The Dry Grass of August(59)

She took off her gardening gloves. “Hello, Miss Watts. And who’re you trying to find?”

“Somebody who could have been at the tent meeting last night.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “A religious colored person might be able to help me.”

Her face relaxed into a half smile. She smoothed her apron. “Would you like to come in? You look about to drop.”

“That’d be nice.” Chipped terra-cotta pots of pansies and geraniums lined the wide porch. I followed her up the steps, wiping my hands on my shorts. An overhead fan hummed rhythmically in the front room.

“Please have a seat,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

I sat on the edge of the sofa.

There were crocheted antimacassars on the worn sofa arms, newspapers on the floor by a rocking chair, a book open on a table. A vase of chrysanthemums on an upright piano caught the slanted light coming in the windows. Shelves lined the walls, floor to ceiling, crowded with books. The smell of fried chicken and baked apples made my mouth water.

I sank back into the throw pillows on the sofa. My eyes felt gritty and my lips tasted of salt.

Mrs. Travis returned with glasses and a pitcher on a tray that she put on an end table. She handed me a wet washcloth. “To wipe your face, cool down.”

I covered my face with the cloth, breathed in the sharp smell of soap, wiped my neck and arms. Mrs. Travis pointed at the tray. “Just put it there and help yourself.” I poured a glass of lemonade and took a long swallow.

She sat in the rocker. “How is it that a religious colored person might help you?”

“My sister and I went to the tent meeting last night.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Two white girls all the way out here?”

“Our maid was with us.”

“I see.”

I drank until there was nothing left but ice.

“Help yourself.”

I filled my glass again. “We were on our way home and some men attacked us.”

“Oh!” She sat up straight in the rocker. “Are you all right?”

“My sister and I are, but our girl’s gone.The men took her.”

“I take it she is Negro.”

“Yes.” I had an urge to say, “Yes, ma’am,” although I’d never said “ma’am” to a colored woman in my life.

“Is she from Claxton?”

“Mary works for us in Charlotte, North Carolina. Mama brought her on our vacation to help out.”

“Do your folks know where you are now?”

I shook my head, feeling guilty. “I was at the motel pool, talking to a lady about what happened. She didn’t understand about Mary. So I was trying to find somebody. Somebody who—” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Somebody who would understand?”

“Uh-huh.” I clenched my hands to keep from crying. We sat there, me staring at my fists and her rocking. At first the silence was awkward, but then it got easier just to sit, tears spotting my shirt. There was only the sound of my hiccupping breaths, the creak of her rocker on the wood floor, the whir of the ceiling fan. I was still crying when the screen door opened. I looked up to see a man standing just inside the door, his eyes like lights in his ebony face. He was carrying a briefcase and wearing a suit and tie, as if he were dressed for church.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Mrs. Travis stood. “Ezra, this is Miss June Watts.”

She handed me a Kleenex. “June, this is my husband. Mr. Travis is an attorney.”

The man sat on the other end of the sofa and laid his briefcase between us.

Mrs. Travis poured him a glass of lemonade. “You look worn out.”

Mr. Travis loosened his tie. He asked me, “What brings you out this way?”

I talked and he listened, running his thumb up and down the side of his glass.When he finally spoke, his voice was full of pain. “I have some sad news.”

“About Mary?”

“I believe so.”

Mrs.Travis sat with her head bowed, her chin resting in her hand.

“I heard about what happened last evening, Mrs. Luther’s disappearance.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead. “They found a Negro woman a while ago. She’d been—she was—” He folded the handkerchief and put it away.

I stood.

“In the field near the pond, just down the road a bit. Sam Bradford was fishing with his children. . . .” His voice drifted off.

“I just passed the pond,” I said.

“Sheriff ’s car was there when I rode by on my way home.” Mr.Travis looked out the window.

“It’s some other girl. All coloreds look alike. The sheriff said so.” I was shaking so hard I thought my teeth would crack.

Mrs. Travis rose and put her hand on my shoulder, gently pushing me back onto the sofa. “Ezra, would you fetch the quilt from the linen chest?”

Mr.Travis covered me with a quilt, tucking it around me. I wanted to leave my body and never return to the cold knowing.

Mrs. Travis asked, “How can we reach your folks, June?”

“Sally’s Motel Park.”

Mr. Travis dialed, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, the phone to his ear. He asked for Daddy and waited. “Hello?” Mr. Travis said who he was and why he was calling. He listened. “Yes, I believe so,” he said. “No, I don’t know if—” He looked at Mrs. Travis and shook his head. “Apparently she just walked out to where we live.”