The Dry Grass of August

by Anna Jean Mayhew

  There was a smudge on the paper, as if he’d started to write something and changed his mind.

  The only truth in all of this is my love for you, which has never wavered. I wish I could have it both ways, face my shame and stay with you. But the one overshadows the other, so I must say good-bye.

  By the time you read this note, Cliff Sindell will have received my final documents, which include a letter to Chief Kytle telling him everything I know about what the company did that may have resulted in the boy’s death. Cliff will stand by you through all the paperwork and details.

  Please ask Carly and Mother to forgive me, as I hope you will be able to do. I love you beyond death, my dearest, sweetest wife. Stamos

  I stared out the window into the backyard, so neat and pretty. Uncle Stamos had loved his garden. A tear fell onto the paper.When I wiped it away, the writing smeared.

  I wanted to talk to Leesum. What would he be doing on a Sunday afternoon, living in a preacher’s house? McDowell Street Baptist Church didn’t have a separate number listed for the rectory, so I called the church. A man answered, and from his voice I knew it was Reverend Perkins.

  “Leesum there?” I tried to sound colored.

  After a pause, the man said, “Hold the line.” Then Leesum said, “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s me, Jubie.”

  “Hey! What you doin’ callin’ me?”

  “Just wanted to talk to you.” I felt foolish.

  “Glad you did.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I got sumpin to tell you. Reverend Perkins and them got together. Three of our elders gone go to Georgia to find out who killed Miz Luther.”

  “Will you let me know what happens?”

  “Of course.” There was a pause, then Leesum said, “Just hopes they gets there okay. They drivin’ straight through the night, cuz no hotels’ll have ’em. It ain’t easy right now, not where they be goin.”

  I remembered about the curfew in Wickens, how hard it was to find a place where Mary could stay, the motel in Albany where we sneaked her in and out. I heard a noise behind me. Carly filled the doorway.

  I said into the phone, “I’ve got to hang up.”

  I put the receiver down, not wanting to let Leesum go. “A friend,” I said to Carly.

  But he was reading the note on the desk. By the time he finished, he was crying, too. “Have you seen the laundry room?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I want to see it.”

  Aunt Rita found us in the door to the laundry room. I gasped when she touched my shoulder, and felt bad when I saw who it was. But she said, “I don’t mind y’all looking. I’m sure everybody wants to.”

  “Oh, Mom.” I thought Carly might start crying again.

  “He was thoughtful. Wrapped his head in a towel so there wouldn’t be—” She ran her hand over the doorjamb. “After I got him washed and ready for the undertaker, took care of the mess, I prepared to grieve.”

  She took Carly’s hand. “At first I was afraid I would come on a spot I’d missed, when I was looking for the Ajax or something, but now I almost hope I do—a reminder of him, not that I need one, but you know . . .”

  I said I did. She looked me in the eyes. “I know you do.”

  In the car on the way home from the funeral, Mama blew her nose, straightened behind the wheel, took a deep breath. “Let’s have dinner at the El Dorado. Pretend we have plenty of money.”

  Stell said, “Shouldn’t we find out what the rest of the family’s doing? Aunt Rita and Meemaw and—”

  “I’m sick of being sad, and I don’t care if I never see Cordelia again.” Mama blew her nose.

  “What’s the W.B.A.?” I asked.

  Mama stared out the windshield, not looking at our house when we passed it. She answered in a low voice. “White Businessmen’s Association. Who told you about that?”

  “Mayor Lindley was talking to Daddy at the funeral.”

  “What did His Honor say?”

  “Something about Daddy trying to get the W.B.A. going in Charlotte with money from the business.”

  Mama said, “The mayor was in on it. I’m sure he’ll say he wasn’t.”

  “The White Businessmen’s Association. What does it do?” Stell asked.

  “Scares coloreds into giving up on voting, education. Other stuff.” Mama turned on the car radio, loud.

