The Dry Grass of August

by Anna Jean Mayhew

“His hands are calloused.” She closed her eyes. “He’s big like a football player, or maybe just fat.”

  “Do you know what kind of car—”

  “The one who beat up Mary had on a white T-shirt,” I said, remembering.

  “Good girl.”The sheriff made a note.

  Stell said, “A four-door Chevy, with white sidewalls and a loose muffler.”

  “Stell!” I was proud of her.

  “You sure?”

  “I heard the muffler dragging. I looked up as they drove off and—”

  “But you said the streetlights—”

  “Full moon, or almost.”

  “You’re right.” His pen moved on the pad. “What color was the car?”

  Stell shook her head. “Light blue or gray.”

  The sheriff stood. “Be right back.” He went into the outer office.

  Stell took my hand. “They’ll find her. She’ll be all right.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  We sat in silence.

  The sheriff came back, sat down behind his desk. “Y’all got a picture of your girl?”

  “No,” said Stell.

  “I do.” Stell looked at me. “I do. From Uncle Stamos’ birthday party.”

  “Mary wasn’t in any of those.”

  “I kept the ones Mama tossed out. One was just Mary and me. I’ve got it at the motel.”

  “That’ll help,” said the sheriff. “Coloreds look so much alike.”

  “No, they don’t,” Stell said.

  The sheriff said, “Hmph.” Like Mary.

  I asked him, “When are you going to start looking for her?”

  “We already are. Ray’s driving around town, asking questions. We just radioed him a description of the car.”

  I hoped someone would find Mary before Ray did.

  The door swung open, banging against the wall. “Par’me, Sheriff, but they’s a man out here making a ruckus.”

  Daddy’s voice boomed from the front office. “I want my daughters, damn it! Are they hurt?” I slid down in my chair.

  Somebody said something I couldn’t hear. Daddy yelled, “Where in hell are they?”

  The sheriff said, “Bring him on in.”

  Daddy burst into the sheriff ’s office. “God, I’m glad you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” we both said at once.

  “We’re about done here, Mr.Watts.”

  Daddy shook the sheriff ’s hand. “Just want to take my girls to their mother.” He looked at Stell. “I guess you got enough religion.”

  She stared at the floor.

  We answered a few more questions. When Sheriff Higgins said he was finished, I asked,“Is Mary okay? Do you think she’s okay?”

  He looked at Daddy, down at his desk. “I’m sure she is. We’ll see.”

  We left his office with Daddy holding our hands. We were almost to the Chrysler when he shoved Stell so hard she fell against the car.

  “Daddy!” she cried out.

  I couldn’t move. I’d never seen him raise a hand to anyone but me.

  “It’s all your fault, you and that goddamn religious stuff you’re always pushing at us. Jesus this and Jesus that!” He kicked one of the tires.

  “It’s not my fault.” Stell stood by the car, her face white in the moonlight. I wanted to warn her to be quiet.

  Daddy drew back his hand as if he were going to hit her.

  “Go ahead. You’re only a hundred pounds heavier, so it’ll be fair. I’ll scream if you touch me.”

  He stood there, his glasses two disks of reflected light. “Get in the car.”

  I couldn’t get to sleep. The heat was in bed with me, and there was no cool side to the pillow. Every time I closed my eyes, I could hear the men beating Mary. I kept wanting to grunt and moan. After a long time of trying to get comfortable, I got up. I bumped into Mary’s cot on my way to the door. If she’d been there, I would have gone to my knees and put my head on her chest. I wanted her strong brown arms around me so bad my bones hurt. I went outside and stood in the grass and cried, hoping someone would hear me and afraid someone would. The stoop light came on at Mama and Daddy’s cabin. The screen door opened and Mama came out, ghostly in her nightgown. I waited for her to say something, but she just stood there rubbing her arms. I finally said, “Mama?” my voice so shaky I didn’t sound like me.

  “Jubie? What are you doing out here?”

  “I can’t sleep. I’m worried about Mary.”

