The Dry Grass of August (7 page)

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Authors: Anna Jean Mayhew

BOOK: The Dry Grass of August
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Stell had beamed. “Yes, Daddy. I'm reborn in Christ.” From the expectation on her face, I guess she thought Daddy would tell her how great it all was. But he just said, “Okay,” and went back to reading his paper.
“Jubie,” Mama said, after Carter headed for the rec room, “get the fluted bowl from the top shelf. Mary, are you sure Rita didn't call?”
“I hasn't talked with her.”
Mama frowned. “It's not like Rita.”
“My friend Reese, she sometime hard to find. Goes a spell without calling, then I see her at church and she act like it's nothing wrong.” Mary dumped a bag of russets into the colander and washed them. She popped out sprouted eyes with her thumbnail, her long, knobby fingers lost among the potatoes, so much the same color. “Reese—you know Reesy, came here last year to help, the party you had for Mr. Stamos and them—she doesn't think you got to return calls. But calling back is just decent.”
Mama handed the fluted bowl to Mary. “I know they're not out of town.”
“I has to call Reesy two, three times.” Mary put soap flakes in the bowl.
“I need to ask Rita if they found a yard man,” Mama said. “I got a name from the girl who sweeps up at the beauty parlor. Do you know a Bobbo Scott? Would he be a good yard boy for Rita and Stamos? Bobbo, is that right?”
“That's his name. Not much of a name, but he not much of a man.”
“Oh?” Mama's voice arched like her eyebrows.
“He carries a bottle.”
I knew that was it for Bobbo.
Mama said, “Rita got a name from Safronia. Woodrow Addison. Do you know him?”
“Uh-huh.” Mary wiped the bar. “He falls out. Has blood sugar. All his people do.”
Neither Mama nor Aunt Rita would approve anybody colored until they'd run the name by Mary. If Mary didn't know them, she knew somebody who did.
Mary picked up a basket of wet sheets and went out to the clothesline. Mama never let Mary put sheets in the dryer because the sunshine made them smell good.
“Jubie, have you swept the walk?” Mama asked.
Mrs. Feaster, a lady from Mama's bridge club, pulled up while I was sweeping. “Hello, June,” she called out. “I'm here to help your mother.”
“Yes, ma'am. Mama said you were coming over. She's in the kitchen.” I followed her into the house.
Mama handed me the colander of potatoes. “Hey, Susie, thanks for coming over. Jubie, peel these, please.”
Mrs. Feaster hung up her hat and coat. “Glad I can help.”
“I thought Mary was going to peel them,” I said to Mama. The potatoes smelled like damp dirt.
“When she finishes at the clothesline, she has to do the ironing.” Mama handed me the peeler.
“That plastic cloth on the table in the den,” Mrs. Feaster said, “has how to bid printed right on it. Diana Sawyer always stares at the place that means what she's bidding. She might as well pass notes to her partner.”
“My linen cloths have to go on the tables in the living room. I can't leave the den table bare. And I won the plastic cloth at the club last fall.”
“If you have to look at a tablecloth to know how to bid, you shouldn't be playing.” Mrs. Feaster carried the fluted bowl into the dining room and came back with two silver trays that she put beside me on the kitchen table. “Wish I had your head of hair, June, so thick and blonde. Mine's getting grayer every day and I'm always at the tail end of a perm. That's a lot of potatoes.”
“Yes, ma'am.” I looked at the colander.
“How many people are y'all feeding tonight?”
“Carter's eating with us, and my friend, Maggie Harold, but that's only eight.”
“Only eight,” Mrs. Feaster said. “I swear, Pauly, I'd go crazy with so many people around all the time.”
“Sometimes I do.”
Water came on full blast in the sink, dishes rattled. Mrs. Feaster said, “Speaking of crazy, will Brenda be here tomorrow ?”
Mama sighed. “Eventually she will. About the time I'm serving dessert, she'll come in, all short of breath and full of excuses.”
