I said, “Mrs. Willingham was here—the next-door lady? She said she’d be back.”
“Oh, Lord,” Uncle Taylor said to Mama. “Lula’s the one I was telling you about. Everybody’s business is Lula’s business.” He grabbed Mama’s hand and pulled her toward the gulf. “Last one in’s a sand crab.” I hadn’t heard Mama laugh so hard in a long time.
I walked over to where Stell was spreading out her towel.
“Mama’s having fun.”
“Uncle Taylor’s good for her. Isn’t this a sublime beach?”
“Uh-huh.” I looked around while Stell settled herself. “You talked to Sarah yet?”
“Just hello. Why?”
“She’s acting weird. She said I should ask Daddy if I wanted to know what was wrong with her.”
“Daddy? Our daddy?”
“That’s what she said.”
“How on earth could Daddy know what’s wrong with Sarah?”
“She said it like it was his fault she’s unhappy.”
Stell looked at Mama and Uncle Taylor playing in the water. “I don’t know how I would feel if Mama and Daddy got a divorce.”
“Do you know why Aunt Lily left?”
“I think she had a boyfriend.” Stell opened her beach bag and took out her homemade suntan lotion—baby oil mixed with iodine.
“You mean adultery?”
She rubbed her shins with the lotion. “Maybe. I’m guessing, because of what Mama says about Aunt Lily.”
“I can’t imagine Mama leaving us.”
“Me, either. Or us living with just Daddy.”
CHAPTER 6
I was not yet seven the first time I heard Daddy fire his handgun. The war had ended, we’d moved from the mountains into a new house in Charlotte, and Mary had come to work for us. Mama and Daddy began to bicker a lot, but they were nice to each other when Mary was around. I was alarmed if she didn’t show up when she was supposed to, on days when the Number 3 bus was late.
Meemaw visited us for weeks at a time, and Mary had a way with her, fixing her coffee or helping her tune the radio to her stories or getting aspirin if Meemaw complained of a headache. When Mama heard them talking, she told Mary, in a voice loud enough for Meemaw to hear, “Don’t let Cordelia keep you from your work.” She and Meemaw didn’t get along, even with Mary as a go-between, disagreeing about little things such as the cowbell Mama hung on the kitchen door to remind her of Shumont. It clanked whenever anyone came or went. When she heard it, Meemaw frowned and said, “Dang cowbell.” But Mama was adamant and the cowbell stayed. I paid attention to Mary about such things, like when Mama said to Aunt Rita, “Life is good, except for Cordelia,” and Mary shook her head as if to say I shouldn’t notice.
Meemaw sat on the sofa all day with the radio on, listening to her programs and crocheting. Mama told Daddy she felt like a prisoner in her own home. “Cordelia sits there like a Buddha, with fuzzy things growing in her lap, watching me. She’s so suspicious.”
“How do you know she’s suspicious?”
“By the look on her face. A suspicious look.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“I heard what she said to Rita. ‘Paula thinks she’s too good for us.’ ”
“That was two sentences. She really said, ‘Paula thinks. She’s too good for us.’ ”
Mama tried not to smile, but Daddy always got around her.
Aunt Rita and Uncle Stamos came over to visit Meemaw and play bridge. The two men sat in the living room, shuffling papers and talking about Watts Concrete Fabrications, which they’d started with ten thousand dollars of Mama’s inheritance. They worked hard but didn’t agree about the need for putting in long hours. “Rita’s not happy with all the work I bring home,” Uncle Stamos said.
Daddy rolled a blueprint. “It’s a postwar boom. We’ve got to strike while the iron is hot.”
“We’re juggling too many jobs and cutting corners.”
“We’re coming in under budget and the work’s not suffering. We’ll be millionaires in ten years.”
Mama called from the kitchen, “Sounds good to me.”
“Some things matter more than money,” Meemaw said, looking up from her crocheting.
Mama closed the kitchen door.
Uncle Stamos got the card table from the hall closet and set it up in the middle of the living room. “Ready for bridge, my love?” He and Aunt Rita were never far apart, always touching each other. Mama said one time that Rita could stand to lose a few pounds, but I could tell Uncle Stamos thought she was beautiful. Maybe she wasn’t as pretty as Mama, but she made me feel important and was always giving me small things. That night it was a brooch of red stones. “For when you get older.” She’d folded my fingers over the pin. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like you.”
