The Witch of Belladonna Bay

by Suzanne Palmieri

  “Tell us another one!” yelled Jamie from the back of the room, pounding his desk. He was havin’ a grand ol’ time.

  “Okay, what about we move away from ghost stories and talk about demons?” I asked. The class was getting downright antsy now. I had to talk fast.

  “So, remember Farley Whalen and the curse? They say when he died … he didn’t die at all. He became a demon who inhabits one child from Magnolia Creek each generation and makes them do terrible, terrible things.”

  John Fischer raised his hand. He looked a little like Jamie, only not as shiny. “Do you know who he lives inside right now?” I could tell it was a question no one wanted answered. So, I started choking and shaking and made my voice all scratchy-like.

  “John Fischer, I do believe the child the demon inhabits is … me!”

  The whole class jumped. And me and Jamie started laughing all crazy-like. Miss Pimms was on her feet. I knew my goose was cooked good.

  To make matters worse, stupid Sadie Mathers, a front-row girl, was cryin’ by the time I finished.

  “Get out!” Miss Pimms said, pointing at the door. “Get out and take your nasty dog with you!”

  Now, I should have just left and not thought twice about Miss Pimms. Except for being sorry about disrupting her class. Only she didn’t need to speak that way about Dolores.

  The whole room went quiet. And then I pointed at her. “You like your job, Miss Pimms?”

  I’ll admit it. That was mean.

  But you know what? Everyone has to be themselves. So, I’m mean sometimes.

  And that’s what I thought when I looked out my window and saw Aunt Wyn walkin’ up the path to the Big House. She looked terrible. All stuffy and cooped up. She was hidin’ herself and that never ends well.

  Now I’d have to get us both spiffed up for the parade.

  She was dressed like that for Ben. People. I swear. They just don’t get it. If you hide from who you really are, you run the risk of gettin’ lost for good.

  I’d let them have a few minutes alone ’cause Jackson always says, “People gotta work out their own demons on their own time in their own way,” so that’s what I’d let them do. But then I’d go on and introduce myself. And fix up my aunt’s look.

  Demons. Like Farley Whalen.

  Just a story, really. Trust me on that one. I know what’s what when it comes to ghosts and the like. There ain’t no demon, and if there was, he would live inside me.

  I fairly giggled. And thought of that old song, “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.”

  “Ah, crud,” I said, as I put on Naomi’s old wedding veil. “If I’m a demon, I sure do hope I still get my woman boobies. Do demons even have boobies?”

  15

  Bronwyn

  Maybe it was because I didn’t meet him at the door.

  I let Ben ring and knock like an idiot before Minerva, who shot me a look of death as she ran past the study, opened the door to greet him. Whatever it was, he was on edge.

  I stood still and placed my drink on a table without looking (thankfully there was a table there, or it would have crashed straight to the ground, making me two for two with the Waterford).

  “My, my … look what the cat done dragged in. I see you’ve met Minerva. Oh, wait. You already know her. Ain’t that right?” I said, using my best Southern drawl.

  “What on earth is the matter with you, Bronwyn?” she asked. She’d have pinched me blue if she was next to me.

  I rolled my eyes. Classic BitsyWyn.

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Caretaker, whatever that means,” I said.

  “I missed you,” he said, gazing down. Not looking at me.

  It was Minerva who saved us. “You two are wasting time. Get this moment over with and just talk it out. People, I swear. Stubborn to the core. Just get on with it.”

  Her voice was like a bucket of cold water waking me up. This was Ben. My Ben. The man I’d lived with and loved for seven years.

  He walked right up to me and held me so tight he picked me up off the ground. “I missed you,” he whispered into my hair.

  “I know,” I said. Then I pulled away to look at him, to ask the questions I needed answers to. To make sure he told me the truth. “There’s so much I need to tell you, to ask you. Why didn’t you tell me about all this?” I waved my left hand, my ring glinting in the light. And then I launched into, “They never called me. They just let him plead guilty! And then there was this phone call, well not a real call … and it could be Grant, but I don’t know…” The words tumbled out. Then somewhere between the “I missed you” and the “why are you here?” I started full-on crying.

