The Dry Grass of August (24 page)

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Authors: Anna Jean Mayhew

BOOK: The Dry Grass of August
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C
HAPTER 28
M
ama and I were fixing lunch when I heard the garage door going up and down. Mama put her hand on my shoulder. “Open the can of tuna for me.”
Daddy came into the kitchen. He set a beer on the table with a sharp clack. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Mama said, “June did what we should have done.”
Daddy's eyes went to slits. “She stole your goddamn car!”
Mama turned back to the counter. “I've had enough of your temper.” She began chopping onions.
Daddy stared at me across the bar.
Mama said, “Jubie, get the sweet pickle relish from the fridge.”
Daddy left the kitchen. Their bedroom door slammed shut.
Mama tried to find a new maid. She talked with her friends, put ads in
The Charlotte Observer
and
The Charlotte News
:
DOMESTIC NEEDED to clean, iron, cook. South Charlotte, No. 3 bus, 8 AM to 6 PM, weekdays. Occasional Saturdays. Lunch provided. Must be healthy. $25 a week. Call Mrs.Watts at 3-5652.
Daddy thought it was excessive to run the ad in both papers, claiming that coloreds only read the
News
. Mama said most of her friends preferred the
Observer
, and they were the likely source for finding a new maid.
Mama had objections to all the maids who answered the ads. One had a lot of experience and several references, but she wanted thirty dollars a week and Mama said that was highway robbery. “Besides, she sounds uppity.”
She posted a notice on the bulletin board at Watts Concrete Fabrications, hoping one of the men there would have a wife or daughter who needed a job. Nothing came of that, and Mama thought it was because we had a bad name in the colored community after Mary's death.
Clothes began to pile up on the den sofa, where Mama took them to fold while she watched TV or listened to her programs. The mound of clothes often outlasted the programs and she just left them there. She stopped ironing the sheets and pillowcases, and we had to change our own beds.
One day I found her sitting at the dining room table, crying, holding her damask tablecloth. There was a brown iron-shaped mark in the middle. “I've ruined it,” Mama said. “I was on the phone. . . .” Her tears spotted the fabric, and the smell of scorched linen hung in the air. I wanted to comfort her but couldn't think how. She blew her nose on the ruined damask. “There's just so much to do.”
The next morning, Mama got Stell and me to help her move the kitchen table and chairs into the dining room. She put on faded denim Bermudas and tennis shoes, tied a bandana around her hair, and spent the day on her hands and knees with a scrub brush and pails of soapy water, scraping the yellow wax buildup off the linoleum. At supper she showed us her ruined manicure. “I wore rubber gloves, for all the good they did. I'm going to have a nervous breakdown if I don't find help.”
A colored woman named Virginia, who was Susan Feaster's maid, helped us for a week while Mrs. Feaster was out of town. After Virginia had been with us a couple of days, Mama said to her, “I don't know what Susie pays you, but I can offer you twenty-eight dollars a week, with lunches.”
Virginia turned her down, saying she'd been with Mrs. Feaster for eleven years. Mrs. Feaster was one of Mama's oldest friends, and I wondered if she ever found out about Mama going behind her back.
Mama told Aunt Rita, “I'm just looking for a good Negro, like Mary.”
“You'll find someone. There are lots of strong girls who'd make fine domestics.” Aunt Rita sliced a ham she and Mama were splitting.
“I've got high standards.” Mama took a roll of freezer paper from the pantry. “Mary was smart, a hard worker. I trusted her completely. And the way some of these girls talk makes my skin crawl.”
“Mary had decent grammar.”
“And she didn't infect the kids with ‘ain't' and ‘fin uh go' and—”
“Fin uh go?”
“Fixing to go, as in ‘Ah'm fin uh go de stoh.' ”
“I'd swear you were colored.”
Daddy didn't understand why Mama was having such a hard time finding a new maid, so she told him he could look for somebody. He didn't nag her anymore.
I didn't avoid him, but we had little to say to each other when the family sat down to supper or in the den to watch TV. I was uneasy around him and I wished things could get back to the way they'd been before Mary's death. When Daddy walked into a room, I was careful, the way I used to be on the fishing pier at Shumont, where the weathered gray planks looked solid enough until a rotting board gave beneath my feet.
Without Mary, the heart of our home was broken, and hiring a new maid wasn't going to mend it.
C
HAPTER 29
C
arter called to tell us about the accident. I remembered seeing Richard Daniels on the high dive as we passed Municipal Pool on our way out of town when we left for Pensacola. I imagined him diving, tucking and flipping, the board pulling out of the base, Richard rising from the water, the board falling, Richard's head cracking open like a watermelon.
