The Dry Grass of August

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  The Dry Grass of August

  ANNA JEAN MAYHEW

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A READING GROUP GUIDE - The Dry Grass of August

  Copyright Page

  for Jean-Michel

  and

  for Laurel

  In the midnight hour

  When you need some power

  When your heart is heavy

  Steal away, steal away home

  I ain’t got long to stay here.

  —African-American spiritual

  CHAPTER 1

  In August of 1954, we took our first trip without Daddy, and Stell got to use the driver’s license she’d had such a fit about. It was just a little card saying she was Estelle Annette Watts, that she was white, with hazel eyes and brown hair. But her having a license made that trip different from any others, because if she hadn’t had it, we never would have been stuck in Sally’s Motel Park in Claxton, Georgia, where we went to buy fruitcakes and had a wreck instead. And Mary would still be with us.

  Stell and I carried the last of the suitcases to the driveway. The sky was a wide far blue above the willow oaks that line Queens Road West, with no promise of rain to break the heat. I put Mary’s flowered cloth bag in the trunk and Daddy took it out. “Always start with the biggest piece.” He picked up Mama’s Pullman and grunted. “She packed like she’s never coming back.” He hefted it into the trunk. “Okay, girls, what’s next?”

  Stell tapped her suitcase with the toe of her size six penny loafer.

  “That’s the ticket.” Daddy put Stell’s bag in the trunk beside Mama’s. He looked at the luggage still sitting by the car and ran his hand through his hair, which was oily with Brylcreem and sweat. “Ninety-five, and not even ten o’clock.” He wiped his face with his pocket handkerchief and pushed his wire-rimmed glasses back in place. His hands were tan from playing golf, thick and square, with blunt fingers. On his right pinkie he wore a ring that had been his father’s—gold, with a flat red stone.

  The cowbell rang as Mary shut the kitchen door behind her. She came down the back walk, Davie on her hip. Puddin stumbled along beside them, struggling with the small suitcase she’d gotten for Christmas.

  Daddy said to Mama, “Don’t let Mary ride up front.”

  “I’d never do such a fool thing,” Mama said. “Everybody use the bathroom one last time.”

  Stell stepped into the shade of the garage. “I don’t need to.”

  I ran to the breezeway, touching Mary’s arm when I passed her, letting the screen door slap shut behind me. Daddy’s bathroom smelled like cigarettes and poop. I cranked open the window and sat on his toilet to pee. In the full-length mirror on the back of the door, I could see the awful welts on my thighs. I stood and yanked up my pedal pushers.

  Daddy was rearranging the luggage, making one more square inch of room in the trunk. Stell Ann stood by the car, shiny in her readiness, from her silky hair to her clear lip gloss to her pale-pink nails. Polished like I could never be.

  A horn honked. Aunt Rita’s green Coupe deVille skidded into our driveway, stopping beside the Packard. She rolled down her window. “I found the picnic basket.”

  Mama said, “Great!” She asked Daddy, “Can we make room for it?”

  He groaned, looking into the crammed trunk.

  Aunt Rita passed the basket out the window to Mama. “It’s packed with dishes, glasses, utensils. The ones in the paper bag are for Mary.” She lowered her voice. “There’s talk of the Klan in Georgia.”

  Mama handed the basket to Daddy. “We’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so.” Aunt Rita waved as she pulled out of the driveway.

  Mama jingled her car keys. “Say good-bye to your father.”

  Daddy hugged Puddin with one arm and reached for Stell with the other, but she held herself stiffly away from him. He brushed my forehead with a kiss. “Be good, Junebug. You know you’re Daddy’s girl, right?”

  His head blocked the morning sun and I couldn’t see his face.

  Mary stood in the driveway, holding Davie. Daddy poked Davie’s tummy. “Say bye-bye.”

  Davie waved.

  “Take care of my boy for me,” Daddy said to Mary.

  “Yes, sir.” Mary didn’t look at Daddy when she spoke.

  We all got in the car, Mama and Stell Ann in front, Davie between them in his canvas baby seat. Puddin and I were in the back with Mary, who sat behind the driver’s seat, tall and straight, her dark face already damp with sweat. She patted my leg to let me know she liked sitting next to me.

  Mama’s hair was curled and hanging loose, flashing red and gold. She handed me her sun hat, scarf, and gloves to put on the ledge in the back window. “Fold my gloves and put them under my hat, then cover my hat with the scarf.” She watched me in the rearview mirror, making sure I did what she said.

  She started the car. “Is everyone ready?”

  “Ready, Freddy,” I said. Stell sniffed. Slang was beneath her now that she was sixteen, was in Young Life, and had been saved.

  Daddy leaned in Mama’s window to kiss her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at Pawleys, okay?” Mama bent to move her purse and he kissed her shoulder instead. “Keep it in the road,” he said.

  She put the car in reverse. Had she felt his kiss on her shoulder?

  Daddy waved from the garage, looking alone already, and I remembered what he’d said to Uncle Stamos, his older brother. “While they’re gone, I’m going to play golf every afternoon and get stinking drunk whenever I want.” I wondered how he’d feel, coming home to a quiet house, nobody on the phone, no supper in the oven. No one to yell at when he got mad.