  I’d gone crazy fuckall.

  Ben guided me to the couch and sat down next to me.

  “Shh, honey, it’s okay. Let’s take this slow. Look, I’m here early because Minerva called me.”

  I looked up only to find her still standing in the doorway. She shrugged her shoulders and then went back into the hall and upstairs, yelling, “Byrd! Time to go!”

  “Don’t be mad at her,” he continued, his voice steady. “She knows you need better answers than she’s able to give. And she thinks you need help,”

  “Help with what?”

  “With unraveling your mystery. She thinks you might be onto something with this Grant person, and she thinks there are some other options, too. Things you may not be safe looking into alone. So, I’m here. I’m always here.”

  He leaned in to kiss me.

  “Ahem” came a voice from the doorway.

  There she was, my Byrd. And, oh Lord. The way she was dressed. Petticoats, a white ribbed boy’s T-shirt, a whole bunch of too big jewelry, and my mother’s wedding veil. She was also lugging around a bundle of clothes.

  “Byrd, honey? Come here. I want you to meet Ben.”

  She came right over and sat herself down on my lap like a possessive cat.

  “Nice to meet you, I suppose,” she said, disinterestedly holding out her hand.

  “You suppose?” Ben laughed, shaking her hand.

  Then she reached up and pulled the pins out of my hair, letting the tight bun loose. My curls tumbled out everywhere.

  “That’s better,” she said, and then to Ben, “I don’t know anything about you yet.”

  “Why don’t you read my mind?” he asked.

  She was off my lap, and that’s when I realized the bundle in her arms was a white, flowing shirt that used to belong to Naomi. She was pulling at my Polo and I didn’t even stop her. I just lifted my arms up and allowed her to switch one for the other.

  “I already tried. You got magic, don’t you, Ben?”

  “A bit.”

  She threw the Polo across the room and then she pulled off my shoes.

  “These ain’t gonna work, Aunt Wyn. Try this pair.”

  She put a pair of Naomi’s Chinese slippers on my feet. Black and lightweight. They fit perfectly.

  She stepped back. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

  And it was.

  Then she turned to Ben. “It’s not nice to block people from your thoughts,” she said.

  “It’s not nice for little girls to pry,” he said.

  They were playing a mental game of chess. They contemplated each other, figuring out their next, best moves. Ben broke first. An easy mark.

  “Well, all you have to know is that I love your aunt very much, and I’m here to help her get your daddy back home, okay?”

  Checkmate. She was smiling.

  I held her tight against me, snuggling her and all her layers of lace and bare shoulders.

  Jackson came in at that point.

  “Well now, what do we have here?”

  Byrd got up and raced past him. “See you at the parade!” she yelled. I guessed she was leaving without us.

  “Jackson, Ben. Ben, Jackson.”

  “Well, lookit that,” he said. “Ain’t you a fine-lookin’ fella. I think I approve, son.”

  “Th
ank you, sir. It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

  “I’m sure it is … sure it is…” Jackson replied, processing. He’d just found out Ben was a black man. And now we were all going to the biggest get-together Magnolia Creek has all year and him being the mayor, he’d have to introduce Ben to everyone.

  I cannot express to you the childish, spiteful moment of joy that I felt.

  I’d spent my whole childhood angry with him for running away from Naomi’s problems. For hiding inside that damn bottle. And now he’d have to stand tall and be present.

  “Well.” Jackson cleared his throat. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, but we gotta go. So, come on, and you can talk when the day is done. Okay?”

  “Are you okay, Bronwyn?” asked Ben.

  “I think so, but you’ll tell me everything later, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Ben,” I said.

  “Well then, if all this welcoming is done, we got a parade to attend,” said Jackson.

  * * *

  I wanted to take pictures, and since I knew I’d be following alongside the parade, Jackson invited Ben to sit with him on the grandstand.

