The Dry Grass of August(47)

“Shh. He’s going to speak.”

Mama seemed puffed up with the importance of the occasion, maybe because Daddy had become someone in Charlotte, a respected businessman. I sat up straighter.

Daddy waved away the microphone. “Can everybody hear me okay?” he yelled, and the crowd called back, “Yes!”

Daddy shouted, “What’s essential about concrete?”

Somebody hollered, “What?”

“It’s gotta be hard!” Daddy jumped up and down on the pavement and people roared with laughter, every eye on him. He stood at the deep end of the pool, his reflection beside a mirror image of the high dive. “Our shop’s just a local outfit, a bunch of guys working on small jobs. When we won the bid for the pool deck and base for the diving boards, I had to hire more crew and go back to school.” He kicked off his loafers and put his foot on the first rung of the ladder to the high dive. “Had to learn the latest about compressive strength, hardening time, accelerators, L-bolts . . .” He stood at the top of the ladder and touched the base his company had built. “This is one of the biggest structures we’ve poured to date.” He lifted his hat from his head and saluted the crowd. The red stone in his ring glittered. Then with a flick of his wrist, he sailed his hat into the air, grinning as it spun around and landed in the middle of the pool. Laughter filled the air again. Mama shook her head. “That’s why he wore his old hat.”

The sun glinted off Daddy’s hair. “We designed the base ourselves to support these springboards.” He stepped off the ladder and walked out onto the board. “They have to be anchored with precision or divers won’t get all the bounce they need”—he took two steps and the board bent beneath his weight—“for a half gainer with a triple twist.” Daddy flexed his knees and the board went down, rose up. I was proud that he knew what a gainer was. He turned his back to the pool and put his feet at the end of the board, heels lined up with the edge. “Even the simplest dive needs good spring.”

He was silent for a minute and the crowd waited. “A trained diver knows all boards are different, but his stride is the same.” Daddy lifted one foot and seemed to go off balance, spreading his arms to steady himself. I was sure he was pretending. He took four steps back toward the ladder. “The diver takes four paces from the end, then turns.” Daddy pivoted.

“How high is three meters?” He looked puzzled. “Most Americans need a slide rule for that one.” He was tall and solid above the white base, so handsome. I was proud to be his daughter. “Three meters is nine point seventy-five feet, about the height of the gutter on a one-story house. So a three-meter board is ten feet off the water.” He kneeled and put his hand on a bar underneath the board. “The secret to spring is the fulcrum, this bar.As you can see, it’s adjustable.” He pointed to a crank. “Proper placement of the fulcrum keeps the bounce under control.” He stood and pointed backward, toward the ladder. “If we moved it that way, the bounce would throw the diver into the next county.” He stood on his tiptoes, arms wide. I looked away, embarrassed by the damp circles at his armpits. He lowered his heels and stood flat-footed again.

“A diver marks his pace from the end of the board so he knows where to start his approach.” He took three long, fast steps and his arms carved circles, then his hands came together and rose above his head. His left leg came up into a tight knee bend, then slammed down on the board and he leaped into the air. His hands came down to meet his feet in a perfect jackknife. For an instant he hung in the air, then his head and hands fell and his legs snapped up. He split the water in a straight vertical, almost no splash. The crowd gasped, exploded with applause.

Mama said, “What a show-off.”

Daddy surfaced arms first, rising like Esther Williams in a water ballet. He slicked his wet hair off his forehead as he climbed the ladder, his seersucker suit clinging to his broad shoulders and long legs.





Puddin jumped into the motel pool, splashing me. I rolled off into the water. She swam over to me in a jerky stroke that wasn’t much better than a dog paddle. “Guess what? Daddy’s coming!”

I went under and grabbed her feet, heard her muffled shriek through the water. “When?” I sputtered as I came back to the surface.

“Tomorrow. Mama’s glad.”

I swam to the side of the pool. Mary came through the gate, carrying Davie on her hip.

“Your daddy be here tomorrow.”

“Puddin told me.”

She put Davie down. “He want to be sure your mama’s car get fixed right.”

Davie walked to the side of the pool, holding out his hands. “Doobie, water.”

“You take him in the pool, you got to keep the Band-Aid dry.”

I got out and walked with Davie to the shallow end. We sat on the steps and Davie kicked the water.

Mary pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped her face. I wished she could come in the pool with us and I wished that Daddy would stay in Charlotte.





CHAPTER 19

“Stell, Jubie, let’s go buy fruitcakes.” Mama stood in the door of our cabin.

Stell was brushing her hair, the glossy brown shimmering in a shaft of morning sunlight through the open window. “Ten minutes, okay?”

Mama nodded. She had her hand on the screen door when Mary spoke. “I want to buy some fruitcakes myself.”