The Witch House of Persimmon Point

by Suzanne Palmieri

  A clock was ticking like a heartbeat. Tic tock tic tock tic tock. Tic.

  “I like it here,” said Maj in a hushed voice. The one Mimi always asked for—but never got—in church.

  “Also,” Byrd said as she led, “you are welcome. I mean, I cleaned, planted, dusted, washed.… Lord, I don’t think I’ve ever done a chore in my whole life. But see, that’s just proof that you don’t need to do chores, watchin’ people can teach you everything you need to know. Stay lazy, Maj. Trust me. Now, take a seat, or wander. But we got to get to work. And what kind of name is Maj anyway?”

  “It’s Elizabeth, but there’s a bunch of dead Elizabeths in our family, so they call me Maj. I like it sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” asked Eleanor.

  Both girls looked back over their shoulders at her, wearing the same expression. Maj was happy.

  “Here we are, the heart of the house. Nan’s kitchen,” announced Byrd as they entered through a swinging door.

  The kitchen was bathed in sun and was such a contrast to the hallway that Eleanor had to squint before she could get a good look.

  It was an astounding size but still felt cozy for a room so big. There was a doorway onto the back porch on the left and a double set of glass-paned French doors on the right that led to a world of plants.

  “You have a greenhouse inside your house?” asked Maj.

  Byrd was gathering glasses and bottles and boxes of crackers from different built-in cabinets along the turquoise walls. “It’s your house. Even if I can’t stomach the notion. And that’s a conservatory. Or atrium. Or whatever they are called. If you think that’s something, wait till I take you out back tomorrow to see the ruins. Anyone want a drink? We have lemonade and coffee and whiskey. Water, too, only I haven’t been able to get the well tested because I don’t own the damn house. Which is plain wrong, as it is MY birthright.”

  “Aren’t you much too young to drink?” asked Eleanor.

  “Oh, I understand, you haven’t had your come-to-Jesus moment.” Byrd sat down with three glasses, a pitcher of lemonade, and a bottle of bourbon. She poured the lemonade. The first glass halfway, the second glass three quarters of the way, and the third almost full. She then topped them off with the bourbon, keeping the strongest for herself.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea, and if you’re thinking that baby cocktail is for Maj, you really are crazy.”

  “Like I said, you haven’t had your come-to-Jesus moment.”

  “Don’t be angry with her, Byrd. She’s worried,” said Maj.

  “Am I coming on too strong?” asked Byrd.

  “Just a little.”

  “She’s right here, and she isn’t worried,” said Eleanor, exasperated.

  “Okay.” Byrd got another glass. “Here you go, Maj. Plain old boring lemonade. Now, why don’t you take a seat, and we can figure all this out. How about you ask the questions and I try to answer them. Good idea?”

  Maj gave Byrd the thumbs-up.

  “Let’s start with: How old are you?” asked Eleanor.

  “I am fourteen years old. And I can’t stand it, because it’s an even year. I prefer odd years.”

  “Okay, well, you are too young to live alone, so who lives here with you?”

  “Alive or dead?”

  “Alive, please.” Smart-ass.

  “No one, I’m on my own. And before you get your panties in a bunch over neglect or abandonment or what have you … wait, what time is it?” Byrd pointed at a large, round, industrial-looking clock. “Oh, look, you got to love good timing. You can ask questions for about thirty more seconds, then that phone over there is going to ring.”

  “I’d guessed you had the Amore sight, but if that phone rings I’m thinking yours is a stronger strain.”

  “Actually, I’m a GODDAMNED HYBRID … so, yes, it’s a stronger strain. I got all kinds of witch blood colliding in me, and I bet young Maj here’s a hybrid, too. Because until she got out of that car of yours, I thought I had the lion’s share of those talents. But I’ll tell you what, she’s givin’ me a run for my money. I’m not sure how I feel about that yet.” She winked at Maj.

  Eleanor opened her mouth to speak, and the phone rang.

  “Got to love my aunt’s propensity for punctuality. Sorry to burst your bubble, but she calls every single day at 2:45 p.m. Listen close and try to catch on, okay?”