All I could think about was the board hitting his head. Stell said they drained the pool because of the blood.
Richard was the best diver on the senior team. He spent hours practicing, waiting patiently in line to use the board. While other kids did cannonballs or sloppy swans, he did double flips, slicing the water with a clean entry. People watched when Richard dived.
The house was heavy with silence. Mama, Daddy, and Davie weren't home, and until Carter called, Stell and Puddin and I were as far away from each other as we could get in the quiet house. After the call, we huddled together in Stell and Puddin's room. Puddin kept crying, even though she hardly knew Richard. I held her until she calmed down, leaning against the padded headboard that joined their twin beds. Puddin lay back on the pillows and I stretched out across the foot of the beds, staring at the dead bugs in the glass globe of the ceiling light.
“I talked to Richard last night,” Stell said. “He wanted to know if I thought we should have boys on the cheerleading squad.”
“Do you?”
“A lot of schools do. With boys you can make pyramids.”
“Did Richard want to be a cheerleader?”
She sniffed. “Yeah.”
The back doorbell rang. Rang again. The cowbell jangled as the kitchen door opened and Uncle Stamos called out, “Bill? Paula?”
I shouted, “Hey, Uncle Stamos,” and ran down the stairs.
He met me in the front hallway. “Where are Bill and Paula?”
“Mama's shopping. I don't know where Daddy is. An awful thing happened. . . .”
“I know. Terrible, horrific,” Uncle Stamos said. He couldn't keep his hands still. He looked into the living room, put his hands in his pockets, took them out. “June, I've got to talk with Bill. Tell him to call me.” He headed for the kitchen, turned, his face ashen, his eyes brimming. “At the office. As soon as he gets home.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” Uncle Stamos was gone, the cowbell clanging behind him.
I stared out the window at two birds pecking the lawn. Stell Ann came into the kitchen. “Puddin cried herself to sleep.” She opened the fridge. “You want some tea?”
“I don't want anything except for Richard to be alive.”
“I know. I can't stop thinking about him.”
A car door slammed, the breezeway screen opened and shut. Mama called out, “Girls?”
She came into the kitchen, carrying two sacks of groceries, Davie holding the hem of her dress. “June, get the rest of the groceries, please.”
“Mama, have you—”
“Just bring in the groceries. Then we'll talk.”
She'd heard. It took me two trips to carry in all the paper bags, with Mama unloading into the refrigerator and cabinets, Stell helping, nobody saying anything. Davie was in his high chair, banging a spoon on the tray.
“June, get your brother a graham cracker.” Mama shook a cigarette from her leather case and sat down next to Davie with an ashtray. She took a deep drag. “Y'all must've heard about Richard Daniels.”
Stell put cans of beans on the pantry shelf. I said, “Carter called.”
Davie took a bite of graham cracker, said, “Doobie.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That the diving board at Municipal fell and hit Richard in the head.”
Mama smoked, drumming her fingers on the table. “Is that all?”
“Uncle Stamos came by, looking for Daddy.”
“Oh, God.” Mama's voice broke. She snubbed out her cigarette and put her head in her hands, crying. “They were talking about it at the store. They said the board . . . that something came apart . . . broke.”
Davie threw down the cracker. “Mama!”
She didn't seem to have heard. “Where in hell is your father?”
C
HAPTER 30
R
ichard's picture was on the front page of the
Observer
, with an article covering the details of his death, saying the services were for family only. Mama read it aloud at supper. “I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Daniels don't want strangers gawking at Richard's grave. I'd feel the same way. People can be callous.”
Over the next week, the phone rang and rang. When Mama answered it, she said a cheerful, “Hello?” If it was someone close—Aunt Rita or Uncle Taylor—her voice returned to a flat tiredness.
Daddy went to work and came home. He didn't go to the club or play golf or go fishing at Lake Wiley. He sat at the kitchen table or in the den, picking at the label on his beer bottle, leaving behind him swirling smoke and bits of paper. Mama said on the phone to Aunt Rita that he wasn't drunk and he wasn't sober. One night he and Uncle Stamos closed themselves in the den with a bucket of ice and a fifth of Jim Beam. Stell and I were at the kitchen table, doing homework while Mama put away leftovers after turning on the radio to drown out the rumble of their voices. The den door opened and Daddy went into the dining room. The liquor cabinet door opened, bottles rattled. Uncle Stamos' voice came from the den. “It wasn't the rebar and I won't lie about it.We have to face the music, take whatever . . .”