Mama walked in, drying her hands. “What do y’all want to drink?”
“A highball for me,” Uncle Stamos said. He was as skinny as Fred Astaire, in spite of how much he ate, and when he sat down he looked like he was folding up.
Meemaw asked Aunt Rita, “Did you bring Carlisle’s—I mean, his letter?”
Aunt Rita pulled an envelope from her pocketbook. “He’s doing so well. Here, you can read it.” I loved hearing Aunt Rita and Uncle Stamos talk about their only child, Carly, who was fifteen, in military school, and hoping to go to West Point.
Mama said, “Time for bed, Jubie. Tell Stell and Puddin I’ll be there in a minute.”
My sisters and I shared a room that had two windows, fluffy curtains, and single beds with wooden headboards that were in the shape of apples, red with brown stems. Daddy and Uncle Stamos made them for us when Puddin got too big for a crib.
After Mama said good night, Stell and I lay in bed whispering.
Daddy filled the doorway. “You girls are supposed to be asleep. I’m going to separate y’all. Jubie, let’s go.”
That was a fairly regular turn of events, putting me in Mama and Daddy’s bed so Stell and I wouldn’t talk late.
Their room was twice the size of ours, with the bed facing a big front window. They had a bedroom suite that Mama bought after Daddy began making money—a cherry bed, with two tall chests and a matching dressing table. I had fun going through their things, especially Daddy’s. His top drawer smelled of cedar, lighter fluid, Doublemint gum, and the oil he used to clean his handgun, which he kept under a jumble of socks and handkerchiefs. Just the sight of it scared me. I never touched it when I rummaged through his stuff for a piece of gum. He told me he couldn’t get Doublemint during the war, and that no other gum was as good. It was my favorite, too.
The sheets on their bed were fresh and crisp from sunshine. I fell asleep on Daddy’s pillow and woke to the sound of glass breaking, a loud crack above my head. I screamed.
The bedroom door hit the wall. “What’s going on?” Daddy turned on the light and I squinted against the brightness. “What’d you do to the bed?”
“Something scared me.” I started to cry.
Mama, Aunt Rita, and Uncle Stamos crowded into the bedroom.
Aunt Rita gasped, “The window!”
There was a hole in the front window, the wooden frames hanging loose.
Daddy said, “Sit up, Jubie, real careful.”
The cherry headboard was cracked down the middle. I began to sob. “I didn’t do it. A noise came . . .” Daddy lifted me off the bed and set me down by Aunt Rita, who put her arms around me.
He climbed onto the bed and ran his hand over the headboard, then pulled something up from behind the pillows. “By God, look at this.” He held a white sock stuffed like a Christmas stocking, bulging at the toe. “A rock. Pitched through the window.”
Uncle Stamos picked me up and held me close. “Could have hit June.” I put my head on his bony shoulder. He said, “It’s all right now, you’re safe.”
Mama said, “I’ll bet it’s those kids who shot firecrackers at the house down the street.”
“Are you ok
ay, Junebug?” Daddy touched my cheek.
“Yes, sir.” Him calling me Junebug made me feel better.
He opened his top drawer and got his gun. “I’ll find the hoodlum thinks he can get away with this.”
“Bill, no,” Mama said. “Call the police.”
“You call them. I’m going to catch a punk.”
“Calm down, Bill.” Uncle Stamos put his hand on Daddy’s shoulder.
Daddy shrugged it off. “Don’t tell me what to do.” He stomped out of the bedroom and down the hall. The front door slammed behind him. There was a loud bang in the front yard. Daddy yelled, “I’m gonna get you!”
Mama called through the broken window. “Bill, please. There’s a better way to handle this.”
Blam. Another shot.
Meemaw hurried in, her long white nightgown billowing around her. She pushed past Mama and shouted, “Billy Watts, you get in here right now. This minute.” There was no response and Meemaw said, “I mean it, Billy. Acting a fool.”
The front door opened. Daddy’s footsteps clumped through the foyer. “Whoever it was, they’re gone.”
