The Dry Grass of August(3)
Wiggles of heat rose from the highway, and the trip was long and boring, even with Mama pointing out things such as the Georgia state line and peach trees heavy with fruit. We played alphabet until I was almost to Z. Mary pointed to a calf and whispered, “Young cow,” for me to use for my Y. Stell said that wasn’t fair, and Mama wouldn’t rule, so we quit.
In a town called Toccoa, I saw signs in people’s front yards: SEPARATE BUT EQUAL IS GOOD FOR EVERYONE and SEGREGATION AIN’T BROKE. DON’T FIX IT.
“Mama, what do those signs mean?”
“It’s got to do with that mess in Washington.” She glanced at Mary in the rearview mirror. “Never mind; it won’t happen in Charlotte.”
“What won’t happen?”
“Hush. I don’t want to talk.”
Mary took my hand. I looked at our intertwined fingers—mine slender, smooth, and pale; hers brown, thick-knuckled, and calloused. On her left hand, resting in her lap, she wore a thin gold ring. We didn’t talk much in the car, and she seldom spoke except to say “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am” or “Y’all leave off talking till your mama gets us back on the highway.” She and Mama hadn’t had much to say to each other in a long time.
We passed Davie around to keep him from getting too fussy. He fell asleep in my lap, his head on my chest, and I didn’t mind him drooling on my shirt.
South of Atlanta, Mama said, “We’ll be at Taylor’s by tomorrow afternoon easy.” She sounded excited. She told us about a town nearby called Warm Springs. “President Roosevelt went to Warm Springs because of his polio, and he died there when Stell and Jubie were little. I took y’all to the Southern Railway station in Charlotte and we watched his funeral train pass by.”
Something important had happened to me and I didn’t remember it.
“Girls, Taylor said Sarah can hardly wait to see you.” Mama must have been trying hard to make small talk, because she didn’t have much to say for her niece, who she once described as prissy. But Sarah was my only girl cousin and she wasn’t particularly fond of Stell, so I was excited about seeing her again. In her last letter, she said that when I got there we’d go sunbathing, just the two of us. She never wrote anything about her mother being gone, and I wasn’t sure I should ask. I remembered Aunt Lily as exotic, with her brunette hair thick and heavy on her shoulders, her passion-pink toenails, her silver high-heeled slingbacks. She was the only mother I knew who’d named her daughter for a movie star—Sarah Dolores. Mama said she did that because people told Lily she looked like Dolores del Rio. How was Sarah doing living with only her father? I couldn’t imagine Daddy fixing our supper or not liking what we’d picked out to wear to school or making a grocery list. Maybe Uncle Taylor had a hired girl who did all those things.
About six thirty my stomach growled, and Mama told Stell to get the paper bag from under the seat. “There’s Lance crackers, a pack for everybody, and apples. That’ll hold us a while longer. I want to avoid the supper crowd.”
It was after eight by the time we stopped, with the trees casting long shadows across the road. We pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant, and Mama twisted the rearview mirror to show her reflection. “Jubie, make room so Mary can change Davie.”
Davie started to fuss when Mary put him down. “Gone get you some supper,” she crooned. “Baby, now don’t you cry.”
Mama put on fresh lipstick and powdered her nose.
I felt like I’d been sitting forever. Even with the air-conditioning on, my thighs had perspired against the car seat, making the welts sting. I decided that no matter what, I would not straddle the drive shaft again. Mama had pointed out many times that I needed more leg room than most grown men. Stell had shine, but I had height.
Mama took Davie from Mary. “Anything in particular you want for supper?”
“No, ma’am, just whatever. And the restroom for the kitchen help.”
“I’m sure that’ll be fine.” Mary got back in the car. I looked over my shoulder and waved to her as we walked into the restaurant, Mama first, with Davie on her hip. She stood beside the cash register, looking around until a waitress called out, “Y’all go on and find a table.”
The men in the restaurant turned to look at Mama, but she just walked straight to the table she wanted, like the queen of England. I thought it was silly the way she always primped before we left the car, then didn’t enjoy the attention she got. Aunt Rita said that it was unfair for a woman who had four kids to still be such a looker.
We sat around a green Formica table by the window, facing the parking lot where Mary waited. Whenever we went out to eat at home, Mama or Daddy did the ordering. This time Mama said, “We’re on vacation. Order anything you want.”
Stell said, right away, “I’ll have a salad with Russian dressing, green beans, candied carrots, and a baked potato with extra butter.”
I read everything on the three-page menu before I ordered the spaghetti and meatballs, which Mama almost never fixed at home, but the plate put in front of me had an orange gloppy mess on it that looked like Chef Boyardee. Stell’s dinner smelled delicious. So did Mama’s pork chop, which she just picked at. While I was chewing the gluey meatballs, I heard the thump of a car door. I looked out the window and saw my own face reflected in the glass, then through it I saw Mary standing by the car, stretching, her arms raised. I was glad Mama had ordered fried chicken for her, not the spaghetti and meatballs.