  He accepted, kissed my cheek, and walked away.

  I crouched down near where the parade was starting and began snapping photos.

  The parade hadn’t changed much, except for Byrd. She marched in the parade as a lone soul. Jackson explained that when she was about four years old she demanded to march.

  Alone.

  I watched her, clicking away on my camera. I must have taken a thousand frames just of her. She wore a driftwood plaque around her neck with the words “Queen of the Myst” burned into it. A Y in the word like her name. And whereas the other parade marchers were throwing out trinkets and candy, our Byrd was throwing out premonitions and advice.

  Byrd was the last person in the parade. The people became quiet, almost reverent when she approached. She seemed to sniff the air, but once she opened her mouth, that damn girl couldn’t shut up.

  She was wearing Naomi’s wedding veil, now torn and dirty along its edges. The flowers at the crown, once alive and vibrant, were now dried, and pieces of them littered her hair like moldy confetti. She’d walk, look for her next “victim,” and then make a run for them. Her first target was an overly large woman wearing an ill-fitting dress.

  “Mrs. Saint James?”

  The woman took a step back, her eyes growing wide.

  “Ain’t no amount of food in the world gonna glue your sad soul back together again. All it’s gonna do is make you fatter. And then you’ll die. You want that, Mrs. Saint James?”

  The woman shook her head and mouthed the word no.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Byrd. And then she returned to the middle of the street and continued her march. I took pictures like a woman on fire. The camera loved that girl. What a beautiful, haunting, captivating child. She’s a spell caster. A lost witch, a creature capable of things one can only dream about. Bad dreams or good.

  She stopped next to a small family. The mother and children huddled close together. The father standing separate. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and the neck of a beer bottle dangled between two of his fingers. His expression made me nervous for her. I should have known better.

  She walked right up to the cowering woman.

  “He ain’t gonna stop beatin’ on you. And I swear your girls will grow up thinkin’ that’s the way a woman ought to be treated. You want that?” Then she turned to the woman’s husband. “You hear me, Mr. Wrong?”

  And that’s when it hit me, his name was Wright. Stephen Wright. I remembered him from school. A bully even then.

  “I swear on my father’s life that if you lay hands on her one more time I’ll find a way to stop you. And it will not be pleasant.”

  “That a threat, sweetheart?” he asked, sarcasm seeping out of him.

  “Nope, that’s a promise.”

  She flicked the beer bottle right out from between his fingers and it crashed to the ground.

  “Clean that up, Mr. Wrong. Clean it up good or I’ll have the sheriff arrest you for litterin’. Ain’t that right, Sheriff?”

  And as if it were orchestrated beforehand, there was Stick, standing right in back of good ol’ Stephen Wright.

  “You betcha, Byrd,” he said, saluting her. Then he looked at me, winked and mouthed the words, “Come see me.” I nodded.

  And so it went.

  To the druggist: “I know you been waterin’ down those medications, you best stop that.”

  To the little girl on the corner of Main and Oak: “You did well, Hannah! Last year I was concerned you wouldn’t stop picking on your sister, but it seems my advice worked.”

  And then to a man on the street selling little wooden toys, “If you don’t get that jigsaw fixed, you’re gonna lose an arm.”

  Next, she stopped at Jane Bradshaw. Another person I grew up with. Her family owned the local soda shop. A fragile, pretty woman with pale eyes and even paler hair. She was holding a new baby. Byrd held her hand out. And Jane jostled the baby to her hip in order to touch Byrd.

  “Miss Jane?” she asked, a curious softness in her voice.

  Then she looked directly at the baby.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “What?” asked a visibly shaken Jane Bradshaw.

  I felt my stomach lurch.

  “Byrd. Please. What on earth can you mean?” asked Jane.

  “Oh, just prepare yourself, Miss Jane. There ain’t nothing you can do about it. When the Lord calls, he calls, you know?”

  Byrd began to walk away shaking her head a little overdramatically. Jane reached out and yanked on her veil. Byrd turned around.

