The Butcher's Daughter

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  As far as anyone knows, Aunt Beulah isn’t related to anyone in Marshboro. Around these parts, the locals will flock to an establishment as long as you give it a homey, folksy name, hang blue-and-white-checkered curtains, and fry up good Southern cooking.

  Aunt Beulah’s doubles as the bus station, with a wooden bench to accommodate after-hours passengers and an awning to protect it from the elements. Marceline and her sister Birdie wait on the bench with the precious sweetgrass basket between them and Marceline’s red satchel at their feet. Before leaving home, she’d emptied it of her late husband’s belongings, packing them away in drawers now vacated by her own. Uncertain when—whether—she’ll return to Barrow, she’d filled the bag with every stitch of her own clothing and a few sentimental keepsakes.

  “You got the address?” Birdie asks.

  Marceline pats the pocket of her traveling coat. “I got it right here . . . and right here.” She taps her temple. “In case I lose the paper. I cannot take chances.”

  “You sure you don’t want to wait a spell? I’ve got plenty of room for you to stay. That way, we can write a letter and see if—”

  “Like I told you, and like Cyril, Sr., keeps telling me, no chances. He wants me to be gone right away.”

  Birdie says nothing to that, but she does give her head a little shake, as if she doesn’t believe it.

  Ah, dead folks never did go boddun’ Birdie the way they did Marceline and their middle sisters, Wanda, Florence, and Alice. Maybe the world was just spinning too fast for spirits to stick by the time Birdie came along back in ’18, after the war.

  Or maybe it was Birdie who never stuck long enough to listen. From the time she was a young’un she was always flitting around, chirping about one thing or another, surrounded by a flock of friends—that’s what their mother used to say, and it’s how Birdie had gotten her nickname.

  Marceline keeps an eye trained on the highway to the east, watching for headlights. Not a car has gone past them in the fifteen minutes they’ve been sitting here, but the Savannah-bound bus should be coming along anytime now.

  “I wish I could go with you,” her sister comments. “I don’t like you travelin’ so far all by yourself.”

  “Not by myself. Cyril, Sr., he’s always with me.”

  “Just like Papa?” Birdie’s tone is both wistful and doubtful.

  “’Xactly like that.”

  Daddy had come to Marceline the night after he’d passed, telling her to look out for her mother and sisters, ’specially the baby. He stayed around for years, making sure they were all right, but he seemed to rest easier once the girls were grown and Mama and Florence had joined him on the other side.

  If her husband has reunited with their son in the great beyond, he hasn’t mentioned it. He’s been busy guiding Marceline through the nightmare that’s unfolded ever since Cyril, Jr., went missing out on Barrow sometime Thursday night or Friday morning.

  She’d rounded up some menfolk to follow a trail of broken branches out in back of Cyril’s property. They’d gone deep into the gator-infested marsh without question or qualm, and brought back only a filthy shred of fabric stained with what they didn’t have to tell her was her son’s blood.

  “You goin’ to call the law, Marceline?”

  “Too late for the law.”

  “But they can chase down whoever—”

  “You think they goin’ to do any chasin’? For what? My boy is dead.”

  That brought silence all around. Two of those men, the Davis twins, had grown up with Cyril—once island boys, barefoot and carefree in the sunshine. Now they’re somber men in a grim new world, Jimmy Davis with twin sons of his own. Those young boys tend to Otis every day while Cyril’s at work, and they’ll continue to do so, she knows. Especially now. The dog, and his property and hers, will be in good hands. They’re family, her island neighbors, even those who don’t share a drop of her blood. Now there’s no telling when their paths will cross again; no telling what the future will bring.

  She’d told no one on Barrow of her plan. If anyone comes looking for her, it’ll be safer for everyone involved if they don’t have to lie.

  With the race wars heating up and Cyril’s executioners on the loose, she’d looked over her shoulder all the way to the Jacksonville bus station, not just for men in pointy white hoods, but for the law. No one had followed her, though. Nor had anyone paid any attention to her when she got on and made her way to the colored seats in back.

