Free The Dry Grass of August by Anna Jean Mayhew

their problems with love, laughter, and help from their dog Woofers.” The joke was that Woofers was never seen, was only heard barking from somewhere behind the camera.
    Stell kicked off her shoes, curling her stocking feet under her while Mama fiddled with the vertical hold. By the time she got a good picture, the show had begun.
    Tom Roberts, a tall, skinny teenager, was in the kitchen with his sister, Milly.
    â€œWhat a cute outfit she has on,” Mama said. I missed something Tom said. He was sitting on a bar stool that looked just like one of ours, and I wondered if the seat was red Naugahyde. He sat with his long legs stretched out, looking at the floor, his scalp showing through his crew cut.
    â€œEven if you don’t make the team,” Milly said, “the important thing is you tried.” If he believed that, he was a real jerk.
    Mr. Roberts came into the kitchen. He took a pipe from his mouth. “Hello, Sonny, Princess. What’s up?” He only called them Milly and Tom when he was being stern.
    â€œHi, Pops,” said Milly. I could never call Daddy “Pops.”
    Tom said, “Aw, Milly’s got this way-out notion that I’ll make the football team.”
    Mr. Roberts sat on a stool, stuck his pipe back in his mouth, and reached for a cookie jar. He had black-rimmed glasses and his ears stuck out like Clark Gable’s. “So, son, are you going to make it?”
    â€œNo sweat,” Tom said, but his voice was sad.
    What did Mr. Roberts do when he got mad at Milly and Tom? I tried to picture him angry.
    Mrs. Roberts walked into the kitchen in heels and a shirtwaist dress.
    Mama smoothed her skirt.
    â€œHello, children.” Mrs. Roberts grabbed a cookie from her husband and put it back in the jar. “Henry, you’ll spoil your appetite. The roast is almost ready.” She tied her apron and adjusted her pearl necklace.
    â€œOh, Louise, I was only going to have one.”
    â€œAfter supper.”
    â€œHa!” Stell jeered. “Try snatching a cookie from Daddy.”
    Mrs. Roberts tucked a strand of blonde hair back into place. If they were going out for the evening, she wore a ribbon around the bun at the crown of her head, and once she’d worn flats on a picnic. She looked sweet and kind, never smoked or had too much to drink, and didn’t say a cross word to anyone. I knew this was just TV, but I wanted it to be real.
    â€œJubie?” Mama said. “Why are you scowling?”
    â€œI’m concentrating.”
    The dog barked offscreen.
    â€œWhat’s up with Woofers?” Mr. Roberts asked.
    Milly said, “It’s time for the evening paper. How does he know?”
    â€œHe checks his wristwatch.” Mr. Roberts jabbed the air with his pipe. The audience laughed and the screen faded to a commercial for Camay, the soap of beautiful women.
    Mama said, “You can learn a lot from Milly about grooming and makeup.”
    â€œShe wears costumes, and her hair’s a wig,” said Stell.
    Mama sniffed. “She’s chic and a smart young lady.” She went to the kitchen. The garage door screeched open, then slammed down.
    â€œDaddy’s home,” I called to Mama. She came back in the den with a glass of ice tea as the door opened from the breezeway.
    â€œHey, y’all.” Daddy sailed his fedora through the den to the dining room table. His hair was messed up from his hat.
    â€œShush,” Mama said, “we’re watching our program.”
    â€œOops!” Daddy tiptoed past us, grinning. He’d had just enough to drink to make him happy, and I hoped he’d go right to bed.

    The stiffness between Mary and Mama started the last time the bridge luncheon met at our house. I don’t think the extra work is what made Mary act so strange. But maybe getting ready for the bridge club had her on edge, so when she heard what Mrs. Feaster said to Mama, that was the last straw.
    The house