The Dry Grass of August(55)

I said, “She’s too smart for that.”

“A smart nigger?”The short man snorted.

“Mary is smart, and she’s not—” Stell said.

“Don’t pay any mind to Ray there,” Sheriff Higgins said. “Where you girls from?”

“Charlotte, North Carolina.”

“What y’all doing in Georgia?”

“We’re on vacation.”

“Y’all the ones had that wreck yesterday at Grady and Main?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At Sally’s Motel Park,” I said, “with our family.”

“We’ll let you call your parents from the station. It’s late for y’all to be out alone.”

“We weren’t alone.” I couldn’t swallow around the rock in the back of my throat. “We were with Mary.”





CHAPTER 22

The sheriff ’s office was in a building smaller than our garage. A man in uniform behind the front desk looked up as we walked in.

“These girls need to call their parents,” Sheriff Higgins said.

“Yes, sir.” The man scrambled to move the phone to the front edge of the desk. “You need the book?” Stell nodded. He handed her a flimsy directory.

The sheriff went to a coffeepot in the corner and poured himself a cup. “Could I get you some water?” he asked me. “Too late to send out for Co-Cola.”

I shook my head. I kept taking deep breaths, tried to stop trembling. Where was Mary now? What were they doing to her?

Stell hung up. “Daddy’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Come on in my office,” said the sheriff. “We’ll be done by the time he gets here.”

He sat behind his desk, pointing Stell and me to two metal chairs.The one window was open, but the room was too warm. “Give me a second.” The sheriff pulled out several desk drawers, looking for something. “Here it is; knew I had one.” He handed me a safety pin. “You ripped your . . .”

He looked out the window while I pinned the skirt of my dress to the bodice. “Everything’ll be okay, sooner or later.”

How could he know that?

A jittery fluorescent light buzzed overhead. He wrote something on a pad, then swiveled his chair and picked up three sheets of paper, sandwiched carbon paper between them, and rolled them into the typewriter beside his desk. “August 13, 1954, ten-oh-five p.m.,” he said, typing. “Lillington Avenue at Cameron.” Plick-plick-pling, using two fingers, looking down at the keys, then over his glasses at what he’d typed. He glanced back at Stell. “I need your full name and age.”

“Estelle Annette Watts. Sixteen and a half.”

“One six.” He typed the numbers. “Birth date?”

“February 11, 1938.”

“And you?”

“June Bentley Watts. Thirteen. October 4, 1940.”

He typed again. “And your girl’s name? What’d you say it is?”

Stell said, “Mary Luther,” and I said, “Mary Constance Culpepper Luther.”

The sheriff typed some more and I added, “She’ll be forty-eight next month.” I wished I could remember her exact birthday.

“The men who took your maid, how many were there?”

“Three,” I said.

“Plus the girl driving the car,” Stell said.

“Did you get a good look at them?”

Stell said, “The one who—he shoved me against a tree. I couldn’t see Jubie and Mary.” Tears welled in her eyes, rolled down her face. “And they shot out the streetlights. A BB gun or something.”

He made notes on the pad, then looked at me. “How about you? Anything that sticks in your mind.”

I thought of rotten breath, the smell of liquor, cigarettes, and BO. “Tall,” I said. “The one who held me was taller than I am, skinny and strong.”

“How tall are you?”

“Five-nine. He’d been drinking.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the smell.”

His lips pushed into a thin line. He looked at Stell Ann. “The fella who had you, what can you tell me?”

“His hands are calloused.” She closed her eyes. “He’s big like a football player, or maybe just fat.”

“Do you know what kind of car—”

“The one who beat up Mary had on a white T-shirt,” I said, remembering.

“Good girl.”The sheriff made a note.

Stell said, “A four-door Chevy, with white sidewalls and a loose muffler.”

“Stell!” I was proud of her.

“You sure?”

“I heard the muffler dragging. I looked up as they drove off and—”

“But you said the streetlights—”

“Full moon, or almost.”

“You’re right.” His pen moved on the pad. “What color was the car?”

Stell shook her head. “Light blue or gray.”

The sheriff stood. “Be right back.” He went into the outer office.

Stell took my hand. “They’ll find her. She’ll be all right.”