The Dry Grass of August by Anna Jean Mayhew Page B

reading lamp behind her, her hair shining.
    Daddy said, “Was your compartment okay?”
    â€œMight have been. Wish I’d been left in peace.”
    â€œWe booked a private compartment.”
    â€œYou couldn’t know they would—I mean, people just barge.”
    Everyone waited for her to finish, but she sat there with her hands clasped across her stomach.
    Mama asked, “Cordelia, are you saying somebody shared your compartment?”
    â€œThree of them. Came in and made theirselfs comfortable.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you report them to the conductor?” asked Daddy.
    â€œ ’Twas his idea. Train was crowded. He asked if I’d mind sharing—a woman and her two children. Her daddy had died from his heart—so a mercy trip, you know. What can you say, if you—I mean, they gave me a voucher for when I go home.” She reached to the floor, where she’d set her pocketbook, fished around in it, and held up a paper.
    Daddy took it from her, “A free ticket. Mother, that’s really nice.”
    â€œI couldn’t nap or read. Stared out the window and cried, paid them no mind.”
    â€œYou were crying?” Mama said.
    Meemaw snorted. “The mother, not me.”
    â€œDid the kids behave?” I asked.
    â€œBoy sat next to me. She just put him—kicked his feet against the seat. The girl—about your age, June—hummed ‘Tennessee Waltz’ and ‘Some Enchanted Evening’—not a tune in a bucket, neither.”
    â€œYou must be worn out, Cordelia,” Mama said. “Why don’t we get you settled before dinner.” She turned to Daddy. “Are your mother’s things still in the car?”
    Meemaw cleared her throat. “I just got the one. Travel light, always have.”
    Daddy started to rise. “I’ll get it.”
    Mama put a hand on his knee. “No need, William. Stell, you and Jubie show your grandmother to her room. Carry her bag up for her and help her get settled. It’ll be an hour and a half until dinner, Cordelia, which will give you a nice rest.”
    Puddin jumped up. “I’m going, too, Meemaw. All your granddaughters can help.”
    Stell put out her hand for Meemaw to stand. I ran ahead. “We’ll get the suitcase. C’mon, Puddin.”
    I got Meemaw’s bag from the car, ran up to the rec room, and put it on the luggage rack.
    At the top of the stairs, Meemaw held her hand to her chest. “Where’s the ladies—I mean . . .”
    â€œThe door in the corner.” I pointed.
    â€œGot to take—my arthritis. Should have before now.” She closed the bathroom door behind her.
    â€œWhat’s arthur-itis?” Puddin sat on the sofa.
    â€œHer joints don’t work right,” Stell said.
    The bathroom door opened and Meemaw swayed into the room, trailing the scent of rosewater cologne. She opened her suitcase and handed each of us a gift-wrapped package. “Here you are, girls.” Meemaw sat down next to Puddin.
    â€œHow nice,” Stell said, opening the envelope that was Scotch-taped to her gift. The word Granddaughter was printed in glitter on the front of the card. Inside Stell’s package was a silver charm bracelet. “Oh! I love it.” She jumped up to hug Meemaw.
    â€œI’ll give you charms—Christmas and your birthday.”
    â€œI’m next!” Puddin pulled at the wrapping paper and Stell said, “The card, Puddin.”
    â€œOops.” Puddin read her card, mumbled, “Thank you,” and ripped the package open. Pastel hair ribbons spilled onto the floor. “Meemaw! How’d you know my hair was long enough?”
    â€œAsked Rita. Tomorrow I’ll weave one into a braid for you.” Meemaw sat back. “Now you, June.”
    I read the plain note card first. On the front was a verse in Meemaw’s spidery handwriting: Roses are red. Violets are blue. Flowers