  Mama turned onto Queens Road West, into the shady green tree tunnels formed by the towering oaks. “I hope there’s not much traffic between here and the highway.”

  On the way out of Charlotte we passed Municipal Pool, and I saw Richard Daniels poised on the new high dive while another kid did a cannonball from the low board. Nobody was a better diver than Richard. Next time I talked to him, I’d ask him to give me lessons.

  When Daddy and Uncle Stamos won the contract to build those diving boards, they had hunkered for weeks over blueprints spread on the dining room table. Huge papers that smelled like ether and had WATTS CONCRETE FABRICATIONS, INC. in a box on every page, with a caption: CHARLOTTE MUNICIPAL SWIMMING POOL, and subheadings: DECK. BASE FOR THREE-METER BOARD. BASE FOR ONE-METER BOARD.

  Daddy showed me how to read the drawings. “Always check the scale. An inch can equal a foot or ten feet.” He held the papers flat to keep them from curling. “If you don’t know the scale, you won’t
understand the drawings.” I learned about blueprints as I breathed in his smell of tobacco and Old Spice.

  He liked teaching me things. When I was in first grade he gave me a miniature toolbox with painted wooden tools, which Mama thought was ridiculous. “That kind of thing is for boys,” she’d said.

  “I don’t have any,” Daddy had told her. “Yet.” He patted her bottom. “And girls need to know the business end of a hammer.”

  If Daddy wanted help, I grabbed my toolbox and ran to him, but he hadn’t asked for my help in a long time. Thirteen was too old for make-believe tools.

  Puddin wriggled on the seat next to me. “I want to be in front when we get to Florida so I can see the ocean first.”

  “That won’t be till tomorrow afternoon,” I told her.

  She put her head against my shoulder. “I can wait.” Then she sat up again. “Do my braids so I look Dutch.” I knotted her skimpy braids on top of her head, knowing they wouldn’t stay, as fine as her hair was.

  “Do I look Dutch?”

  “You look like Puddin-tane with her braids tied up.” Silky blonde wisps fell behind her ears.

  Davie started to fuss and Mama asked Stell to check his diaper. He was almost two but wasn’t taking to potty training, so Mama had him in diapers for the trip. Stell lifted him free of the car seat and asked, “Are you ever going to let me drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “His diaper’s okay. Take him for a while, Mary.” She helped Davie climb over the seat. Mary reached for him and he beamed at her, spreading his arms.

  Stell asked Mama, “When?”

  “At Taylor’s, but not on the highway. Not yet.”

  “I’m qualified.” Stell was pushing her luck. Mama didn’t answer.

  We were going first to Pensacola, Florida, to see Mama’s brother Taylor Bentley, who was divorced. His graduation photo from Annapolis was in our living room in a brass frame, taken when he was twenty-one, handsome in his white uniform, his hat held under his arm. When he kicked Aunt Lily out, a judge said their daughter would stay with Uncle Taylor. I heard Mama on the phone. “Lily Bentley is a slut.” My dictionary cleared up the mystery enough for me to suppose that Aunt Lily must have been caught in an affair, a word that made me long for details I was hopeless to know.

  In the early afternoon, we ate pimento cheese sandwiches in the car and stopped at an Esso station west of Columbia. I dug through the ice in the drink box until my hand was red before I came up with a Coke, and stood in the sun gulping it despite Mama saying I could only have one and to make it last.

  I looked around for Mary and saw her closing the door of an outhouse behind the filling station. She took Kleenex from her pocket and wiped her hands. I went to her. “You going to get something to drink?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t know when I’ll find another outhouse.”

  Stell walked up, tapping her Coke. “Want to play traveling?”

  “Okay. Two bits.” I guzzled my drink and belched.

  “Suave. Do that for the next cute boy you see.”

  “I’m ready. One, two, three!”

  We turned our bottles over. “Charlotte! I win!” I loved beating Stell at games.

  “Atlanta,” she said. “You lose.”

  I called to Mama, who was by the drink box, a Royal Crown in her hand, “Which is farther away, Charlotte or Atlanta?”

  “Atlanta. Why?”

  I slapped a quarter on Stell’s outstretched palm. She smirked.

  An old man popped the cap off a Seven-Up and raised it as if he were playing traveling, too. He squinted at the bottom of the bottle, where a bubble of air was trapped in the thick glass, green and sparkling in the sun. “Ever who blowed this’un had the hee-cawps,” he said in a cracked squeal. When we got in the car, I told everybody what he’d said and the funny way he talked. Only Mary laughed.

  We took off again, Puddin snuggling under the feather pillows we’d brought along, curling herself up until just her sandals showed. She hated air-conditioning. I thought it was because she was skinny, with not enough meat on her bones to keep her warm.

  I always looked out for Puddin, because before you knew it, she’d disappear. Once, on a trip to the mountains, we left her at a filling station and went twenty miles before we missed her. I’m the only one who noticed how often she hid herself away. Mama wasn’t alarmed. “She’s only five. She’s only six. She’s only seven.”