  “Let’s sit.” She pointed to the swing set. She sat in one swing and I sat in the other, smelling the rusty chains, feeling the splintery boards through my pajamas. Mosquitoes bit my legs, but I was too sad to swat them. The air was filled with the heavy sweet smell of Mrs. Bishop’s gardenias. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks. I wanted Mama to hug me or hold me the way Mary did, but if she tried, we’d feel strange.

  Mama said, “They’ll find her. Of course they will.”

  I tried to believe her. We swung for a while, me sniffling, Mama slapping at bugs, not saying anything. The night sounds got louder, like the crickets and frogs had been waiting for us to stop talking so they could get going again. That morning, I’d seen two dead frogs floating in the pool, white bellies up. Did they die from the chlorine or get so worn out from treading water that their hearts just quit? A man lying on a lounge had said, “Sometimes there’s half a dozen of them. Strange how dead things don’t sink.”

  The swings moved in unison.

  Mama said, “It’s going to be all right, you’ll see.”

  “Mama, they beat her so bad. She needs a doctor.” A yowling rose from my chest.

  “You’re going to wake everybody in the park.”

  “Not Mary,” I wailed.

  A screen door opened, Daddy called out, “Pauly? What’s that racket?”

  Lights came on in the office where Mrs. Bishop’s apartment was. Mama took my hand and pulled me up. “We’ve got to go inside.”

  Daddy was in front of his and Mama’s cabin, hands on his hips, the light behind him. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Jubie’s upset about Mary. I was just trying to calm her down.”

  She was just listening to me cry.

  “C’mere, Junebug,” Daddy said. I fell into the dusty tobacco smell of him. He held me close, rubbed my back.

  Mama kissed my cheek, her cigarette breath enveloping me. “I’ll go back in, then.”

  I cried into Daddy’s chest until the horrible ache inside me was numb.When I got quiet, he said, “C’mon, Jujube, I’ll walk you home.” At the cabin, he said, “The police’ll catch those guys and bring Mary back. Don’t you worry.”

  “Daddy, that man at the front desk said there wasn’t any use looking for her at night because she’d be so hard to see.”

  “He’s not in charge, honey. Sheriff Higgins is heading the search, a good man.”

  “The men who took her have to kill her. She knows what they look like.”

  “They probably think kidnapping a darkie isn’t much of a crime. Might as well let her go.”

  In the cabin, I folded back the spread on Mary’s cot and fluffed the pillow so her bed would be waiting for her when she came in. I stood, touching her pillow, then wiggled in under the top sheet. If she got back before morning, she’d have to wake me. Knowing that, I fell asleep.

  That night Mary spoke to me. If I was awake or asleep, it happened, and it wasn’t a dream. She said, “Jubie, you’re a fine girl, and I’m a fine girl, too.”

  I woke to whispers and giggles. Puddin, Stell Ann, and Davie were all in bed together, Davie under the sheets and Stell and Puddin poking at him, playing with him. Acting normal. I sat up. “Mary?” I asked.

  The cabin got quiet. Stell shook her head.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing.” I saw the strain on her face. She was just keeping up a good front for Puddin and Davie.

  I got dressed and took Davie to Mama’s cabin. She was
sitting on the bed in her nightgown, sipping from a mug, letting her toenails dry. Pieces of cotton stuck out between each toe. The room was filled with sunshine, the smell of coffee, nail polish, cigarettes. I dumped Davie on the bed next to Mama, and she pulled him to her, cooing, “Hey, Davie-do, how’s my boy this morning?”

  He patted her face. “Mary?”

  Mama looked at me, tears in her eyes.

  “Wouldn’t they have found her by now, if they were going to?”

  “I don’t know, Jubie. I just don’t know. But it doesn’t look good.”

  I felt empty and hard inside. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Gone to talk to the sheriff and see about the Packard.”

  There was a knock at the door. “See who that is, honey.”

  “It’s just me, Mrs. Watts, come to find out what happened to your girl.” Mrs. Bishop pushed open the screen door. Her finger waves looked painted on. She reached for the ladder-back chair by the door.

