The Dry Grass of August(45)

Mary moved to help with our bags and Gaither said, “I can handle this, girl.”

She backed away, looking down.

He ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, swept back in an oily ducktail.

Mama and Stell Ann got in the cab. Mama settled Davie on her lap, then called through the window, “Get in the back.” Puddin and I climbed in.

Mary handed me her pocketbook. She grabbed the sidewall of the truck and put one foot on the bumper, then pulled herself up, holding her skirt against her knees as she stepped over the tailgate. Puddin and Mary each sat on a piece of luggage, and I sat on a toolbox. The truck smelled like our basement when the sewer backed up.

Gaither drove slowly down the street. Claxton looked friendly, the streets swept, store windows shining in the afternoon light. Gleaming railroad tracks ran parallel to Main Street. A woman in a yellow print dress watered flowers in hanging pots in front of a millinery store. Men sat in chairs outside a barbershop. A sign in the window said MY GRANDMOTHER’S FRUITCAKES FOR SALE. INQUIRE WITHIN. The barber in his white coat leaned against the doorjamb beneath a red, white, and blue barber pole turning around and around, the stripes spiraling out through the top.

The truck turned in a driveway at a sign: SALLY’S MOTEL PARK. CABINS. POOL. VACANCY, and pulled up beside a brick house with the word OFFICE on the front door. Gray stone paths connected the cabins, dividing the green lawn into squares and triangles. I couldn’t see the pool.

Gaither got out, cleared his throat, coughed.

A woman came from the office, shading her eyes with her hand. Her short brown hair was finger-waved in tight rows.

“Hey, Sally,” said Gaither.

“Hey, Gaither.”

“These folks had a wreck. Jake’s got they car.” Gaither unrolled a pack of cigarettes from his shirtsleeve. “This here’s Sally Bishop.”

“Hello, Miss Bishop,” said Mama. “We need rooms. At least one night.”

“It’s Mrs. Bishop.” The woman looked at Mary. “That your girl?”

“Yes.”

She walked away, her hand to her mouth, the other hand in a fist on her hip. She turned. “You and one of the kids could stay in Cabin Two”—she pointed—“a double bed. The others in Cabin Four—two double beds, a kitchenette, with a cot for your girl.”

“How much?” Mama asked.

“Four a night for the small cabin, ten a night for the big one. In advance, daily.”

“My goodness.”

“Take it or leave it. No place else’ll have her, not around here.”

“Do you have a phone I could use?”

Mama and Mrs. Bishop went into the office. A sign by the door said, FRESH BAKED FRUITCAKES. MORE CHERRIES, NO CITRON.

Mama’s voice came through the open office window, leaving a message with Daddy’s secretary. After she hung up, she said to the motel woman, “My husband’s not available. I need to make one more call.” She spoke into the phone, giving the operator Uncle Taylor’s number. “Person to person, collect, please.”

She waited a couple of minutes, then said, “Oh, Taylor, thank God you’re there.We had a wreck. Everybody’s okay, but the car . . .” She blew her nose.“God knows where Bill is. I left a message.” She said something I couldn’t hear, then, “Yes, but I need him. I feel so overwhelmed.”

After Mama hung up, I said to Stell, “I hope we stay here. I want to swim.”

“I hope they have a bathtub, not just a shower.”

Mama came back outside and said, “Carry my suitcase over there.” She pointed to Cabin Two. “And take the rest to yours, Cabin Four.”

Mrs. Bishop came outside. “There’s another thing.” Her voice was strident. “I could get in trouble for letting your girl stay here, but I can see you’re in a mess, so I’m making an exception.”

“We’re grateful,” Mama said.

“But there are rules. She’s got to use the outhouse, not either of y’all’s bathrooms. Behind Cabin Six, through those trees.” She pointed.

“What about bathing?” Mama asked.

“She can’t use the pool.”

“I meant washing herself.”

“There’s a pump behind Cabin Four.” She coughed and touched her hair. “That’s the best I can do. I could lose business if word gets out. There are folks around here . . .” She turned and walked toward the office.

“Yes,” Mama said under her breath. “There are always folks.”

I climbed into the back of the truck and handed our suitcases over to Mary. When I was getting out, Gaither walked up and took my hand to help me. His hand was gritty. I jumped from the bumper and moved away.

“See you around.” Gaither flicked his cigarette onto the lawn. He coughed and cleared his throat again as he got in the truck.





We were unpacking in our cabin when the motel lady brought a folding cot for Mary, a wooden frame with green canvas slung from it, like the one I slept on at Girl Scout camp. She gave Mary a faded bedspread, two sheets, and a pillow. “You won’t need a blanket, hot as it is.”

We set the cot up under the window in the kitchenette—a double-burner hot plate, a tiny refrigerator, and a sink. A note on a tattered index card was Scotch-taped to the wall: Tables under bed. I looked and found four small folding tables. Mama was going to have to eat her words about never having supper on TV trays.