The Dry Grass of August

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  All I could think about was the board hitting his head. Stell said they drained the pool because of the blood.

  Richard was the best diver on the senior team. He spent hours practicing, waiting patiently in line to use the board. While other kids did cannonballs or sloppy swans, he did double flips, slicing the water with a clean entry. People watched when Richard dived.

  The house was heavy with silence. Mama, Daddy, and Davie weren’t home, and until Carter called, Stell and Puddin and I were as far away from each other as we could get in the quiet house. After the call, we huddled together in Stell and Puddin’s room. Puddin kept crying, even though she hardly knew Richard. I held her until she calmed down, leaning against the padded headboard that joined their twin beds. Puddin lay back on the pillows and I stretched out across the foot of the beds, staring at the dead bugs in the glass globe of the ceiling light.

  “I talked to Richard last night,” Stell said. “He wanted to know if I thought we should have boys on the cheerleading squad.”

  “Do you?”

  “A lot of schools do. With boys you can make pyramids.”

  “Did Richard want to be a cheerleader?”

  She sniffed. “Yeah.”

  The back doorbell rang. Rang again. The cowbell jangled as the kitchen door opened and Uncle Stamos called out, “Bill? Paula?”

  I shouted, “Hey, Uncle Stamos,” and ran down the stairs.

  He met me in the front hallway. “Where are Bill and Paula?”

  “Mama’s shopping. I don’t know where Daddy is. An awful thing happened. . . .”

  “I know. Terrible, horrific,” Uncle Stamos said. He couldn’t keep his hands still. He looked into the living room, put his hands in his pockets, took them out. “June, I’ve got to talk with Bill. Tell him to call me.” He headed for the kitchen, turned, his face ashen, his eyes brimming. “At the office. As soon as he gets home.”

  “Yes, sir, I will.” Uncle Stamos was gone, the cowbell clanging behind him.

  I stared out the window at two birds pecking the lawn. Stell Ann came into the kitchen. “Puddin cried herself to sleep.” She opened the fridge. “You want some tea?”

  “I don’t want anything except for Richard to be alive.”

  “I know. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

  A car door slammed, the breezeway screen opened and shut. Mama called out, “Girls?”

  She came into the kitchen, carrying two sacks of groceries, Davie holding the hem of her dress. “June, get the rest of the groceries, please.”

  “Mama, have you—”

  “Just bring in the groceries. Then we’ll talk.”

  She’d heard. It took me two trips to carry in all the paper bags, with Mama unloading into the refrigerator and cabinets, Stell helping, nobody saying anything. Davie was in his high chair, banging a spoon on the tray.

  “June, get your brother a graham cracker.” Mama shook a cigarette from her leather case and sat down next to Davie with an ashtray. She took a deep drag. “Y’all must’ve heard about Richard Daniels.”

  Stell put cans of beans on the pantry shelf. I said, “Carter called.”

  Davie took a bite of graham cracker, said, “Doobie.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That the diving board at Municipal fell and hit Richard in the head.”

  Mama smoked, drumming her fingers on the table. “Is that all?”

  “Uncle Stamos came by, looking for Daddy.”

  “Oh, God.” Mama’s voice broke. She snubbed out her cigarette and put her head in her hands, crying. “They were talking about it at the store. They said the board . . . that something came apart . . . broke.”

  Davie threw down the cracker. “Mama!”

  She didn’t seem to have heard. “Where in hell is your father?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Richard’s picture was on the front page of the Observer, with an article covering the details of his death, saying the services were for family only. Mama read it aloud at supper. “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Daniels don’t want strangers gawking at Richard’s grave. I’d feel the same way. People can be callous.”

  Over the next week, the phone rang and rang. When Mama answered it, she said a cheerful, “Hello?” If it was someone close—Aunt Rita or Uncle Taylor—her voice returned to a flat tiredness.

