The Dry Grass of August

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  In the new house, I had a room to myself for the first time in my life, with a double bed I felt lost in. The walls were painted in what Mama called mauve rose, with a white quilted spread, floral print curtains, and a matching dust ruffle. Mama sold our beds with the apple headboards to a woman with triplet daughters.

  “Aren’t they just the cutest things!” the woman said.

  “My husband designed them and his brother cut and painted them,” Mama told her.

  “Oh, no,” the woman said, “I mean your daughters. They’re just adorable.”

  “Oh.”

  “So why are you selling the beds?”

  “The oldest’s fourteen.”

  “But you might have another girl.” The woman looked at Mama’s stomach.

  “I certainly hope not. Check or cash?”

  Sometimes I didn’t want to hear what Mama said.

  A week after we moved in, Mama began having labor pains while she and Mary were putting shelf paper in the pantry. Mama said the pains didn’t amount to anything, but Mary convinced her to lie down, and they spent the afternoon in Mama’s room. Stell and I could hear the mumble of their voices, their laughter, Mama’s occasional moans.

  Daddy woke Stell and me at three o’clock in the morning. “I’m taking your mother to the hospital. Change the sheets on our bed. Her water broke.” He said that as if we knew what it meant. “This one won’t take long.” Daddy sounded excited. He wrapped Mama in a quilt and carried her to the car, the way fathers do in the movies.

  Before noon we had a brother. The only thing Daddy told us when he called was that it was a boy, that his name was David William, he weighed over eight pounds, and he had a big head.

  Immediately I went to the den and took the King James Bible off the bookshelf. Several years ago Stell had started recording our family history, beginning with our great-grandparents—as many names and dates as she could piece together, including the death of Mama’s sister, Hanna Eudora Bentley, in 1932. Then Mama and Daddy, their birth and wedding dates, and the birthdays of their children. I added David William Watts, born September 27, 1952. Stell would frown when she saw my handwriting, but she didn’t own the Bible.

  Mama and her fourth baby stayed in the hospital two extra days because Mama had her tubes tied. I overheard enough of what was said between Aunt Rita and Mary to learn that Mama and Daddy were through having children, and that it was good Mama already had four or the doctor wouldn’t have fixed her.

  Right from the first time I saw Davie, I couldn’t get enough of holding him, smelling him, rubbing his silky head, letting him grab my fingers with his tiny hand. Mama taught me and Stell how to change his diapers when he was only a few days old, and I got enough of that right away. The first time I saw his thing, I wanted to puke. It looked like raw meat. How did boys walk with all that stuff hanging down?

  Davie didn’t hold his head up until he was six weeks old, and Mama worried about it. She also thought it might mean he was a genius with a big brain. I didn’t understand what Daddy told Uncle Stamos: “That boy’s head ruined the best thing a man ever had.”

  When Davie was six months old, we had our picture taken by a man who photographed all the best families. He posed us with Mama in the queen chair, holding Davie, and with Puddin perched on the arm. Daddy, Stell, and I behind them. My blonde hair, my blue eyes, my tawny skin were so like Daddy’s. I stood a head taller than Stell, who had Mama’s freckles and hazel eyes. The portrait had been enlarged, tinted, and framed in mahogany to hang over the mantel. I studied it, wondering what people thought about the happy family in the picture.

  We had to be quiet when Davie was napping, and sometimes I felt I’d bust from my need to make noise. When it got too much for me, I went out to the garage and climbed the stairs to what Mama called an efficiency apartment and Daddy called the recreation room. I thought it was heavenly, and had suggested more than once that somebody ought to live there full-time to discourage burglars. I spent hours by the windows that overlooked Westfield Road, watching people walk their dogs or ride bicycles or push strollers on the sidewalks. Our neighbors acted friendly, but I didn’t think I would ever really belong, being so plain and awkward. When we joined Myers Park Country Club, I felt we could be members and still not have the right to be there. Mama wanted us to get into Charlotte Country Club, but not enough people nominated us. Daddy said that was just as well, because Charlotte Country Club was too far away. Mama said, “Sour grapes.” She tried to join the Junior League. When that didn’t work out, she told Aunt Rita she’d rather be in the Junior Woman’s Club any day. I couldn’t help thinking about sour grapes.

  Stell was upset that Mama hadn’t gotten into the Junior League. “I’ll never get to make my debut.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Coming out in society. It’s really important.”

  “What’s Junior League got to do with it?”

  She wiped Pond’s off her face. “Charlotte’s funny that way. If your parents aren’t in, you aren’t, either.”

  “In what?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  She was a freshman in high school and had started ironing her clothes on Sunday evenings, lining up five outfits in her closet for the coming school week. I said to Mary, “I guess she doesn’t think your ironing’s good enough.”

  “She want it the way she want it.”

  Mary would hear nothing bad about Stell but didn’t hesitate to point out my flaws. “Close that book, Jubie, and help your mother. You got to be quiet, your brother’s sleeping. Put things away when you’re done with them.”

  “Why don’t you ever boss Stell?”

  “When she needs it, I will.”