  Byrd went to the phone and picked up the heavy black receiver.

  “Hello, Aunt Wyn.… Of course I knew it was you. Well who the hell else would be calling? No. She’s right here. Yes. Well, I’ll tell you what, it was a miracle! I can’t quite get over it. We woke up this morning and I brought in her breakfast tray like I do every morning, I know, I’m a saint.… Yep, you got that right. She likes those awful raw eggs of hers.… And I said, ‘Good morning, Miss Eleanor,’ as usual. I said it really loud, though. Yes, I read the sign language books. But I had a TRAY in my hands, for god’s sake, Aunt Wyn. I didn’t grow another set of arms all of a sudden.…”

  Eleanor sat at the kitchen table, staring in disbelief at the conversation she was hearing. Maj, wide-eyed with delight, held her hand up over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

  Byrd held the phone out for a moment, and a child’s tantrum echoed out. She placed it back at her ear, rolling her eyes conspiratorially at Maj and Eleanor. “… Oh, is the baby sick? Shut his damn mouth up, then. Look, do you want to hear about the miracle or what? That’s what I thought. So, she just looks at me and says, ‘You don’t have to shout, I’m not deaf!’ And I almost fainted, I swear … Uh-huh.… Mmm … Hmmm … How am I supposed to know? The doctor came straightaway and deemed it hysterical deafness or something like that. The long and short of it is, she’s talking now. Would you like to talk to her? Thought so. Hold on.”

  Byrd held out the phone, and Eleanor took a large gulp of her laced lemonade. She glared at Byrd as she took the receiver.

  “Hello? Yes … of course … I understand.… You know how those things go. I’m sure there will be tests. No, I’m not concerned, I had a stressful year, it seems. I’m glad you’re relieved.… Mmm hmmmm. A handful. Yes, I’ll have her call you tomorrow.”

  Eleanor hung up and sat back down across from Byrd.

  “You didn’t snitch. I think we’re going to get along just fine,” said Byrd, grinning.

  “That was unfair, Byrd.”

  “It was funny, though. And it was also useful. I can’t actually believe she fell for it. I’ve been here since May!”

  “Look at me, Byrd. And listen very closely. I don’t know who you think you are, or who you think I am. And I’m not going to make any waves here for you because you have, in fact, proved yourself fairly useful. I won’t argue that this little ambush hasn’t been successful, but don’t think for one second that you will walk all over me. Seems like you have a little too much practice walking around on other people. Walking above them. That’s not your fault, you’ve been spoiled. So I will let you stay here with us. But you will never tell a lie about me again without me agreeing first. You will help me take care of Maj. And you will be an equal partner in the upkeep of this house. Do we have an agreement?”

  “You’re awful pretty when you’re mad,” Byrd sighed.

  “Do we have an agreement?”

  “You’d let me stay here with you indefinitely?”

  As Eleanor considered her question, she looked at Byrd’s beautiful, strong, open face, allowing herself to acknowledge just how right it all felt. As if she’d been expecting to know this girl … to find shelter in this house. She felt safe. How long has it been since I felt safe? she wondered. When she finally replied, her words sounded far more stern than she felt. Because, like it or not, she’d have two powerful headstrong little wards on her hands before she knew it, and she had to lay the law down now.

  “Yes. If you agree. And I suppose we have to get you registered for school, right?”

  “You can’t make me go to school. I’m already done with
that mess. I’m a genius.”

  “I’ll speak to your aunt about that. And if that’s the case, you can help me teach Maj. I’m homeschooling her.”

  “Cursed, visionary children never do fare well with peers or teachers in traditional academic settings. Nor do their dogs. I speak from experience,” said Byrd, petting Delores.

  “Are you going to agree or not?”

  “Agreed.”

  Maj clapped.