  She was the only passenger who sat there, and the only one to disembark here in Marshboro. She’d quickly covered the quarter mile out to her sister’s concrete block house just south of town. Birdie was off working one of her jobs, so Marceline sat on her steps and waited.

  She prayed for a while, and she sang softly.

  “To everything there is a season . . .”

  Cyril’s song, with the biblical lyrics she’d learned as a child in Sunday school.

  When Birdie came walking up at last, Marceline almost didn’t recognize her.

  At fifty, she’s the youngest and prettiest of Marceline’s sisters, with three others born in the decade between them.

  People always said they look the most like each other, but in the few years since they last met, Birdie has changed. Today, she was wearing makeup—even false eyelashes, by the looks of it. And her skirt was short. Not as short as the young girls wear them, but above her knees. Most shockingly, she’s cut her long cornrows clean off and coaxed her hair into a short bouffant with bangs, all glossy black without a hint of gray.

  “Look at you, all fancy,” Marceline had said when she’d seen her, before she’d told her why she was here. “You goin’ to a beauty salon and colorin’ your hair now?”

  “You like it? Lucky thought I was gettin’ frumpy. Now she says I look just like Diana Ross.”

  “Who?”

  “Lucky! You know, Penelope. That’s what we been callin’ her.”

  Well aware of her niece’s nickname, Marceline had said, “I mean Diana Ross?”

  “You don’t know her?”

  “She must be new in town. I never heard’a her.”

  “In town?” Birdie threw her glossy black head back and laughed. “She’s a celebrity. You must have heard of the Supremes? That’s her singing group.”

  Marceline hadn’t heard of them, either. She reckoned Cyril would probably know, and then she’d remembered that Cyril was gone, and grief had tried to engulf her all over again. She hadn’t allowed it, not even when she’d shared the news with her sister.

  Never one to rein in her emotions, poor Birdie, laughing one minute, had been leaking bitter tears on Marceline’s shoulder the next. “I’ve been hearin’ about violence and such, but I never thought it would take one of our own. Oh, Marceline . . .”

  “Hush now, or you’ll make me start wailin’, too.” She picked up the basket and nodded at the house. “Let’s go inside. I have to show you something, and I need you to promise you’ll never tell anyone, not even Lucky. I know how close she and Bettina are.”

  Birdie’s daughter and their niece had been born just weeks apart, and been raised like sisters.

  “They write from time to time, but they ain’t seen each other in a dozen or so years now, since Bettina moved up to New York City.”

  “Still, Birdie . . . please don’t tell Lucky.”

  “Don’t you worry. You know I won’t.”

  She does know that. In a large family where there are few secrets, Birdie is surprisingly good at keeping them—particularly her own. At eighteen, she’d delivered a baby girl, and never told anyone who the father was—not even her daughter, when Lucky was old enough to ask.

  That’s how it will be with Cyril’s child, Marceline had thought when she’d crossed paths with the young, pregnant buckruh woman that day on the street in Fernandina. Even then, she’d been boddun’ that her grandchild would likely never know anything about her daddy—who he was, and where he’d come from.

  Now t
hat he’s gone, though his blood pumps life through that little girl’s veins, his daughter won’t likely hear his voice talkin’ in her head. Too much going on in the modern mainland world, with all the noise and confusion, for a body to just be still and listen—especially for someone growing up without a clue to her Gullah heritage, with its spiritual beliefs.

  And so, in those first awful hours when Marceline had realized what she’d lost, she’d known what she had to do. Every which way she’d looked at the situation, there was only one option. Some folks might not agree, but they don’t know what it’s like to lose a husband and then a son, neither one ever coming home to bury in a proper grave.

  Yes, she feels a little bit guilty about the buckruh woman, who may not have been so crookety after all. But it can’t be helped.

  Marceline LeBlanc cannot—will not—lose another family member to violence.