  Mama said, “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Bishop sat, crossing her legs. She swung her foot and dangled her wedgy until it was barely hooked on her toe. “I was afraid your girls might have trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Going off to that colored revival. Anybody knows they shouldn’t have done that.”

  Mama sat up straight.

  “Them being teenagers and walking after dark with a nigger.”

  “We do not use that word.”

  “You one of those integrators? I wouldn’t have thought you’d be political, being such a lady.”

  Mama stood, stern and dignified, even in her nightgown with cotton between her toes. “I am not political, but I don’t use foul language.”

  Davie began to cry.

  “Mrs. Watts, please, I didn’t mean to offend.”

  I picked up Davie.

  Mama opened the door. “As soon as our car is fixed, we’ll be on our way.”

  Mrs. Bishop went out, closing the screen carefully.

  I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. “We’re leaving?”

  “When the car—”

  “Without Mary?” I wanted to hit her.

  She took my hand and patted the bed. “Sit with me a minute.” We sat. I shifted Davie to my lap and bounced him with my leg.

  Mama said, “Bill’s urging the sheriff to do everything possible. The car isn’t as bad as we thought, and it might be ready Monday.” Davie began to fuss and I moved my leg faster and faster.

  “If Mary hasn’t turned up by then—” Mama said, “I’m sure she will, but if she doesn’t . . .”

  “We’ll leave?” I choked back tears.

  “We can’t stay indefinitely, honey. We’re doing everything we can, but sooner or later—”

  Davie screamed.

  “Check his diaper,” Mama said. “I’ve got to shower.” She stood and took her robe from the back of a chair.

  “Mama!”

  “What?” She sounded exasperated.

  I rubbed Davie’s back. “We can’t leave without knowing. . . .” Davie howled in my ear.

  Mama tested one of her toenails, then pulled the cotton out. She went into the bathroom and closed the door.The shower came on.

  I hugged Davie. “Shhh, shhh.” I walked around and around, holding him close until his crying slowed, breathing through my mouth because his britches smelled so bad. I grabbed a diaper from the stack on the dresser and sat on the bed with him, rocking him back and forth, then lowering him to the spread. “Hush, hush, sweet boy. Gone change your diaper.” I sounded like Mary.

  Mama came out of the bathroom in her robe, her hair in a towel turban. A cloud of soapy-smelling steam followed her. She handed me a warm washcloth. “Wipe him good.”

  I pulled the diaper off Davie. “What’s an integrator?”

  “People who want to send you to school with colored children.”

  I wadded up the diaper, dropped it on the floor, and cleaned Davie’s bottom, sprinkling him with baby powder. He kicked his legs happily.

  Mama straightened. “And the word is ‘integrationists,’ not ‘integrators.’ Some people are prejudiced and ignorant to boot.” She went in the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  Davie clapped his hands and reached for me. “Doobie.”

  By next week, he wouldn’t remember Mary.

  CHAPTER 23

  Stell Ann was as sad as I was, but her way of handling it was to get busy. When I got to our cabin, she was straightening it, putting dirty clothes in a pillowcase. I wished I could be that way. “Where’s Puddin?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Stell’s eyes were swollen. She hadn’t combed her hair or washed her face, so unlike her.

  “Does she know about Mary?”

  Stell shrugged.

  I ran outside, saw a speck of pink through the trees. Puddin’s favorite T-shirt. She sat in a carpet of pine needles beside the outhouse, staring into the distance.

  “Puddin?”

  “Nobody told me.” She scratched her knee. “Is she dead?”

  I dropped down beside her, trying not to breathe in the odor coming from the outhouse.

  “She must be dead or she’d come home,” Puddin said.

  I put my arms around her, held her. We walked together back to our cabin.

  Stell and Mama took the kids to lunch. I wasn’t hungry and Mama didn’t insist. I put on my bathing suit and went out into the hot noon sun. The concrete apron at the pool burned my feet. I dove in and breaststroked to the far wall before I came up. A woman was settling herself into one of the lounges. “You sure are a good swimmer.”