“Maybe she was an hour late being born and never got caught up.”
“Brenda doesn't function very well these days,” Mama said. She didn't add, “Bless her heart,” the way she usually did when she criticized another woman.
“Paula, you're too kind. Brenda Simpson'd make a nigger look smart.”
“Susan!” Mama sounded shocked, but she laughed. Her laugh broke off and she gasped.
Mary stood in the doorway, the laundry basket at her hip. “Miz Feaster, you ought to know better than to say such a thing.” She didn't sound like herself, didn't sound like a maid.
“Mary!” Mama said. “We didn't know you were standing there.”
“That is no excuse for talking trash.”
“Mary”—Mama's voice went quiet and cold—“you're forgetting your place.”
“No, ma'am.” Mary left the kitchen, came back in her hat and coat. She didn't look at me.
Mama followed her. “I'm so sorry.”
“I be here in the morning. Wouldn't leave you with all your ladies coming.” Mary closed the den door hard behind her.
C
HAPTER 9
A
t Joyland by the Sea, just outside Pensacola, only a few cars were parked in the roped-off grassy field. Stell said, “There's not a lot of joy in Joyland.” The sky was low, overcast, not at all what I'd imagined the weather would be for our afternoon at the amusement park.
Mary stood by the car, Davie on her hip, as I took the stroller from the trunk. “Lord's day. Maybe folks just stays in church.”
We walked past the sandwich board I'd seen from the car the day we arrived in Pensacola:
BRYSON McCURDY'S TRAVELING CARNIVAL!!
THE SNAKE MAN
THE WILD DOG OF THE EVERGLADES
THE THREE-LEGGED GIRL
and MORE!!!! No Gate Charge!
“Yay!” Puddin shouted. “There's a carnival, too.”
A wide midway of sand and sawdust ran through Joyland, with booths and rides to either side. Calliope music played somewhere ahead. Signs pointed the way to the carnival that had hooked up with the amusement park.
The stroller was hard to push. Every time I freed it from the sawdust, I had to shake out my sandals, too. But I was glad I'd worn them, even if there was dust on my toenails, which I'd polished a dazzling red for our outing at Joyland.
Mary took over the stroller. “No need for us to slow you down.” She looked hot, and I wished she could have worn shorts like Stell and me, but Uncle Taylor had advised her to wear her uniform so it would be clear she was there to help with the children.
Stell and I walked ahead, past an old woman in short shorts who sat on a stool at a lemonade stand, her skinny legs streaked with bulging veins, grinning at people who walked by. If most of my teeth were gone, I wouldn't smile.
I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, and bumped into a fat man strolling along with his family.
“Excuse me.” I tried not to stare at the enormous stomach hanging over his belt.
“That's okay, young miss.” He touched my shoulder.
A skinny girl about my age spoke to him. “Hey, Daddy, let's go on the merry-go-round.” Why would a teenager want to do such a childish thing? But I thought it was neat that she wanted to ride with her father. Her knobby knees and black hair made me think of my cousin. When I had asked Sarah to come with us to Joyland, she said she'd rather go out to the base with Mama and Uncle Taylor.
As the family walked by, a woman in green coveralls called out, “Ri-i-i-ide the rolly coaster!”
Stell nudged me. “You and I can do that later.”
A man with a gleaming bald head winked at Stell and beckoned, waving a pennant. “Penny pitch, ring toss! C'mon, girly- girls, give it a try!”
Ahead of us a man pulled a woman between two tents. I looked at them as we passed. They were kissing hard, his hands on her back, moving up to her shoulder blades, down to her bottom. Stell caught me looking and yanked me by the hand. “That's disgusting.” She sounded like Mama.
Four sailors crowded around us, their white bell-bottoms flapping. “Hello there,” said the tallest one, who was redheaded and skinny.
