The Dry Grass of August(70)

A car door slammed. I stuffed the note in my pocket. The den door rattled, keys jingled, and Daddy called out, “We’ll bring it in later.” I backed into the front hallway and opened the basement door, holding my breath, trying to make myself weightless as I tiptoed down the stairs, feeling my way. The basement was musty in spite of everything Mary had done to get rid of the mildew. I fumbled until I found the door into the tiny bathroom under the stairs, used only by Mary and the yard man. There was no lid to the toilet and I sat on the seat, trembling, my arms around my waist holding tight to stop the shaking. Footsteps clumped from the den through the dining room, until they were right over me.

“She’s been here.” Daddy.

“How do you know?” Uncle Stamos.

“This place was a mess when I left.”

“I thought Mary’s daughter was coming in.”

“That didn’t work out.”

“You’re almost out of bourbon,” Uncle Stamos said.

I could hear them clearly. What had Mary heard from down here?

“Do you know how hard it is to get car keys made at Pawleys Island?”

“Why’d you have to do that?”

“Couldn’t find mine. If Jubie took them, I’ll kill her.”

I believed him.

“Where could she be?” Uncle Stamos asked.

“Off on a joy ride. She’ll wreck the Packard. Again.”

“Stealing her mother’s car . . . that just isn’t like June.”

I loved Uncle Stamos for taking up for me.

“Paula lets the girls get away with too much. Jubie needs a firm hand.” A chair scraped the floor. “You gotta crack the whip. Same with the boys in the shop.”

Uncle Stamos said, “It’s got to be better with David Lacey as foreman. He’s a good man.”

“To make niggers behave, put a nigger in charge.” The tone of Daddy’s voice made me shiver. “He’s big enough and mean enough. He’ll hold them.” Ice rattled in a glass. “The problem’s not just in the shop.”

“You mean the Supreme Court thing?”

“Before you know it, they’ll be in our schools.”

Uncle Stamos said, “It might not be as bad as you think.”

“It’ll be worse. But the W.B.A. will delay it, at least in Charlotte.”

“I wish you weren’t involved in that.”

“I wish you were. It’s important. There are ramifications—”

Someone knocked at the kitchen door.The cowbell clanged.

“Hello, Linda.” Daddy’s voice boomed good cheer.

“Hey, Bill.Where’s the rest of the family? Jubie acted—”

“You saw Jubie?”

“She drove off in the Packard about four thirty. How’d the fender get smashed?”

“An accident in Georgia. Did she say where she was going?”

“She acted like she didn’t hear me.”

I sat on the toilet. What would Mary do? I could almost hear her say, “Jubie girl, you in trouble. Get yourself to a better place.” I stood and took a few steps away from the toilet, back into the basement, bumping against Daddy’s wine rack. The bottles rattled. I froze.

The floorboards groaned above me. “I’m going to the bathroom.” Uncle Stamos’ footsteps faded toward the den. Daddy said something. Mrs. Gibson laughed.

I groped through the basement, climbed on stacked boxes of canning jars, and shoved open the window on the side of the house. When I pushed off to scoot onto the windowsill, the boxes tumbled, making a terrible racket. My shirt caught on the sill, and the latch scratched my belly as I slid into the yard. My feet tangled in the boxwoods and I got dirt in my mouth, but I was stumbling forward before I stood all the way up, gasping until the back of my throat was hot and dry, headed for the safety of Maggie’s house.

At her front walk I stopped, pressing my hand to the scrape on my belly. The living room door was open onto the screen porch and I heard music, a phone ringing, Mrs. Harold calling, “Tommy? Telephone.” I opened the screen door. Their cocker spaniel was asleep on the flowered sofa in a pool of yellow light. There was a basket of yarn beside Mrs. Harold’s rocker, a newspaper in Mr. Harold’s green easy chair, his pipe in a wooden holder nearby. The room was cramped with mismatched furniture. Mama would say it was tacky. I was never so glad to be anywhere in my life.

“Maggie?” I called out.

“Margaret?” Mr. Harold’s voice came from the back of the house. “Someone’s at the door for you.”

“Jubes!” Maggie ran through the living room and threw her arms around me. Her white blonde hair smelled of Prell and felt wonderfully cool to my hot cheeks. “When’d you get home? Cripes, what’s going on? Mother!” She yelled over her shoulder and Mrs. Harold hurried into the living room.

“Jubie!” She brushed wisps of gray hair from her flushed face. “Your mum’s very worried about you.”

“Oh.” I collapsed into Mr. Harold’s easy chair.

“What’s happened to you?” Mrs. Harold stared at my torn shirt.

“I crawled out the basement window.”

“Margaret, get a fresh blouse for Jubie.” Mrs. Harold spoke sharply to Maggie, who stood there, her mouth gaping. “Run!”