The Dry Grass of August(79)
“She’s seventeen.”
The den door slammed behind Daddy. I raced out the kitchen door to catch up with him, knowing Mama would hear the cowbell, would know I’d run after him. I didn’t care.
He was in the driveway. “Daddy?”
“I guess you heard all that.”
“Yes, sir.” We looked at each other. “Are you living at Lake Wiley?”
He took out his handkerchief and polished his glasses. “I am, for now.” He put his glasses back on, fitting the earpieces one at a time.
“Then what?”
“Back to Kentucky. Live with Mother for a while. Start over.”
I looked down to hide my face. “The diving board, Daddy.”
He dug in his shirt pocket with two fingers, pulled out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “I lost my Zippo in Claxton.” He lit a cigarette, inhaled, let the smoke out slowly. “We made a mistake. I was going to fix it, but . . .” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Jubie.”
“Sir?”
“I’ll come back.” He kissed my cheek. I thought there were tears in his eyes but couldn’t be sure through the glare on his glasses.
After his car pulled out of the driveway, I went to my bed, put the pillows over my head, and sobbed.
That night I dreamed Mama and Daddy and I were going to a party at Uncle Stamos and Aunt Rita’s in honor of Carly and his fiancée. Mama and Daddy left for the party first and told me to come along later. While they were gone, I picked stuff from Mrs. Gibson’s garden, including some warped volunteer tomatoes—small, red, delicious-looking.
Mama and Daddy came home from the party bitterly disillusioned. They weren’t dressed up enough, and Mama thought Rita should have warned them. The other guests were in cocktail clothes, sequins, silks. Mama and Daddy were in their movie clothes, dressed for the evening but not for show.
“We were beneath ourselves,” said Mama.
“It’s about time,” said Mary, and went to the basement.
CHAPTER 32
Stell tossed The Charlotte News on the bar. “Hurricane Hazel page one, William Watts page two.”
“Let me see.” Mama dropped the cup she was rinsing. It clattered in the sink.
“The findings of the commission. They’re saying Watts Concrete Fabrications messed up some bolts. Daddy might be criminally negligent.”
Mama opened the newspaper and reached for a cigarette.
I looked over her shoulder.
She pushed me away. “You can read it when I’m done.”
“Charges will be brought,” Stell said.
“Estelle Annette, be quiet.”
Stell left the kitchen. If it were possible to slam a swinging door, she’d have done it.
Mama ripped off the first page, balled it up and threw it away, letting the lid of the trash can bang shut. “I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Mama, I wanted to read it.”
“You know where it is.” She went into the dining room, stopped at the liquor cabinet, and fixed a drink. The den door opened and closed. The glider squeaked on the breezeway.
The balled-up sheet of newspaper sat on a mound of coffee grounds, a stain spreading through it. I scooped it from the pail and opened it on the bar. The damp paper began to tear through Daddy’s photo—his face brown from the coffee grounds—a formal picture he’d had made when he joined the Thomas Belk Men’s Club. The wet paper clung to the Formica as I pushed the pieces back together. There was a caption under the photo: “William Watts, civic leader, former President of the Charlotte Junior Chamber of Commerce.” The article was titled in bold words: LOCAL BUSINESS RESPONSIBLE IN DIVER’S DEATH.
A commission formed by the City Council of Charlotte to investigate the death of Richard Llewelyn Daniels, 17, reported its findings yesterday to Mayor Watson Lindley and to Chief Hurston Kytle of the Charlotte Police Department. The commission holds that Watts Concrete Fabrications, Inc., in constructing a base for the diving boards at Charlotte Municipal Swimming Pool, failed to prime the L-bolts that secured the diving boards to the base. The report read, in part, “William Dennis Watts, President of Watts Concrete Fabrications, and his brother, the late Stamos Caton Watts, Vice President, knew or should have known that unprimed L-bolts used in the construction would fail. The city will bring civil charges against the company and its principals. If William Watts is found to be criminally negligent, further charges will be brought.”
The commission is also investigating rumors that the Watts brothers diverted corporate funds to support a recently formed White Businessmen’s Association (W.B.A.), with the intent of restraining Negroes from registering to vote. Although no names have been released, there are apparently a number of Charlotte professionals who were members of the W.B.A., which met in a storage room beside Watts Concrete Fabrications. Duplicate sets of financial records are being audited to determine the extent of any fraud. William Watts, a well-known civic leader and father of four, was not available for comment.
The glider clanked back and forth on the breezeway. Maybe Mama hadn’t built the diving board that caused Richard’s death, but she loved the Packard, the country club, her charge account at Montaldo’s. And she was looking a little shabby, like the house. Suddenly I couldn’t stand the sound of the glider on its rusty slides. It needed oiling, like the bills needed paying and the hedges needed trimming. The glider squeaked and squeaked. I put my hands on the damp newsprint, one on either side of Daddy’s picture, and pressed and pulled until the paper tore through the bridge of his glasses, down his nose, splitting his smile. I left the paper sticking to the bar and went to the breezeway, where Mama sat in the glider, drinking and rocking and smoking. A strong wind blew through the screens.