The Dry Grass of August(29)

“This Leesum Fields, from Charlotte,” said Mary. “I will cut his hair in the morning.”

Nobody said anything.

“Or this evening.”

“That would be nice,” said Mama. “Now. What is he doing here?”

“He in my church family back home. He a boy with trouble and we come on him and I wouldn’t leave him to fend for hisself and we got to let him sleep here till—”

“Mary!” Mama took Mary’s hand. “Calm down. What are you talking about?”

“At that carnival, we—he the son of a lady in my church. He got no place to stay nor nothing to eat. He only fifteen. Can sleep on a pallet on the floor. . . .”

“Y’all please have a seat,” said Kay Macy Cooper.

“Not you two,” said Mama to Stell and me. “Go watch TV. Or put Puddin and Davie to bed. Something. Just stay out of here.”





An hour later, Mama went to her room and closed the door. I looked for Mary. She had Leesum on a stool on the back patio, a sheet tied around his neck.

“Wisht you’d let me see what you doin’,” Leesum said as Mary cut off the snaky ropes of hair.

“And I wisht I had me a pick and some barber shears. Pomade would be real nice, come to it.”

Stell walked past, toward the cabana.

I asked Mary, “Do you mind if I stay and watch?”

“Not if Leesum don’t mind.”

“S’okay.” He tried to look at me, but Mary grabbed him by the chin to keep him still.

She had a rat-tailed comb and a pair of kitchen scissors. She stuck the rat tail into a rope of hair and pulled it as far from Leesum’s scalp as she could before cutting. His eyes followed the pieces of hair to the flagstone patio.

“You snatchin’ me bald?”

“I’ll even it out. I believe you’ll be right pleased.”

“I be pleased to be done with them locks, that’s for sure.”

Mary took the cloth from around Leesum’s neck and snapped it in the gulf breeze.

I had little hope for the recovery of his hair, which stuck out from his head in short prickly points.

Mary pulled a nylon hose from her pocket. “Before bed, damp your hair good. Then slip this stocking over your head and sleep in it.”

Leesum nodded like he knew all about nylon nightcaps.

“I’ll get a broom so’s you can sweep up this mess.” Mary went through the back porch to the kitchen.

Leesum looked toward the gulf, a deep blue-green in the dusk. “I’m gone get up before anybody tomorrow so’s I can go in that water. Been wantin’ to, but Mr. McCurdy never gave me time off, said they wasn’t no colored beach nohow. But I’m goin’ in it.” He stared out at the gulf the whole time, not talking to me.

I heard Mary coming through the back porch. “Scratch on my screen.” I pointed at the cabana. “I’ll go with you.”





At six thirty in the morning Leesum scratched on the screen. I grabbed my bathing suit, waved to him, and went into the bathroom. When I left the cabana, Stell and Sarah were still sound asleep. Leesum was waiting, a tall silhouette in the early light.

“Hey,” he said. His curly hair was smooth and neat. Mary had done a good job.

“I’d still be sleeping if you hadn’t waked me.”

“I’m a mornin’ person.”

I couldn’t think of such a grown-up thing to say about myself. I ran ahead, over the dunes. “C’mon!”

Before we got to the water he stopped. “I’m a good swimmer.” His eyes were large and round, his skin tawny. “Ain’t never been in no ocean.”

“It’s smooth this morning. Easy to float in, once you get past the whitecaps.”

“What’re them?”

“The foamy water where the waves break.”

He studied the surf. “You go on. I’ll watch a bit.”

I dove through the waves, coming up on the other side of the breakers, and stood in chest-deep water, beckoning him. He ran toward me, doing exactly as I had done, pointing his arms above his head and diving into the breakers. He came up beside me, sputtering. “You dint tell me ’bout no salt.”

I grinned and swam away from him. He came right after me and I saw that he’d told the truth about being a good swimmer. I flipped onto my back. “See how easy it is to float in salt water?”

He spread his arms and legs. “That’s really sumpin. Can’t never float in the Catawba, where I goes swimmin’ back home.”

Silence settled on us while we floated. I could have hung there in the water with Leesum forever. He broke the spell. “Miss June?”

“Ye gods, call me Jubie.”

“That don’t seem right.”

“Because I’m white?”

“Yes’m.”

“Don’t ma’am me. You’re older than I am.”

“Some things matters.” He treaded water, facing me.

“Call me Jubie when we’re alone, okay?”

“Okay, Miss—okay, Jubie. Can I ax you sumpin?”

“Sure.”

“Why’s you legs so banged up?”