The Butcher's Daughter

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  He pastes on a benevolent smile and opens the door to a petite young woman.

  “You must be Margaret Costello.”

  Chapter Four

  Melody doesn’t pass another car as she covers the last few miles of the mainland’s palmetto-lined backroad, dotted with fishing shacks and the occasional heap of rubble Hurricane Dora had left back in ’64.

  Midway across the low, rickety bridge to Barrow, a pair of nearly identical young Negro boys look up from their fishing lines and gape. She isn’t imagining the scrutiny, but it’s not because they know her terrible secret. It’s not even because of Travis’s flashy sports car.

  She’s white—buckruh, as the island’s Gullah population would say. She doesn’t belong out here.

  The sun sets as she bumps along the island’s only thoroughfare. It’s unpaved and bisects dense maritime forest. Twice, she passes the unmarked turnoff and has to turn the car around, a painstaking maneuver in the dark on the narrow road. At last, she finds her way to a low antebellum cottage framed by live oaks dripping silvery Spanish moss. Beside the bright blue front door, upended blue bottles adorn a crepe myrtle’s branches.

  The house is dark, and she hears barking inside.

  “It’s okay, Otis, it’s only me,” she calls, and the dog grows frenzied at the sound of her voice.

  No one answers her knock. She tries the door. It’s unlocked. “Hello? Anyone—”

  Oof. The pup bursts through the door to joyfully paw and lick her.

  “All right, boy, you need to go back inside.”

  He sits looking at her, tail thumping the porch floor, expression stating that he’s not going without her. She won’t go in uninvited. So she settles into a creaky wooden rocking chair on the low porch with Otis contentedly at her feet, waiting for the man they both love.

  A creamy moon sliver rides amid more stars than Melody ever sees at home a few miles down the coast, across the state line. Out here there’s no ambient light to dim them, just a smattering of sleeping households scattered in acres of marshland.

  Listening for footsteps to crunch up the lane, she hears nothing but insects whirring in the dense undergrowth, and every so often a soft equine nickering.

  Barrow Island is populated by more wild horses than people. The few families that live here go back at least a hundred years, their collective roots entangled like a mangrove. A good number work in the paper mill, or as domestic staff on the mainland. Some are tradespeople, some unemployed, some enlisted and fighting in Vietnam.

  One man is none of those things.

  He’s a poet, a writer, a reader, a historian, a free thinker, an activist, and for a fleeting time in that summer of love, he was everything—her everything.

  Staring at a bare, unruly wisteria vine tangling up the porch post and crawling along the slatted blue ceiling, she thinks of the one her mother has spent years diligently pruning and training over an arbor, infuriated by its refusal to flower.

  “The garden club president told me I’ve done everything right!” she’d told Melody last spring when the wisteria burst forth with sturdy green leaves and not a hint of delicate blossom.

  “Maybe you should just give up on it, Mother.”

  “Never!” snapped Honeybee Abernathy—born Hannah Beauregard, descended from the confederate general known as the Little Napoleon.

  Otis lifts his head expectantly, ears twitching. Melody expects to hear a car, but he’s looking in the wrong direction. Moments later, there’s a thrash-splash in the gator-infested marsh beyond the trees. She shudders, and the dog rests his head on his paws once again.

  A damp gust slinks through the live oaks, giving the gnarled moss a good shake. The February night is cool and breezy, scented by the sea and the occasional waft of noxious fumes from a mainland paper mill. She wishes she were wearing a warmer coat, a head scarf, gloves.

  She remembers a sweltering late August afternoon back home when everything in the world was stifling and still, except the ocean and her own rage. She couldn’t bear to remain in the house where she’d just opened a drawer to look for something and found . . .

  Something else. Something so terrible she was certain her eyes had deceived her. But it was real, and she’d fled.

