The Dry Grass of August(73)
All I could think about was the board hitting his head. Stell said they drained the pool because of the blood.
Richard was the best diver on the senior team. He spent hours practicing, waiting patiently in line to use the board. While other kids did cannonballs or sloppy swans, he did double flips, slicing the water with a clean entry. People watched when Richard dived.
The house was heavy with silence. Mama, Daddy, and Davie weren’t home, and until Carter called, Stell and Puddin and I were as far away from each other as we could get in the quiet house. After the call, we huddled together in Stell and Puddin’s room. Puddin kept crying, even though she hardly knew Richard. I held her until she calmed down, leaning against the padded headboard that joined their twin beds. Puddin lay back on the pillows and I stretched out across the foot of the beds, staring at the dead bugs in the glass globe of the ceiling light.
“I talked to Richard last night,” Stell said. “He wanted to know if I thought we should have boys on the cheerleading squad.”
“Do you?”
“A lot of schools do. With boys you can make pyramids.”
“Did Richard want to be a cheerleader?”
She sniffed. “Yeah.”
The back doorbell rang. Rang again. The cowbell jangled as the kitchen door opened and Uncle Stamos called out, “Bill? Paula?”
I shouted, “Hey, Uncle Stamos,” and ran down the stairs.
He met me in the front hallway. “Where are Bill and Paula?”
“Mama’s shopping. I don’t know where Daddy is. An awful thing happened. . . .”
“I know. Terrible, horrific,” Uncle Stamos said. He couldn’t keep his hands still. He looked into the living room, put his hands in his pockets, took them out. “June, I’ve got to talk with Bill. Tell him to call me.” He headed for the kitchen, turned, his face ashen, his eyes brimming. “At the office. As soon as he gets home.”
“Yes, sir, I will.” Uncle Stamos was gone, the cowbell clanging behind him.
I stared out the window at two birds pecking the lawn. Stell Ann came into the kitchen. “Puddin cried herself to sleep.” She opened the fridge. “You want some tea?”
“I don’t want anything except for Richard to be alive.”
“I know. I can’t stop thinking about him.”
A car door slammed, the breezeway screen opened and shut. Mama called out, “Girls?”
She came into the kitchen, carrying two sacks of groceries, Davie holding the hem of her dress. “June, get the rest of the groceries, please.”
“Mama, have you—”
“Just bring in the groceries. Then we’ll talk.”
She’d heard. It took me two trips to carry in all the paper bags, with Mama unloading into the refrigerator and cabinets, Stell helping, nobody saying anything. Davie was in his high chair, banging a spoon on the tray.
“June, get your brother a graham cracker.” Mama shook a cigarette from her leather case and sat down next to Davie with an ashtray. She took a deep drag. “Y’all must’ve heard about Richard Daniels.”
Stell put cans of beans on the pantry shelf. I said, “Carter called.”
Davie took a bite of graham cracker, said, “Doobie.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That the diving board at Municipal fell and hit Richard in the head.”
Mama smoked, drumming her fingers on the table. “Is that all?”
“Uncle Stamos came by, looking for Daddy.”
“Oh, God.” Mama’s voice broke. She snubbed out her cigarette and put her head in her hands, crying. “They were talking about it at the store. They said the board . . . that something came apart . . . broke.”
Davie threw down the cracker. “Mama!”
She didn’t seem to have heard. “Where in hell is your father?”
CHAPTER 30
Richard’s picture was on the front page of the Observer, with an article covering the details of his death, saying the services were for family only. Mama read it aloud at supper. “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Daniels don’t want strangers gawking at Richard’s grave. I’d feel the same way. People can be callous.”
Over the next week, the phone rang and rang. When Mama answered it, she said a cheerful, “Hello?” If it was someone close—Aunt Rita or Uncle Taylor—her voice returned to a flat tiredness.
Daddy went to work and came home. He didn’t go to the club or play golf or go fishing at Lake Wiley. He sat at the kitchen table or in the den, picking at the label on his beer bottle, leaving behind him swirling smoke and bits of paper. Mama said on the phone to Aunt Rita that he wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t sober. One night he and Uncle Stamos closed themselves in the den with a bucket of ice and a fifth of Jim Beam. Stell and I were at the kitchen table, doing homework while Mama put away leftovers after turning on the radio to drown out the rumble of their voices. The den door opened and Daddy went into the dining room. The liquor cabinet door opened, bottles rattled. Uncle Stamos’ voice came from the den. “It wasn’t the rebar and I won’t lie about it.We have to face the music, take whatever . . .”
“No, no,” Daddy interrupted him. “We just need to make it look as though . . .” The den door closed and I didn’t hear the rest of Daddy’s sentence.