The Dry Grass of August(78)

I remembered the man named Gaither who took us to Sally’s Motel Park, his sweat-soaked shirt, how he smoked, coughed, cleared his throat.



Further, Mr. Mowbry attempted to evade the pursuing Patrol car and forcibly resisted arrest to the extent of battering an Officer of the Law. He was placed in my custody, whereupon he was relieved of his possessions and incarcerated for his own and the public’s safety. Among the items found in his possession was the ring about which I called you.





I looked at Mama. “Why didn’t you tell us the sheriff called?”

She picked up the envelope, folded it in half. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

She was beyond my understanding. I looked back at the letter.



As per our phone call, the inscription of the ring is PLL to MCC 1925. It is my compelling belief that the ring was the property of the dead Negro woman who was in your employ, one Mary Constance Culpepper Luther. Apparently, Gaither Mowbry thought the ring to be of value, though he was mistaken. It is gold, but skimpy, and has little beyond sentimental worth.

Under the process of the Law, I will keep the wedding band as evidence. There are also details about the Mowbry car that lead us to believe it was used to transport your maid. Certainly I will advise you once the facts in this matter are concluded. Although the outcome should be foregone, there are no guarantees.

I remain

Yours truly





Jeremiah Higgins

Sheriff, etc.

P. S. When it is no longer needed as evidence, I will return the girl’s ring to you for conveyance to her family or as is appropriate. I should also advise that I have written to the contingent of Negroes who came to Claxton to inquire about the investigation, advising them the same as is conveyed above.





So Leesum and the elders from McDowell Street Baptist—they knew. And the ring would go to Link and Young Mary. I wished I could hold it just once, squint my eyes to read the tiny letters that Mary had told me were as the sheriff described.

“I should have noticed her ring was gone.” Orange dots appeared on Mama’s yellow blouse. She was crying. “At the funeral parlor in Claxton. I never looked at her hands.”

“Oh, Mama, that’s when you got her hair done, powder and lipstick, her dress . . .”

“How’d you know?”

“Mrs. Coley, a woman at the funeral—she thanked me for what we’d done for Mary.”

Mama wiped her eyes. “I treated her like any old maid, but she wasn’t, you know?”

“I know.”

“When I woke at the beach and you’d taken the car, I knew where you’d gone. I wanted to be with you so bad. The least thing I could have done is be at her funeral. The very least thing. Fixing her up wasn’t enough.”

I took Mama’s hand, sure she would pull away, but she didn’t.

“When you and Puddin got the mumps, Mary brought me a bottle of home remedy.”

“Did it cure us?”

“I flushed it down the toilet.” Mama shook her hankie, blew her nose. “She was so great when I went into labor with Davie, timing the pains, distracting me. I miss her!”





I was sitting in the den, doing homework, when the door opened and there was Daddy, tall and not so tan, grayer than I remembered and paunchier. I stood up fast.

“Daddy! I didn’t hear the garage door.”

“Not sure I have the right to park there now.” He hugged me hard. “How’s my girl?”

“What do you want?” At Mama’s voice, Daddy let me go.

“Hey to you, too, Paula.”

“Take whatever it is you came for.”

He pushed past her, heading for their room. She went after him and I followed, a shadow with ears.

Drawers opened and closed in their bedroom.

“Where’s my other suitcase?” Daddy asked.

“The attic.”

Silence. Feet stomping. Then Daddy said, “What is it you want, Paula?”

“The house. The Packard. Alimony. Child support.”

A door slammed. “Talk to Cliff Sindell.”

“We’re not sharing a lawyer.”

Were they getting divorced? I’d been hoping they’d make up, that things would be back the way they were before Mary, Richard, Uncle Stamos. I felt cold and scared and relieved.

Daddy came from the bedroom with suits over one arm, shirts and underwear bunched in the other, passing me as though he didn’t see me. He piled everything on the kitchen table, got grocery bags from the pantry and stuffed them with his clothes. Mama handed him a business card. “Give that to Cliff.”

Daddy read the card. “P. Hollis Burns, Attorney at Law. Where’d you find him?”

“Her.”

“Ha!” Daddy said.

“I know about you and Young Mary.”

I froze in the hallway.

Daddy spoke sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“She left a note on the bulletin board.”

There was a silence so total I thought they’d hear me breathing. “C’mon, Pauly. All I did was make a pass at her. She was asking for it, swishing around in shorts, dancing to jive.”