The Dry Grass of August(39)

Carly nodded.

“How long has Safronia worked for y’all?” I asked him.

“Since before I was born. Why?”

“I just wondered. Mary’s been with us a long time, too.”

Carly turned a page of the album, touched a picture of a small, brown-haired woman in a tailored suit and spectator pumps, carrying a briefcase. “Who’s that?”

“Mama’s mother. She’s dead.”

“What’s with the briefcase?”

“She was a salesman, a woman salesman.”

“I don’t see any photos of your granddad.”

“He left Grandmother Bentley with two daughters and a son to raise. That’s why she went to work.”

“Left? For where?”

“The West. Oregon, I think. He had a girlfriend.”

“You said two daughters. I didn’t know Aunt Pauly had a sister.”

I turned a page and pointed to a skinny girl in a clingy striped dress with a white collar, staring straight at the camera. “That’s Mama’s older sister, Hanna. She died of leukemia when she was twenty-one. Mama was seventeen.”

“Gosh, that’s awful.”

“Yeah. Mama and Uncle Taylor are all that’s left of her family.”

Mary came into the den with a tray. Two full cups, the cream pitcher and sugar bowl, spoons, napkins. “Here you are,” she said to Carly.

“Just put it there.” He pointed to an end table.

She said to me, “Fixed you some hot chocolate.”

“Thanks, Mary,” I said. She left.

Carly poured cream into his coffee, added sugar. “Wow, I’ve never seen this.”

It was a photo of Uncle Stamos and Aunt Rita—hugely pregnant—dated July 1933. “That’s right before I was born. They look so young.”

Uncle Stamos, skinny as a rail, stood next to his short round wife, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand on her belly. I touched the photo. “Your parents still love each other, don’t they?”

“Sometimes it’s almost embarrassing.”

“I think it’s terrific.”

He was quiet, then said, “Are your mom and dad—are they still in love?”

“I guess.”

I had a hard time getting to sleep that night, trying to think of some way I could talk with Carly about Mary, about the way he spoke to her, acting as if she were no more than a piece of furniture. But he’d become a grown-up and I wasn’t sure he’d understand.





After lunch on Christmas Eve, Mama took a turkey from the freezer, wrapped it in a bath towel, and put it on the glass-topped table on the breezeway.

“Are you just going to leave it there?” I asked.

“It’ll be out of the way while it thaws, and the neighborhood dogs can’t get to it.”

Mary came in from the dining room. “The silver’s done, Miz Watts, and the curtains is ironed. We don’t hang them now, they’ll wrinkle.”

Mama wiped her hands on her apron. “Jubie, get the cabbage out of the fridge and pop off the bad leaves.”

I grated cabbage and carrots for slaw while Mama and Mary threaded the dining room sheers back onto the rods. By the time Mary left for three whole days off, the hampers were empty and all the beds had fresh sheets. Even the telephone smelled like Pine-Sol and there was a bayberry candle in the guest bathroom.

I sat on the living room sofa, eyes closed, smelling the mulled cider warming on the stove, a pound cake in the oven, the blue spruce tree strung with lights. I wondered if everybody’s house smelled this way at Christmas, and whether Carly missed being at home. I opened my eyes and Mama was standing in the archway to the dining room, holding Davie, his blond curls shiny against the shoulder of her red wool dress. Mama rubbed his back, her nails gleaming from a fresh manicure. She’d pulled her curls into a chignon encircled with a black velvet ribbon. The pearls at her throat made her skin glow.

“You look elegant, Mama.”

I could see how pleased she was. “Time to get dressed for the candlelight service. Wear your burgundy jumper. Save the velvet for tomorrow.” She straightened an arm cover on the queen chair and left the room.





By noon on Christmas, torn wrapping paper and ribbons littered the living room. Daddy was on the floor with Davie, putting together train tracks. “Jubie, be a lamb and add an inch to my glass.” He winked at Mama. “Just an inch.”

Mama took the glass from Daddy. “I’ll do it, Bill, and have one myself.” She went into the dining room. Bottles clinked. She drank something while she stood in front of the liquor cabinet, then poured whiskey into glasses.

Stell leaned back in the queen chair, her feet curled beneath her, sleepy, content. Carols played from the new LP Daddy had given Mama.

“Where’s Carly?” I asked.

“Talking to his parents,” Mama said.

“In Kentucky?” Puddin called from under the grand piano, where she was putting pajamas on her Bide-a-Wee doll.

“Yes.” Mama handed Daddy his glass and sat next to me on the sofa.

Carly walked in. He was wearing the blue pullover we’d given him for Christmas and was so good-looking I blushed. “Phone, Uncle Bill. It’s Meemaw.”