The Dry Grass of August(75)

“Sure.”

“Jubie saw him at Mary’s funeral. He told her to ask Bill about a room behind the warehouse.”

“There isn’t any—”

Mama interrupted. “I think he meant the storage shed that’s on the side of the building toward the train tracks. Might seem like the back.”

The phone rang and Mama answered it. “It’s Safronia.”

Aunt Rita said, “Yes, Safronia, what is it?”There was a long silence. “Just calm down . . . yes, I’ll come home. Have you called Mr.Watts? Okay, okay, just stop crying.”

Mama said, “What’s wrong? I’ve never heard such carrying on.”

“That girl will be the death of me. She says to come home right now, just come ‘tireckly’ home.” She sighed. “I wish I could find someone like Mary.”

“I wish I could, too.”





Uncle Stamos had left for work on time that morning, but he went back home after Aunt Rita came to our house. Safronia got to work at eleven and found him on the floor in the laundry room, a bath towel around his head. The gun he’d used was near his hand.

Later, Mama said she was sure he did it in the laundry room so any mess he made would be easy to clean. I couldn’t stop thinking about Uncle Stamos lying on the floor, wearing a bloody turban. What was he thinking just as he pulled the trigger? When I began to feel the terror he must have felt, I’d say “No!” out loud to stop my thoughts.

He’d put the muzzle of the gun in his mouth. I remembered Daddy saying that most people did it wrong. “Shooting yourself in the temple is no guarantee, but up through the roof of the mouth will do the trick.” Had he told his brother that?





When Aunt Rita got home, Safronia met her at the door and told her not to go in the laundry room. So of course that’s the first thing she did. She opened the door and cried, “Oh, Stamos! Oh, sweetheart.” She sat on the floor beside him and put his bloody head in her lap. For an hour she rocked him, moaning aloud, while Safronia sat in the kitchen, crying.

Then Aunt Rita stood, smoothing her bloodstained dress. “Safronia, we’ve got to get my husband into the bedroom so I can wash him and prepare his body.”

She got trouble from the police about moving him, but they decided that the shock had overcome her. She said shock had nothing to do with it, that her family always tended to the body, washed it and dressed it for burial. Her people didn’t believe in embalming, and she wanted Stamos laid out in a coffin in the living room for a visitation, the way her family did in Ohio. Safronia’s people did the same sort of thing, so she wanted to help.





When we got to the visitation, Aunt Rita answered the door, and Mama wrapped her in a hug. In the living room, Daddy was sitting in an easy chair near the coffin. Mama said, “Bill,” and sat on the sofa. Daddy stood, but when Stell took the place next to Mama, he sat back down. I realized how little he and Mama had said to each other for days.

The house looked the way it always did, neat as a pin. Uncle Stamos used to say that if he finished reading a paper and dropped it, Aunt Rita would catch it before it hit the carpet.

A sweet scent filled the living room from the flowers surrounding the closed bronze casket.

“The flowers are lovely,” Mama said when Aunt Rita sat in a chair opposite Daddy’s.

“People have been so kind. Enough food for weeks, flowers everywhere.” Aunt Rita’s eyes were big in her round face, dark circles under them.

Stell leaned toward her. “I’m so sorry about Uncle Stamos.” I wished I’d said that, and couldn’t think of anything to add.

Slow, heavy footsteps came down the hall, and Mama turned her head to the window. Daddy stood, holding out his hands. “Mother.” Meemaw walked in, a black rectangle topped by a round face and neat gray hair in a bun. “Son.” She turned her cheek for Daddy’s kiss and he led her to the chair where he’d been sitting. She touched the coffin before she sat. Stell scooted closer to Mama so Daddy could share the sofa.

Mama stood and kissed Meemaw’s forehead. “Hello, Cordelia.”

“Mothers shouldn’t outlive their sons.” Meemaw’s voice was old and weak. She asked Mama, “What’d you do with—I mean, the little ones?”

“A neighbor is staying with them.” Mama sank back down on the sofa. “They’re too young to . . .” She looked at the casket.

“David is,” Meemaw said. “And Carolina—she’s what now?”

Mama said, “Seven.”

I corrected her. “Eight.”

Mama blushed. “Eight. Sorry. She had a birthday. Friday. We haven’t had her party yet.”

Aunt Rita wiped away a tear. “You tell my sweet Puddin we’ll give her a bang-up birthday once all this is over.”

“I’ll tell her, Rita. She’ll like that.”

The front door opened and closed. Carly stood in the arched entrance to the living room, tall and somber in his army uniform. He’d flown in from a military post in Germany. “Mom?” He put down his suitcase and held his arms wide. Aunt Rita jumped up and ran to him. “Carly, Carly, I’m so glad you’re finally here.”They stood there holding each other,Aunt Rita folded in her grown son’s arms.