  At the El Dorado, Mama parked the car and leaned her head on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.” She started to cry. Stell put her arms around her and I reached over the seat and hugged them both; I could feel Mama’s shoulders trembling. I wanted her to stop crying, to be strong. Somebody had to be.

  Mama wiped her face. “I wish we could move to Taylor’s for a while.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The police came to our house a week after Uncle Stamos’ funeral. Daddy invited them to have seats in the den, where he settled in his chair, a glass in his hand, the Jim Beam bottle on the table beside him. He’d already called Cliff Sindell, his lawyer, and the police agreed to wait until Mr. Sindell got there.

  There were two of them, dressed in suits and ties, looking like ordinary business friends of Daddy’s, talking about the best places to fish on Lake Wiley.

  Daddy said, “Maybe we could meet out there sometime. You could show me the lures you made.”

  “We’ll see,” said the older of the two. He pointed at the Jim Beam. “I hear that’s a good bourbon.”

  “It is,” said Daddy. “Made near where I grew up, in Kentucky.” He took a sip. “I guess you don’t drink on duty.”

  “No, that’s right.” The man cleared his throat. “But there’s no prohibition on ice tea.”

  Daddy looked at me.

  I went to the kitchen.

  When I returned with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of ice tea, Cliff Sindell was there. Daddy had already fixed him a drink. He nodded. “Hello, June.”

  “Hey, Mr. Sindell.”

  Daddy said, “Jubie, you can leave us now.”

  I closed the door behind me, knowing I’d find out soon enough what was going on. Mama was through with secrets.

  Having the police in the house hit Mama hard. The next morning, she said to Daddy, “They’ve got something on you. What else are you hiding?” He left and was gone for three days. When he came back, she wouldn’t speak to him, not even hello. After a week of her silence, he moved to a fishing cabin on Lake Wiley. The next day, Mama walked around in her nightgown, drinking coffee and chain-smoking. At lunch she sat at the table, a cigarette in her hand, stabbing a half-eaten tomato with her fork, then picking it up and throwing it against the wall. It slid down the wallpaper, leaving a slick trail of pulp and seeds.

  I went for paper towels. Mama snatched them from me and put out her cigarette in her plate, which I’d never known her to do. She scrubbed the wall and collapsed on the floor crying, wiping her face with her nightgown.

  Mail piled up on the hall table. I took the unopened bills to Mama, who went to the desk in the den and sat with the checkbook, staring out at the magnolia Daddy had planted when we moved in. An hour later I went back to the den and she was still sitting there in a swirl of smoke. “Mama?”

  “Why isn’t he paying the bills, balancing the checkbook, getting the Packard serviced? Doing what a man’s supposed to do.” She looked up at me. “I swear to God, Jubie, I wish I’d never met him.”

  “I’m glad you did, Mama.”

  Amusement lit her face for the first time in days. “Yes, I guess you are.”

  Davie called from his bedroom. “Mama!” She stood. “Nap time’s over.” She handled Davie as well as Mary ever had, and I thought if Mary walked in the door, she’d be a stranger to him. Mama felt smaller to me, and I realized it was because she mostly wore flats or loafers. Carrying a toddler around doesn’t go with high heels.

  I came home from school to find Mama at the dining room table, holding a sheet of paper, a torn envelope on the flo
or. She said, “You’ll want to read this.”

  I saw the letterhead centered at the top of the page and sank into a chair.

  October 8, 1954

  Dear Mrs. Watts:

  Confirming our telephone conversation of Saturday last: one Gaither Mowbry, Jr., aged 19 years, was arrested on October 6, 1954, for multiple infractions, not the least of which was a state of advanced inebriation while in command of an automobile.

  I remembered the man named Gaither who took us to Sally’s Motel Park, his sweat-soaked shirt, how he smoked, coughed, cleared his throat.

  Further, Mr. Mowbry attempted to evade the pursuing Patrol car and forcibly resisted arrest to the extent of battering an Officer of the Law. He was placed in my custody, whereupon he was relieved of his possessions and incarcerated for his own and the public’s safety. Among the items found in his possession was the ring about which I called you.