  Daddy went to work and came home. He didn’t go to the club or play golf or go fishing at Lake Wiley. He sat at the kitchen table or in the den, picking at the label on his beer bottle, leaving behind him swirling smoke and bits of paper. Mama said on the phone to Aunt Rita that he wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t sober. One night he and Uncle Stamos closed themselves in the den with a bucket of ice and a fifth of Jim Beam. Stell and I were at the kitchen table, doing homework while Mama put away leftovers after turning on the radio to drown out the rumble of their voices. The den door opened and Daddy went into the dining room. The liquor cabinet door opened, bottles rattled. Uncle Stamos’ voice came from the den. “It wasn’t the rebar and I won’t lie about it.We have to face the music, take whatever . . .”

  “No, no,” Daddy interrupted him. “We just need to make it look as though . . .” The den door closed and I didn’t hear the rest of Daddy’s sentence.

  I asked Mama, “What’s a rebar?”

  “They use them in their business.” She turned her back to me and wiped around the burners on the stove.

  Stell stood. “I need a pedicure.” She gave me a sidelong look that told me she wanted me to come with her.

  When I got to Stell’s room, she was sitting on her bed, polish brush suspended in air, three toes on her left foot still unpainted. “Have you told Mama what Link said at Mary’s funeral?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m keeping my head down.”

  “Tell her.” When she tried to spread her stubby toes, they hardly moved. She touched up a spot and blew on the wet polish. “Daddy’s in trouble.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  She put the brush to her pinkie. “Sometimes you are so out of it.”

  “Because nobody ever tells me anything.”

  “Link told you something.”

  I breathed in the sharp smell of the polish.

  “If Daddy did something wrong, we’ll all pay for it.”There were tears in her eyes. “Our name will be mud in this town.” She put the cap back on the bottle and twisted it tight. “Tell Mama what Link said.” She didn’t look up.

  I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on my pajamas. Finally, there was nothing else to do.

  Mama was at her dressing table, already in her nightgown, wiping cold cream from her face with a tissue. “What is it, Jubie?”

  I sat on the foot of her bed. “At Mary’s funeral, Link told me to ask Daddy about a room behind the warehouse.”

  Mama looked at me in the mirror. “Behind the—there aren’t any rooms, just a wall with bays that open to the train tracks.”

  “Link said to ask Daddy about it.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  I stood. “You want me to get him?”

  “No, I want to know where he is.”

  “I guess he’s still in the den.”

  “Close the door.”

  I shut the bedroom door and sat back down.

  Mama lit a cigarette. “Exactly what did Link say?”

  “He told me to ask Daddy about a room behind the warehouse.”

  Mama threw away a tissue, then rearranged her silver comb and brush. “Are you sure Link didn’t say ‘beside’ the warehouse?”

  “He said behind or maybe in back of.”

  She began brushing her hair off her forehead. “There’s a storage shed built onto the side of the building. Maybe that’s what he meant.” She glanced at me in the mirror, took a drag on her cigarette and put it out. Her face was shiny and she looked tired. “I’ll look into it, Jubie.Thanks for telling me.” She stood and held out her arms. “Hug good night?�
��

  Her shoulder blades felt like bird bones. I kissed her cheek, which was slightly sticky from the cold cream. “Night, Mama.”

  The next day, Aunt Rita came over. She looked nervous and uncomfortable.

  I was scraping carrots for supper. Mama poured coffee for the two of them and told me to scram. “Put the carrots in water. We won’t be long.”

  As I filled a bowl with water, Aunt Rita said, “I’ve talked with Stamos and he—”

  “Jubie?” Mama looked at me. They weren’t going to say anything until I left. I went through the swinging door into the front hall, then tiptoed down the basement steps to Mary’s bathroom, where I could hear Mama clear as a bell.

  “Stamos knew about it, then.”

  “Not about the pedestal for the diving board. He’d have closed it down.”

  “What did he know?”

  A cup clinked in a saucer. “I just wish Bill hadn’t fired Joe Templeton,” Aunt Rita said.

  “Joe was embezzling, for God sakes.”

  “But that’s when Stamos took over the books and found out what was going on.”

  “What? Found out what?” Mama was almost shouting.

