The Dry Grass of August(35)

A group of women in choir robes marched down the street, singing slow and mournful, “Shall we gather at the river?” I heard someone right behind me, and turned. People had filled the space between us and the stone wall, and were pressing forward to see the parade. A woman tapped Mary on the shoulder. “Afternoon, Sister Luther.”

“Sister French,” Mary said. “You looking good.” The air smelled of tobacco and perfume.

How many people who belonged to Myers Park Country Club would ever get to see such a sight as the Daddy Grace parade? This was Stell’s idea, something I wouldn’t have thought of, and I was glad to have her as a sister. I looked at her. Her cheeks were red, her hazel eyes shining, her honey-brown bangs plastered to her forehead. She snapped her fingers, moving her feet to the music, utterly happy.

Another band marched by, all brass, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” as if it were a trumpeted announcement from God.

“Here he come,” said Mary, “Bishop Grace.” A white Cadillac convertible, trimmed in gold instead of chrome, went by so slowly I could see the crowns on the hubcaps. Daddy Grace sat in the backseat, his arms raised, the same as Jesus blessing the multitudes. I recognized him as the man I’d seen on the front porch of the House of Prayer. His hands tapered off to fingernails so long they curled under at the end. How did he dial the telephone or button his shirts? There was no way he could pick his nose. The driver and two other men in tuxedos sat in the front seat, looking back and forth at the crowd.

“His bodyguards,” Mary said.

I asked, “Why’s he got bodyguards?”

“Not everybody favor him. In Philadelphia somebody tried to stab him.”

“You were there?” Stell said.

“Sister Vellines was. She told me.”

A wave of excitement swept through the crowd as Daddy Grace went by.

“You like Daddy Grace, don’t you?” I asked Mary.

“He all right.”





“Colored people are emotional about religion,” Stell told Mama and Daddy when we got home. “We should show more feelings in church.”

“Ha!” Daddy said. “That’ll be the day.”

“Stell makes a good point, Bill. We really are sedate.”

“I loved the music,” I said, “and the way people danced, clapping and singing.”

“Did you see the man himself?” Daddy asked.

“We did,” said Stell. “Daddy Grace and his bodyguards.”

“Bodyguards?” Daddy said. “Ye gods.”

I said, “His fingernails are so long they curl under.”

“Really?” Mama looked astonished.

“Uh-huh,” said Stell. “It’s sort of freakish.”

At supper I asked Mama, “If a colored girl needed to use our bathroom, what would you do?”

“I’d let her, of course.”

That made me feel good.

Mama put down her napkin. “We have Mary’s toilet, downstairs.”

Stell said, “Jubie used a colored family’s bathroom.”

“You went inside a Negro house?” Mama asked.

“Yes. A friend of Mary’s. The bathroom was huge.”

“Was it clean?”

“Yes, ma’am, and beautiful.”

“Hmm.” Mama shook her head as though she couldn’t imagine such a thing.





CHAPTER 14

The morning sky was clear, with a strong breeze from the gulf. I didn’t have to get into the backseat of the car again for three more days, finally on a real vacation. Mary knocked on the cabana door while I was putting on my bathing suit. She handed me a bottle of Coppertone. “Your mama says to put plenty of this on so you won’t get burned.”

I took the bottle. “She’s the one gets burned. I never do.”

“You got a nice tan, that’s for sure.” Her face was damp, even so early in the day.

“Do you use suntan oil?”

“No, and I been burned once or twice.”

I touched her arm. “You get sunburn?”

“Sure I do. Just doesn’t show on me the way it does on your mama.” She got our dirty clothes from the hamper. “Going to run a couple loads. You go on down to the water. I know you’re itching to.”

I held the screen open and she headed for the house, her arms full of laundry. I went to the beach to lie in the sun and think about Leesum. I’d tried writing him, but what I put on paper looked stupid. I kept coming up against a fact: He could never be my boyfriend.

Footsteps squeaked in the sand. “Hey, kiddo.”

I didn’t look up. “Hey, Mama.”

She spread her beach towel beside me, dropping her cigarette case, a book, sunglasses. “Let’s get wet.” She stepped out of her sandals.

We stood in the damp sand, letting the water lap at our feet. Mama hadn’t put on any makeup and her freckles stood out. She looked sleepy. “You sure are somber this morning,” she said.

“Where’s everybody else?”

“Mary’s going to bring Puddin and Davie down in a bit.”

We walked into the water, jumped an incoming wave. Mama yelped and took my hand for balance. I dove into the next breaker and came to the surface. When Mary, Puddin, and Davie shouted to us, Mama was breaststroking toward deeper water. She turned. “There they are.”