“Now let’s call the police,” Mama said.
But someone else had called them and they pulled into the driveway.
Uncle Stamos put me down next to Stell, who stood in the hallway in a corner, pale and quiet. I took her hand. We went to our room and got in bed together. “Where’s Puddin?” I asked.
“She was here a minute ago.” Puddin was only two but was already hiding herself away.
A sound like a kitten came from under her bed. I got on the floor and lifted the bed skirt. “Hey, Puddin-tane.”
She crawled out, dust in her blonde curls, her face splotched. “Daddy scared me.” She got into bed with Stell and me.
Loud voices came from the living room.
“Got a license for that gun? We can put you in jail if you fire it again.”
Meemaw came into our room. Her flowery smell made me think everything was going to be all right. “Your daddy’s—he’s just upset. You girls should be in your own beds—I mean, company helps when you’re scared. Night.” She left. In the dim light I saw her thick gray pigtail hanging down her back.
Mama checked on us after the police left. “I hope the neighbors don’t think we’re crazy, the way your daddy carried on.” She lowered her voice. “Thank God Cordelia—well, for once I’m glad she was here.”
Puddin and I got in our beds. Mama pulled the covers up, turned off the hall light, and closed our bedroom door. Every time I’d almost drift off, I’d remember: Daddy had been ready to shoot somebody.
CHAPTER 7
Uncle Taylor was throwing a party so his friends could meet Mama. Mary spent the whole day in his kitchen, making gallons of ice tea, baking biscuits and apple pies. I helped her put the leaves in the dining table and cover it with a white cloth that fell to the floor. She tugged one side, then the other. “It got to hang just right,” she said.
Mama set six tapers on the table in the middle of flowers she picked from her brother’s garden. They were expecting forty people. I was uncomfortable at big parties and felt wobbly just thinking about this one.
Two guests came early and stayed late. One was Mrs. Lula Willingham, the neighbor I’d met on the beach. She settled herself on a step stool in the kitchen, seeing to it that dirty dishes were washed as soon as they came through the door, ordering Mary around, telling her to watch the serving platters, keep them full. When Mrs. Willingham took over, Mama left the kitchen to enjoy the party. I thought she was relieved not to have to be in charge of Mary.
The other early arrival was a war widow Uncle Taylor had met at church, Mrs. Kay Macy Cooper. She had a soft voice and wore her blonde hair tied back with a coral ribbon that matched her dress. Every time she was introduced, it was with her whole name, because she was related to somebody who owned a department store in New York City. Mama said Macy’s made Ivey’s look piddling. In Charlotte, Ivey’s covered its display windows on Sundays so good Christians wouldn’t be distracted on the Lord’s day, and some said that put them a step ahead of Macy’s.
Mary was at the kitchen sink, drying her hands on a dish towel when Mrs. Cooper tapped her on the shoulder. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’m Mary Luther. I work for Miz Watts.”
Mrs. Cooper said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Luther.” She glanced at Mary’s wedding ring. “It is Mrs., isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m Kay Macy Cooper.” She held out her hand. Mary looked startled, then took it.
“Pleased to meet you, Miz Cooper.”
Mrs. Willingham handed a platter of sliced ham to Mary. “I believe there’s a place on the dining room table for this.” Mary left the kitchen with the heaping platter.
“Kay Macy, Taylor will be needing you in the living room,” Mrs. Willingham said, smiling as always. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.
Mrs. Cooper left the kitchen without answering.
I sat in a chair in the corner of the dining room with my supper plate balanced on my knees. If anybody spoke to me, I mumbled something and looked away. The party voices sounded like turkeys gobbling, nonsense noises punctuated by snatches of music, the tinkle of ice in glasses, the clink of silverware. When the record player quit, somebody called out, “Flip the stack, flip the stack.” A hazy cloud of smoke formed at the ceiling, drifting with the movement of people walking in and out.
Uncle Taylor’s voice boomed from the living room, “Everybody gather around. I want to introduce my big sister.”
The dining room cleared as people went to meet Mama. She’d chat with everyone she met. She loved parties.