  Wiggles of heat rose from the highway, and the trip was long and boring, even with Mama pointing out things such as the Georgia state line and peach trees heavy with fruit. We played alphabet until I was almost to Z. Mary pointed to a calf and whispered, “Young cow,” for me to use for my Y. Stell said that wasn’t fair, and Mama wouldn’t rule, so we quit.

  In a town called Toccoa, I saw signs in people’s front yards: SEPARATE BUT EQUAL IS GOOD FOR EVERYONE and SEGREGATION AIN’T BROKE. DON’T FIX IT.

  “Mama, what do those signs mean?”

  “It’s got to do with that mess in Washington.” She glanced at Mary in the rearview mirror. “Never mind; it won’t happen in Charlotte.”

  “What won’t happen?”

  “Hush. I don’t want to talk.”

  Mary took my hand. I looked at our intertwined fingers—mine slender, smooth, and pale; hers brown, thick-knuckled, and calloused. On her left hand, resting in her lap, she wore a thin gold ring. We didn’t talk much in the car, and she seldom spoke except to say “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am” or “Y’all leave off talking till your mama gets us back on the highway.” She and Mama hadn’t had much to say to each other in a long time.

  We passed Davie around to keep him from getting too fussy. He fell asleep in my lap, his head on my chest, and I didn’t mind him drooling on my shirt.

  South of Atlanta, Mama said, “We’ll be at Taylor’s by tomorrow afternoon easy.” She sounded excited. She told us about a town nearby called Warm Springs. “President Roosevelt went to Warm Springs because of his polio, and he died there when Stell and Jubie were little. I took y’all to the Southern Railway station in Charlotte and we watched his funeral train pass by.”

  Something important had happened to me and I didn’t remember it.

  “Girls, Taylor said Sarah can hardly wait to see you.” Mama must have been trying hard to make small talk, because she didn’t have much to say for her niece, who she once described as prissy. But Sarah was my only girl cousin and she wasn’t particularly fond of Stell, so I was excited about seeing her again. In her last letter, she said that when I got there we’d go sunbathing, just the two of us. She never wrote anything about her mother being gone, and I wasn’t sure I should ask. I remembered Aunt Lily as exotic, with her brunette hair thick and heavy on her shoulders, her passion-pink toenails, her silver high-heeled slingbacks. She was the only mother I knew who’d named her daughter for a movie star—Sarah Dolores. Mama said she did that because people told Lily she looked like Dolores del Rio. How was Sarah doing living with only her father? I couldn’t imagine Daddy fixing our supper or not liking what we’d picked out to wear to school or making a grocery list. Maybe Uncle Taylor had a hired girl who did all those things.

  About six thirty my stomach growled, and Mama told Stell to get the paper bag from under the seat. “There’s Lance crackers, a pack for everybody, and apples. That’ll hold us a while longer. I want to avoid the supper crowd.”

  It was after eight by the time we stopped, with the trees casting long shadows across the road. We pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant, and Mama twisted the rearview mirror to show her reflection. “Jubie, make room so Mary can change Davie.”

  Davie started to fuss when Mary put him down. “Gone get you some supper,” she crooned. “Baby, now don’t you cry.”

  Mama put on fresh lipstick and powdered her nose.

  I felt like I’d been sitting forever. Even with the air-conditioning on, my thighs had perspired against the car seat, making the welts sting. I decided that no matter wha
t, I would not straddle the drive shaft again. Mama had pointed out many times that I needed more leg room than most grown men. Stell had shine, but I had height.

  Mama took Davie from Mary. “Anything in particular you want for supper?”

  “No, ma’am, just whatever. And the restroom for the kitchen help.”

  “I’m sure that’ll be fine.” Mary got back in the car. I looked over my shoulder and waved to her as we walked into the restaurant, Mama first, with Davie on her hip. She stood beside the cash register, looking around until a waitress called out, “Y’all go on and find a table.”

  The men in the restaurant turned to look at Mama, but she just walked straight to the table she wanted, like the queen of England. I thought it was silly the way she always primped before we left the car, then didn’t enjoy the attention she got. Aunt Rita said that it was unfair for a woman who had four kids to still be such a looker.

  We sat around a green Formica table by the window, facing the parking lot where Mary waited. Whenever we went out to eat at home, Mama or Daddy did the ordering. This time Mama said, “We’re on vacation. Order anything you want.”

  Stell said, right away, “I’ll have a salad with Russian dressing, green beans, candied carrots, and a baked potato with extra butter.”

  I read everything on the three-page menu before I ordered the spaghetti and meatballs, which Mama almost never fixed at home, but the plate put in front of me had an orange gloppy mess on it that looked like Chef Boyardee. Stell’s dinner smelled delicious. So did Mama’s pork chop, which she just picked at. While I was chewing the gluey meatballs, I heard the thump of a car door. I looked out the window and saw my own face reflected in the glass, then through it I saw Mary standing by the car, stretching, her arms raised. I was glad Mama had ordered fried chicken for her, not the spaghetti and meatballs.

  Before we left, the waitress gave us a greasy paper bag. “Here’s the food for your girl. Boss says she can use the bathroom off the kitchen.”

  There was a sign at the town limits of Wickens, Georgia: