The Dry Grass of August

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  “How much?” Mama asked.

  “Four a night for the small cabin, ten a night for the big one. In advance, daily.”

  “My goodness.”

  “Take it or leave it. No place else’ll have her, not around here.”

  “Do you have a phone I could use?”

  Mama and Mrs. Bishop went into the office. A sign by the door said, FRESH BAKED FRUITCAKES. MORE CHERRIES, NO CITRON.

  Mama’s voice came through the open office window, leaving a message with Daddy’s secretary. After she hung up, she said to the motel woman, “My husband’s not available. I need to make one more call.” She spoke into the phone, giving the operator Uncle Taylor’s number. “Person to person, collect, please.”

  She waited a couple of minutes, then said, “Oh, Taylor, thank God you’re there.We had a wreck. Everybody’s okay, but the car . . .” She blew her nose.“God knows where Bill is. I left a message.” She said something I couldn’t hear, then, “Yes, but I need him. I feel so overwhelmed.”

  After Mama hung up, I said to Stell, “I hope we stay here. I want to swim.”

  “I hope they have a bathtub, not just a shower.”

  Mama came back outside and said, “Carry my suitcase over there.” She pointed to Cabin Two. “And take the rest to yours, Cabin Four.”

  Mrs. Bishop came outside. “There’s another thing.” Her voice was strident. “I could get in trouble for letting your girl stay here, but I can see you’re in a mess, so I’m making an exception.”

  “We’re grateful,” Mama said.

  “But there are rules. She’s got to use the outhouse, not either of y’all’s bathrooms. Behind Cabin Six, through those trees.” She pointed.

  “What about bathing?” Mama asked.

  “She can’t use the pool.”

  “I meant washing herself.”

  “There’s a pump behind Cabin Four.” She coughed and touched her hair. “That’s the best I can do. I could lose business if word gets out. There are folks around here . . .” She turned and walked toward the office.

  “Yes,” Mama said under her breath. “There are always folks.”

  I climbed into the back of the truck and handed our suitcases over to Mary. When I was getting out, Gaither walked up and took my hand to help me. His hand was gritty. I jumped from the bumper and moved away.

  “See you around.” Gaither flicked his cigarette onto the lawn. He coughed and cleared his throat again as he got in the truck.

  We were unpacking in our cabin when the motel lady brought a folding cot for Mary, a wooden frame with green canvas slung from it, like the one I slept on at Girl Scout camp. She gave Mary a faded bedspread, two sheets, and a pillow. “You won’t need a blanket, hot as it is.”

  We set the cot up under the window in the kitchenette—a double-burner hot plate, a tiny refrigerator, and a sink. A note on a tattered index card was Scotch-taped to the wall: Tables under bed. I looked and found four small folding tables. Mama was going to have to eat her words about never having supper on TV trays.

  “This one’s mine.” Stell sat on one of the beds. “You and Puddin can have the other one.”

  Ever since we left Charlotte, Stell had made it known that she wasn’t sleeping with Puddin. Maybe because they shared a bedroom at home and Stell wanted a break from her.

  Mama came to our cabin to check it out. She looked into the bathroom. “Mary, help yourself to the toilet and the shower. I’m sure the girls don’t mind. If that Sally woman says anything, send her to me.”

  Mary nodded.

  Mrs. Bishop knocked at the door. “Phone, Mrs. Watts. I believe it’s your husband.” I hoped she hadn’t heard what Mama said to Mary.

  Mama’s mouth twisted. “Y’all get settled while I talk with your father.”

  CHAPTER 18

  I found the swimming pool through the trees behind the motel cabins. It was small, with chairs and lounges crowding the concrete apron. The piddling diving board had almost no spring and was barely high enough to dive from. I stretched out on it in my bathing suit, rubbing my shoulder blades against the torn hemp runner. Traffic on the boulevard swooshed faintly in the background. A car door slammed shut, and somebody shouted,“See you!” I scratched my back on the ragged hemp, stared at the cloudless sky, and thought about Leesum. If he was as good a diver as he was a swimmer, he’d know what a stupid board this was.