“No, no,” Daddy interrupted him. “We just need to make it look as though . . .” The den door closed and I didn't hear the rest of Daddy's sentence.
I asked Mama, “What's a rebar?”
“They use them in their business.” She turned her back to me and wiped around the burners on the stove.
Stell stood. “I need a pedicure.” She gave me a sidelong look that told me she wanted me to come with her.
When I got to Stell's room, she was sitting on her bed, polish brush suspended in air, three toes on her left foot still unpainted. “Have you told Mama what Link said at Mary's funeral?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I'm keeping my head down.”
“Tell her.” When she tried to spread her stubby toes, they hardly moved. She touched up a spot and blew on the wet polish. “Daddy's in trouble.”
“What're you talking about?”
She put the brush to her pinkie. “Sometimes you are so out of it.”
“Because nobody ever tells me anything.”
“Link told you something.”
I breathed in the sharp smell of the polish.
“If Daddy did something wrong, we'll all pay for it.”There were tears in her eyes. “Our name will be mud in this town.” She put the cap back on the bottle and twisted it tight. “Tell Mama what Link said.” She didn't look up.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on my pajamas. Finally, there was nothing else to do.
Mama was at her dressing table, already in her nightgown, wiping cold cream from her face with a tissue. “What is it, Jubie?”
I sat on the foot of her bed. “At Mary's funeral, Link told me to ask Daddy about a room behind the warehouse.”
Mama looked at me in the mirror. “Behind the—there aren't any rooms, just a wall with bays that open to the train tracks.”
“Link said to ask Daddy about it.”
“Where's your father?”
I stood. “You want me to get him?”
“No, I want to know where he is.”
“I guess he's still in the den.”
“Close the door.”
I shut the bedroom door and sat back down.
Mama lit a cigarette. “Exactly what did Link say?”
“He told me to ask Daddy about a room behind the warehouse.”
Mama threw away a tissue, then rearranged her silver comb and brush. “Are you sure Link didn't say ‘beside' the warehouse?”
“He said behind or maybe in back of.”
She began brushing her hair off her forehead. “There's a storage shed built onto the side of the building. Maybe that's what he meant.” She glanced at me in the mirror, took a drag on her cigarette and put it out. Her face was shiny and she looked tired. “I'll look into it, Jubie.Thanks for telling me.” She stood and held out her arms. “Hug good night?”
Her shoulder blades felt like bird bones. I kissed her cheek, which was slightly sticky from the cold cream. “Night, Mama.”
The next day, Aunt Rita came over. She looked nervous and uncomfortable.
I was scraping carrots for supper. Mama poured coffee for the two of them and told me to scram. “Put the carrots in water. We won't be long.”
As I filled a bowl with water, Aunt Rita said, “I've talked with Stamos and he—”
“Jubie?” Mama looked at me. They weren't going to say anything until I left. I went through the swinging door into the front hall, then tiptoed down the basement steps to Mary's bathroom, where I could hear Mama clear as a bell.
“Stamos knew about it, then.”
“Not about the pedestal for the diving board. He'd have closed it down.”
“What did he know?”
A cup clinked in a saucer. “I just wish Bill hadn't fired Joe Templeton,” Aunt Rita said.
“Joe was embezzling, for God sakes.”
“But that's when Stamos took over the books and found out what was going on.”
“What? Found out what?” Mama was almost shouting.
“Do you know what rebar is?”
“The rods they use to reinforce concrete.”
“I think Bill was buying it cheap, putting it on the books as expensive, and using the money to support the W.B.A.” I remembered Daddy and Uncle Stamos talking about the W.B.A., how I'd wondered what it was.
“You think?”
“Stamos let something slip, then clammed up. He's loyal to Bill, Pauly; he follows wherever his brother leads. But he's been bothered for a long time about how Bill runs things. When Stamos took over the books, he was shocked at some of the—”
“Ye gods!” Mama's voice was shrill. “They've taken the books. Those inspector people.”
Aunt Rita sounded like she was crying, and her voice was so low I could hardly hear her. “Stamos did tell me that. He feels responsible. He's so guilty about the Daniels boy, so deeply distressed. I keep trying to soothe him, to reassure him.” I heard the rasp of a lighter. “He knew the books weren't right. But he couldn't have known about the diving board. He's not that kind of man.”
“Not like Bill, you mean.”
“I didn't say that.”
Mama said,“Jubie told me something last night.That's why I called you.” A chair scraped the kitchen floor. “Mary's son, Link, worked at the warehouse for two summers, remember?”
“Sure.”
“Jubie saw him at Mary's funeral. He told her to ask Bill about a room behind the warehouse.”