  I looked at Mama. “Why didn’t you tell us the sheriff called?”

  She picked up the envelope, folded it in half. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

  She was beyond my understanding. I looked back at the letter.

  As per our phone call, the inscription of the ring is PLL to MCC 1925. It is my compelling belief that the ring was the property of the dead Negro woman who was in your employ, one Mary Constance Culpepper Luther. Apparently, Gaither Mowbry thought the ring to be of value, though he was mistaken. It is gold, but skimpy, and has little beyond sentimental worth.

  Under the process of the Law, I will keep the wedding band as evidence. There are also details about the Mowbry car that lead us to believe it was used to transport your maid. Certainly I will advise you once the facts in this matter are concluded. Although the outcome should be foregone, there are no guarantees.

  I remain

  Yours truly

  Jeremiah Higgins

  Sheriff, etc.

  P. S. When it is no longer needed as evidence, I will return the girl’s ring to you for conveyance to her family or as is appropriate. I should also advise that I have written to the contingent of Negroes who came to Claxton to inquire about the investigation, advising them the same as is conveyed above.

  So Leesum and the elders from McDowell Street Baptist—they knew. And the ring would go to Link and Young Mary. I wished I could hold it just once, squint my eyes to read the tiny letters that Mary had told me were as the sheriff described.

  “I should have noticed her ring was gone.” Orange dots appeared on Mama’s yellow blouse. She was crying. “At the funeral parlor in Claxton. I never looked at her hands.”

  “Oh, Mama, that’s when you got her hair done, powder and lipstick, her dress . . .”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Mrs. Coley, a woman at the funeral—she thanked me for what we’d done for Mary.”

  Mama wiped her eyes. “I treated her like any old maid, but she wasn’t, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “When I woke at the beach and you’d taken the car, I knew where you’d gone. I wanted to be with you so bad. The least thing I could have done is be at her funeral. The very least thing. Fixing her up wasn’t enough.”

  I took Mama’s hand, sure she would pull away, but she didn’t.

  “When you and Puddin got the mumps, Mary brought me a bottle of home remedy.”

  “Did it cure us?”

  “I flushed it down the toilet.” Mama shook her hankie, blew her nose. “She was so great when I went into labor with Davie, timing the pains, distracting me. I miss her!”

  I was sitting in the den, doing homework, when the door opened and there was Daddy, tall and not so tan, grayer than I remembered and paunchier. I stood up fast.

  “Daddy! I didn’t hear the garage door.”

  “Not sure I have the right to park there now.” He hugged me hard. “How’s my girl?”

  “What do you want?” At Mama’s voice, Daddy let me go.

  “Hey to you, too, Paula.”

  “Take whatever it is you came for.”

  He pushed past her, heading for their room. She went after him and I followed, a shadow with ears.

  Drawers opened and closed in their bedroom.

  “Where’s my other suitcase?” Daddy asked.

  “The attic.”

  Silence. Feet stomping. Then Daddy said, “What is it you want, Paula?”

  “The house. The Packard. Alimony. Child support.”

  A door slammed. “Talk to Cliff Sindell.”

  “We’re not sharing a lawyer.”

  Were they getting divorced? I’d been hoping they’d make up, that things would be back the way they were before Mary, Richard, Uncle Stamos. I felt cold and scared and relieved.

  Daddy came from the bedroom with suits over one arm, shirts and underwear bunched in the other, passing me as though he didn’t see me. He piled everything on the kitchen table, got grocery bags from the pantry and stuffed them with his clothes. Mama handed him a business card. “Give that to Cliff.”

  Daddy read the card. “P. Hollis Burns, Attorney at Law. Where’d you find him?”

  “Her.”

  “Ha!” Daddy said.

  “I know about you and Young Mary.”

  I froze in the hallway.

  Daddy spoke sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  “She left a note on the bulletin board.”

  There was a silence so total I thought they’d hear me breathing. “C’mon, Pauly. All I did was make a pass at her. She was asking for it, swishing around in shorts, dancing to jive.”