  The boards Daddy had built for Charlotte Municipal Swimming Pool were for real divers, like Daddy might have been if he’d had coaching. He could still do a jackknife.

  The City of Charlotte had held a dedication for the new boards last Memorial Day weekend, when Municipal Pool opened for the summer. We’d been running late and Mama drove fast, but the parking lot was jammed when we got there. She pulled in behind Daddy’s car, laughing. “I’ve got him hemmed in.”

  People were sitting on portable bleachers around the pool, the mayor, friends from the country club, men from Watts Concrete Fabrications. Daddy stood near the high dive, in his blue seersucker suit, wearing a straw fedora with a stained band. He said something to Uncle Stamos, who seemed to fade into the background the way he always did when the two of them were together.

  Stell and I sat on one side of Mama, Puddin on the other. Davie kept twisting in Mama’s lap. She snapped at him to be still, then glanced around to see if anyone had heard her. She smiled at the mayor’s brother, who we knew from the club.

  The air smelled of chlorine, cigarettes, and suntan oil. The pool was turquoise glass under the hot sun and I wanted to jump into it, make waves and shout. The still blue water needed breaking up.

  “Testing, one, two, three, four” came from the loudspeakers. The squeal of feedback brought a groan from the crowd. “Turn it down, Pete,” a man hollered. Stell Ann raised her eyebrows, put her hand over her mouth, muffling a snicker. Puddin looked bored.

  The mayor spoke into the mike. “Good afternoon! I’m happy to have y’all here. Hope you brought your suits!” Everybody laughed as though he’d said something really funny.

  “We need this great facility for our young athletes. Can’t expect them to train without first-class equipment. Charlotte is now the largest city in the Carolinas, and we have every hope of being represented in the Olympic Games before too long.” There was scattered applause among the crowd. “First order of business is entertainment. Let’s hear it for the Myers Park High School Marching Band!”

  A drum cadence started. The gates swung open in the chain-link fence surrounding the pool, and the head majorette high-stepped through. The crowd laughed as the band marched in wearing plumed hats, boots, and bathing suits. They halted and marched in place on the pool deck. The cadence changed to a repeated slow beat on the snare drums. A flute played the refrain from “Dixie.” The crowd rose to its feet and sang. I got chill bumps singing about old times that were not forgotten. At the end of the chorus, people started to sit back down, but one of the majorettes stepped up to the mike and sang a verse I’d never heard:

  Ole Missus marry Will the weaver.

  Willum was a gay deceiver.

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!

  But if she want to drive ’way sorrow,

  She can sing this song tomorrow.

  Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!

  Her voice hung in the air. Then everyone sang the chorus again, more fiercely than before. After the band marched out and the drum cadence faded, the mayor said, “I’m going to turn the mike over to the man who made all this possible. William Watts is president of Watts Concrete Fabrications, the company that built these fine diving boards. A proud husband and father of four, he has his family here with him today.” The mayor tipped his hat to us, then continued. “Two of the Watts girls are already great competitive swimmers, and Bill is often seen at their meets.” Stell touched my arm. I kept my eyes down, wondering if I should look up.The mayor went on. “The Watts family are active members of Selwyn Avenue Methodist Church and Myers Pa
rk Country Club, where Bill is on the board of directors, and where he recently achieved elite status by shooting a hole in one on the back nine. Let’s have a hand for William Watts!”

  The crowd applauded. Daddy handed his glasses to Uncle Stamos and walked to the base of the diving boards.

  “Why’s he wearing that old hat?” I asked Mama.

  “Shh. He’s going to speak.”

  Mama seemed puffed up with the importance of the occasion, maybe because Daddy had become someone in Charlotte, a respected businessman. I sat up straighter.

  Daddy waved away the microphone. “Can everybody hear me okay?” he yelled, and the crowd called back, “Yes!”

  Daddy shouted, “What’s essential about concrete?”

  Somebody hollered, “What?”

