The Dry Grass of August(66)

“Yes, sir, but I don’t know what time. I’ll have to call you.” I wasn’t sure there’d be a phone I could use, but I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. Like Mary always said.

There was a crowd in front of the church, and cars lined the street for blocks in both directions. The cab driver and I were the only white people in sight.

“You sure this is where you want to be?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your parents know you’re here?”

I nodded. “I’m representing our family.”

“Okey-dokey,” he said, and drove away.

My first thought was to find Leesum. I walked around, carrying Mary’s bag. People looked at me as if they couldn’t imagine why I was there. A short woman held out her hand. “I believe we’ve met. It’s Miss Watts, isn’t it? I’m Harriett Coley.”

“Yes, hello.You helped me at the Daddy Grace parade.”

“It’s nice you could come to Sister Luther’s service.” She touched the rim of her black hat. “Are you by yourself?”

“My parents can’t be here.”

“Why don’t we go inside, let you pay your respects. Maybe put that case by the coatrack.”

“It’s Mary’s. I want to give it to her children.”

“They’ll appreciate that.” Mrs. Coley led me into the church, stopping at a rack where empty hangers dangled. “You can leave the bag there. Nobody will bother it.”

The church was filled with people talking in low voices that hushed as I passed.

“Was it your mother who dressed Sister Luther so nice to send her home?” Mrs. Coley asked. She straightened a gold pin on the lapel of her black suit.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Put Sister Luther in her Sunday best. Had her hair done. That was kind.”

So that’s what Mama was tending to while Daddy and I went to see about the Packard.

Mrs. Coley led me toward the front of the church, where a coffin was set up on a velvet-covered stand surrounded by flowers. Not the pine box we had shipped Mary home in. I kept right on walking toward it without a thought in the world that I would get to it and look down and Mary would be lying there. I just went on with Mrs. Coley propelling me until I almost bumped into it.Then there she was. Her face was soft and pretty, with her hair combed back the way she liked it, her hands on her chest holding her old white Bible. She looked peaceful, asleep.

I put my hand out. “Mary?” My voice broke.

“She’s beyond hearing, child,” Mrs. Coley said.

I didn’t faint. I never for a second didn’t know what was going on, but my legs folded. I sank to the floor beside Mary’s coffin, wailing with all the sadness I’d been holding in. Mrs. Coley sat down beside me and pulled me to her, rocking me back and forth. “She’s with Jesus, child. Her burden is lifted.”





CHAPTER 26

Mrs. Coley helped me to my feet. “C’mon, Miss Watts, let’s find a place to sit.” When I turned away from the coffin, I saw Young Mary in the front pew, eyes swollen, lipstick as bright as the cherries on her hat. She stared at me. Her brother, Link, sat next to her, stern, thick-necked and broad-shouldered, bigger than I remembered from when he worked in Daddy’s warehouse. To either side of Link and Young Mary were women dressed in white. Mrs. Coley spoke to several of them and said to me, “Our Mothers Board.” The solemn women regarded me.

Where was Leesum?

Halfway down the aisle, Mrs. Coley stopped beside a crowded pew. I followed her into the pew, inching by knees and stepping on a man’s foot. Mrs. Coley spoke to folks as we crowded past them. “Y’all scoot over, make room.” We had just gotten seated when a woman began to play an upright piano against the wall near the foot of the coffin. A panel was missing above the keyboard, and I could see the hammers hitting the strings as she played.

The afternoon sun streamed through a window made of vivid chips around a white cross of streaked glass that looked like frozen smoke. Rainbow hues fell on Mary, lighting her face. I thought of her cheeks being rouged by a sunbeam through ruby glass, her gray linen dress looking like she’d spilled fruit salad on it. She had been here when others were buried. She might have sat exactly where I was sitting and seen the brilliant colors splash on other coffins.

A man came down the center aisle, wearing a black flowing robe, with a stole around his neck that hung almost to his knees.

“Reverend Perkins?” I asked Mrs. Coley.

She nodded.

So that was Mary’s pastor, the one Leesum was living with.

A choir followed the minister, humming to the music, yellow satin robes swaying. A woman sang a solo line in a high, clear voice. “There is a balm in Gilead.” The choir responded, “To make the wounded whole. ” Again the one strong voice. “There is a balm in Gilead. ” And the choir. “To heal the sin-sick soul.” I felt they were singing to me.

The choir came to a stop at folding chairs along the wall next to the piano. Across from them sat a row of men in dark suits. “The deacons,” Mrs. Coley whispered. One was George McHone, our yard man, wearing a suit and bow tie like he had in the Daddy Grace parade.

Cardboard fans rustled in the warm air, and folding chairs scraped as the choir settled, still humming. Reverend Perkins put his Bible on an elevated pulpit behind the casket. He turned to face the congregation. He was bald, and so light-skinned he could have passed, except for his flat Negro nose.