The Dry Grass of August(60)

He nodded to the phone. “My wife and I told her. She’s quite upset. It might be best if you would—no, I’m not telling you what to do.”

He held the receiver away from his ear, then said, “Mrs. Travis and I can bring June to the motel, or you can come get her, whichever suits.”

He gave Daddy directions, then hung up. “Your father is naturally upset.”

I turned my face to the sofa cushions and closed my eyes. Mr. Travis’ voice faded.





Daddy said something I couldn’t understand. I opened my eyes. I was alone in the Travises’ living room. Daddy and Mr. Travis were on the front porch, silhouettes in the fading daylight. Mr. Travis shorter, thicker in the middle. Daddy broader in the shoulders. A match flared as Daddy lit a cigarette.

I heard the click of a phone hanging up, Mama’s quick high-heeled steps in the kitchen. I closed my eyes again, keeping my face buried in the sofa.

Mr. Travis said something, his voice calm.

Daddy answered, loud and sharp, “You’ve got no right to question me.”

Someone gasped. Mama.

Mr. Travis said, “Anything we say now is irrelevant to Mrs. Luther’s death.”

Death. Mary was dead.

“Jubie?” Mama said. I felt her hand on my back. “Wake up, Jubie.”

I opened my eyes. Mama was bending over me, her face splotched, the fan turning above her. Her hair had come loose on one side and hung down her neck.

She wiped my face with the damp cloth, smoothing my hair off my forehead.

“Hey, Mama.”

“We were sick with worry about you.”

“I’m all right.”

“I’m not,” said Mama. “I’m undone about Mary.” Her eyes were tired. She kneeled on the rug beside the sofa, patting my shoulder, my head.

She stood. “Bill, I think we can leave now.”

“You okay, June?” Daddy towered over me, his hand trailing smoke.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s go.”

On the porch, I turned back to Mrs. Travis, who stood in the doorway. “Thank you for your—for the lemonade.”

On the front walk, Daddy dropped his cigarette and smashed it under his shoe, leaving the butt and a black smear.





An article in the Sunday paper identified Mary as a colored housemaid from Charlotte, North Carolina, who’d been assaulted and beaten to death. Her body would be sent home. There were no suspects.

I sat on the stoop of our cabin and watched Davie pull his toy train through the dirt. I wanted to dive to the bottom of the pool to let the pressure push my headache away. I held out my hands. “Let’s go to the pool.”

“Choo-choo.” Davie put pebbles on a flatcar. “Choo-choo.”

I knocked over his train with the toe of my sandal. Stones tumbled from the flatcar and Davie began to scream.

I bent to pick him up. “C’mon.”

“No-o-o-o.” His body went limp and he slid through my hands, pushing at me. “Mary!”

“Stop it.” I stamped my foot. He turned over on the ground. The Band-Aid on his hand was filthy. I kneeled. “Please, Davie, let’s go to the pool.”

Tears made tracks on his dirty face. “Mary?”

“Mary’s gone.” Mama had said not to tell him Mary was dead because he wouldn’t know what that meant. I pulled him into my arms, putting my lips to his hair. “Mary’s gone, Davie-do.”

He let his head rest on my chest, sobbing, “Mary! Mary!”

The words slipped out. “Mary’s dead, Davie.”

He stopped crying, arched his back so he could look at my face. He put his thumb in his mouth and dropped his head back down.





Daddy told us they’d bought a coffin. “It’s the least we can do.”

“I wish we’d gotten the one with satin padding.” Mama stood by the Chrysler, smoking. She had on a sundress, her hat, her slingback sandals. She held her straw clutch in one hand.

Daddy jingled the car keys. “Hey, kiddo, wanna go get the Packard? They’re meeting us at the garage on a Sunday afternoon. Can’t beat that for service!” He was trying hard to cheer me up.

“Okay, Daddy.”

“And your mama needs to tend to business while we see about the Packard.You can drive.”

That got through to me. “Drive? Me?”

“You. Stell’s staying with the kids.”

“What if the police—”

He smiled the smile that always melted Mama. “You have a South Carolina license,” he winked, “but you can’t find it, remember?”

I opened the driver’s door. Daddy said, “Sit in the back, Pauly, me girl. Miss June Watts is your chauffeur.”

“Bill, this is not a good idea.”

“Oh, c’mon. She knows how.” Daddy got in front with me, Mama in back. I adjusted the seat and mirrors, switched on the ignition, and drove out of Sally’s Motel Park, remembering to put on the turn signals as Daddy had taught me. I hit the brakes too hard, making him brace himself against the dashboard, but he didn’t say anything. We let Mama out downtown. I was pretty sure she was heading for the colored funeral parlor. She didn’t want me to see her go in there because it would upset me.