The Dry Grass of August(25)

“Everybody knows it.” I took a sip of the coffee, added more sugar.

“I can’t say if they was or not, but one didn’t see much of the other, not the whole time your grandma was here. She hasn’t been back since, that I knows.” Mary looked out the window, shaking her head. “He this one’s son and that one’s husband. Womenfolks is bad not to get along.”

“What you need from the freezer?”

“A quart of strawberries, another pound of bacon, two boxes of cream corn. You want to write it down?”

“A quart of bacon, another pound of cream corn, two boxes of strawberries.”

I returned to the kitchen, my arms full. Mary handed me a paper. “Your mama says you got to do these things.”

I groaned. “Windex rec room windows. Sweep breezeway rug and front walk. First vacuum, then dust living room and den.” I stuffed the list in my pocket. “She always reminds me to vacuum before dusting, like I’m a moron.”

“My mama always said dust first. Chicken and the egg.”

“You know why Meemaw has to stay in the rec room?”

Mary raised her eyebrows. She knew my question was loaded. “You reckon you know why?”

“So Mama won’t have to share her bathroom.”

“Hmph. You just get to the things on that list.”

I looked at the clock over the kitchen sink. “Stell sure knows how to get out of work.”

“She got all that silver to polish when she gets done her Bible study.”

“She’s better at polishing apples.”

“Uh-huh.” Mary handed me the Windex. She wasn’t taking sides this morning.

Up in the rec room, I tuned the radio to WGIV, a jive station Mama hated. With the volume turned all the way up, I washed the windows to the Chatty Hattie Show. Leaves and grass were matted into the straw rug on the porch, and before I’d finished sweeping it, Mary came out to inspect.

“I know it’s hard, but you got to go over it again. Your mama’ll want every speck of red mud off that rug.”

I did it again, pretending I was a parlor maid for a rich family in Boston in 1850. I wore gray uniforms with long skirts and ruffled white aprons. When I spoke to my mistress, I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and curtsied. She didn’t know I was going to be a mail-order bride for a silent handsome cowboy in the untamed West.

Mama came home from the beauty parlor smelling of crème rinse. She had a bouquet of mums and gladiolas in her arms. “Gee, Mama, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you, Jubie.”

“What’d you get done besides your hair?”

“Got my legs waxed, a pedicure, a manicure . . .”—she put the flowers on the bar and waggled her glossy nails—“and a facial. This morning I saw dimples in my thighs. They’ll sag more each day for the rest of my life. I can feel them shaking with every step.” She took her cigarette case from her purse, pulled out a Camel, and tamped it on the bar. “I thought I’d never get done.” She exhaled a puff of smoke with every word. “A dryer was broken and they had us stacked up, taking turns on the other two.” With her thumb and ring finger she plucked a piece of tobacco from her tongue, flicked it away, and looked at her watch. “I’ll go get changed. The porch and the walk look good. Is the rec room done?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Better get going with the vacuum. It’s getting late.”

“Ugh.”

“No sense complaining, young lady. Finish everything on that list or you’ll do without supper.”

I was under the sofa, trying to plug in the Electrolux, and hoping Mama didn’t know about the dust bunnies, when she called from the kitchen, “Jubie, before you start, bring me the blue vase from the dining room.”

I took the vase from the top shelf of the corner cabinet, blowing dust off the cobalt crystal, which shone like the sapphires in Mama’s dinner ring. She had never let me pick it up and I hadn’t known how heavy it was. I cradled it in my arms and took it to Mama.

With the vacuum running, I sat on the Sheraton and pushed the nozzle back and forth across the rug, jumping up when Mama came into the living room. “Let that go and help me take things to the rec room.” She carried the blue vase full of flowers. I followed her with an armful of thick terry towels and our best percale sheets.

Stell came in the den door. Mama said, “Silver needs polishing, and the tablecloth has to be ironed. How was Bible Club?”

“Reverend Coonts has bad breath.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say about a preacher.”

Stell looked at her nails, which she’d spent an hour manicuring the night before. “I’ll ruin my nails if I polish silver.”

“Use rubber gloves. Get to it, young lady.”

Stell gave Mama a look I would have been smacked for and left the den.

“Where are you going?” Mama asked.

“To change my clothes.” Stell didn’t turn around.

“Estelle Annette!”

Stell stopped, her back to Mama. “What? I don’t want polish on my good blouse.”

“Oh, all right. C’mon, Jubie, we’ve got to finish.”

Mama put the vase in the middle of the breakfast table in the rec room and arranged the flowers. She refolded the bath towel and hung it over the bathroom rod, then walked around touching things.