  She’d covered two miles from her house near the Intracoastal Amelia River across town to Main Beach, where the Atlantic Ocean lay sparkling blue. She’d left her shoes in the dunes beside a sea turtle’s nest and wandered out to the beach. The tide was going out. She walked south, ten miles all the way down to American Beach, established on Amelia’s south end as a “Negro Ocean Playground” three decades before the Civil Rights Act began allowing Black people on public beaches.

  She walked without realizing where she was or that hours had passed, and the sunbathers, swimmers, and even the surfers had disappeared. A late afternoon storm exploded like a vengeful sea monster rising from the depths. She ran for cover toward the nearest building beyond the dunes, a small cottage painted bright blue.

  “Come on, now,” a tall, shirtless Black man called in a rich baritone, holding the door open. Seeing the shaggy black Lab bounding around and yapping beside him, she’d thought he was talking to the dog—but no, he was waving Melody forward. “Come on inside, ma’am. Hurry! This is a nasty one!”

  She ran right through that door and into the house. Just one sparsely furnished room, spotless and homey, but far from modern. In one corner, a wall-mounted sink, an icebox, and a battle-scarred stove on spindly legs.

  It wasn’t his home, he said, closing the door after her, shutting out the wet wind. He was just staying at a traveling friend’s place for a few days, keeping an eye on things. There’d been some ugliness and vandalism in the area.

  As he pulled on a chambray shirt, she noticed his lean muscles and that he was wearing a gold necklace. Not hippie beads or a peace sign pendant, yet unusual, she thought, for someone so clean-cut.

  A violent gust extinguished the lightbulbs before she could get a closer look at the necklace. As he went around holding matches to candles, the dog wagged its tail at Melody and settled at her feet, nuzzling her hand.

  “Now, Otis, you just let her be. Don’t go slobbering all over our guest.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I like dogs. His name is Otis? After Otis Redding?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked pleased.

  “His version of ‘Try a Little Tenderness’ is one of my favorite songs. You must really like his music, too, if you named your dog after him.”

  “He’s one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

  “You know him?”

  “Not well, but I have kin up Macon way. They introduced me to Otis a time or two, before he hit the big time.”

  Well, that had broken the ice. They’d talked about Otis Redding and Otis the pup.

  “You have a dog?” he asked.

  “No, but . . . No.”

  Her sister had always longed for one, begged for one, but Honeybee didn’t want muddy paws traipsing through the house. Melody didn’t tell him that, though. About her mother, or Ellie. Not that first day.

  They talked about music, and books. About Dr. King and the war and LBJ.

  “Sounds like you don’t trust the president much.”

  “No, ma’am, I surely do not.”

  “Please don’t call me ma’am. I’m only twenty-one and it makes me feel like somebody’s mother.”

  “Well, then, what’s your name?”

  “Melody.”

  “Melody. No wonder you know so much about music. Your name is like a song.”

  She’d felt a shiver in the heat. “While my mother was waiting for my father to come back from the war so that they could get married, she was studying to be a singer. She has a wonderful voice.”

  “How about you?”

  “My voice? It’s all right, but . . .”

  “No, I mean what did you want to be before you got married?”

  She’d followed his gaze to her ring and hid it in a
fist.

  She’d been a music major at the University of Florida, pursuing the career that had eluded her mother. But she met Travis during Christmas break sophomore year. When she returned to Gainesville, he visited her every weekend, and when she came home that summer, he’d proposed.

  She was hoping to finish her education. No reason to rush, as President Johnson had already rescinded the draft exemption for married men. But Travis wanted her to drop out, and Travis wanted a Valentine’s Day wedding, and whatever Travis wants . . .

  Otis’s ears perk up again, and Melody hears a car’s approach with a distinctly clattering engine.

  She takes a deep breath, preparing herself to face Cyril LeBlanc with the news that she’s expecting his child.

  Margaret Costello has a pronounced widow’s peak above fine features and intense blue eyes. Her dark hair is teased and sprayed into a fashionable flip, protected by a lime-green scarf knotted under her chin. It matches her gloves and vinyl go-go boots. Even wrapped in that bulky brown plaid wool coat, Oran can see that her figure is slender, though not too slender for his purposes.