“There isn't any—”
Mama interrupted. “I think he meant the storage shed that's on the side of the building toward the train tracks. Might seem like the back.”
The phone rang and Mama answered it. “It's Safronia.”
Aunt Rita said, “Yes, Safronia, what is it?”There was a long silence. “Just calm down . . . yes, I'll come home. Have you called Mr.Watts? Okay, okay, just stop crying.”
Mama said, “What's wrong? I've never heard such carrying on.”
“That girl will be the death of me. She says to come home right now, just come ‘tireckly' home.” She sighed. “I wish I could find someone like Mary.”
“I wish I could, too.”
Uncle Stamos had left for work on time that morning, but he went back home after Aunt Rita came to our house. Safronia got to work at eleven and found him on the floor in the laundry room, a bath towel around his head. The gun he'd used was near his hand.
Later, Mama said she was sure he did it in the laundry room so any mess he made would be easy to clean. I couldn't stop thinking about Uncle Stamos lying on the floor, wearing a bloody turban. What was he thinking just as he pulled the trigger? When I began to feel the terror he must have felt, I'd say “No!” out loud to stop my thoughts.
He'd put the muzzle of the gun in his mouth. I remembered Daddy saying that most people did it wrong. “Shooting yourself in the temple is no guarantee, but up through the roof of the mouth will do the trick.” Had he told his brother that?
When Aunt Rita got home, Safronia met her at the door and told her not to go in the laundry room. So of course that's the first thing she did. She opened the door and cried, “Oh, Stamos! Oh, sweetheart.” She sat on the floor beside him and put his bloody head in her lap. For an hour she rocked him, moaning aloud, while Safronia sat in the kitchen, crying.
Then Aunt Rita stood, smoothing her bloodstained dress. “Safronia, we've got to get my husband into the bedroom so I can wash him and prepare his body.”
She got trouble from the police about moving him, but they decided that the shock had overcome her. She said shock had nothing to do with it, that her family always tended to the body, washed it and dressed it for burial. Her people didn't believe in embalming, and she wanted Stamos laid out in a coffin in the living room for a visitation, the way her family did in Ohio. Safronia's people did the same sort of thing, so she wanted to help.
When we got to the visitation, Aunt Rita answered the door, and Mama wrapped her in a hug. In the living room, Daddy was sitting in an easy chair near the coffin. Mama said, “Bill,” and sat on the sofa. Daddy stood, but when Stell took the place next to Mama, he sat back down. I realized how little he and Mama had said to each other for days.
The house looked the way it always did, neat as a pin. Uncle Stamos used to say that if he finished reading a paper and dropped it, Aunt Rita would catch it before it hit the carpet.
A sweet scent filled the living room from the flowers surrounding the closed bronze casket.
“The flowers are lovely,” Mama said when Aunt Rita sat in a chair opposite Daddy's.
“People have been so kind. Enough food for weeks, flowers everywhere.” Aunt Rita's eyes were big in her round face, dark circles under them.
Stell leaned toward her. “I'm so sorry about Uncle Stamos.” I wished I'd said that, and couldn't think of anything to add.
Slow, heavy footsteps came down the hall, and Mama turned her head to the window. Daddy stood, holding out his hands. “Mother.” Meemaw walked in, a black rectangle topped by a round face and neat gray hair in a bun. “Son.” She turned her cheek for Daddy's kiss and he led her to the chair where he'd been sitting. She touched the coffin before she sat. Stell scooted closer to Mama so Daddy could share the sofa.
Mama stood and kissed Meemaw's forehead. “Hello, Cordelia.”
“Mothers shouldn't outlive their sons.” Meemaw's voice was old and weak. She asked Mama, “What'd you do with—I mean, the little ones?”
“A neighbor is staying with them.” Mama sank back down on the sofa. “They're too young to . . .” She looked at the casket.
“David is,” Meemaw said. “And Carolina—she's what now?”
Mama said, “Seven.”
I corrected her. “Eight.”
Mama blushed. “Eight. Sorry. She had a birthday. Friday. We haven't had her party yet.”
Aunt Rita wiped away a tear. “You tell my sweet Puddin we'll give her a bang-up birthday once all this is over.”
“I'll tell her, Rita. She'll like that.”
The front door opened and closed. Carly stood in the arched entrance to the living room, tall and somber in his army uniform. He'd flown in from a military post in Germany. “Mom?” He put down his suitcase and held his arms wide. Aunt Rita jumped up and ran to him. “Carly, Carly, I'm so glad you're finally here.”They stood there holding each other,Aunt Rita folded in her grown son's arms.

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