The Dry Grass of August (26 page)

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Authors: Anna Jean Mayhew

BOOK: The Dry Grass of August
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C
HAPTER 32
S
tell tossed
The Charlotte News
on the bar. “Hurricane Hazel page one, William Watts page two.”
“Let me see.” Mama dropped the cup she was rinsing. It clattered in the sink.
“The findings of the commission. They're saying Watts Concrete Fabrications messed up some bolts. Daddy might be criminally negligent.”
Mama opened the newspaper and reached for a cigarette.
I looked over her shoulder.
She pushed me away. “You can read it when I'm done.”
“Charges will be brought,” Stell said.
“Estelle Annette, be quiet.”
Stell left the kitchen. If it were possible to slam a swinging door, she'd have done it.
Mama ripped off the first page, balled it up and threw it away, letting the lid of the trash can bang shut. “I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Mama, I wanted to read it.”
“You know where it is.” She went into the dining room, stopped at the liquor cabinet, and fixed a drink. The den door opened and closed. The glider squeaked on the breezeway.
The balled-up sheet of newspaper sat on a mound of coffee grounds, a stain spreading through it. I scooped it from the pail and opened it on the bar. The damp paper began to tear through Daddy's photo—his face brown from the coffee grounds—a formal picture he'd had made when he joined the Thomas Belk Men's Club. The wet paper clung to the Formica as I pushed the pieces back together. There was a caption under the photo: “William Watts, civic leader, former President of the Charlotte Junior Chamber of Commerce.” The article was titled in bold words: LOCAL BUSINESS RESPONSIBLE IN DIVER'S DEATH.
A commission formed by the City Council of Charlotte to investigate the death of Richard Llewelyn Daniels, 17, reported its findings yesterday to Mayor Watson Lindley and to Chief Hurston Kytle of the Charlotte Police Department. The commission holds that Watts Concrete Fabrications, Inc., in constructing a base for the diving boards at Charlotte Municipal Swimming Pool, failed to prime the L-bolts that secured the diving boards to the base. The report read, in part, “William Dennis Watts, President of Watts Concrete Fabrications, and his brother, the late Stamos Caton Watts, Vice President, knew or should have known that unprimed L-bolts used in the construction would fail. The city will bring civil charges against the company and its principals. If William Watts is found to be criminally negligent, further charges will be brought.”
The commission is also investigating rumors that the Watts brothers diverted corporate funds to support a recently formed White Businessmen's Association (W.B.A.), with the intent of restraining Negroes from registering to vote. Although no names have been released, there are apparently a number of Charlotte professionals who were members of the W.B.A., which met in a storage room beside Watts Concrete Fabrications. Duplicate sets of financial records are being audited to determine the extent of any fraud. William Watts, a well-known civic leader and father of four, was not available for comment.
The glider clanked back and forth on the breezeway. Maybe Mama hadn't built the diving board that caused Richard's death, but she loved the Packard, the country club, her charge account at Montaldo's. And she was looking a little shabby, like the house. Suddenly I couldn't stand the sound of the glider on its rusty slides. It needed oiling, like the bills needed paying and the hedges needed trimming. The glider squeaked and squeaked. I put my hands on the damp newsprint, one on either side of Daddy's picture, and pressed and pulled until the paper tore through the bridge of his glasses, down his nose, splitting his smile. I left the paper sticking to the bar and went to the breezeway, where Mama sat in the glider, drinking and rocking and smoking. A strong wind blew through the screens.
“It's your fault, too,” I screamed.
“Oh, Jubie, calm down.” She took a drag from her cigarette.
“What did Daddy do to Young Mary?”
“I don't really know. I was bluffing.”
“You're right, what you did for Mary
wasn't
enough.” I grabbed the glass from her hand and threw it on the slate floor, where it shattered. The smell of Scotch filled the breezeway.
I yanked open the screen door. The wind caught it and slammed it back against the wall.
I
ran through the grass and climbed over the redwood fence into Mrs. Gibson's backyard, inching past the thorny pyracantha to sit in her garden with the marble angel, beside the burning bush, everything drab and gray in the diluted light of the approaching storm.