  “It’s gotta be hard!” Daddy jumped up and down on the pavement and people roared with laughter, every eye on him. He stood at the deep end of the pool, his reflection beside a mirror image of the high dive. “Our shop’s just a local outfit, a bunch of guys working on small jobs. When we won the bid for the pool deck and base for the diving boards, I had to hire more crew and go back to school.” He kicked off his loafers and put his foot on the first rung of the ladder to the high dive. “Had to learn the latest about compressive strength, hardening time, accelerators, L-bolts . . .” He stood at the top of the ladder and touched the base his company had built. “This is one of the biggest structures we’ve poured to date.” He lifted his hat from his head and saluted the crowd. The red stone in his ring glittered. Then with a flick of his wrist, he sailed his hat into the air, grinning as it spun around and landed in the middle of the pool. Laughter filled the air again. Mama shook her head. “That’s why he wore his old hat.”

  The sun glinted off Daddy’s hair. “We designed the base ourselves to support these springboards.” He stepped off the ladder and walked out onto the board. “They have to be anchored with precision or divers won’t get all the bounce they need”—he took two steps and the board bent beneath his weight—“for a half gainer with a triple twist.” Daddy flexed his knees and the board went down, rose up. I was proud that he knew what a gainer was. He turned his back to the pool and put his feet at the end of the board, heels lined up with the edge. “Even the simplest dive needs good spring.”

  He was silent for a minute and the crowd waited. “A trained diver knows all boards are different, but his stride is the same.” Daddy lifted one foot and seemed to go off balance, spreading his arms to steady himself. I was sure he was pretending. He took four steps back toward the ladder. “The diver takes four paces from the end, then turns.” Daddy pivoted.

  “How high is three meters?” He looked puzzled. “Most Americans need a slide rule for that one.” He was tall and solid above the white base, so handsome. I was proud to be his daughter. “Three meters is nine point seventy-five feet, about the height of the gutter on a one-story house. So a three-meter board is ten feet off the water.” He kneeled and put his hand on a bar underneath the board. “The secret to spring is the fulcrum, this bar.As you can see, it’s adjustable.” He pointed to a crank. “Proper placement of the fulcrum keeps the bounce under control.” He stood and pointed backward, toward the ladder. “If we moved it that way, the bounce would throw the diver into the next county.” He stood on his tiptoes, arms wide. I looked away, embarrassed by the damp circles at his armpits. He lowered his heels and stood flat-footed again.

  “A diver marks his pace from the end of the board so he knows where to start his approach.” He took three long, fast steps and his arms carved circles, then his hands came together and rose above his head. His left leg came up into a tight knee bend, then slammed down on the board and he leaped into the air. His hands came down to meet his feet in a perfect jackknife. For an instant he hung in the air, then his head and hands fell and his legs snapped up. He split the water in a straight vertical, almost no splash. The crowd gasped, exploded with applause.

  Mama said, “What a show-off.”

  Daddy surfaced arms first, rising like Esther Williams in a water ballet. He slicked his wet hair off his forehead as he climbed the ladder, his seersucker suit clinging to his broad shoulders and long legs.

  Puddin jumped into the motel pool, splashing me. I rolled off into the water. She swam over to me in a jerky stroke that wasn’t much better than a dog paddle. “Guess what? Daddy’s coming!”

  I went under and grabbed her feet, heard her muffled shriek through the water. “When?” I sputtered as I came back to the surface.

  “Tomorrow. Mama’s glad.”

  I swam to the side of the pool. Mary came through the gate, carrying Davie on her hip.

  “Your daddy be here tomorrow.”

  “Puddin told me.”

  She put Davie down. “He want to be sure your mama’s car get fixed right.”

  Davie walked to the side of the pool, holding out his hands. “Doobie, water.”

  “You take him in the pool, you got to keep the Band-Aid dry.”

  I got out and walked with Davie to the shallow end. We sat on the steps and Davie kicked the water.

  Mary pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped her face. I wished she could come in the pool with us and I wished that Daddy would stay in Charlotte.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Stell, Jubie, let’s go buy fruitcakes.” Mama stood in the door of our cabin.

