around the corner from where it happened. Sally said y'all were from Charlotte.”

She had kind eyes and curly hair going from red to gray. Old as Meemaw, but thin and healthy, which made all the difference. She rubbed oil on her shoulders. “That bruise on your armâfrom last night?”

For a second I was confused. Had Daddy hit me? Didn't matter, my answer would be the same. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Do you know who attacked you?”

“Some men.” I wanted her to hush.

“Andâwas it your sister, too?”

“Yes, ma'am, but we're okay.”

“I'm glad you're all right.”

I needed to say something out loud. “Mary, our maid, she's missing.”

“Oh, yes, the Nigra girl who was with you.” She poured Coppertone on her shins. “I'm sure Sheriff Higgins is doing what he can.”

I ducked under and swam away fast. At the other end I climbed out and ran back to the cabin.

I had to find somebody who'd know how much Mary mattered, somebody who would do something, go looking for her. Out where the tent meeting was, lots of coloreds lived around there.

I trudged back up Zion Church Creek Road through afternoon shadows that striped the red clay. A man and three children stood in a circle in the field, holding fishing poles, heads bowed as if they were praying. Was it the same family from yesterday, the girl who was diving from the float? The wind carried a rusty smell like Rainbow Lake at Shumont. Birds flew up from the tall grass. Wires stretched between phone poles along the road and down a driveway to a brick house with sagging shutters, a vegetable garden in the front yard. A small, round colored woman was cutting corn off the stalks, dropping the ears into a bucket. The mailbox by the driveway said Ezra Travis. I walked toward the house, past corn plants rattling in the afternoon breeze.

I stopped by a thick azalea shrub between the garden and the house. The woman looked at me. She was darker than Mary, shorter, fatter. A white apron covered her pink print dress. She slid her knife into the pocket of her apron. “Yes?”

“Are the Travises at home?”

“I'm Mrs. Travis.”

“I'm trying to findâ”

The woman said, “And you are?”

“Oh. June Watts.”

She took off her gardening gloves. “Hello, Miss Watts. And who're you trying to find?”

“Somebody who could have been at the tent meeting last night.” When she didn't say anything, I added, “A religious colored person might be able to help me.”

Her face relaxed into a half smile. She smoothed her apron. “Would you like to come in? You look about to drop.”

“That'd be nice.” Chipped terra-cotta pots of pansies and geraniums lined the wide porch. I followed her up the steps, wiping my hands on my shorts. An overhead fan hummed rhythmically in the front room.

“Please have a seat,” she said. “I'll be right back.”

I sat on the edge of the sofa.

There were crocheted antimacassars on the worn sofa arms, newspapers on the floor by a rocking chair, a book open on a table. A vase of chrysanthemums on an upright piano caught the slanted light coming in the windows. Shelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, crowded with books. The smell of fried chicken and baked apples made my mouth water.

I sank back into the throw pillows on the sofa. My eyes felt gritty and my lips tasted of salt.

Mrs. Travis returned with glasses and a pitcher on a tray that she put on an end table. She handed me a wet washcloth. “To wipe your face, cool down.”

I covered my face with the cloth, breathed in the sharp smell of soap, wiped my neck and arms. Mrs. Travis pointed at the tray. “Just put it there and help yourself.” I poured a glass of lemonade and took a long swallow.

She sat in the rocker. “How is it that a religious colored person might help you?”

“My sister and I went to the tent meeting last night.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Two white girls all the way out here?”

“Our maid was with us.”

“I see.”

I drank until there was nothing left but ice.

“Help yourself.”

I filled my glass again. “We were on our way home and some men attacked us.”

“Oh!” She sat up straight in the rocker. “Are you all right?”

“My sister and I are, but our girl's gone.The men took her.”

“I take it she is Negro.”

“Yes.” I had an urge to say, “Yes, ma'am,” although I'd never said “ma'am” to a colored woman in my life.

“Is she from Claxton?”

“Mary works for us in Charlotte, North Carolina. Mama brought her on our vacation to help out.”

“Do your folks know where you are now?”

I shook my head, feeling guilty. “I was at the motel pool, talking to a lady about what happened. She didn't understand about Mary. So I was trying to find somebody. Somebody whoâ” I couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Somebody who would understand?”

