The Dry Grass of August(34)

We got off the bus at McDowell and East Third, near the House of Prayer. Mary led us through a crush of people to a place she said would be the best for watching the parade. A few white spectators stood out in the sea of dark faces, and on every corner, white policemen watched the crowd.

Mary stopped. “This is good.” She looked up, squinting her eyes in the sunlight. “Hardly ever rains on Daddy Grace.”

I’d never seen so many colored people in one place, and all of them in their Sunday best—men in suits and ties, women in dresses, hats, and heels. They lined up along the curb, two and three deep, with children closest to the street so they could see, and older people sitting in chairs.

Mary leaned out. “Here they come!”

Colored girls in white dresses walked down the street, dignified, their faces solemn, tossing what I thought were scraps of paper. Little girls toddled alongside teenagers. One of the scraps fell at my feet. A flower petal. A group of boys followed, clapping their hands and dancing to the rhythm of the band behind them. “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” fast, loud. From around a corner, seven men playing trumpets and trombones joined the parade, dancing as they played, their horns swinging wildly in time with the music.

Across the street a policeman was putting handcuffs on a colored man who talked over his shoulder, shaking his head.

“What’s happening?” I asked Mary.

“Probably drunk, but maybe not. Sometimes they just takes them.”

The street filled with people dancing, singing, jumping off the curb and back up again in twos and threes on the sidewalks, in yards, on porches, clapping and swaying to the music.

I saw a man pull a bottle from his suit jacket and pass it around. A woman behind him tapped his shoulder and shook her head. He pushed her aside and took another drink.

I felt a sudden wetness in my panties. I tugged at Mary’s sleeve. “I got the curse and I don’t have anything with me.”

“My goodness. Stay here. I be right back.” She walked away, looking around, then called out, “Sister Coley?”

Stell asked, “Where’s Mary going?”

“To find a bathroom.”

Mary came up behind me. “This Miz Coley; she live right there. You go on with her. Sister Coley, this Miss June Watts.”

A tiny woman said, “How do. Come right with me.” I followed her, hoping I’d be back in time to see Daddy Grace.

Mrs. Coley took me up tall brick steps, across a porch. What would Mama think if she could see me going into a colored person’s house? Mrs. Coley was so dark-skinned that in the dim hallway her eyes and teeth seemed to jump out of her face. “The bathroom’s just down the hall. I’ll bring what you need.”

The door she’d pointed to opened into an enormous, sunny bathroom, filled with light that bounced off tile walls and floor. A photo of a white-haired colored woman hung over the toilet. Violets in ceramic pots sat on the sills of the windows to either side of the sink. A fresh, sweet odor. Mama would love this bathroom.

“Miss Watts?” Mrs. Coley held a paper bag through the doorway. “I brought you what you need. You can use the bag for your panties.”

“I’m sorry you’re missing the parade.”

“I’m going right back out. Take as long as you need.”

The underpants Mrs. Coley brought were a little big, but the sanitary belt and napkin were the same as what I had at home. I left the house, closing the door behind me, carrying the paper bag. Two colored girls, teenagers, stood at the bottom of the steps.

The taller girl was all in lime green—hat, dress, and pocketbook. She teetered on green high heels. Her hands were on her hips and she glowered from under the floppy brim of her hat. “What you doin’ in Miz Coley’s house?”

The other girl, shorter, with a red hat and a mass of black curls, stepped forward. “What you got in that bag?”

I backed up a step or two, looking around for Mrs. Coley. “I had to use the bathroom.”

The tall girl said, “And the bag?”

Mary stepped between the girls. “Hey, June.”

The girl in the red hat said to Mary, “You know her?”

Mary took my hand. “This Miss June Watts.”

“What she been doin’ in Miz Coley’s house?” the girl in green asked.

Mary looked at her. “Is Valora okay these days?”

The tall girl said, “You know my mama?”

Mary held out her hand. “I’m Sister Luther from McDowell Street Baptist. Your mama’s a friend from when I were at the House of Prayer.”

The girl looked down at the sidewalk.

“I believe everything all right now.” Mary took my arm and we walked back to the curb.

I looked around for Mrs. Coley to thank her again but couldn’t see her in the mass of people.

“You okay?” Mary looked at the paper bag.

“Yes.” I wadded up the bag and stuffed it in my purse.

Two yellow convertibles came down McDowell side by side. Colored men sat across the tops of the backseats, with more men in front, all waving.

“Fathers of the church,” said Mary. “Yessuh, Deacon McHone,” she shouted, waving to one of the men. He waved back.

I almost didn’t recognize George McHone. He had on a navy suit, a green bow tie, and a white shirt. It didn’t seem possible he was the same man who cut our grass.