  “Oh! I clean forgot! I have a little something I thought you might like, Maj.” Byrd opened the doors to the conservatory, letting out the sweet, earthy scent of violet and sage. The floor was tiled in black-and-white squares, and a red velvet couch with throw pillows and blankets sat in the center of all the plant vines and pots. Byrd reentered the kitchen with a cigar box. “Here you go, kid. Have fun while your mama and I talk through this thing. Don’t worry, Elly, I smoked all the cigars.”

  “Mama, look!” Maj cried, opening up the box.

  It was full of red crayons. Permanent Geranium Lake, to be exact.

  4

  Byrd in the Kitchen with a Candlestick

  4:00 P.M.

  A tour of the house revealed a wide first floor with the foyer front and center. A small living room and a library made up the left side of the house, and the right was a larger living room with a fireplace and a piano. Both sets of rooms had entrances to and from the hallway and the kitchen that ran the length of the back. The second floor was narrower than the first, with four equal-sized bedrooms and a large bathroom. The third floor of the house narrowed dramatically and had two bedrooms and a bath. There was also an attic. And, above that, like the topper on a cake, one lone cupola with windows all around.

  Eleanor fell in love with each nook and cranny.

  It had been a whirlwind tour. Byrd seemed to be on some kind of schedule Eleanor didn’t yet have the agenda for. Everything blurred together. Richly colored wallpapers and deep couches, sturdy four-post beds and white clawfoot bathtubs. Circular windows near doorways. Stained glass everywhere like the witch balls sold at fairs—round glass balls with strands of colored glass blown inside the centers, said to catch any evil and capture it in the web of color. (Byrd refused to linger in any of the rooms. “Seeing this house without the background information is a waste of time. It will look entirely different once you know its history.”)

  Only the necessary bags were removed from the car, and the U-Haul, still packed, stood lonely and alien against the darkening sky.

  Back in the kitchen, Eleanor looked in the refrigerator. It was a very old model, one that closed with a metal vise.

  “I kind of wish you’d taken care of the food situation as well as you seem to have taken care of the house. I see nothing in here I can make for dinner.”

  “I have the essentials. Bourbon and pie.”

  “Pie might do … for now,” said Eleanor.

  “What kind of pie?” asked Maj, pleased by the idea of dessert for dinner.

  “Well, there’s the usual, you know, apple, apple crumb, peach, cherry, you know. But my favorite is the lemon pawpaw. It’s my very own creation.”

  “I think I’ll stick with apple.”

  “Maj, I’m disappointed. I thought you’d be more adventurous,” said Byrd.

  Eleanor held her breath. Maj had a fine-tuned, dry, adult sense of humor. But only with those she trusted and loved. She tended to get all balled up inside and defensive when anyone else criticized her about anything.

  “No offense to the pawpaw,” said Maj.

  Eleanor exhaled.

  “So, are you ready to explain all this mystery, Miss Byrd? What are we running out of time for?”

  “That man, Johnny Colder, is coming here on Sunday. That leaves us two days, not counting the rest of today, to find whatever he might find … first.”

  “I’ll admit, I could have waited to move here until after that ‘circus’ was gone,” Eleanor said. “But every bone in my body ached to get here before he did. And I’ve learned it’s futile to fight against the Amore instincts. Still, you’ve been here since May. With your strong Amore ways, and all your cleaning up and gardening, you haven’t found anything. Have you considered maybe there’s nothing to find? Maybe our mutual need to get here was more about what’s going on right now between you and me and Maj. Maybe all this is a simple case of blood calling blood.”

  “NO. It’s much more than that. I SWEAR, why do all my people have to flirt with ignorance before they accept who they are. Look here, there is some goddamn truth, some dark secret that is simply taunting me. I just haven’t found it out yet. Anyway, that’s why I NEED YOU. I figure if I tell you all the stories of the women who lived here, maybe you can help me put it all together. I’m convinced their lives are like a treasure map or something. Clues hidden inside their journals and documents and stories. And I’m so close to all of it I can’t see the forest for the damn trees.”

  “Please help out your poor Yankee cousin. Why is it important that we find anything? It’s going to be a pain in the ass to deal with those fools, but at the end of the day, they’ll wrap up and we will know everything (or the nothing) that they find. Byrd, what am I missing here? You have to tell me everything.”