“Uh-huh.” I clenched my hands to keep from crying. We sat there, me staring at my fists and her rocking. At first the silence was awkward, but then it got easier just to sit, tears spotting my shirt. There was only the sound of my hiccupping breaths, the creak of her rocker on the wood floor, the whir of the ceiling fan. I was still crying when the screen door opened. I looked up to see a man standing just inside the door, his eyes like lights in his ebony face. He was carrying a briefcase and wearing a suit and tie, as if he were dressed for church.

“What's going on?” he asked.

Mrs. Travis stood. “Ezra, this is Miss June Watts.”

She handed me a Kleenex. “June, this is my husband. Mr. Travis is an attorney.”

The man sat on the other end of the sofa and laid his briefcase between us.

Mrs. Travis poured him a glass of lemonade. “You look worn out.”

Mr. Travis loosened his tie. He asked me, “What brings you out this way?”

I talked and he listened, running his thumb up and down the side of his glass.When he finally spoke, his voice was full of pain. “I have some sad news.”

“About Mary?”

“I believe so.”

Mrs.Travis sat with her head bowed, her chin resting in her hand.

“I heard about what happened last evening, Mrs. Luther's disappearance.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. “They found a Negro woman a while ago. She'd beenâshe wasâ” He folded the handkerchief and put it away.

I stood.

“In the field near the pond, just down the road a bit. Sam Bradford was fishing with his children. . . .” His voice drifted off.

“I just passed the pond,” I said.

“Sheriff 's car was there when I rode by on my way home.” Mr.Travis looked out the window.

“It's some other girl. All coloreds look alike. The sheriff said so.” I was shaking so hard I thought my teeth would crack.

Mrs. Travis rose and put her hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back onto the sofa. “Ezra, would you fetch the quilt from the linen chest?”

Mr.Travis covered me with a quilt, tucking it around me. I wanted to leave my body and never return to the cold knowing.

Mrs. Travis asked, “How can we reach your folks, June?”

“Sally's Motel Park.”

Mr. Travis dialed, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, the phone to his ear. He asked for Daddy and waited. “Hello?” Mr. Travis said who he was and why he was calling. He listened. “Yes, I believe so,” he said. “No, I don't know ifâ” He looked at Mrs. Travis and shook his head. “Apparently she just walked out to where we live.”

He nodded to the phone. “My wife and I told her. She's quite upset. It might be best if you wouldâno, I'm not telling you what to do.”

He held the receiver away from his ear, then said, “Mrs. Travis and I can bring June to the motel, or you can come get her, whichever suits.”

He gave Daddy directions, then hung up. “Your father is naturally upset.”

I turned my face to the sofa cushions and closed my eyes. Mr. Travis' voice faded.

Daddy said something I couldn't understand. I opened my eyes. I was alone in the Travises' living room. Daddy and Mr. Travis were on the front porch, silhouettes in the fading daylight. Mr. Travis shorter, thicker in the middle. Daddy broader in the shoulders. A match flared as Daddy lit a cigarette.

I heard the click of a phone hanging up, Mama's quick high-heeled steps in the kitchen. I closed my eyes again, keeping my face buried in the sofa.

Mr. Travis said something, his voice calm.

Daddy answered, loud and sharp, “You've got no right to question me.”

Someone gasped. Mama.

Mr. Travis said, “Anything we say now is irrelevant to Mrs. Luther's death.”

Death. Mary was dead.

“Jubie?” Mama said. I felt her hand on my back. “Wake up, Jubie.”

I opened my eyes. Mama was bending over me, her face splotched, the fan turning above her. Her hair had come loose on one side and hung down her neck.

She wiped my face with the damp cloth, smoothing my hair off my forehead.

“Hey, Mama.”

“We were sick with worry about you.”

“I'm all right.”

“I'm not,” said Mama. “I'm undone about Mary.” Her eyes were tired. She kneeled on the rug beside the sofa, patting my shoulder, my head.

She stood. “Bill, I think we can leave now.”

“You okay, June?” Daddy towered over me, his hand trailing smoke.

“Yes, sir.”