The Dry Grass of August(68)

“Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath! Fret not yourself; it tends only to evil. For the wicked shall be cut off; but those who wait for the LORD shall possess the land.”





He closed the book and shouted, “The wicked shall be cut off!”

Responses rose throughout the church: “God’s word. Fret not. Wait for the Lord.”

He returned to the pulpit, closed his eyes, bowed his head. The church was silent. “Lord?” the preacher called out. “Can you see into our hearts?”

A gasping cry, a woman’s voice, “My heart’s full of hate.”

The preacher’s voice became conversational. “Jesus, send down your love as you did for those who put you on that cross. Fill our hearts with love.” He paused for responses, continued, “This mother lives in the hearts of her children, in the hearts of everyone in this church. And she will live forever in the love of Jesus. World without end, amen.”

Amens rang out.

A skinny old man stood in the choir, his head bald except for a ring of white hair. He walked to the front of Mary’s coffin, faced the congregation, and began to sing in a trembling bass voice, “Steal away. Steal away. Steal away to Jesus. ” His voice grew stronger and people around me began to hum with him. “Steal away. Steal away home. I ain’t got long to stay here. ” Tears ran down the old man’s face. The choir joined in, faster, louder. “My Lord He calls me. He calls me by the thunder. ” On either side of me, Mrs. Coley and Leesum sang with the choir. “The trumpet sounds within my soul. I ain’t got long to stay here. ” There were no hymnbooks, but the congregation knew the words. Mrs. Coley swayed against me, moving with the music, the brim of her hat brushing my shoulder. “Steal away. Steal away home. ” Her voice swelled in harmony. “I ain’t got long to stay here.”

A deacon went to the casket and opened it. Reverend Perkins said, “Anybody who hasn’t done so may now pay final respects to Sister Luther.” Members of the congregation went to the coffin, bowed over it. The only sounds were the shuffling of feet, the creak of the floorboards, sniffles, choked sobs. When all grew still, six men came forward. I wondered if Mary’s brother was among them. At a gesture from the preacher,Young Mary walked to the coffin. She kissed her mother’s face and took the white Bible. Link closed the coffin, and the six men carried it down the center aisle. People stood and reached out to it as it passed. “Be with Jesus, Sister Luther—God bless you, Sister—Praise the Lord.” Hands touched the gleaming wood.

Mrs. Coley, Leesum, and I moved into the crowd that filled the aisle, walking slowly through the heavy air toward the rectangle of light that opened into the afternoon heat. Outside, the congregation broke into twos and threes, following the pallbearers to the cemetery behind the church. Mary’s open grave was between a marker for her husband, Pharr Lincoln Luther, who died in 1948, and a stone engraved, “CAROL JANE LUTHER, BORN FEBRUARY 2, DIED APRIL 10, 1946.” I was five years old when Mary began working for us. She had a whole life I never knew, a baby who lived and died before I ever met her, a husband whose death I didn’t remember.

Leesum stayed by my side. I could hardly believe it had been only ten days since I met him. He seemed like my longtime friend. I hadn’t thought of him as being so tall, but he had half a foot on me.

A woman from the choir sang out, “Precious Lord, take my hand . . .” and others joined in.

Reverend Perkins said something I didn’t understand as Mary’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Link and Young Mary tossed clumps of dirt onto it.Young Mary had on shoes the same shiny red as her lipstick and the cherries on her hat; her black dress was trimmed in satin and had a peplum that showed off her tiny waist and high hips. I didn’t think her mama would have approved of such a dress at a funeral. She caught my eye, looked away.

I stood by the grave. Mary would never be with me again. There was no one I could turn to for the goodness I got from her. I was standing with my hand on her husband’s headstone, when Leesum asked, “Where you folks?”

“They couldn’t come.”

“That’s sumpin, you comin’ here alone.” He looked down at Mary’s coffin. “Miz Luther took care of me, just like she said in Florida. I been stayin’ with preacher. I’m a junior usher here at the church.” He looked past me. “Hey, Link.”

I turned. Link Luther stood next to me, his face closed. “Hello, June.”

I looked for Young Mary, didn’t see her. “I’m sorry about your . . . about Mary.”

He nodded. “Ask your father—” He took a breath. “Ask Mr. Watts about that room behind his warehouse.”

“What?”

He walked away.

“Link.”

He didn’t stop.

“I brought your mother’s things, her flowered bag.”

He turned.

“There’s three fruitcakes in it. She bought one for a church party, one for y’all, and one for her best friend.” I was ashamed I didn’t know who that was. “It’s by the coatrack in the foyer.”

For a second his face softened. “I’ll get it.” He disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with Leesum among the clumps of people standing under trees, talking, glancing at Leesum, barely looking at me. I felt a hand on my shoulder.