  Byrd sat down and started speaking slowly.

  “There were rumors about this house and this land. Rumors that women were held captive and murdered in the wine cellar. Which isn’t that interesting AT ALL if you ask me. It’s been done before. And then there were rumors of dark magical curses. Stories about toxic plants and two-headed cats. None of that bothers me. It’s humdrum yawn material. What bothers me is being EXPOSED without knowing how to control it. Like having your clothes yanked off when you never even got a good look at your own naked body. What if you had three boobies and a half a tail? See? Interesting if you got a chance to hint at the freak show before they exposed it, but if not … Elly, if we don’t control the secrets Johnny might find, then we got to live all up inside someone else’s idea of who we are.

  “I ain’t havin’ that.

  “It’s one thing to announce we are the surviving members of the most terrifying family in these parts. It’s another thing entirely to be told you come from a long line of psychotic women who deserved everything their sorry asses got. One notion is strong, the other is weak. And I can’t abide weakness. I just can’t.”

  Eleanor looked at Maj and then back at Byrd. “So … you want to make sure we have a say in our own narrative, is that right?”

  “Exactly. It could be the difference between Maj and me growing up as the badasses of the Eastern Shore … or just two more women in a long line of forgettable sick-in-the-head nothings. It’s the difference between ‘the Witch House—I can’t believe you’re one of them! Tell me, can you really make it rain?’ and ‘Inbreeding. They say they have power, but all they have is sick, thin blood!’”

  Eleanor was immediately reminded of the reasons she’d hightailed it to the Witch House in the first place. She wanted Maj to be able to define her own reality. To be able to breathe inside who she was, versus who the world expected and wanted her to be. To find meaning in her differences instead of covering them up.

  “Okay, okay, I get it, and I agree,” she said. “You can stop now. Where do we start? We really need a historical society. Is there one in downtown Haven Port?”

  “Haven Port has a thriving historical society. It’s one of the only things this ghost town does right. Only it’s not downtown.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s your lucky day. I’m the historical society.”

  Byrd walked over to the oven and pulled out a basket full of papers. “Me, and these. Man, do we have a night in front of us.”

  “You don’t cook much, do you, Byrd?” asked Maj, with a giggle.

  7:00 P.M.

  Notes and photos and magazine clippings littered almost every surface in the kitchen.

  “So this one is about how the house here now is built from the rubble of the ho
use that was here first,” Eleanor said, examining another Virginia Is for Lovers brochure.

  Byrd read it aloud. “The original Haven House was thought to be charmed in some way. Everyone who went there said it was the most beautiful piece of land. One notable occasion was when Thomas Jefferson was said to have visited shortly before he died, where he exclaimed: ‘If only I’d designed Monticello this way!’” Byrd and Eleanor both took a moment to question the verity of that statement.

  “And Nan Amore, my great-great-aunt, who was also your great-great- … great-grandmother, she’s the one who built this house, the Witch House,” Eleanor said.

  “A: that’s a lot of ‘greats,’ and 2: you catch on quick. Maybe your sight isn’t so backwards after all.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinkin’, and I guess there’s all kinds of levels to these gifts we seem to share. You know, like in school when they take a kid out of regular classes and put ’em in special ones because they’re not readin’ on the same level or what have you.”

  “You mean special education classes?”

  “Exactly. And just like those kids aren’t upset about that reality, you don’t have to be upset that you got a little gypped in the psychic department. Hell, if we were all like me … or Maj, we’d figure out all the secrets of the universe and life as we know it would end. Or be plain boring. So, yeah. See? You saved the world!” teased Byrd.

  “Shut it. You need me. Remember? Now, what else do we have about the house? I’m not finding anything that proves or disproves or even speaks to those rumors.” Then she mumbled under her breath, “She just called me a learning disabled psychic.”

  “Well, there are spectacular reviews about the land. I’ve been thinking we should spend tomorrow digging beyond the gardens I already searched. But I don’t know where to start.”