I was going to duck out the back door and go to the beach, certain nobody would miss me. But something shiny caught my eye under the hem of the tablecloth. The toe of a patent leather shoe. “Puddin!”
“Don’t tell, Jubie.” I scooted under the tablecloth and drew in my feet, giggling with my little sister in our dusky cave.
“How long have you been under here?” I whispered, sitting back against one of the table legs.
“For the whole party.” She handed me a cookie. “I’ve got a lot. You can have more.”
“Thanks.”
Mama was making a speech about how happy she was to be in Pensacola, how nice everybody was, how she didn’t know where Puddin and I’d gone. The chatter started up again as people crowded the dining room, their feet showing under the tablecloth.
I heard Stell say, “Why, thank you, a gift from my boyfriend.” Her gold cross. “Our next-door neighbor.” How she met Carter. “Together we formed Charlotte’s first Young Life group.” Together, ha! She’d had to drag Carter into it.
“Young Life?” a woman asked.
“A club for Christian teens.” Stell’s voice was full of pride.
Mrs. Willingham said to someone, “Paula’s lucky to have her, that’s what I told one of her kids.” Her voice faded into the others as she walked away.
Mary came into the dining room. I recognized her black lace-ups. “Commander Bentley, reckon it’s time for the apple pies?”
“What do you think, Kay?” Uncle Taylor asked.
“They gobbled up your biscuits, Mrs. Luther, and I’m sure your pies will be delicious. Yes, it’s time.”
I couldn’t get over her saying “Mrs. Luther.” I’d never heard anybody call Mary that.
Mrs. Willingham, who was standing by the table, said, “Calling a colored gal by her last name is making a show of being broad-minded. Kay Macy’s a Yankee, you know. Maybe she’d be good for Taylor and Sarah, but maybe not.”
“Thank goodness that’s not your decision,” Mama said.
“Oh, Paula, I didn’t see you. Well, I do have opinions.”
“Perhaps you should keep them to yourself.”
“I’ve never been good at that. Just come right out with what I think.”
Mama’s heels clicked across the foyer into the
living room.
Things got quiet. Puddin and I crawled out from under the table.
Mrs. Cooper stood in the kitchen doorway. “There you are. Your mama’s been looking for you.”
Puddin said, “Jubie found me under the table.”
“Cocktail parties aren’t a lot of fun for kids.” She took Puddin’s hand. “Sit on the stool and let me fix your barrettes.” She gave me a hug. “Nobody’s in the kitchen. If you scoot out the back door, you won’t have to help with the dishes.”
As the screen door closed behind me, Mrs. Cooper said to Mama, “Mrs. Luther must be worn out. Why don’t we let her go to bed and I’ll finish up in here.”
“Another half hour won’t kill her,” Mama said. “I brought her along to help.”
CHAPTER 8
In the fall of 1952, Daddy announced that the house he’d built for us on Queens Road West was ready. The day we moved in, Mary got Mama settled in Daddy’s platform rocker in the den. “Too bad,” Mary said, “a new house and a new baby at the same time.”
“A lousy coincidence,” Mama said. She sat by the breezeway door, smoking and drinking coffee from a thermos, telling the movers where to put things. She took the cowbell from her cloth carryall of last-minute stuff—toilet paper, bar soap, the magnets she’d taken from the refrigerator—and gave it to Mary to hang on the kitchen door.
Mary hung the bell, and the familiar jangle echoed through the empty rooms.
“Now it’s home,” Mama said.
The house was so big we didn’t have enough stuff to fill it—five bedrooms, three bathrooms—four floors including a full attic, a basement, and a two-car garage with an efficiency apartment above it. Mama said she’d have a good time shopping for new furniture after the baby was born. Her belly was huge and I thought she’d fall over every time she stood. She wore nothing but tennis shoes or bedroom slippers on her swollen feet.
I commented on being way taller than Mama, so Mary measured me, making a pencil mark on the bathroom doorjamb. “Five foot seven,” she said, “and you not yet twelve. I s’pect you got even more growing to do.” That was fine with me. I liked looking down on Mama and Stell Ann. I wasn’t crazy about having big feet, but Daddy pointed to his own size fourteens and said that came with the territory.
The Dry Grass of August Page 5
