The Dry Grass of August(7)

Puddin sat up, her hand out. “Gimme it and I won’t tell.” “The whole dollar? I’ll take the whipping.”

“Seventy-five cents?”

I slapped a half-dollar on her knee. “Fifty cents. That’s all.”

She crawled toward the door, the money in her fist. “Oka-a-ay.”

“Promise you won’t tell.”

“I promise.” She scrambled down the ladder and ran off through the trees.





Maggie and I talked about the movie all the way home from the theatre, walking because I didn’t have enough left for the bus. “Couldn’t you just die over Marilyn Monroe?” she said.

“She’s not a natural blonde.”

“How do you know?”

“She’s a brownette. Her real name is Norma Jeane. I saw pictures in Photoplay.”

We turned onto Westfield. Reid Henderson passed us on his bicycle, tossing newspapers onto porches. I tried to picture him dancing with Stell Ann. I waved. “Hey, Reid, neat bike.” But he didn’t turn around. I raised my middle finger to his retreating back. “He’s so spastic.”

Maggie snickered in that fake way she has when I say something she thinks might be clever.

“What name would you have, if you were a movie star?”

“Anything besides Margaret Elizabeth,” Maggie answered, imitating her mother’s British accent. “What about you?”

“Loretta. I don’t know what last name, but my first name would be Loretta.” I loved the sound of it rolling off my tongue.

“That’s a colored name.”

“Maggie!”

“Well, it is.”

“I’m keeping it.” But I wasn’t as crazy about it as I had been.

We passed Mrs. Gibson’s house and I saw Daddy’s car parked in our driveway.

Maggie turned to go home. “Bye, Loretta.”

“Bye, Margaret Elizabeth. Oh, hey, Mags, wait!”

“What?”

“Don’t forget. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, not Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.”

“Natch! I’m no dumb blonde.”

We linked arms and swung in a circle before she spun off for home.

I opened the den door to a shaded silence that made me want to go back through the breezeway into the sunlight. Mama heard me walking through the den. “June? June Bentley, come here.”

Mama was standing by the stove when I got to the kitchen. “Hey, Mama. Maggie and I went to see Seven Brides again. Where’s Mary?”

“She’ll be back in a while.” She stared at me, then looked out the window over the sink. “Your father’s in the bedroom. He wants to see you.” As I left the kitchen, she said, “What you did is unforgivable.”

Puddin had told.

I knocked on the bedroom door, my mouth too dry to answer when Daddy called out, “Come in.”

He sat in the upholstered lady’s chair in the corner, sunlight streaming in the windows on either side of him, bouncing off the drink in his hand. He took a sip and set his glass on the bedside table with a clink that made me jump. My punishment was always worse when he was drinking. He crossed the bedroom in two steps, grabbed me by the upper arm, steered me into the hall. With his other hand he unbuckled his belt. It slithered through the loops as he took it off.

“Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” My voice squeaked. I looked at Mama as Daddy opened the basement door. She turned her back.

Daddy shoved me ahead of him down the stairs. At the bottom, he said. “You’ve broken your sister’s heart.” He took off his glasses.

“I didn’t think about what I was doing. I’ll never do it again.”

He put his glasses in his shirt pocket. “You won’t?” His voice was soft, reasonable, but I knew what was coming. My confessions never stopped him.

“No, sir, and I’ll carry out the trash for a month with no allowance, and I’ll—”

“Take off your jeans.” His words made me shiver. I smelled bourbon.

“I didn’t mean any—”

“You didn’t mean to read your sister’s diary?”

I was still clearing one foot from the leg of my jeans when the belt hit my bottom. I gasped so hard I couldn’t cry, and fell to the concrete floor. I scrambled with my feet caught in my jeans, trying to get away. He struck out again and the tip of the belt stung my belly below my T-shirt.

“Get up.” He strapped me across my thighs.

“Don’t, Daddy,” I cried, my back against the cinder-block wall.

He reversed the belt, wrapping the end of it around his hand, then whipped me again. The buckle bit the inside of my left leg.

“Daddy, the buckle!”

He raised his arm, his red ring sending out shoots of fire. I got to my feet and he kept hitting me. I tried to run to the laundry room. He caught me by the arm, shoved me against the wash sinks, and raised the belt. I fell against the folding table. A bottle of bleach turned over and the lid popped off. The belt wrapped around my legs and the buckle bit my knees and thighs. I thought: He’s killing me. This time he’s going to kill me. I began to scream.

“Mr. Watts!” Mary’s voice, sharp and shocked. “Mr. Watts, you stop that now.” She stood beside Daddy, still in her street clothes, holding a new uniform on a hanger. She hung it on a nail and touched Daddy’s arm. “You’re all het up, Mr. Watts.”