A short brunette boy swept off his sailor hat and bowed to Stell. “Can we treat you to the Ferris wheel?” He was a Yankee, I was sure.
“I have a boyfriend,” Stell stammered.
A sailor grabbed my hand. His thick blond curls bushed out under his cap. “Howdy, ma'am. I'm Tucson Tom from New Mexico. You might think Arizona, but you'd be wrong.” His hand was strong and warm. How would it feel to see the circus with this cute boy, to walk the midway holding hands?
“So where is he,” the first sailor asked Stell, “this famous boyfriend?”
Stell snatched me away from the blond boy. “Y'all stop bothering us.”
Mary came up, pushing Davie, Puddin hanging on to her skirt. “What you boys doing?”
“And here's their mammy,” said the third sailor.
The first one saluted Mary. “We want to take these nice girls for a ride.”
“Just leave us be,” Mary said.
Three girls passed by in a cloud of perfume, arm in arm, smiling at the sailors. They all had bows in their hair, white blouses, and red lipstick. I was disappointed when the boys ran after them.
“Thank goodness,” Stell said. Did she really mean it?
Everything tempted me—the freak show; the Enchanted Castle Boat Ride where a couple waited, the boy feeding cotton candy to the girl; the Tilt-A-Whirl, kids staggering as they left it. The warm air carried delicious smells that made me hungry—corn dogs, peanuts, candy apples.
“The merry-go-round!” Puddin shouted.
I asked Mary, “You want to ride with Davie and Puddin?”
She frowned. “Ask the man.”
I walked up to the ticket window and saw a notice:
MERRY- GO-ROUND, TEN CENTS
. And in larger print below that:
WHITES ONLY EXCEPT MONDAYS
.
I looked at Mary.
“Hey, young lady, you wanna ride?” The man in the ticket booth talked around the cigar in his mouth.
“Yes, but—I mean not me, just my sister and my baby brother. And our girl, to hold him.”
He took his cigar from his mouth and pointed it at the sign.
“What if I pay double for her and she doesn't sit down?” I put four dimes on the counter.
He put his cigar back in his mouth. “I'll let her go if she just stands there, holds him on the horse.”
As I gave Mary the tickets, a clown standing nearby smiled at me and tipped his hat.
Mary, Davie, and Puddin spun in a whirl of music from the calliope. The fat man I'd bumped into stood by his daughter on the merry-go-round, his hand on the neck of her pony, waving to his family as the carousel turned. Davie laughed every time he saw us, and Mary stood beside him, beaming, tapping her foot to the tooted notes, the skirt of her uniform rippling. It was worth the extra dime.
“Whew! Now that was fun!” Mary said as she got off, carrying Davie, holding Puddin's hand. She shifted Davie to her other hip. “You girls leave the little ones with me. Go have some fun your own self.”
Stell and I ran to buy tickets for the World's Biggest Ferris Wheel. Soon we were at the top, swinging forward and backward as the wheel stopped to load the bottom baskets. The redheaded sailor and one of the girls from the midway were in the car in front of us. The sailor said something close to the girl's ear, and I wanted to be in her place, smelling of perfume, wearing a bow in my hair, flirting with a boy who might go off to war any minute.
We were so high I could see the gulf, blue and smooth under the cloudy sky, looking cool and clear beyond the tattered carnival tents billowing in the wind. Mary, Puddin, and Davie were toys on the ground far below us. Mary waved at me. A boy Puddin's size walked up to them, handing out papers. He was dressed all in glittering red, and even from our great height I thought there was something odd about him. Puddin pushed him away and ran behind a tent where I couldn't see her.
“Mary!” I yelled, but the wind carried my voice away.
“What?” asked Stell.
“Puddin's running off.” The Ferris wheel began to turn, and the sailor put his arm around the girl. Down on the ground, Mary turned in a circle, looking for Puddin, who came from behind the tent, waving.
“There she is.” I sat back and let the wind hit my face.