I gazed into a cave created by the branches of a giant magnolia, where shadow shapes formed as the wind picked up, bringing on rain. All around me, tree limbs and flowers swayed, the red and orange berries of holly and pyracantha, dying mums and marigolds. Pansies that bobbed like drunken clowns. I read the tattered tag hanging from a gardenia bush that still had a few drooping flowers: C
ARE AND
F
EEDING OF
G
ARDENIAS
: F
ULL SUN WITH SHADE IN SUMMER
. M
OIST SOIL, NEVER SOGGY
. H
EAVY FEEDING
. Why didn't people come with instructions?
I was so mad at Mama, at Daddy, even at Uncle Stamos, who knew or should have known—those words stuck in my mind. I sat there getting soaked as the rain and wind battered me. The edge of Hurricane Hazel. Bedraggled daisies lashed my legs and I snatched one from the ground. Even half dead, it was stronger than anything that grew wild by the road. You could do loves-me-loves-me-not on the petals of Mrs. Gibson's daisies and get at the truth. I cupped my hands around it and sniffed the sour citrusy scent that smelled like Mary when she'd been working all day, an odor I sometimes had, too, and never minded. When Mama caught Mary smelling that way, she went to her bedroom to put a touch of perfume on her upper lip. The more I thought about the small meanness of that, the sadder I got, until I was crying all over the limp daisy. Daddy was gone. He'd wind up in jail or an outcast—that was the word that came to me. No matter what, he would never be back with Mama, with us.
The rain pounded me, needles stinging my face, a downpour driven by the wind until it was horizontal. Through the boards of the fence I saw the lights in our house go out. If Hazel stood still, we'd be without power for days. Why did hurricanes only have female names? I'd have to find out about that. Before I left the garden, I picked the last of the gardenias to give Mama.
What I had was Mama and Stell and Puddin and Davie. Maybe they didn't know that as clearly as I did, but I could tell them.
C
HAPTER 33
I
n January of 1955, I woke in my pink bedroom for the last time, in a sleeping bag on the floor, the sun streaming through the open Venetian blinds. The harsh morning light made me feel ready to move out of this bedroom I'd been sleeping in for two and a half years, now strange and empty. I unzipped the bag. I couldn't imagine Mama spending the night on the floor, but when I'd asked her if she minded, she said, “Oh, pooh, it's just this once.” I looked behind the door, where a piece of carpet had come loose months ago. Last night I'd tucked a handwritten note under it, then pushed it back in place. Someday when the carpeting was pulled up, someone would find a small paper, folded many times:
To Whom It May Concern. My name is June Bentley Watts and I lived here from September 1952 to January 1955. I dedicate this room to the memory of Mary Constance Culpepper Luther, 1906–1954.
I got dressed and stuffed my pajamas into my sleeping bag, along with Mary's slippers, which I'd taken to wearing around the house. Mama had looked at them when I came down for breakfast one morning, but she hadn't said anything.
Stell was sitting on the floor in her bedroom, her sleeping bag rolled up and ready to go. The honey-colored carpet was indented where the furniture had been. Would the marks disappear when Stanley Steemer cleaned the rugs and drapes?
I sat beside her and took the ragged stuffed animal she was holding. “Where'd you find him?”
“The top shelf in my closet, where I hid him from Puddin.”
“She cried for days, I remember.” Our voices bounced off the walls.
Stell flipped one of the filthy ears. “Can you believe Mama ever let her suck on those?”
“I'd forgotten.”The ears felt stiff and papery.
“Sweet Bunny, they called it, the ears coated with sugar.”
“Yuk!” I tossed the crusty rabbit. It landed in a square of light under the front window.
“Are we still going to be members of the club?” I asked.
“Grow up. We'll be lucky to have groceries.”
“Mama's going to get a job.”
Stell picked up the rabbit. “Who'd hire her? She's never worked.”
“Girls?” Mama's voice echoed up the stairwell.
“Coming!” Stell called down. She walked into her closet and tossed the bunny onto the top shelf. “Back where he's lived these many years. A Cuthbert will find him and commit him to eternal rest.” She closed the closet door.
“Have you met them?”