  You know where you need to go now, Cyril, Sr.’s voice had whispered from the Other Side on Friday morning. You best start packing.

  “I don’t want to leave. This is home.”

  Not anymore. Not without him.

  That was true. But how would her trembling, grief-burdened bones carry her through the day, let alone on such a monumental and sorrowful journey?

  Come, it’s time to go. You just keep your head high and march on out of here. You’ll be all right. Go on, get my mama’s satchel.

  “Isn’t this just like you. You always did like travelin’.”

  And you never did. But you’ll do what needs to be done now, and when you get up to Marshboro, Birdie will help you.

  He was right on all counts.

  Birdie had enough money stashed away for a bus ticket, and within an hour’s time, scraped up enough from family and friends to keep Marceline going for a while in a new place. True to her word, she hadn’t told anyone who or what the money was for—and true to tradition in their close-knit, bighearted family that didn’t have much to spare, they gave whatever they could.

  One day, Marceline would like to think, they might be able to be told that they’d saved a precious life. One day, perhaps the child will be able to thank them herself.

  It’s a lovely vision, though not likely to come to pass.

  “It’s comin’,” Birdie says, and Marceline looks up to see distant headlights swinging toward them on the dark highway.

  They stand. Marceline puts her heavy satchel over her shoulder and reaches for the basket.

  “Wait, Marceline? One last look, please?”

  “I don’t want to wake her. She was fussin’ all the way here on the bus.”

  “She misses her mama.”

  Marceline’s mouth tightened. “I’m takin’ her to find her mama. She won’t even remember the other one.”

  Her sister gives a little shake of her sleek new hairdo.

  “Don’t go lookin’ at me that way, Birdie. You know I’m savin’ her life. They came for my boy, and they’d’a come for her if I left her be.”

  “I know. I just think of that buckruh woman and what she must be goin’ through, losin’ her child.”

  Marceline has also lost a child, dragged from his bed in the night and dead in the swamp because of that woman. Bettina, too, has lost a son. A year or two after she and Calvin were married, they’d buried their only child. The Lord hadn’t seen fit to bless them with another, but Marceline will.

  “You can’t go boddun’ ’bout buckruh, Birdie. You just think of this innocent child. Only one way to be sure she’ll grow up.”

  “I know. Just let me say goodbye proper.” Birdie pulls back a corner of the blanket draped over the opening. “Why you leavin’ this on her?” She points to the plastic hospital bracelet on the baby’s wrist.

  Marceline hadn’t realized it was there. She slips it over the tiny fist and hands it to her sister.

  “Get rid of it, Birdie.”

  “Says here her name is Martina Eleanor Hunter. Why, the mama went and named her after you and Bettina! I thought you said—”

  “What in tarnation are you talking about?”

  “Marceline, Bettina . . . Mar-tina.”

  Marceline stares. She’d missed that.

  But the buckruh mother wouldn’t have known, couldn’t have known . . .

  It’s a sign. From Cyril, Sr., or Cyril, Jr., that she’s doing the right thing.

  Birdie pockets the bracelet before bending to bestow a gentle kiss on the baby’s forehead. “Safe journey, child. Someday, I pray, we’ll meet again. You won’t remember me, but I’ll never forget you.”

  Marceline swallows hard and looks away, at the big old magnolia tree down the road by the church. Oh, how her boy had loved that tire swing. She can hear him giggling, see those chubby fists clinging to the rope, little legs outstretched as he soared up to the clear blue Southern sky.

  Tonight it hangs thick and black, starless and moonless.

  The bus rattles up and the driver cranks open the doors. Marceline can see only a handful of passengers, and all appear to be sound asleep.

  “T’engky for all you did for me, Birdie.”

  Her sister nods, tears running down her cheeks in a river of mascara, giving her one last hug before she climbs on the bus, and calling, “I love you.”

  Those words follow Marceline down the aisle. Maybe it’s the last time she’ll ever hear anyone say them on this earth, now that Cyril’s gone.