  She’s nervous, spilling too many words into too little space.

  “Sorry I’m late, but it’s getting nasty out and I had to come all the way from Bensonhurst, and this place was hard to find, and then when I did I walked by a few times because I wasn’t sure . . .” She tilts her head at the sign taped to the window. “Aren’t you closed? It says that the hours are—”

  “I keep telling the receptionist to update that. We take late appointments on Fridays now.”

  “You have a receptionist?”

  “She sits right over there.” He points at Carla’s desk.

  “But you’re the one who answered the phone when I called.”

  Hmm. None of the others had noted that, nor questioned the hours. Smart, feisty little thing. Reminds him of his Gypsy.

  “Around here, when it’s busy, we all pitch in wherever we’re needed. Now, let’s get you into an exam room.”

  “But . . . don’t you have a nurse or something?”

  “I sent them all home for the evening. You’re late, and the weather is nasty, and you’re the last appointment tonight.”

  Still she hesitates, just inside the door, as though she wants to jerk it open behind her and flee into the night. His own fingers itch to reach behind her and lock it, but he doesn’t dare scare her. Not when they’re so close, and she’s so perfect, so very much like his own little girl.

  A vision flashes in his mind—a prophecy. Margaret will have a daughter who looks like her, a sweet sister for his Gypsy.

  “I, uh . . .”

  He blinks and sees that she’s watching him just as Gypsy does, as though she can see right through him.

  “I have to go. I, um, changed my mind about—”

  “There’s a twenty-five-dollar fee for last-minute cancellations.”

  “Twenty-five dollars? But . . . it’s a free clinic.”

  “Free for our patients. Do you know how many girls make appointments, show up, and then are too scared to go through with it?”

  Something flashes in her blue eyes. I’m no coward, she’s thinking.

  Oran unspools words like a rescuer dropping a lifeline to a child who’s toddled to the edge of a precipice.

  “Most of these young women are very much like yourself—they’ve taken a big risk just by calling us, let alone coming here. They’re defying society, their parents, the Catholic Church . . . even the law, as of two years ago!”

  A well-placed reminder that family planning services and birth control distribution had been illegal until the 1965 Supreme Court ruling. It’s all so new, and she’s so young—how would Margaret have any idea how any of it works? Few people do.

  “Just think about all those people who claim to have a young woman’s best interests in mind—” He breaks off, raises his voice to an annoying intonation, “‘It’s for your own good, we’re only trying to protect you,’ they say, don’t they? And you are so obedient, such a good, perfect girl. Until you fall in love. They don’t like that, do they? They don’t trust him to protect you the way they do, but they don’t know him, do they? They don’t know how it is with you two. And when you decide to protect yourself against unwanted pregnancy . . .”

  She’s looking down now, at the lime-green plastic boots that reveal so much more than mere fashion sense. Only a spirited, carefree soul would wear boots like that on a night like this.

  “So yes, we understand how it is with these young women who make appointments. But we have to protect ourselves, too, and our patients. We can’t afford to waste our time and resources on girls who aren’t mature enough, strong enough, to go through with it. That’s why we have the cancellation fee.” Mythical, but she wouldn’t suspect that.

  Her chin trembles. She lifts it.

  “I know it’s not easy, but the hardest part of this is over,” he says. “You’re here. Now all you need is a quick exam, I’ll give you your birth control prescription, and you’ll be on your way.”

  Ah, yes. She wants the magic Pill. But does she want it badly enough to ignore her gut instincts and follow him into the exam room?

  Yes, she does.

  He ushers her inside, tells her to get undressed, put on a gown, lie on the table with feet in the stirrups. He turns his back while she does so, pulling on sterile gloves and laying out instruments on the countertop the way he’s seen Dr. Brooks do, watching the proceedings through a crack in the door.

  When he turns back, there she is, dutifully lying on the table, shivering in the chilly room, eyes squeezed closed. She’s at his mercy, and they both know it.

  “All right, now, Margaret. Just try to relax. This won’t hurt a bit.”

  He walks toward her.

  Five minutes later, she emerges from the examination room, fully clothed and looking relieved. Oran is waiting for her.

  “There now, see? I told you it wouldn’t be so bad, didn’t I?”

  “It wasn’t. Not at all.”

  He hands her a little brown bag. “Here you go.”

  She peers inside. “That’s it? That’s the Pill? I thought it came in a packet, not a bottle.”

  “Some do, some don’t. Be sure you take it every time you menstruate, on days three through seven.”

  She narrows her eyes. “I thought you take it every day.”

  “That’s a lot for a girl to remember, isn’t it? One slip and”—he snaps his fingers—“you’re pregnant. So they’ve developed these new pills that are just as effective and you don’t have to take them as often. I’ve given you enough to last through three cycles. I’ll call you to see how you’re—”

  “Call me?” She shakes her head. “No! Please don’t call. My parents can’t . . . please.”

  “I see. Discretion is in order, then?”

  “Yes. I . . . I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

  “Of course.” He nods, assured that what happened here will remain private.

  That’s why he’s chosen only teenaged girls, always so tentative and vaguely ashamed. He suspects, though, that even the more experienced grown women and wives who visit the clinic keep the details to themselves.

  Margaret has no idea that her cursory internal exam—a finger poke, a couple of belly pats—wasn’t the norm. He knew she just wanted to get it over with, and he felt the same way. Now isn’t the time for anything more intimate.

  That time will come, though.

  May 10. He’d done the math after she’d called and given him the details of her menstrual cycle.

  He opens the appointment book waiting on the receptionist’s desk. The real one is tucked in a drawer for the time being. This one is identical, but belongs only to him.

  They schedule her next visit for early May, an evening, of course.

  “Have a good evening, Margaret, and get home safely.”

  “I will, Doctor. Thank you.”

  Oran locks the door after her and watche
s from the window as those go-go boots ascend the slick subway stairs. Once, she slips and nearly falls, but steadies herself and continues doggedly on up.

  Attagirl. You’re doing just fine. And I’ll see you in May, on the night when you’ll be most fertile.

  Back in the reception area, he takes the official appointment book out of the drawer and opens it on the desk.

  He looks down at his own, smiling. A few days ago, he’d had Christina Myers in for her second visit to make sure that she’s been taking her “birth control pills” precisely as he’d directed and avoiding intercourse until they “become effective.” She’d thanked him profusely and he’d given her another three months’ worth. Placebos this time. Why hand out more clomiphene than he had to? He needs it for the others.

  His pulse quickens when he sees the bold black circle around next Tuesday, February 13, along with the initials CM. Not another appointment for Christina, but a rendezvous on the night she’ll be most fertile.

  Melody sits beside Cyril staring into the darkness beyond the porch. Both their rocking chairs are motionless as is Otis lying on the plank floor between them, nose on his paws, eyes alert as though he, too, is absorbing the news that Melody is pregnant.

  Cyril LeBlanc is not the kind of man to blurt a reaction.

  He’s the kind of man whose first question tonight, after months apart with no communication, had been pure selflessness.

  “Did you get news about your husband?”

  He knows she wouldn’t pop up unexpectedly for coffee and casual conversation. Everyone is well aware of what’s happening in Southeast Asia this week. The grim headlines are pervasive. People are dying. Hundreds, thousands of people. Civilians, the enemy, American soldiers.

  “No. No word yet.”

  “Bloodbath over there.”

  “That’s what the news is saying, but the president thinks the offensive will be over soon. He says we’re way more powerful than—”

  “You really believe that, Melody? You need to wake up!”

  “What?”

  “Not just you—Americans! We need to wake up. This is not our war to be fighting. We have our own war right here. Dr. King says . . . never mind. I’m sorry. All I wanted to know was whether you’d heard from your husband, and here I am on my damned soapbox again.”