The Dry Grass of August(44)

“Stell Ann?”

“I hit my head, too.”

Mama tipped Stell’s chin and looked into her eyes, “Look up. Down. Side to side. How many fingers?” Mama held up three fingers.

“Three.”

“Sit over there in the grass and be real still.”

A woman said, “Whoo-ee! Bobby Joe done it again.”

A man in a white jacket stepped out of a Rexall on the corner. “I’m a pharmacist. Be glad to help, if I can.”

Mama nodded.

He looked at Davie’s hand. “I’ve got just the thing for that.” He went in the Rexall and returned with a bottle of Mercurochrome. When the man tried to touch him, Davie screamed, turning his face to Mama’s bosom. She held his hand out to the pharmacist. When he’d finished, the man put a Band-Aid on the cut and gave Davie a cherry lollipop. “Got a candy for you being such a good boy.”

Davie sniffled and put the sucker in his mouth. Mama kissed his head.

A man was checking out our car, getting down on his knees and peering underneath. He had on sunglasses, and his hair was so long it hung down under his straw hat.

Mama handed Davie to me. He put his face against my neck, which made me want to cry. I began to shake. I sat on a bench outside the Rexall, trying not to throw up, swallowing over and over until the sick feeling went away.

The man who’d been checking the car spoke to Mama. “Name’s Jake Stirewalt.”

“I’m Mrs. Watts, Mrs. William Watts.”

“S’my place over there.” He pointed to a garage. “Be happy to try to fix ’er, Mrs. Watts.You might need a rade-yater. And I ain’t got one.”

“Can you get one?”

“Hafta check the Packard dealers. Savannah, Augusta. Might could take a while.”

“Oh,” said Mama. “Well.”

Stell Ann was sitting in a patch of grass across the street. Mary stood at the edge of the crowd, holding Puddin’s hand. She waved when she saw me looking at her.

A siren sounded a block away, then a sheriff ’s car pulled up. A man in a uniform got out and spoke to Mama. “I’m Deputy Hinson. Is anybody hurt?”

“My son’s hand is cut, and my daughter’s lip. Everybody bumped heads, but I think we’re okay.”

He called across the street. “Bobby Joe? Walk on over here.”

The truck driver lolled against his fender. The front of his truck was crumpled, but he didn’t seem to care. He pushed himself away from the truck and wobbled into the street.

“Off the wagon, Bobby Joe?”

The man nodded and folded himself into the sheriff’s car.

“I have my way, you never gonna drive again.” Inside the car the man slumped against the window, his hair making a flat gray circle on the glass.

The deputy’s leather holster was high on his hip, the gun black and square like Daddy’s. Had the deputy ever used it?

He called out, “Anybody see what happened here?”

Stell stood and walked over to Mama.

A man stepped up. “Bobby Joe Tart came barreling out of Grady. Didn’t even slow down at the stop sign. Hit this young lady’s car. She was on Main, going toward town.”

“Is that right?” the deputy asked Stell.

Mama said, “It happened so fast.”

Mr. Stirewalt walked up. “Okay if we push the car to my shop?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” the deputy said.

Mama said, “Don’t work on it until I’ve talked to my husband.”

Mr. Stirewalt handed Mama a piece of paper. “Here’s my number. J and J’s Garage. The best in Claxton. You ask anybody.”

People walked away. Talking, looking back at us like they didn’t want to let go of the excitement. The deputy asked Mama a few more questions and wrote things down.

Davie held out his hand, palm up, showing me the Band-Aid. “Davie hurt.”

“Yes, but it’s fixed now.”

“Kiss it.” He put his hand to my mouth. I caught the dry rubber smell of the Band-Aid mixed with cherry lollipop.

Mary began taking the luggage from the trunk. I put Davie down next to Puddin so I could help Mary pile our stuff on the sidewalk. Mr. Stirewalt and two men pushed our car to the garage across the street.

“Guess we’re stuck.” Puddin put her head against my shoulder.

Mr. Stirewalt walked back to Mama. “You’ll want to stay at the motel park a couple blocks from here.You can call me tomorrow.” He turned and hollered, “Gaither?”

“Yeah?” answered one of the men who’d pushed our car.

“Take Mrs. Watts and her kids over to Sally’s.”

“Will the motel have a place for our colored girl?”

“That’s a problem.” Mr. Stirewalt took off his hat, leaving a dent in his greasy hair.

The man named Gaither said, “They’s a nigger hauls our trash. You can’t find a place for your girl, I’ll ask him.” There were damp rings under his arms. His gray work pants were too short for his lanky height, leaving his knobby ankles bare. “Somebody’ll keep her.” He smiled at Mary, but his eyes were hard.

An old pickup rattled to a stop beside us. The passenger windshield was cracked. The boy driving it hopped out and handed the keys to Gaither, who tossed our luggage over the tailgate, bumping against me when he turned to pick up another suitcase. He stank from cigarettes and foul sweat.