  “Please, Byrd, what can I do?”

  “Well, a free lime ricky every once and a while would be nice.”

  “Fine, Byrd. Whatever you want. Come on, I’ll give you one right now.”

  “Let’s go,” she said, coming to me and tugging me down the street toward the soda shop. “I could use a pop, you?”

  “Byrd, why did you do that to her? Is her baby really in danger?”

  “No. It’s her mama. I didn’t say anything about her baby.”

  “But you made her think it was the baby. I won’t have that, Byrd. We’re going over there right now and telling her. And if you think you’re getting a free soda, you’re crazy.”

  Byrd didn’t even fight about it. Just took my hand and we walked together back toward Jane.

  “Bronwyn?” asked Jane when she saw us.

  “In the flesh,” I said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Better,” she said, worriedly giving Byrd a sidelong glance.

  “Tell her,” I said.

  Byrd sighed, before telling the truth. Relief washed over Jane, making her shoulders relax.

  “Go on in and get that pop, Byrd,” said Jane.

  “Jane? Do you think that’s a good idea?” I asked, holding Byrd, who was trying to run for the soda shop, by her wrist. “Isn’t that like, negative reinforcement or something?”

  “Oh, how cute, Wyn! You been readin’ up on parentin’ in those fancy Yankee books?” asked Jane.

  Dear Lord. “Just go,” I said to Byrd, who was off like a shot.

  “See how happy she is? A little pop ain’t gonna hurt her. So, how you been, girl?” asked Jane happily. “I’m so, so sorry about what happened to Lotttie and that dear little boy of hers. I mean…”

  “It’s all right. That’s why I’m down here, Jane. To figure it all out. Something’s just not right.”

  “Well, I hope you do figure it out, because we all miss Paddy around here. And we can’t believe he’d do such a thing.”

  “Hey, Jane? May I ask you something?”

  “Of course!” she said, shifting her baby from one arm to the other.

  “How does this town feel about Byrd? I can’t quite get a grasp on it,”

  Jane smil
ed a little too sweetly, as if she was saying, You don’t know much about anything anymore, do you? Been gone for so long … come back and try to understand it all in one gulp.

  “Let’s see,” she said, pausing. “How can I explain this so it makes sense? We love her. We do. Her good and bad. She’s done a lot for all of us. I don’t know one person she hasn’t touched. Healed, warned, all those things. Even me. Sure, she was mean and terrible today. But I had three miscarriages before I had this bundle.” She held her baby close and kissed her head. “Then? She just showed up at our house one day with a bunch of dried leaves and a set of handwritten directions. And the next baby? She took.”

  “So, why don’t you ever give her a free soda then?”

  Jane shrugged. “I guess it’s sort of love and hate … no, hate’s too strong. She’s different is all, follows different rules. Like she doesn’t go to school. Also? I swear, she’s never asked us. If she’d asked us, we’d have given it to her.”

  “So you all love her? I don’t think she knows that.”

  “For all she’s done for us, for everyone? We depend on her. We feel like she’s ours. That make sense? We’re lucky to have her. She’s sorta like a pastor or somethin’. You know how each of their flock thinks that the pastor is speakin’ straight from the pulpit to their own heart? It’s like that.”

  “That’s a lot of responsibility for a little girl,” I said.

  “Nah, she loves it. Thrives on it, I think,” Jane responded. Then the baby started fussing. “It’s the heat,” she said. “Look, I’ll go into the shop and send Byrd back out to you when she’s done with her pop, okay?”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Jane. Nice to see you again.”

  “You too, honey! We’ll get together soon, okay? Have some of that pie Minerva makes. I miss that pie. What was it?”

  I tried to stifle the smile. It was shameful really. Every time another kid was mean in any way to Lottie I’d ask Minerva to make a few of her delicious, but tampered with, pies. A little bit of belladonna mixed with myrtle and strawberry leaves go completely unnoticed in a plum pie. But a few days later? Everyone has the flu. Plum pie flu.