  “She’s seventeen.”

  The den door slammed behind Daddy. I raced out the kitchen door to catch up with him, knowing Mama would hear the cowbell, would know I’d run after him. I didn’t care.

  He was in the driveway. “Daddy?”

  “I guess you heard all that.”

  “Yes, sir.” We looked at each other. “Are you living at Lake Wiley?”

  He took out his handkerchief and polished his glasses. “I am, for now.” He put his glasses back on, fitting the earpieces one at a time.

  “Then what?”

  “Back to Kentucky. Live with Mother for a while. Start over.”

  I looked down to hide my face. “The diving board, Daddy.”

  He dug in his shirt pocket with two fingers, pulled out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “I lost my Zippo in Claxton.” He lit a cigarette, inhaled, let the smoke out slowly. “We made a mistake. I was going to fix it, but . . .” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Jubie.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll come back.” He kissed my cheek. I thought there were tears in his eyes but couldn’t be sure through the glare on his glasses.

  After his car pulled out of the driveway, I went to my bed, put the pillows over my head, and sobbed.

  That night I dreamed Mama and Daddy and I were going to a party at Uncle Stamos and Aunt Rita’s in honor of Carly and his fiancée. Mama and Daddy left for the party first and told me to come along later. While they were gone, I picked stuff from Mrs. Gibson’s garden, including some warped volunteer tomatoes—small, red, delicious-looking.

  Mama and Daddy came home from the party bitterly disillusioned. They weren’t dressed up enough, and Mama thought Rita should have warned them. The other guests were in cocktail clothes, sequins, silks. Mama and Daddy were in their movie clothes, dressed for the evening but not for show.

  “We were beneath ourselves,” said Mama.

  “It’s about time,” said Mary, and went to the basement.

  CHAPTER 32

  Stell tossed The Charlotte News on the bar. “Hurricane Hazel page one, William Watts page two.”

  “Let me see.” Mama dropped the cup she was rinsing. It clattered in the sink.

  “The findings of the commission. They’re saying Watts Concrete Fabrications messed up some bolts. Daddy might be criminally negligent.”

  Mama opened the newspaper and reached for a cigarette.

  I
looked over her shoulder.

  She pushed me away. “You can read it when I’m done.”

  “Charges will be brought,” Stell said.

  “Estelle Annette, be quiet.”

  Stell left the kitchen. If it were possible to slam a swinging door, she’d have done it.

  Mama ripped off the first page, balled it up and threw it away, letting the lid of the trash can bang shut. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Mama, I wanted to read it.”

  “You know where it is.” She went into the dining room, stopped at the liquor cabinet, and fixed a drink. The den door opened and closed. The glider squeaked on the breezeway.

  The balled-up sheet of newspaper sat on a mound of coffee grounds, a stain spreading through it. I scooped it from the pail and opened it on the bar. The damp paper began to tear through Daddy’s photo—his face brown from the coffee grounds—a formal picture he’d had made when he joined the Thomas Belk Men’s Club. The wet paper clung to the Formica as I pushed the pieces back together. There was a caption under the photo: “William Watts, civic leader, former President of the Charlotte Junior Chamber of Commerce.” The article was titled in bold words: LOCAL BUSINESS RESPONSIBLE IN DIVER’S DEATH.

  A commission formed by the City Council of Charlotte to investigate the death of Richard Llewelyn Daniels, 17, reported its findings yesterday to Mayor Watson Lindley and to Chief Hurston Kytle of the Charlotte Police Department. The commission holds that Watts Concrete Fabrications, Inc., in constructing a base for the diving boards at Charlotte Municipal Swimming Pool, failed to prime the L-bolts that secured the diving boards to the base. The report read, in part, “William Dennis Watts, President of Watts Concrete Fabrications, and his brother, the late Stamos Caton Watts, Vice President, knew or should have known that unprimed L-bolts used in the construction would fail. The city will bring civil charges against the company and its principals. If William Watts is found to be criminally negligent, further charges will be brought.”