The Witch of Belladonna Bay (14 page)

Jackson sauntered up the porch steps and settled down into a wide wicker chair across from me, as we all dug into the food Carter and Minerva had laid out.

Sometimes home can live squarely in the taste buds. The salty ham and juicy watermelon. The bursting, perfectly crisp outside of the fried tomatoes. The sweet meat of the crawfish with the bitter lime. I made a sandwich, quickly putting ham and a fried tomato on it. Good food makes people quiet, so after a minute or so Jackson broke the silence. He never did like the quiet. “So,” he said, pouring himself a glass of bourbon, “how are you settlin' in, sugar?”

“Well, how could I not love it here? Our Byrd put so much work into this place.”

Jackson smiled and then tipped the bottle of bourbon into Byrd's lemonade. I made a face at him.

“What?” he asked, his eyes getting big with laughter.

“Nothing. She's a little young, isn't she?” I couldn't help but let my own smile escape.

Jackson lit his cigar with a grace that comes from years of experience. He used to say, “It's an art form, lightin' a cigar. Separates the men from the boys.” And Byrd sipped her drink while Minerva fussed over her. Carter stayed off to the side. Not drinking. Not eating. Just staring off toward Belladonna Bay.

Who is this man?
Warm and then cold. Comforting and then distant.

“You were younger than that when I introduced you to the amber heaven,” continued Jackson. “Besides, Minerva here told me about your upcoming nuptials. It deserves a toast, don't you think?”

Ben. I'd forgotten to tell him about Ben.

“I suppose you're right,” I said, pouring myself a drink.

We all held up our glasses. And Carter walked over and picked up an empty glass to fill.

“To my wayward daughter and her upcoming marriage to a man I've never met,” said Jackson.

I sidestepped his sarcasm and took a sip. The bourbon went down with a slow burn as the smoke circled our heads, and all of a sudden—I was home.

“Now tell me, what is the man's name, this man you plan to marry?”

“Ben. His name is Ben Mason,” I said.

Minerva dropped her glass.

“You all right, Min?” asked Carter who was quickly at her side.

“Fine,” she said.

She was looking at me and about to say something but stopped and poured herself another drink.

Jackson gave his cigar to Byrd and she took a big puff.

“My Lord,” I said. “Does this child know no boundaries?”

“I ain't never met a rule I didn't wanna break, Aunt Wyn,” she said, a giggle pouring out of her.

“You know, Byrd, drinking and smoking before you're old enough isn't a good thing. The smoking will stunt your growth. Seems to me that's the last thing you'd want to do,” I said.

“Didn't hurt you none, sugar,” said Jackson, full-on laughing now.

I knew they were trying to startle me, to bring out the uptight Yankee they knew I'd become. But I wasn't biting.

“Suit yourselves,” I said, moving to a porch swing and sinking deep into the pillows. I watched the sun try to set through the stormy clouds that were brewing to the south over Belladonna Bay. Even the sick, sweet feeling that island swelled up in me was comforting.

“You've been awful quiet, Minerva,” I said. “Kind of like your tight-lipped, silver-haired husband over there.” Carter had gone down the porch steps and was looking toward the sky again.

“Well, I can't control these two, and I don't want to. And you leave my Carter out of this. He's been nothing but good for this entire family,” she said, leaning against the porch railing, sipping on her lemonade. I could tell she was thinking, and that meant things were about to get serious. Minerva had always been so serious. “You spent a lot of time running, Bronwyn. It's time you settle down, don't you think?” she asked.

“She's BitsyWyn again. Not Bronwyn anymore,” said Byrd with her mouth full.

“Hush, Byrd. And don't talk with your mouth full. Jackson and Paddy never did teach you no manners,” said Carter.

I took another sip of bourbon and felt the familiar warmth. Glowing hands, crime scenes, memories coming at me every which way. I'd need more than one drink, for sure.

“Well, I don't know if I've become BitsyWyn again,” I said, throwing a wink to Byrd, “but I have to admit, I'm more comfortable than I've been in a long time. At home in my skin. But no matter what I do next, I want to help Paddy. He didn't kill anyone. I know it.”