  “Thanks.” I ducked my head, slicking back my hair.

  “Are you on a swimming team?”

  “Back home.” I swam the length again, coming up near where the woman sat.

  “Where’s home?”

  “Charlotte, North Carolina.”

  “Oh, goodness, you must be one of the girls got attacked on Lillington Avenue.”

  “How’d you know?”

  She reached for her Coppertone. “I live just around the corner from where it happened. Sally said y’all were from Charlotte.”

  She had kind eyes and curly hair going from red to gray. Old as Meemaw, but thin and healthy, which made all the difference. She rubbed oil on her shoulders. “That bruise on your arm—from last night?”

  For a second I was confused. Had Daddy hit me? Didn’t matter, my answer would be the same. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you know who attacked you?”

  “Some men.” I wanted her to hush.

  “And—was it your sister, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but we’re okay.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  I needed to say something out loud. “Mary, our maid, she’s missing.”

  “Oh, yes, the Nigra girl who was with you.” She poured Coppertone on her shins. “I’m sure Sheriff Higgins is doing what he can.”

  I ducked under and swam away fast. At the other end I climbed out and ran back to the cabin.

  I had to find somebody who’d know how much Mary mattered, somebody who would do something, go looking for her. Out where the tent meeting was, lots of coloreds lived around there.

  I trudged back up Zion Church Creek Road through afternoon shadows that striped the red clay. A man and three children stood in a circle in the field, holding fishing poles, heads bowed as if they were praying. Was it the same family from yesterday, the girl who was diving from the float? The wind carried a rusty smell like Rainbow Lake at Shumont. Birds flew up from the tall grass. Wires stretched between phone poles along the road and down a driveway to a brick house with sagging shutters, a vegetable garden in the front yard. A small, round colored woman was cutting corn off the stalks, dropping the ears into a bucket. The mailbox by the driveway said Ezra Travis. I walked toward the house, past corn plants rattling in the afternoon breeze.

  I stopped by a thick azalea shrub between th
e garden and the house. The woman looked at me. She was darker than Mary, shorter, fatter. A white apron covered her pink print dress. She slid her knife into the pocket of her apron. “Yes?”

  “Are the Travises at home?”

  “I’m Mrs. Travis.”

  “I’m trying to find—”

  The woman said, “And you are?”

  “Oh. June Watts.”

  She took off her gardening gloves. “Hello, Miss Watts. And who’re you trying to find?”

  “Somebody who could have been at the tent meeting last night.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “A religious colored person might be able to help me.”

  Her face relaxed into a half smile. She smoothed her apron. “Would you like to come in? You look about to drop.”

  “That’d be nice.” Chipped terra-cotta pots of pansies and geraniums lined the wide porch. I followed her up the steps, wiping my hands on my shorts. An overhead fan hummed rhythmically in the front room.

  “Please have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I sat on the edge of the sofa.

  There were crocheted antimacassars on the worn sofa arms, newspapers on the floor by a rocking chair, a book open on a table. A vase of chrysanthemums on an upright piano caught the slanted light coming in the windows. Shelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, crowded with books. The smell of fried chicken and baked apples made my mouth water.

  I sank back into the throw pillows on the sofa. My eyes felt gritty and my lips tasted of salt.

  Mrs. Travis returned with glasses and a pitcher on a tray that she put on an end table. She handed me a wet washcloth. “To wipe your face, cool down.”

  I covered my face with the cloth, breathed in the sharp smell of soap, wiped my neck and arms. Mrs. Travis pointed at the tray. “Just put it there and help yourself.” I poured a glass of lemonade and took a long swallow.

  She sat in the rocker. “How is it that a religious colored person might help you?”

  “My sister and I went to the tent meeting last night.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Two white girls all the way out here?”

  “Our maid was with us.”

  “I see.”

  I drank until there was nothing left but ice.