The Dry Grass of August(16)

The front door opened. Daddy’s footsteps clumped through the foyer. “Whoever it was, they’re gone.”

“Now let’s call the police,” Mama said.

But someone else had called them and they pulled into the driveway.

Uncle Stamos put me down next to Stell, who stood in the hallway in a corner, pale and quiet. I took her hand. We went to our room and got in bed together. “Where’s Puddin?” I asked.

“She was here a minute ago.” Puddin was only two but was already hiding herself away.

A sound like a kitten came from under her bed. I got on the floor and lifted the bed skirt. “Hey, Puddin-tane.”

She crawled out, dust in her blonde curls, her face splotched. “Daddy scared me.” She got into bed with Stell and me.

Loud voices came from the living room.

“Got a license for that gun? We can put you in jail if you fire it again.”

Meemaw came into our room. Her flowery smell made me think everything was going to be all right. “Your daddy’s—he’s just upset. You girls should be in your own beds—I mean, company helps when you’re scared. Night.” She left. In the dim light I saw her thick gray pigtail hanging down her back.

Mama checked on us after the police left. “I hope the neighbors don’t think we’re crazy, the way your daddy carried on.” She lowered her voice. “Thank God Cordelia—well, for once I’m glad she was here.”

Puddin and I got in our beds. Mama pulled the covers up, turned off the hall light, and closed our bedroom door. Every time I’d almost drift off, I’d remember: Daddy had been ready to shoot somebody.





CHAPTER 7

Uncle Taylor was throwing a party so his friends could meet Mama. Mary spent the whole day in his kitchen, making gallons of ice tea, baking biscuits and apple pies. I helped her put the leaves in the dining table and cover it with a white cloth that fell to the floor. She tugged one side, then the other. “It got to hang just right,” she said.

Mama set six tapers on the table in the middle of flowers she picked from her brother’s garden. They were expecting forty people. I was uncomfortable at big parties and felt wobbly just thinking about this one.

Two guests came early and stayed late. One was Mrs. Lula Willingham, the neighbor I’d met on the beach. She settled herself on a step stool in the kitchen, seeing to it that dirty dishes were washed as soon as they came through the door, ordering Mary around, telling her to watch the serving platters, keep them full. When Mrs. Willingham took over, Mama left the kitchen to enjoy the party. I thought she was relieved not to have to be in charge of Mary.

The other early arrival was a war widow Uncle Taylor had met at church, Mrs. Kay Macy Cooper. She had a soft voice and wore her blonde hair tied back with a coral ribbon that matched her dress. Every time she was introduced, it was with her whole name, because she was related to somebody who owned a department store in New York City. Mama said Macy’s made Ivey’s look piddling. In Charlotte, Ivey’s covered its display windows on Sundays so good Christians wouldn’t be distracted on the Lord’s day, and some said that put them a step ahead of Macy’s.

Mary was at the kitchen sink, drying her hands on a dish towel when Mrs. Cooper tapped her on the shoulder. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’m Mary Luther. I work for Miz Watts.”

Mrs. Cooper said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Luther.” She glanced at Mary’s wedding ring. “It is Mrs., isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Kay Macy Cooper.” She held out her hand. Mary looked startled, then took it.

“Pleased to meet you, Miz Cooper.”

Mrs. Willingham handed a platter of sliced ham to Mary. “I believe there’s a place on the dining room table for this.” Mary left the kitchen with the heaping platter.

“Kay Macy, Taylor will be needing you in the living room,” Mrs. Willingham said, smiling as always. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Mrs. Cooper left the kitchen without answering.

I sat in a chair in the corner of the dining room with my supper plate balanced on my knees. If anybody spoke to me, I mumbled something and looked away. The party voices sounded like turkeys gobbling, nonsense noises punctuated by snatches of music, the tinkle of ice in glasses, the clink of silverware. When the record player quit, somebody called out, “Flip the stack, flip the stack.” A hazy cloud of smoke formed at the ceiling, drifting with the movement of people walking in and out.

Uncle Taylor’s voice boomed from the living room, “Everybody gather around. I want to introduce my big sister.”

The dining room cleared as people went to meet Mama. She’d chat with everyone she met. She loved parties.

I was going to duck out the back door and go to the beach, certain nobody would miss me. But something shiny caught my eye under the hem of the tablecloth. The toe of a patent leather shoe. “Puddin!”

“Don’t tell, Jubie.” I scooted under the tablecloth and drew in my feet, giggling with my little sister in our dusky cave.

“How long have you been under here?” I whispered, sitting back against one of the table legs.

“For the whole party.” She handed me a cookie. “I’ve got a lot. You can have more.”