  “Do you know what rebar is?”

  “The rods they use to reinforce concrete.”

  “I think Bill was buying it cheap, putting it on the books as expensive, and using the money to support the W.B.A.” I remembered Daddy and Uncle Stamos talking about the W.B.A., how I’d wondered what it was.

  “You think?”

  “Stamos let something slip, then clammed up. He’s loyal to Bill, Pauly; he follows wherever his brother leads. But he’s been bothered for a long time about how Bill runs things. When Stamos took over the books, he was shocked at some of the—”

  “Ye gods!” Mama’s voice was shrill. “They’ve taken the books. Those inspector people.”

  Aunt Rita sounded like she was crying, and her voice was so low I could hardly hear her. “Stamos did tell me that. He feels responsible. He’s so guilty about the Daniels boy, so deeply distressed. I keep trying to soothe him, to reassure him.” I heard the rasp of a lighter. “He knew the books weren’t right. But he couldn’t have known about the diving board. He’s not that kind of man.”

  “Not like Bill, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Mama said,“Jubie told me something last night.That’s why I called you.” A chair scraped the kitchen floor. “Mary’s son, Link, worked at the warehouse for two summers, remember?”

  “Sure.”

  “Jubie saw him at Mary’s funeral. He told her to ask Bill about a room behind the warehouse.”

  “There isn’t any—”

  Mama interrupted. “I think he meant the storage shed that’s on the side of the building toward the train tracks. Might seem like the back.”

  The phone rang and Mama answered it. “It’s Safronia.”

  Aunt Rita said, “Yes, Safronia, what is it?”There was a long silence. “Just calm down . . . yes, I’ll come home. Have you called Mr.Watts? Okay, okay, just stop crying.”

  Mama said, “What’s wrong? I’ve never heard such carrying on.”

  “That girl will be the death of me. She says to come home right now, just come ‘tireckly’ home.” She sighed. “I wish I could find someone like Mary.”

  “I wish I could, too.”

  Uncle Stamos had left for work on time that morning, but he went back home after Aunt Rita came to our house. Safronia got to work at eleven and found him on the floor in the laundry room, a bath towel around his head. The gun he’d used was near his hand.

  Later, Mama said she was sure he did it in the laundry room so any mess he made would be easy to clean. I couldn’t stop thinking about Uncle Stamos lying on the floor, wearing a bloody turban. What was he thinking just as he pulled the trigger? When I began to feel the terror he must have felt, I’d say “No!” out loud to stop my thoughts.

  He’d put the muzzle of the gun in his mouth. I remembered Daddy saying that most people did it wrong. “Shooting yourself in the temple is no guarantee, but up through the roof of the mouth will do the trick.” Had he told his brother that?

  When Aunt Rita got home, Safronia met her at the door and told her not to go in the laundry room. So of course that’s the first thing she did. She opened the door and cried, “Oh, Stamos! Oh, sweetheart.” She sat on the floor beside him and put his bloody head in her lap. For an hour she rocked him, moaning aloud, while Safronia sat in the kitchen, crying.

  Then Aunt Rita stood, smoothing her bloodstained dress. “Safronia, we’ve got to get my husband into the bedroom so I can wash him and prepare his body.”

  She got trouble from the police about moving him, but they decided that the shock had overcome her. She said shock had nothing to do with it, that her family always tended to the body, washed it and dressed it for burial. Her people didn’t believe in embalming, and she wanted Stamos laid out in a coffin in the living room for a visitation, the way her family did in Ohio. Safronia’s people did the same sort of thing, so she wanted to help.

  When we got to the visitation, Aunt Rita answered the door, and Mama wrapped her in a hug. In the living room, Daddy was sitting in an easy chair near the coffin. Mama said, “Bill,” and sat on the sofa. Daddy stood, but when Stell took the place next to Mama, he sat back down. I realized how little he and Mama had said to each other for days.

  The house looked the way it always did, neat as a pin. Uncle Stamos used to say that if he finished reading a paper and dropped it, Aunt Rita would catch it before it hit the carpet.