  Stell was brushing her hair, the glossy brown shimmering in a shaft of morning sunlight through the open window. “Ten minutes, okay?”

  Mama nodded. She had her hand on the screen door when Mary spoke. “I want to buy some fruitcakes myself.”

  “Then we’d have to take Puddin and Davie,” Mama said.

  “I’ll keep them out of your way,” said Mary.

  “I can get the cakes for you. How about that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Want three fruitcakes.”

  “Is that all? No problem whatsoever.”

  “With citron, those yellow pieces that has such a fine sharp taste.”

  “I know what citron is.” Mama started out the door again.

  “Not all fruitcakes has citron. I particularly favors it.”

  “Most of them do.”

  “No, Mama,” I said. “Some signs say ‘No Citron.’ ”

  “Oh-h-h-h.” Mama turned to leave. “Let’s not get things too complicated.”

  At Claxton Fruit Cake Company, Mama ordered ten tube cakes, five pounds each, in holiday tins, and arranged to have them shipped.

  “Okay, girls, let’s go.”

  “Mama!” She’d forgotten.

  “Yes?”

  “Mary’s cakes.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Thanks, Jubie.” She turned back to the man behind the counter. “Three one-pound cakes, please, in a bag. We’ll take them with us.”

  I asked, “Are you sure she doesn’t want bigger ones?”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  Mama was in a hurry to get back to the motel, in case Daddy had gotten there; she walked way ahead of me and Stell.We took our time.

  From the truck the store displays had looked full of interesting things to buy. Up close, the windows were streaked, the merchandise faded and dusty. The leaves of the dying flowers hanging outside the millinery store had bug bites in them. There were only five things in the display case: two white straw picture hats, a pink cloche, a blue beret, a yellow pillbox.

  Burnett’s Grocery, with baskets of produce on the sidewalk, had a hand-lettered poster in the window:

  TENT REVIVAL!

  Friday, August 13, 8 PM.

  The Reverend Brian Samuel Cureton preaching.

  The Campground at New Smyrna AME Zion Church.

  COME TO JESUS!

  “I want to see a tent meeting,” said Stell Ann. Mama was almost a block ahead of us.

  “You’re crazy. Mama and Daddy wouldn’t be caught dead in a colored church.”

  “I wasn’t going to invite them.”

  “They won’t l
et us go alone.”

  Stell walked up to a man who was napping in a chair in front of the barbershop. “Sir?”

  The man’s eyes popped open.

  “Could you tell me how to get to New Smyrna AME Zion?”

  “That’s a Nigra church.”

  “Our girl wants to know.” Stell lied smoothly.

  “It’s a ways out Zion Church Creek Road.”

  “Could she walk there?”

  “Easy. It’s not but maybe a mile.” He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair as we walked away.

  “Mary will take us,” Stell said. It was settled.

  Mary, Davie, and Puddin were at the swing set in the courtyard. I ran to Mary. “Hey! We got your cakes!”

  Mama came up behind me. “With citron, just what you wanted.Two dollars and forty cents. Do you want to pay me or should I take it out—”

  “No, ma’am, I’ll pay you.” She looked in the bag. “Oh.”

  “I’m going over to my cabin.You can give the money to Jubie.”

  “All right.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked her.

  Mama turned around.

  “Nothing. They just so little.”

  “Well, Mary,” said Mama, “the big ones are awfully expensive.”

  “Yes, ma’am. These’re fine.”

  “Good,” Mama said brightly, and went to her cabin.

  I sat in one of the swings.“Okay, so what’s wrong? Really.”

  “I was going to give one to my friend for a present. One for our church party, one for me and the kids. Thought they’d be big, not them weedy things.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  I jumped to my feet. “I’ve got it! We can go to the fruitcake store tomorrow morning. Stell will stay with Puddin and Davie if we explain to her.You can get all the cakes you want.”

  She grinned, the gold on her front tooth gleaming. “That’d be real fine.”