The Dry Grass of August(26)

“What’s that?” I pointed to wineglasses and a carafe of liquid on a tray in the kitchenette.

“Sherry.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “Your grandmother wants a nip before bed.” She inspected the windows. “They’ll do. The room looks good, don’t you think?”

“If Meemaw doesn’t like it, she can stay in my room. I’d be glad to sleep here.”

“Well, I’m glad we can give Cordelia her own private place.” Mama stood in the middle of the room, chin in hand. She snapped her fingers, went to the closet, and tossed a lumpy bed pillow at me. “Go get your pillow. Cordelia won’t sleep on anything but goose down.”

When I got back with my feather pillow, Mama had moved the flowers to a table by one of the windows.

“It catches the sunlight,” I said.

“It’s too elegant for the rec room, but Cordelia will know we made things special for her.” She nudged a gladiola into place. “Your father can’t complain. I even remembered the sherry.”

We went down the stairs. Mama sniffed the air. “Take a shower before you dress.”

“I had a shower this morning.”

“June, you do not smell like a lady.”

I took the shower but didn’t use soap. I put on my gray wool skirt, my white blouse with the Peter Pan collar, the red belt that matched my shoes. Then I got out the fab brooch Aunt Rita had given me and pinned it at my neck. The red jewels twinkled.

I was sitting in the queen chair when Stell came downstairs, looking just right, as usual. The den door opened. Puddin ran in. “They’re here! Daddy and Meemaw.”

I followed Puddin to the garage. Daddy had just opened the car door, and there was Meemaw, her face hidden by a low-brimmed brown hat. She put out her hand for Daddy to help her from the car. She was much fatter than I remembered and the top of her hat didn’t reach my shoulder. “Why, June, how you’ve—and Carolina—you girls, you girls.” She squeezed my hand. Puddin hugged her, and her skinny arms didn’t go halfway around Meemaw’s middle.

“My word, Carolina, you’re not a baby any—so where is my grandson? Estelle, you standing there quiet—I mean, a lady. Last time, I was dizzy with your chatter.” They put their arms around each other briefly. They were the same height, though I’d never thought Stell was so short.

Daddy put his hand under Meemaw’s elbow and said, “Come on, Mother, let’s go in the house.” It was strange to hear Daddy calling someone Mother.

Meemaw waddled through the breezeway, her body swaying from side to side.

Mama met us at the den door and said, “Hello, Cordelia. It’s so nice to have you.” They touched cheeks.

“I’ll take your coat and hat, Miz Watts.” Mary stepped from behind Mama. She had on a black uniform, a starched apron, and a stiff little hat like a dollop of whipped cream plopped on her head. A maid from the movies.

Without the felt cloche and wool coat, Meemaw looked soft. Her gray hair swirled into a thick bun near the crown of her head, wisps curling around her face. In the den, she sat in Daddy’s platform rocker and put her feet on the ottoman. Her leather lace-ups were doll shoes on Daddy’s big footstool, and her ankles were so puffed out over the tops of her shoes I wanted to poke them.

Meemaw sighed loudly.

Daddy cleared his throat. “Paula, how about some coffee?”

Mama called over her shoulder, “Mary? Coffee, please. The service.”

“Where’s David?” Meemaw asked. “Thought you’d—I mean, got to be getting big.”

“He’s asleep,” I said.

“Takes good naps, does he?”

“Usually,” I said. “He’s a great kid.”

Mama focused on the brooch glittering at my neck. She closed her eyes and looked pained, smoothed the skirt of her amber silk, touched her gold necklace.

Mary came in carrying a tray with the silver service on it. She put everything down on the coffee table and backed out. I wished she’d stay.

Mama poured a cup of coffee and asked Meemaw, “Cream and sugar?”

Meemaw shook her head. “Don’t drink it this late in the day.”

Mama handed the cup to Daddy. “How was your trip, Cordelia?”

“It’d be nice if we got what we paid—I mean, bumping along in a train car since early this morning.”

Nobody said anything while Meemaw sat and rocked slightly, the reading lamp behind her, her hair shining.

Daddy said, “Was your compartment okay?”

“Might have been. Wish I’d been left in peace.”

“We booked a private compartment.”

“You couldn’t know they would—I mean, people just barge.”

Everyone waited for her to finish, but she sat there with her hands clasped across her stomach.

Mama asked, “Cordelia, are you saying somebody shared your compartment?”

“Three of them. Came in and made theirselfs comfortable.”

“Why didn’t you report them to the conductor?” asked Daddy.

“ ’Twas his idea. Train was crowded. He asked if I’d mind sharing—a woman and her two children. Her daddy had died from his heart—so a mercy trip, you know. What can you say, if you—I mean, they gave me a voucher for when I go home.” She reached to the floor, where she’d set her pocketbook, fished around in it, and held up a paper.