The Dry Grass of August(13)

Puddin looked at Stell, startled.

Mama should have explained things to her.

Sarah brushed past me. She was long-legged and skinny as a rail. Mary would be after her to eat. The screen door slammed behind her.

Puddin asked, “What’s the matter with her?”

“Don’t ask about her mama, okay?” I said.

“Why?”

Stell said, “Just leave it be.”

I went after Sarah as she headed for the house, catching up with her. “I’m sorry.”

“Everybody asks about Mother.” Again she pushed at her glasses. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick. “She’s gone. There’s nothing to say.” She went through the back porch toward the kitchen. Her shoulder blades stuck out under her blouse. I stood on the path, looking down at the sandy soil.

Sarah and I had so much fun when they’d visited us in Charlotte, riding our bikes to Freedom Park, lying on our backs in the grass, finding elephants and rabbits in the clouds, talking and laughing until it was past time to go home. Except for Maggie, I’d never had such a good friend.

Where was Aunt Lily? Did Sarah ever get to see her?

I went in the house. The kitchen and dining room were empty, but I heard Mama and Uncle Taylor’s voices coming from a room at the end of the hall. A door stood open onto a narrow, steep staircase leading to the attic. I looked up and saw Mary. “Hey!” I climbed the stairs.

Her room was long and narrow, hot and stuffy, with a single bed near the only window, a short chest of drawers under the eaves, a metal folding chair with a torn vinyl seat. The roof pitched sharply downward on both sides of the bed, and we couldn’t stand upright except in the middle of the room.

“You okay up here?” I asked.

“A bit warm.” She stood by the open window, her face glistening with sweat.

Uncle Taylor appeared in the hole in the floor where the stairs ended. “Mary, here’s a fan. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Mary said.

I said, “It’s really hot up here.”

Uncle Taylor plugged in the fan. “This’ll help.” He switched it on and set it to oscillate. A strong breeze blew through the room.

“Thank you,” said Mary. “Makes a difference.”

Uncle Taylor said, “Jubie, get your suit on. The water’s great.”

“I’ll be right down.”

“Okay, and Mary? We need to keep the hall door shut. The air-conditioning . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

After he left, I asked, “Is it really all right?”

She put her flowered bag on the bed. “Only be up here maybe twice a day.”

“Did you bring a bathing suit?”

She shook her head. “Can’t swim.”

“You’re not going in the gulf?”

She looked out the window. “That’s not likely.”





In the cabana, I changed into my new one-piece suit, hoping there’d be boys on the beach who might notice how well I filled it out. Just before I left I tied a towel around my waist to cover the welts on my thighs.

I’d never seen sand so white and water so blue. The waves weren’t as fierce as on the South Carolina beaches, which made the surf seem friendly. Board fences ran from Uncle Taylor’s house, across the dunes, and down to the high-tide mark, fencing off the property. That seemed strange to me. Owning the beach is like owning a mountain or an island, putting your name on something that belongs to the whole world.

“Hey, Jubes!” Puddin ran over the dunes. Mary was behind her, carrying Davie, who had on his bathing trunks. Mary was still in the dress she’d traveled in. She put Davie down and sat on a dune behind us.

“Mary!” I beckoned her. She shook her head.

“Yoo-hoo!” A woman puffed through the sand, waving her arms. She was round and fat in the middle with skinny legs, a barrel on broomsticks. She gasped her way to me. “You are Taylor’s niece.”

“Yes, ma’am, June Watts.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, June Watts. I’m Lula Willingham, your uncle Taylor’s neighbor. I knew y’all would be here today. I’ve lived next door for four years and Taylor tells me everything. I want to meet your mama and all her babies.” She pointed at Mary. “Is that your girl?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, glancing back at Mary, who I knew could hear us.

Mrs. Willingham’s two-piece was tight around her stomach and thighs, with stripes of sunburned skin above and below—the most uncomfortable-looking suit I’d ever seen.

“Must be nice to travel with help. I know your mama needs it with all you children. Five or six of you, right? Taylor was worried about having enough of everything to—”

“Four.”

“Four? That’s not so many. Still and all, having a girl lets it be a vacation for your mama. Else she’d have to fetch food and carry wet suits and haul that toddler around. Those your brother and sister?”

“Yes, ma’am, Puddin and Davie.”

“I’ll be back in half an hour and I want to meet everybody. Ev-ree-body.”

“Bye, Mrs. Willingham.”

“Bye-bye,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m off for my daily walk; makes me feel not so old. Not fifty yet, even if the years do keep racing by.” She was still talking when she got to the fence.