The Dry Grass of August by Anna Jean Mayhew

I wore gray uniforms with long skirts and ruffled white aprons. When I spoke to my mistress, I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and curtsied. She didn’t know I was going to be a mail-order bride for a silent handsome cowboy in the untamed West.
    Mama came home from the beauty parlor smelling of crème rinse. She had a bouquet of mums and gladiolas in her arms. “Gee, Mama, you’re gorgeous.”
    â€œThank you, Jubie.”
    â€œWhat’d you get done besides your hair?”
    â€œGot my legs waxed, a pedicure, a manicure . . .”—she put the flowers on the bar and waggled her glossy nails—“and a facial. This morning I saw dimples in my thighs. They’ll sag more each day for the rest of my life. I can feel them shaking with every step.” She took her cigarette case from her purse, pulled out a Camel, and tamped it on the bar. “I thought I’d never get done.” She exhaled a puff of smoke with every word. “A dryer was broken and they had us stacked up, taking turns on the other two.” With her thumb and ring finger she plucked a piece of tobacco from her tongue, flicked it away, and looked at her watch. “I’ll go get changed. The porch and the walk look good. Is the rec room done?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œBetter get going with the vacuum. It’s getting late.”
    â€œUgh.”
    â€œNo sense complaining, young lady. Finish everything on that list or you’ll do without supper.”
    I was under the sofa, trying to plug in the Electrolux, and hoping Mama didn’t know about the dust bunnies, when she called from the kitchen, “Jubie, before you start, bring me the blue vase from the dining room.”
    I took the vase from the top shelf of the corner cabinet, blowing dust off the cobalt crystal, which shone like the sapphires in Mama’s dinner ring. She had never let me pick it up and I hadn’t known how heavy it was. I cradled it in my arms and took it to Mama.
    With the vacuum running, I sat on the Sheraton and pushed the nozzle back and forth across the rug, jumping up when Mama came into the living room. “Let that go and help me take things to the rec room.” She carried the blue vase full of flowers. I followed her with an armful of thick terry towels and our best percale sheets.
    Stell came in the den door. Mama said, “Silver needs polishing, and the tablecloth has to be ironed. How was Bible Club?”
    â€œReverend Coonts has bad breath.”
    â€œThat’s a terrible thing to say about a preacher.”
    Stell looked at her nails, which she’d spent an hour manicuring the night before. “I’ll ruin my nails if I polish silver.”
    â€œUse rubber gloves. Get to it, young lady.”
    Stell gave Mama a look I would have been smacked for and left the den.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Mama asked.
    â€œTo change my clothes.” Stell didn’t turn around.
    â€œEstelle Annette!”
    Stell stopped, her back to Mama. “What? I don’t want polish on my good blouse.”
    â€œOh, all right. C’mon, Jubie, we’ve got to finish.”
    Mama put the vase in the middle of the breakfast table in the rec room and arranged the flowers. She refolded the bath towel and hung it over the bathroom rod, then walked around touching things.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I pointed to wineglasses and a carafe of liquid on a tray in the kitchenette.
    â€œSherry.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “Your grandmother wants a nip before bed.” She inspected the windows. “They’ll do. The room looks good, don’t you think?”
    â€œIf Meemaw doesn’t like it, she can stay in my room. I’d be glad to sleep here.”
    â€œWell, I’m glad we can give Cordelia her own private place.” Mama stood in the middle of the room, chin in hand. She snapped her fingers, went to the closet, and tossed a lumpy bed pillow at