  Daddy was at a dinner meeting at the club, and Mama told Stell and me it was time to watch The Family at Home. The commercial for it said, “The Henry Roberts family solves their problems with love, laughter, and help from their dog Woofers.” The joke was that Woofers was never seen, was only heard barking from somewhere behind the camera.

  Stell kicked off her shoes, curling her stocking feet under her while Mama fiddled with the vertical hold. By the time she got a good picture, the show had begun.

  Tom Roberts, a tall, skinny teenager, was in the kitchen with his sister, Milly.

  “What a cute outfit she has on,” Mama said. I missed something Tom said. He was sitting on a bar stool that looked just like one of ours, and I wondered if the seat was red Naugahyde. He sat with his long legs stretched out, looking at the floor, his scalp showing through his crew cut.

  “Even if you don’t make the team,” Milly said, “the important thing is you tried.” If he believed that, he was a real jerk.

  Mr. Roberts came into the kitchen. He took a pipe from his mouth. “Hello, Sonny, Princess. What’s up?” He only called them Milly and Tom when he was being stern.

  “Hi, Pops,” said Milly. I could never call Daddy “Pops.”

  Tom said, “Aw, Milly’s got this way-out notion that I’ll make the football team.”

  Mr. Roberts sat on a stool, stuck his pipe back in his mouth, and reached for a cookie jar. He had black-rimmed glasses and his ears stuck out like Clark Gable’s. “So, son, are you going to make it?”

  “No sweat,” Tom said, but his voice was sad.

  What did Mr. Roberts do when he got mad at Milly and Tom? I tried to picture him angry.

  Mrs. Roberts walked into the kitchen in heels and a shirtwaist dress.

  Mama smoothed her skirt.

  “Hello, children.” Mrs. Roberts grabbed a cookie from her husband and put it back in the jar. “Henry, you’ll spoil your appetite. The roast is almost ready.” She tied her apron and adjusted her pearl necklace.

  “Oh, Louise, I was only going to have one.”

  “After supper.”

  “Ha!” Stell jeered. “Try snatching a cookie from Daddy.”

  Mrs. Roberts tucked a strand of blonde hair back into place. If they were going out for the evening, she
wore a ribbon around the bun at the crown of her head, and once she’d worn flats on a picnic. She looked sweet and kind, never smoked or had too much to drink, and didn’t say a cross word to anyone. I knew this was just TV, but I wanted it to be real.

  “Jubie?” Mama said. “Why are you scowling?”

  “I’m concentrating.”

  The dog barked offscreen.

  “What’s up with Woofers?” Mr. Roberts asked.

  Milly said, “It’s time for the evening paper. How does he know?”

  “He checks his wristwatch.” Mr. Roberts jabbed the air with his pipe. The audience laughed and the screen faded to a commercial for Camay, the soap of beautiful women.

  Mama said, “You can learn a lot from Milly about grooming and makeup.”

  “She wears costumes, and her hair’s a wig,” said Stell.

  Mama sniffed. “She’s chic and a smart young lady.” She went to the kitchen. The garage door screeched open, then slammed down.

  “Daddy’s home,” I called to Mama. She came back in the den with a glass of ice tea as the door opened from the breezeway.

  “Hey, y’all.” Daddy sailed his fedora through the den to the dining room table. His hair was messed up from his hat.

  “Shush,” Mama said, “we’re watching our program.”

  “Oops!” Daddy tiptoed past us, grinning. He’d had just enough to drink to make him happy, and I hoped he’d go right to bed.

  The stiffness between Mary and Mama started the last time the bridge luncheon met at our house. I don’t think the extra work is what made Mary act so strange. But maybe getting ready for the bridge club had her on edge, so when she heard what Mrs. Feaster said to Mama, that was the last straw.

  The house never got so clean as the day before Mama’s bridge club, and it was impossible to know, with a refrigerator full of food, what was okay to eat and what was special for the ladies. Mama was in a tizzy, looking into the refrigerator every ten minutes at the food she’d fixed, with at least two other things set aside to substitute in case the tomato aspic didn’t jell.

  The cowbell rang when Carter Milton came through the kitchen door.

  “Hey, Mrs. Watts,” Carter said. “I’m here to help.”

  Mama’s face lit up. “Hey, Carter.”

  Stell and Carter were hosting a Young Life meeting the same day as the bridge luncheon, like there wasn’t already enough going on.

  Of all Stell’s friends, Carter was Mama’s favorite. He always looked dressed up. Today he had on a madras plaid shirt and sharply creased slacks. He was particular, which I guess is what appealed to Stell. Carter had recently gotten a flattop, after having a crew cut for a long time. A definite improvement, as far as I was concerned.

  Mama handed him a tray of glasses. “These are for your meeting. Stell’s in the rec room setting out the other things.”

  Stell got Young Life going in Charlotte after she’d been saved by Leighton Ford, the brother-in-law of Billy Graham, who is like God’s brother-in-law as far as Charlotteans are concerned.

  When Stell announced that she’d been saved, Daddy had asked, “Is that the same as being born again?”

  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.”r />
  “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.

  CHAPTER 9

  At 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.