The Dry Grass of August(40)

Daddy stood, grunting. “I’ll be right back.”

Davie put down his choo-choo and came to me, holding his arms in the air. “Doobie.”

Daddy called from the den, “Pauly, come say hello to Mother.”

Mama groaned. She raised her glass to Stell. “I’ll be nice.”

After Mama got off the phone with Meemaw, she and Daddy sat on the sofa. He put his arm around her and she put her head on his shoulder. A curl of hair hung loose from her chignon and he wrapped it around his finger, tugged it gently, tickled her neck with it. She straightened and moved away.





At dusk we sat in candlelight around the dining room table. Mama carried in the meat platter with the turkey and put it down in front of Daddy. “William, you carve. I’ll be right back.” She glanced sideways at Carly. A minute later she came through the swinging door, carrying another platter with a baked ham on it, crosshatched and dotted with cloves. “Tada !” she sang out and put it in front of Carly.

His face lit up. “I thought I smelled ham cooking.”

“I made raisin sauce, too, from Rita’s recipe.” Mama pointed to a steaming gravy boat and handed Carly a ladle. “Help yourself.”

Daddy frowned. “Good lord, Paula. You made enough to feed an army.”

Mama put her hand on Carly’s shoulder and said, “It won’t be as good as your mother’s.”

“White meat, Pauly?” Daddy asked.

Mama sat down. “And there are scalloped potatoes, biscuits. Apple pie for dessert. Just the same as your mom fixes at Christmas.”

Daddy said, “Jubie, hand me your mother’s plate.”





On the Sunday Carly was leaving to go back to West Point, I was in the kitchen, doing the lunch dishes, listening to Mama and Daddy talk as they lingered in the dining room over coffee.

“The next time Cordelia needs help, you and I’ll have to go,” Mama said.

Daddy mumbled something.

“You have to face it. We need to be thinking about an old folks’ home.”

“She’s not that bad yet.”

“That’s your opinion. Going up there for a week or two is just putting a finger in the dike.”

Carly came through the back door in his uniform, carrying his hat and gloves. “I’m ready to go. Where’s everybody?”

I touched the braid on his sleeve. He resembled a soldier in an old photograph, dressed for battle. I never had talked to him about Mary and now he was leaving. I said, “Mama and Daddy are in the dining room with Davie. Stell and Puddin are upstairs. I’ll call them.”

“Carly?” Daddy walked into the kitchen. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mama came in carrying Davie. “Be sure to let us know when you get there.”

“Mom and Dad’ll call you.” He put on his hat and touched Davie’s cheek. “Good-bye, Davie.”

Stell came in the kitchen, still in her Sunday best. She stood on tiptoe to kiss Carly’s cheek. He put one arm around her, the other around me, and pulled us to him. The brass buttons on his chest were cold to my cheek. My face almost touched Stell’s as he held us close.





CHAPTER 16

After we packed up to leave Pensacola, Uncle Taylor and Mama stood by the car talking. She shook her head and pushed him away, her face splotched from crying. He took a couple of steps back and said something, then reached for her and held her for a long time before she got into the car.

Mama put the key in the ignition. “I wish we could stay here.”

“Uncle Taylor invited us to,” I said.

“I mean forever.”

“Why don’t we just go straight to Pawleys Island?” Stell asked. Carter was going to meet us at Pawleys, and Stell could hardly wait to see him.

“I told you. I want to buy fruitcakes.” Mama blew her nose and turned on the radio to a breakfast club, where a man and woman were talking about blueberry waffles. “Fresh blueberries make all the difference,” the woman said, a smile in her voice.

Stell said, “I don’t get what’s so special about Claxton fruitcakes.”

“They’re the best.” Mama turned up the volume.

Puddin said, “Mama, let’s sing something.”

“Claxton is out of the way,” Stell said. “I looked at the map.”

“Hush. I’m listening to this show.”

Mary took Puddin’s hand in the way she had of saying Your mama’s upset, baby.





A few miles west of the Chattahoochee River, Mama tapped the gas gauge the way she always did when it was low. At the river we saw a sign saying the bridge was out, that there was ferry service, courtesy of the State of Georgia. Cars were lined up and Mama told me to walk down to the dock to see how long it would take to get across.

“Mind if I go, too, Miz Watts? Stretch my legs.”

Davie reached for Mary, and Mama lifted him from his seat.

Mary put Davie down between us. I counted the cars as we walked along the shoulder at Davie’s pace. I could feel people staring at us—the colored woman, the toddler, the tall girl.

“Can’t carry but ten vehicles,” said a man at the dock. “How far back are you?”