“Now, didn't you just agree that we wouldn't talk about nothin' serious tonight?” asked Jackson.

“We have to talk about it, Jackson. It's important. It's why I'm here.”

Jackson pounded on the trunk with his fist, shaking the dishes.

“
No!
You are not here for that. You are here for Byrd. And she don't need to hear about this bullshit. She's heard and lived through enough.”

My father was never this insistent about anything. He was hiding something. Carter, too.

“If it's about my daddy, my ears are wide-open, Jackson,” Byrd said.

I was quiet for a moment.

“He didn't do it. I know he didn't. And I've only been home, what? Six hours? It's a damn shame that I already know more about this case than any of you.”

“Of course he didn't do it,” said Minerva with conviction.

“Look, Wyn, we don't believe he did it, but we can't forget he confessed,” continued Jackson.

“Then why's he in prison?” I asked, barreling on.

“Lord, Wyn, you can be thick sometimes,” said Jackson.

“How do you mean?”

“Look, girl. I did everything I could for that boy. I made sure he had the best lawyers. He fired them. The only thing he'd accept from me was my petition to keep him close. He's up there at Angola. He hasn't let us visit yet, though. Well, Carter. He'll see Carter.” There was some bitterness there. But Jackson had to understand by now that he wasn't ever going to win a Father of the Year award.

“See, sugar,” he continued, “I think he
wants
to be there.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard,” I said. “Why on earth would he
want
to be in prison?”

“Maybe you should ask him,” Carter interrupted, his voice booming over mine.

If we were up north, I'd be able to speak my mind. Stop everyone and make sure I was heard. But down here? There's a different rhythm to conversations entirely and that extends to declarations.

“Stick rang me up,” continued Carter, quieter this time. “Said you were goin' up to Angola. Maybe Paddy'll listen to you. And until then, it seems to me that there ain't nothin' more to discuss.”

I liked and didn't like that he felt so comfortable with me. And I had to remind myself that he was more of a member of the family than I was. It had been my choice to leave.

The clouds grew dark as the thunder rolled in low and the breeze fell on us in cool waves. The magnolia and oak leaves rustled together, making a sound so loud you couldn't tell where the whispering leaves left off and the now pouring rain began.

Byrd mimicked Jackson, walking behind him as he went to draw down the bamboo shades so we could continue our drinking on the porch.

“Ain't gonna be too bad,” said Jackson. “And we sure do need the rain, don't we, Carter?”

“Sure do,” he replied.

These early evening summer storms always reminded me of Grant. Grant had been the most handsome boy in Magnolia Creek, with his dark hair and deep blue eyes, different than Charlotte's and different than mine. Almost violet. “Indigo eyes,” I used to call them.

Everyone always sort of figured Grant and I would end up together, and we did. Me and Grant. Paddy and Charlotte.

We'd all drive up and down the Alabama coast in Grant's beat-up pickup truck that he'd souped up so it went extra fast. And we'd feel free. I'd sit up front next to Grant, with Paddy and Charlotte wilding in the flatbed. They'd stand against the wind, yelling at other cars and falling into each other's arms when we'd hit a pothole. Then they'd make out until Grant and I made jokes about them running out of air.

All Grant and I wanted was to go
faster
.

My bare feet on the dashboard, his hand on my thigh.

Faster,
I'd whisper into the wind, and Grant, who found my death wish so sexy, would grip my thigh as he drove faster and faster until I thought we might break the sound barrier.

We'd always end up three hours west, in New Orleans. Or at the Beer Cave in Gulf Shores. Stir up trouble and laugh all the way home. One time we made a five-hour drive to the Florida panhandle, ending up in Apalachicola and eating oysters by the dozens. There was nothing better. Nothing felt more real or alive than the ocean in our mouths, and the silver sun setting low. I'd forgotten.

How could things have gone so far off track for all the people I loved?

I'd go see Paddy in prison and ask him for myself. And he'd tell me the truth. He'd tell me everything.