“Only Lucy, at school.”
“Maybe she'll have this room.”
“Who cares.” Stell headed downstairs.
“I'll be right there.” I walked back to my room, which felt enormous without furniture. The dusty rose carpet was pockmarked the same as Stell's. A path of my footprints had worn the rug between the bed and dresser, the bureau and closet. I picked up a bobby pin from the floor by the side window and looked out. Carter was dribbling a basketball in his driveway. He threw the ball toward the hoop on his garage. Swish.
I picked up my bedroll and went downstairs. Mama called from her room, “Jubie, the paper bags in the kitchen need to go to the car.”
“Yes, ma'am.” I got the bulging sacks and went out the kitchen door, which was oddly quiet without the cowbell.
Carter held the basketball at his hip, sweat trickling down his freckled face. “Y'all leaving now?”
“Yeah.”
He twirled the ball on his index finger. “I'm glad your dad's not going to jail.”
I put down my bedroll, shifted the bags. “He sold his business to pay the fine.”
“Stell told me.” He bounced the ball.
“See you at school.”
He nodded.
By late afternoon, everything was done. Mama was in the kitchen, moving her hand back and forth on the bar as if she were wiping it. She'd taken off her wedding band and there was a mark on her finger like the dents in the rugs. “A small kitchen will be a relief,” she said. “Let's go.”
Stell stood by the Packard with Carter, who kissed her on the cheek and said, “I'll see you in a couple of days, okay?”
She put her head on his chest for a moment, then got in the front seat of the Packard. I sat in the back, next to piles of clothes. No one spoke as we pulled out of the driveway. When we turned onto Queens Road West, Mama said, “Rita's bringing Puddin and Davie over after supper. We need to get their beds ready. The linens and pillows are on the floor by the beds, towels and washcloths in the bathrooms. Get used to living without a maid.”
“We already are,” Stell said.
“I mean permanently. And no yard man. There are leaves left over from the fall, a lot of work.” Mama drove with one hand while she rooted in her purse. I heard a familiar sound and Mama laughed. “The cowbell. I forgot it was in my bag.” She cracked the wing window and lit a cigarette. “I've got a job. I interviewed last Thursday and I'm going back Monday to meet the staff.”
“Mama, that's great,” I said. “Where?” Cold air and cigarette smoke wafted into the backseat.
“The Center for Rehabilitation, off East Morehead, as a receptionist in the free clinic.”
“What'll you do?” Stell asked.
“Answer the phone, open the mail, make appointments. The free clinic is for people who don't have insurance.” Mama took a drag from her cigarette.
I thought about Leesum. Surely he didn't have insurance. Who would pay if he got sick?
Mama flicked the cigarette out the window. “I have no illusions about the job, but at least someone hired me.”
From then on we called it the center for the disillusioned.
On Selwyn Avenue we drove into the sunset, passing the road to the house in the woods where we lived when Mary came to work for us. Right after we moved there, Mama had talked about getting a job. Daddy hit the roof and Mama never mentioned the idea again.
She set the brake in the steep driveway of the yellow house. “If we weren't just renting, I'd paint it. The color is revolting.”
“I think it's cheerful,” I said.
Mama sniffed. “Don't go in without carrying something.”
The house was tall and narrow, on a skinny lot that sloped down to Sugar Creek. The neighbors had warned us not to plant anything in the backyard because the creek would rise in the spring.
Mama opened the front door, turning on the outside light over the tiny porch. I carried my clothes up to the room I'd be sharing with Davie. “Just until I get his ready,” Mama had promised.
I went back downstairs. Stell was standing by the front door, her hands on her hips. “Mama?” she called toward the kitchen. “Where are the dinner table and chairs?”
“I sold them.” Mama walked into the living room. “We'll use the dinette from now on.”
“I can't believe we don't have a dinner table.”
I went through the kitchen and out onto the back stoop. The grass was hidden by leaves that had been rotting there since fall. I couldn't imagine how we'd get rid of them. Mama opened the back door and hung the cowbell on it, then said, reading my thoughts, “We'll rake them into the creek, no big deal.”
Lately Mama had answers for everything.

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