The Dry Grass of August(63)

Her hair needed combing, her shorts were wrinkled, and she looked like a kid. “Fine.”

We got out and Carter walked up. He took Stell’s hand. “Your letters are great.”

“Yours, too.”

“Hey, Jubie,” he said. “You all right?”

“I’m okay.” I got a whiff of Aqua Velva.

“That’s great.” The last time I saw him was in the tree house.Was he thinking about that? “Where’d your dad go?”

Mama stood beside the Chrysler, holding Davie, Puddin leaning against her. “He’ll be right back.” She touched my cheek. “Such a long face.”

“I’ve had a headache all day.”

“I’ll look for aspirin when we unpack.”

Daddy came from under the pier, zipping his fly. “Let’s go.” His eyes shone in the streetlamp. He was already tipsy.

Carter held out a key to Daddy. “Y’all’s house is real nice, right on the beach.”

“Hop in your car,” Daddy said. “Lead the way.”

We parked behind a weathered two-story house set off by itself at the end of the island. A wraparound porch was filled with rockers. The hinges on the screen doors needed oiling and the floorboards creaked under our feet.

Carter said, “I’ll help Mr. Watts with the luggage. Maybe y’all could open some windows.”

“And, Carter?” Mama said. “The flowered bag in the trunk of the Packard?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Don’t bring it in.” She walked around inside the house while Stell and I opened windows.

Daddy came through the front door with suitcases. “Pauly?”

Mama stood in the kitchen doorway, Davie on her hip.

Daddy asked, “Where’s this stuff go?”

“You, me, and Davie down. Jubie, Stell, Puddin up.” Mama held Davie as if she didn’t know what to do with him. The light from the bare bulb over her head turned her hair into a halo. Davie whimpered when she shifted him in her arms. Mary would have put him to bed.

I dragged Puddin’s bag and my suitcase up to our room. I was lucky to be sleeping with her. Davie kicked, but Puddin never moved after she got to sleep. The café curtains in our bedroom, white cotton with yellow and green apples, looked like they’d come out of somebody’s kitchen. Our mattress drooped in the middle and the throw rugs felt sandy. When I went to hang my toothbrush, I saw that the toilet and sink had rust stains. Mama would have gotten Mary to scrub them with Dutch cleanser.

After Carter helped empty the cars, he and Stell Ann unpacked the kitchen things and Mama said, “We’ve got to get ice first thing in the morning.”

While I was making our bed, Mama came in with a black fan and set it on the dresser. She handed me a bottle of mosquito repellent that smelled like turpentine. “When you’re ready for bed, rub this on you and Puddin.”

I was in the kitchen taking aspirin when Daddy crossed the front room, a bottle of bourbon in his hand. He let the screen door bang behind him.

“I’m going with Daddy,” I called over my shoulder, racing down the porch steps before Mama could stop me.

The dunes were pale hills in the moonlight, the salty wind cool. Daddy was nowhere in sight. A path led to a cut in the dunes and as I came to the rise, I saw him sprawled in the sand, lifting the bottle. He took a long drink.

I called out, “Hey, Daddy.”

“Hey. C’mon down.”

I sat beside him.

He pointed at the moon with his index finger, his thumb up, like he was holding a pistol.

“What’re you doing?”

He took another gulp, propped his bottle in the sand. “Gonna shoot the moon, Jubie girl.”

I looked up. “Mary said when it’s not quite full, it’s a ‘give-us’ moon. Like in the Lord’s prayer.”

Daddy snorted. “Gibbous.”

Was he making fun of Mary? “You can’t shoot it anyway, it’s too far away.”

“Browning said, ‘A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’ ”

“What about a woman’s reach?”

“The only thing a woman has to reach for is a man.” He took aim with his make-believe gun, his ring glittering in the moonlight.

I put my hand on his arm. “Leave the moon alone, Daddy. Let’s go back to the house.”

He staggered when he got up, and I put out my hand to help him. We walked back over the dunes, arm in arm.

Mama stood in the living room, Davie asleep on her shoulder. “Jubie, it’s time for bed.”

Daddy brushed past her to the kitchen. The icebox door opened and closed, followed by the sound of a church key cutting the top of a beer can.

Mama went to the kitchen. “Bill, please . . .”

His voice became low and husky. “Aw, honey, just put the boy down and come on to bed.”

Mama said something I couldn’t hear and Daddy said, “I’m tired of everybody making such a racket about it. We can get another maid.” How could he talk about another maid? I ran upstairs and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. No one could take Mary’s place. I sat on the toilet, crying until there were no more tears, then shuffled down the hall to our room.