My broken family talked until the rain stopped and the velvet night descended. We talked about Jackson's new hydroponic farm. About Ben, and how we met. About Minerva's marriage. About Byrd's premonitions. And then, when the crickets and cicadas got so loud we could barely hear each other talk, Byrd pointed up into the sky.

“Look, Jackson, there it is again!”

A sort of aurora borealis hovered over the entire island of Belladonna Bay.

“Maybe it's sulfur,” I said.

“Don't know what it is, damn miasma. Always making something happen this way or that,” said Jackson.

“Had some specialists come by to look at it, but no one wants to cross that damn mist. Tried payin' a fortune to no avail,” said Carter.

“It started the night of the murder. The night my Jamie went missing,” Byrd added.

Jackson slapped both his knees and got up. “I ain't in no kind of mood to go back over any of that. You ready to git on back home, Byrd?”

“Look at him,” said Minerva, “Just assuming we'd be ready to go at the exact same moment he is … the nerve.”

They laughed together. It was nice, watching them. They were like two peas in a pod. When I was little the two got along, but they always fought over Naomi. What was better for her, what she should or shouldn't be doing.

They all walked off the porch together. Jackson, weaving a bit from too much bourbon, was held solidly between Carter and Minerva. But Byrd hid behind me.

“You coming with us, Byrd?” called Minerva as they left.

“Can I stay with you?” she whispered to me, tugging on my dress.

“Of course!” I said, thrilled.

“I ain't going nowhere with you old coots. I'm stayin' here with my
aunt
,” Byrd cried out after them. That aunt came out sounding like “ant” and made me want to hug my brother. Byrd was so much like him in so many ways, but it was her voice, her accent that was just like his. The little girl version.

“Suit yourself, missy,” said Jackson as all three disappeared into the night.

Me and Byrd stayed there, quiet, looking up at the night sky.

“I like the dark,” she said. “Ain't it just like a big blue blanket wrappin' us up with comfort?”

“That's something my mama used to say,” I said.

“I'd like to hear her voice. She's pretty. Was her voice pretty, too?”

My heart broke a little, trying to conjure up Naomi's voice.

“Sure was,” I said.

“You don't mind, right? If I stay?” asked Byrd.

We both knew she meant for as long as I was there.

“Of course I don't mind. It feels right,” I said, and I walked her into the house. “How about a bath?” I asked her.

“No way!”
she shouted. I was a little drunk and too tired to fight. So I did the best I could to wash her face and let her use my toothbrush (which she looked at as if it were an artifact from another world), and then tucked her in to my bed. She quickly fell asleep while I read to her from
The Little Prince
.

I wondered, as I drifted off to sleep, why I hadn't tried to get a hold of Stick by any means possible to tell him about the message on Lottie's machine. Or why I hadn't told Jackson.

Ben always talked about the eightfold path. How the first path was all about uncovering what was real, peeling back the layers of yourself to discover your truth. I could have forced the conversation, but I didn't. Because in my heart I didn't want it to be Grant, either. God, I didn't want him to be the killer. How many sins was I supposed to carry on my shoulders?

That night, with a guilty heart, I had the first of what would be three dreams of Charlotte. It started like a memory but ended with a secret.

*   *   *

The last time I saw Charlotte was the day I left. The same day I watched my mother get lowered into the ground. She didn't come to Naomi's funeral, so I stopped by on my way out of town.

I knew why she stayed away. Because if there was one person I knew better than anyone else, it was Charlotte.

She couldn't say goodbye to Naomi because she loved her. And she couldn't see Paddy cry because she loved him and couldn't bear to see him weak. Weakness was a problem for Charlotte. When we were small, if we'd find a wounded bird, she'd suffocate it with her own hands. Not out of meanness, out of mercy.

My first night home, all snuggled up to my wild and wonderful niece, it all came back to me long after I had already fallen asleep.

Charlotte and me driving down the back roads of Magnolia Creek, with the top down on my convertible. She was leaning forward, trying to light two cigarettes against the wind. We were laughing about Paddy. We stopped by the beach and smoked.

“You and my brother should just get married and have babies,” I said.