  She sits down alone in back with the basket on her lap and lifts the folds of blanket.

  “Don’t s’pose you’ll ever say it to me,” she whispers to his daughter. “That’s all right, child. I’d raise you if I could, but you got a mama waitin’, and she’s lost her boy, too, and she’s just achin’ to fill her empty arms. You’ll see, when we get to New York City.”

  Almost twenty-four hours after Melody had handed her daughter to the stranger who’d stolen her, the staff moved her off the maternity ward. Someone—a nurse, or her mother?—said it was for her own sake, that surely she was disturbed by the other mothers bonding with their babies just beyond her door.

  Melody suspected it was for the other patients’ sake. Surely they were disturbed by a bereft mother’s hysteria, even if those traumatic waking moments were few and far between.

  She’d slept through the transition and awakens now to find herself in a smaller room. No pastel walls or sweet duckling paintings here. Just dingy off-white paint. Her mother is seated beside her bed. She wears no makeup or jewelry, her hair is pulled straight back, and she has on a simple black sweater.

  “Melody? You’re awake.”

  “Yes.”

  She doesn’t ask for an update. Honeybee’s pale, drawn face confirms that the baby is still missing.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “I sent him down to get me some coffee. I don’t want it, but he needs something to do.”

  She looks ravaged, as she had the summer Ellie died, but older. Her blond hair is touched with gray that hadn’t been there a few days earlier.

  At least she seems to be keeping her composure this time. No fainting, nor histrionics. Just a sorrowful ghost of the vibrant, beaming woman who just yesterday had showered her new granddaughter with affection and gifts.

  How much does she know?

  “What time is it, Mother?”

  “One fifteen.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Which day?”

  “Monday.”

  “Monday?” She’d lost a day. “Can you . . . do you mind cranking my bed so that I can sit up? I need to stay awake for a bit, but all that pain medication knocks me out.”

  “They’ve been sedating you,” Honeybee says, raising the top half of the bed for her. “You were bleeding badly . . . probably from the stress. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “You were unconscious when Daddy and I got here. They said you’d fainted dead away. There, is the bed up enough for you?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; Honeybee fidgets with the blanket, untucking it along the edge of the mattress and then tucking it in again as she talks. “Doc Krebbs is keeping a real close eye on you. Been in and out every few hours to make sure you’re all right.”

  “All right?” She turns away and stares at the ceiling.

  Her mother should know that a mother who’s lost a child is anything but all right. A mother who’s lost a child collapses beneath the weight of her own grief.

  You fainted dead away . . .

  But Martina isn’t . . . it’s not like with Ellie. Martina is still alive. She has to be.

  “Duke Mason came back a little while ago.”

  Debbie’s father, the police officer. He’d been here earlier, too—or yesterday, wasn’t it? He and Scotty came right after the baby disappeared.

  “He wanted to talk to you again, but we couldn’t get you to wake up. He should be back soon.”

  “Did he find Rodney Lee?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t . . . Duke said he wasn’t hard to find, wasn’t hiding or anything. He was at home, in bed, sound asleep when they got over there. Ruth Midget said he’d been there all night, and she had a . . . gentleman there with her, and he said the same thing. None of them knew anything about the baby being kidnapped, so Duke says Rodney Lee’s not the one who took—”

  “I know he’s not the one who took her, Mother. It was a nurse. But they say there is no such nurse working here, so she was an imposter.”

  “I just don’t understand what Rodney Lee Midget has to do with any of this. Bob and Doris told us that he’s always been a respectable young man, and a good friend to Travis.”

  “Well, there’s another side to him. He was here right before the baby disappeared, and he told me to keep her safe.”

  Honeybee frowns. “I don’t know how that—”

  “What he said was, ‘just try and keep her safe.’”

  She sees her mother’s lips tighten. Of course the words sound innocuous to Honeybee, and to anyone who doesn’t know the whole story.