  A sweet scent filled the living room from the flowers surrounding the closed bronze casket.

  “The flowers are lovely,” Mama said when Aunt Rita sat in a chair opposite Daddy’s.

  “People have been so kind. Enough food for weeks, flowers everywhere.” Aunt Rita’s eyes were big in her round face, dark circles under them.

  Stell leaned toward her. “I’m so sorry about Uncle Stamos.” I wished I’d said that, and couldn’t think of anything to add.

  Slow, heavy footsteps came down the hall, and Mama turned her head to the window. Daddy stood, holding out his hands. “Mother.” Meemaw walked in, a black rectangle topped by a round face and neat gray hair in a bun. “Son.” She turned her cheek for Daddy’s kiss and he led her to the chair where he’d been sitting. She touched the coffin before she sat. Stell scooted closer to Mama so Daddy could share the sofa.

  Mama stood and kissed Meemaw’s forehead. “Hello, Cordelia.”

  “Mothers shouldn’t outlive their sons.” Meemaw’s voice was old and weak. She asked Mama, “What’d you do with—I mean, the little ones?”

  “A neighbor is staying with them.” Mama sank back down on the sofa. “They’re too young to . . .” She looked at the casket.

  “David is,” Meemaw said. “And Carolina—she’s what now?”

  Mama said, “Seven.”

  I corrected her. “Eight.”

  Mama blushed. “Eight. Sorry. She had a birthday. Friday. We haven’t had her party yet.”

  Aunt Rita wiped away a tear. “You tell my sweet Puddin we’ll give her a bang-up birthday once all this is over.”

  “I’ll tell her, Rita. She’ll like that.”

  The front door opened and closed. Carly stood in the arched entrance to the living room, tall and somber in his army uniform. He’d flown in from a military post in Germany. “Mom?” He put down his suitcase and held his arms wide. Aunt Rita jumped up and ran to him. “Carly, Carly, I’m so glad you’re finally here.”They stood there holding each other,Aunt Rita folded in her grown son’s arms.

  Carly brought a wooden chair in from the hallway and put it next to the coffin. Safronia came into the living room in a starched uniform, carrying a silver service that she put down on the coffee table. “Here’s tea and coffee and cookies. Miz Dunn fixed them, and she said you’d pour.” She looked at Mama. “Need anything, just holler.” She backed out of the room, dusting h
er white-gloved hands.

  “Why in the world—I mean, she’s got gloves on,” Meemaw said.

  “She cut herself Friday,” said Aunt Rita. “When she found

  . . .” Her voice dwindled, then she cleared her throat and continued. “Her left hand is bandaged, so we thought gloves were best.”

  “I’m amazed she could handle the tray,” said Mama.

  “Oh, the cut wasn’t bad, but her whole hand is wrapped.”

  Stell picked up the tall pot. “Who wants coffee?” Did she know which pot had coffee in it? She did, as I saw when she poured for Daddy. “Meemaw?”

  “Yes, Estelle.”

  “Excuse me.” I went into the bathroom off the kitchen and sat on the toilet, staring out the window, wondering how long we’d be here, how many sad people I had to see. After a few minutes I left the bathroom by the door into the den, where an oak rolltop desk took up half of one wall. The top was pushed up, with papers scattered everywhere. Aunt Rita couldn’t have seen it or she would have tidied things and closed the desk. A curled paper lay on top—a photocopy of the note Uncle Stamos had left for Aunt Rita.

  I sat in the oak swivel chair and picked up the stiff paper, my hands shaking.

  September 10, 1954

  My dearest Rita,

  I know you won’t understand. I’m not sure I do, either. I cannot face you, Carlisle, or Mother, when you find out what Bill and I did. Even as I write that, I want to defend myself, to say I didn’t know. I hope you believe me. When I found out, too late to prevent the Daniels boy’s death, I was so ashamed. I should have known. Isn’t that what lawyers always say? “He knew or should have known. ”Well, I should have.

  The facts mean nothing now.