The Dry Grass of August(15)

Daddy rolled a blueprint. “It’s a postwar boom. We’ve got to strike while the iron is hot.”

“We’re juggling too many jobs and cutting corners.”

“We’re coming in under budget and the work’s not suffering. We’ll be millionaires in ten years.”

Mama called from the kitchen, “Sounds good to me.”

“Some things matter more than money,” Meemaw said, looking up from her crocheting.

Mama closed the kitchen door.

Uncle Stamos got the card table from the hall closet and set it up in the middle of the living room. “Ready for bridge, my love?” He and Aunt Rita were never far apart, always touching each other. Mama said one time that Rita could stand to lose a few pounds, but I could tell Uncle Stamos thought she was beautiful. Maybe she wasn’t as pretty as Mama, but she made me feel important and was always giving me small things. That night it was a brooch of red stones. “For when you get older.” She’d folded my fingers over the pin. “If I had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like you.”

Mama walked in, drying her hands. “What do y’all want to drink?”

“A highball for me,” Uncle Stamos said. He was as skinny as Fred Astaire, in spite of how much he ate, and when he sat down he looked like he was folding up.

Meemaw asked Aunt Rita, “Did you bring Carlisle’s—I mean, his letter?”

Aunt Rita pulled an envelope from her pocketbook. “He’s doing so well. Here, you can read it.” I loved hearing Aunt Rita and Uncle Stamos talk about their only child, Carly, who was fifteen, in military school, and hoping to go to West Point.

Mama said, “Time for bed, Jubie. Tell Stell and Puddin I’ll be there in a minute.”

My sisters and I shared a room that had two windows, fluffy curtains, and single beds with wooden headboards that were in the shape of apples, red with brown stems. Daddy and Uncle Stamos made them for us when Puddin got too big for a crib.

After Mama said good night, Stell and I lay in bed whispering.

Daddy filled the doorway. “You girls are supposed to be asleep. I’m going to separate y’all. Jubie, let’s go.”

That was a fairly regular turn of events, putting me in Mama and Daddy’s bed so Stell and I wouldn’t talk late.

Their room was twice the size of ours, with the bed facing a big front window. They had a bedroom suite that Mama bought after Daddy began making money—a cherry bed, with two tall chests and a matching dressing table. I had fun going through their things, especially Daddy’s. His top drawer smelled of cedar, lighter fluid, Doublemint gum, and the oil he used to clean his handgun, which he kept under a jumble of socks and handkerchiefs. Just the sight of it scared me. I never touched it when I rummaged through his stuff for a piece of gum. He told me he couldn’t get Doublemint during the war, and that no other gum was as good. It was my favorite, too.

The sheets on their bed were fresh and crisp from sunshine. I fell asleep on Daddy’s pillow and woke to the sound of glass breaking, a loud crack above my head. I screamed.

The bedroom door hit the wall. “What’s going on?” Daddy turned on the light and I squinted against the brightness. “What’d you do to the bed?”

“Something scared me.” I started to cry.

Mama, Aunt Rita, and Uncle Stamos crowded into the bedroom.

Aunt Rita gasped, “The window!”

There was a hole in the front window, the wooden frames hanging loose.

Daddy said, “Sit up, Jubie, real careful.”

The cherry headboard was cracked down the middle. I began to sob. “I didn’t do it. A noise came . . .” Daddy lifted me off the bed and set me down by Aunt Rita, who put her arms around me.

He climbed onto the bed and ran his hand over the headboard, then pulled something up from behind the pillows. “By God, look at this.” He held a white sock stuffed like a Christmas stocking, bulging at the toe. “A rock. Pitched through the window.”

Uncle Stamos picked me up and held me close. “Could have hit June.” I put my head on his bony shoulder. He said, “It’s all right now, you’re safe.”

Mama said, “I’ll bet it’s those kids who shot firecrackers at the house down the street.”

“Are you okay, Junebug?” Daddy touched my cheek.

“Yes, sir.” Him calling me Junebug made me feel better.

He opened his top drawer and got his gun. “I’ll find the hoodlum thinks he can get away with this.”

“Bill, no,” Mama said. “Call the police.”

“You call them. I’m going to catch a punk.”

“Calm down, Bill.” Uncle Stamos put his hand on Daddy’s shoulder.

Daddy shrugged it off. “Don’t tell me what to do.” He stomped out of the bedroom and down the hall. The front door slammed behind him. There was a loud bang in the front yard. Daddy yelled, “I’m gonna get you!”

Mama called through the broken window. “Bill, please. There’s a better way to handle this.”

Blam. Another shot.

Meemaw hurried in, her long white nightgown billowing around her. She pushed past Mama and shouted, “Billy Watts, you get in here right now. This minute.” There was no response and Meemaw said, “I mean it, Billy. Acting a fool.”