The Dry Grass of August(62)

Mama pulled me away from the edge of the platform.

We walked back through the train station. A colored man was sweeping the floor in the waiting room, singing, “Tum-te-dee diddle-de-dee tum-teedy-ay.” He stopped sweeping to let us pass, standing with his broom at his side like a soldier at attention. As we left the station, the swish of his broom started back up, and his singing, “Tum-te-dee, diddle-de-dee . . .”





Before we left our cabin, I checked beneath the beds to make sure we hadn’t left anything and found Mary’s terry cloth slippers. I stuffed them into the bottom of my suitcase.

Stell, Puddin, and I rode in the Packard. Mama, Daddy, and Davie led the way in the Chrysler.As soon as we got out of Claxton, Daddy pulled way ahead. He put his hand out and waved, urging Stell to speed up, but she drove as if the speedometer were stuck on fifty-five.

I stretched out across the backseat with my bare feet on the ledge of the open window, wiggling my toes in the rushing air. All I could see were the tops of pine trees and the clouds. It was too early to fall asleep, even with the tires humming and the wind lifting my skirt, but I closed my eyes anyway, trying to hum in the same pitch as the tires. Leesum would be settled in Charlotte by now, living at the preacher’s house, wearing the new clothes Uncle Taylor had bought him. I kept thinking about writing to him, wanting to tell him how much I missed Mary. He would understand.

I sank into the seat where she’d sat for all those miles, tall and straight in her cotton dresses. I pressed my face into the upholstery and thought about her until I felt her bosom against my cheek, smelled her. My throat hurt with a knot that got bigger and bigger until I let the tears come, sliding from the corners of my eyes into my hair and ears.The car hit a pothole. Mary was gone.

“What in the world?” Stell asked.

I sat up, wiping my eyes. Daddy had pulled onto the shoulder and was waving us around. Stell slowed to a crawl. Daddy hollered, “Go on ahead. We’ll be along in a minute.”

“Huh.” Stell accelerated back up to fifty-five.

I looked out the rear window. The Chrysler pulled onto the road, got large fast. When it was a few feet behind us, Daddy honked.

“What is he doing?” Stell screamed.

Daddy blew the horn in short blasts, his arm out the window waving in a forward motion.

“He wants you to speed up.”

I stared at the Chrysler. Mama’s face was set, turned to the passenger window.

Stell hit the brake, and Daddy swerved to miss us. Mama slid against Daddy and he steered with one hand, pushing her away, his mouth moving, his face angry. I thought of Davie bouncing around on the backseat.

Puddin whimpered. “Shush.” I reached up front to pat her shoulder. She’d been so brave about Mary.

Daddy laid on his horn. I wished Stell would speed up, anything to get him off our tail. She slowed down even more. I looked at the speedometer. Forty.

The Chrysler whooshed around us, spraying grit, as Daddy hollered through Mama’s open window, “Get a move on!”

Stell got back to fifty-five and stayed there. The Chrysler disappeared around a curve.

“They’re leaving us,” Puddin cried.

“Don’t worry,” Stell said. “I can get to Pawleys Island. And he knows it.”

“I want Mama,” Puddin whined.

Stell said, “Cut it out. Find us the map for North and South Carolina.”

Puddin sniffled and opened the glove compartment. Maps spilled onto the floor. She sorted through them, sounding out words under her breath. “I got it!” She held up the map.

“Let Jubie help you find the road we’re on.”

Puddin tossed the map onto the backseat and followed it, sliding over on top of me. Her elbow jabbed me in the stomach. I gasped.

“Damn it, Puddin.”

“Bad word. I’ll tell Daddy.”

“You won’t, you brat.”

She put her arms around my neck. “I won’t, Jubes, not for anything.” She felt bony and sweet.

Stell said, “Jubie, we’re on Highway 17. We just crossed the Savannah River into South Carolina.”

I sat up and studied the map. “Take Alternate 17 at Limehouse. From there it’s a hundred and seventy miles to Georgetown, fourteen miles to Pawleys.”

“Ha!” shouted Stell Ann. “We’ll show the old poop.”

I searched the map for the highways leading to Charlotte. “Stell? Don’t you want to go to Mary’s funeral?”

“Yes.”

“Then why aren’t we going?”

“Mama and Daddy want things back to normal. For us to get over it.” Stell moved her hands on the steering wheel. “Besides, I’m not sure her family wants us there.”

“Why not?”

“She was working for us when she died.”

“But she was our friend.”

“We paid her to be.”





When we got to Pawleys Island, we saw the Chrysler parked in the glare of a pole lamp at the pier, Daddy in the driver’s seat, a cigarette in one hand, his flask in the other. Mama stood outside the car, talking to Carter beside his blue Ford coupe.

“Ooh-h-h,” Stell squealed under her breath, looking at herself in the rearview mirror. She ran her fingers through her hair and pinched her cheeks to make them pink, as if Carter would notice in the dark. “How do I look?”