After the ride, the clown who'd tipped his hat waltzed over to me, his outsized shoes slapping the ground with each step. He reached out and plucked a red rose from my ear. The sweat running down his painted face looked like tears, which went with his sad orange mouth. He handed me the rose, bowed, and danced away, trailing a scent of cigarettes.
Stell asked, “What was that all about?”
“My natural beauty.” I touched her cheek with the rose. It was the color of my toenails and smelled like Meemaw's toilet water.
The boy in the sequined red suit handed Stell one of his papers, and when he turned I saw a cigar in his mouth, the stubble of a beard—no wonder Puddin had run from him. He wasn't even four feet tall, but he was old.
“A dwarf,” said Stell. She gave me the paper he'd given her, with pictures of the freak show attractions. The Three-Legged Girl. The Python Charmer—a man wrapped in snakes. Madame Capricorn, the Eastern Mystic—a colored woman with a towel around her head.
“The carnival freak show. I'm going.”
Stell grabbed my arm, her mouth set. “I'll tell Mama.”
“I'm going.”
“Not by yourself,” said Mary.
Another group of sailors passed. One of them winked at me. “I'll take you.”
Stell took my arm, ignoring the sailor.
“There it is.” I pointed to a sign for the freak show and went to the ticket booth. “Two, please.”
The man stared at Mary.
I dropped three dimes in the change tray. “She can stand in the back.”
The man took the money.
Inside the tent, no more than a dozen people sat in rows of folding chairs, fanning themselves in the heat and dust. I took a seat on the last row so Mary could stand behind me without blocking anybody's view. A drum roll sounded. A tall colored boy wearing a yellow satin coat and black trousers pulled the curtain open. He had on a top hat that teetered as he moved.
The three-legged girl sat in a wheelchair, her legs under a pink afghan, three feet sticking out. Yellow curls framed her face. Circles of rouge matched her red lipstick. What with her having three legs, I wanted to see her walk. But she just sat there, wiggling, moving her legs so we could see they were real. She had on patent-leather pumps with bows on them, two lefts and a right. I thought about what a problem underpants would be for her.
The boy crossed the stage again, closing the curtain. Mary grabbed my shoulder and yelled, “Leesum!” The boy jumped like he'd been shot, giving the curtain such a jerk that the whole thing came down. The three-legged girl stood by her wheelchair on two good legs, the third one in her arms. She dropped the false leg and ran.
Mary yanked me with her as she headed toward the stage. “Leesum Fields,” she said, “you stay right there.”
The audience screamed, “Fake! Money back!” The ticket seller crossed the stage, waving his arms. “Sit down, sit down. The show will go on in a minute. Believe me, it's worth seeing—”
“Boo,” yelled a man. “We want our money.”
Mary had me in one hand and the boy in the other, pulling us outside, where even the overcast day was too bright after the dim tent. Mary let go of me and took the boy's hands. “Leesum Fields, what in the name of the Lord are you doing in this carnival?”
“Hey, Miz Luther. I got me a job.” The boy's voice was deep and rich.
“Your mama's been in her bed with grief over you.”
“Huh, I bet.” He didn't look at all concerned about his mama.
“You show some respect for your mother, boy.”
“She nothin' but a ho, smokin' tea an' sniffin' coke.”
I strained to understand him.
“She still your mama.”
“Yeah, and she still a ho.”
The ticket seller came out and yelled, “What in hell you mean, boy, jerking the curtain down?”
“Couldn't help it.”
The man shook his fist in Mary's face. “Girl, you cost me a dollar and thirty cents in refunds.”
“I wanted to talk to Leesum.” Mary didn't seem one bit afraid.
“You owe me a dollar-thirty.”
“I don't reckon I do.”
“Watch how you talk, girl.”
“You running this here fake show. Got this boy working for you, which probably's not legal. And I has these white children with me and they uncle is a commander out to the Navy base.”

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