The Dry Grass of August(41)

“There’s nine cars and a pickup ahead of us.” I was proud of myself for having counted.

“Tell your mother it’ll be at least forty-five minutes ’fore she can cross. She’s best off waiting. There’s a bridge north and one south, but it’s a good thirty miles to either.”

“We’re almost out of gas.”

“Stop the motor. Roll down the hill. She can gas up at Donalsonville, ten miles the other side of the river.”

An hour later we drove onto the ferry and stopped at the prow. “We’ll be the first ones off,” Mama said. “Thank God.” Davie stood in the front seat as the boat began to move, saying, “Boat. Oh, boat,” over and over. Halfway across I got out of the car. Something seemed almost not possible about a boat carrying such a load with a motor so small it putt-putted. The only thing keeping us going straight was a hemp rope, thick around as my arm. The ferry rode so low my sandals got splashed when the swirling water lapped over the side, and I knew from the pull against the guy rope that if I fell overboard, I’d be carried around the next bend before anyone could throw out a life preserver. A damp, diesel-smelling breeze cooled my face.

I got back in the car at the landing. As soon as the prow gate was lowered, Mama started the engine. With the front wheels on the landing and the back wheels on the ferry, the motor quit.

I asked, “Are we out of—”

“Shit!” Mama said, hitting the steering wheel with both hands.

“Mama!” said Stell.

“Shut up.” Mama ground the ignition, but the car wouldn’t start.

Horns honked behind us.

The boatman walked up. “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

“I’m afraid we’ve run out of gas.”

“You’re kidding, right, little lady?” The man leaned down, his face close to Mama’s.

Mama looked straight ahead. “No.”

The man called toward the dock, “Need some help here; lady’s out of gas.” More horns honked.

A pickup was in back of us on the ferry. The man driving it got out. “Can’t give you a push. My bumper’s too high.”

Four men got behind the car and tried to push us off the ferry, but the landing sloped uphill and the car was too heavy, even with everybody out except Mama.

“I be goddamn,” the boatman said when they gave up.

A woman stuck behind the pickup said we could siphon gas from her car. The boatman got a can and a hose from a shed on the dock. After they poured the gas in our tank, the boatman signaled Mama.

“Easy, now, don’t pump it. Push the pedal down, hold it, turn the key.”

I saw Mama’s foot going up and down on the gas pedal. “He said not to do that.”

“I guess I know my own car.” She turned the key. The motor ground and ground but wouldn’t turn over. Her face was so red I thought she might start crying.

The boatman lifted the hood. “She’s flooded. They ain’t nothing to do but wait till she dries out, ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

Mama got out of the car, rummaged around in the trunk for a book she’d been reading at Uncle Taylor’s. She got in the front seat, settled back against the driver’s door, and propped her feet on the dashboard. She opened her book and began to read. With her sunglasses on and her skirt hiked up showing her curvy legs, she looked like a movie star.

The truck driver stepped up to the car. “Wisht I could of pushed you.”

Mama went on reading as if she’d gone stone deaf.

The boatman said, “Turn your key off, ma’am, so’s you don’t drain the battery.”

Mama turned a page.

Mary said, “I’ll take the children up into the trees where it’s shady.”

Mama didn’t answer.

Davie was sleepy and fussy. Mary carried him and took Puddin by the hand to the shade. She sat under a tree with her legs spread so her skirt made a cloth for Davie to sit on. Puddin sat in the grass beside Mary, leaning against her.

Stell and I sat nearby. The grass felt good on my legs. Stell said, “We have a crazy mother.”

I stretched out. “Uh-huh.”

“Did you hear the word she said?”

“She’s sad about leaving Uncle Taylor’s.”

Stell Ann lay back in the grass with her arm over her eyes. “I don’t want to talk.”





CHAPTER 17

In Albany, Georgia, well after sunset, Mama pulled into a motel, one long building with rooms opening onto the parking lot. She went into the office to register us. When she got back to the car, she drove to the end of the building.

“What about Mary?” I asked.

“I ordered a rollaway, and I didn’t mention her.” Mama set the brake and said to Mary, “Go on in. As long as no one sees you, it’ll be fine.”

We left before dawn and I fell asleep in the car, slumped against Mary. When I woke I saw that spit had dribbled from my mouth, leaving a streak on the sleeve of her dress.

She smoothed my hair. “You sleep good?”

Puddin was asleep, too, with Davie wedged between us, looking out the window, his hand in my lap, fingers curled. “Doobie.”

“Hey, Davie-do.”

“Doobie sleep.” He closed his eyes.