Midsummer's Eve

by Kitty Margo

  Teri crushed out the cigarette, jumped up from the couch and did a little dance around the room, while clapping and laughing gaily. “Mystery solved. The child’s mother was named Buttercup! That explains the buttercups! They probably called them buttercups on the plantation and it was the only way the child knew to tell us who his mother was. It’s probably the reason you have insisted on calling the flowers buttercups all these years, when everyone kept telling you they were daffodils. It was a sign. You were destined to help the child. Keep reading,” she said, falling back down beside me.

  June 8, 1854

  The Good Lord works in mysterious ways. I prayed for the death of my husband's whore and instead he took the life of my husband's precious bastard son, Seth. My poor husband is deranged with grief and his mourning has affected his ability to think rationally. He is insisting that his son be buried in the family cemetery instead of in the slave graveyard, as would be most fitting considering the fact that his whore of a mother is a negress. Wherever did he get such an insane notion? Must the entire town be made aware of his grievous error in judgment?

  “Seth died from Yellow Fever,” I said.

  “Yes. Read on and see where he was finally buried.

  June 10, 1854

  My husband refused to hear the pleas of myself, or his children. His bastard child was buried in the family plot. Seth was, as he repeatedly informed us, his only son and had he lived would have one day assumed his rightful position as master of Almond House. Master, indeed! The child’s mother caused quite a scandal outside the gate, as she wasn’t allowed to step foot inside the hallowed ground of the family cemetery. The reverend’s voice could barely be heard above the woman’s hideous wails. Even she insisted that the child be buried in the slave graveyard, as would have been most proper. But my crazed husband would not hear of it.

  I glanced over at Teri, who still looked weak around the gills from the cigarette. “Well, Mary Beth seems like quite the bitch.”

  “Yes, she does. Keep reading.”

  June 13, 1854

  Buttercup was caught today, by my daughter Sarah Louise, crying over her son's grave. She had been warned repeatedly not to enter the family cemetery. I instructed the overseer that she was to receive 20 lashes for blatantly ignoring my order. Unfortunately, before the order could be carried out I was informed by my dear grief stricken husband that his whore is again swollen with his child and could not be punished.

  “How could they keep her from her own son’s grave?” I cried, feeling the pain Buttercup must have endured knowing she would never be allowed to kneel at her son’s grave and pray. How horribly Buttercup must have suffered at the hands of her mistress. I remembered the sad green eyes of the little boy as he peeped from behind the towering stalks of corn. “How could anyone be so cold and heartless?”

  “Read on and see if the next child was a son or daughter.”

  June 18, 1854

  It would seem my husband’s whore has fallen at the hand of folly. She hasn’t been able to warm his bed these past three nights, as she has gone missing. Delbert is beside himself with worry and grief. Even having the field hands ignore the cotton fields, which are in a sorry state and in dire need of his attention, to waste time searching for her? Such a simpering, mindless fool my husband has proven to be!

  “I wonder what happened to her,” I asked, turning to the last page in the journal.

  June 25, 1854

  My demented husband took his life tonight. I must admit it was for the best. All his foolish ravings concerning his missing whore and the death of his child were proving to be a great embarrassment for his family. He left a note stating that he had neither the will, nor desire to continue living without Buttercup and Seth. A pity. What about his wife and four daughters? Did he care so little for us that we were not worth living for? The man who must have gone stark raving mad in his final days had a last request of me. To search until Buttercup’s body was found and bury her remains in the family plot along with him and their son. But that will never happen! For his whore’s body will never be found!

  “Oh, my God!” Teri cried. “Mary Beth killed Buttercup!”

  “And hid the body where she would never be found.”

  “The journal explains it all. Seth wants us to find his mother’s body and bury her in the family cemetery. He needs us to grant his father’s dying wish.”

  “I agree, Teri. But there are hundreds of acres of forest around the plantation. How will we ever find where she was buried? You know Mary Beth didn’t suddenly develop a conscious and place an elaborate tombstone to mark Buttercup’s final resting place. We could dig every day for the remainder of our lives and never find her grave site.”

  Teri thought about this a second, eyeing the cigarette she had just snubbed out. “I’ve got it! Seth will show us where she is, of course! Just like he showed us where the journal was hidden.”

  “Then I guess we should pack some food and go to the cabin and wait.” Not that I had suddenly been granted courage, I simply wanted to end this nightmare. I wanted to find Buttercup’s grave and reunite her with her son and get on with my life.

  “That’s the spirit. Pardon the pun.”

  We put sandwich ham and cheese, mayo and Diet Pepsi’s in the cooler. Then we stuffed potato chips, a jar of dill pickles and a box of Little Debbie Raisin Cakes in a bag and hopped back in the truck.

  “Aren’t we just becoming regular sleuths?” Teri giggled as we bounced over the rough river road.

  “When either Stephen King, M. Knight Shamalan or Stephen Spielburg make a movie about our adventure it should be called The Buttercup Girls.”

  “Angelina Jolie should play me,” Teri said, suggesting her favorite actress.”

  “Only Julia Roberts could do me justice, but then again I do have Lisa Rinna’s haircut. Who should play Mallory and Tammy?”

  “Definitely Rosie for Tammy.”

  “And Mallory?”

  “Mallory would have to play herself. No one else could do the girl justice.”

  Seventeen

  We unloaded our bags and cooler and sat down in lawn chairs to gaze out across the calm river, both shaking like a leaf, but trying desperately to hide it. It was so quiet and peaceful here, almost hard to believe that we were actually waiting for a ghost to appear and show us where his mother’s bones were buried. When did I grow a backbone?

  Two hours later we were still waiting. And eating. “I wonder what he’s waiting for?” I was munching on a ham sandwich, chips and a pickle and peering cautiously into the increasingly dark night filled with flickering lightening bugs. The full moon and thousands of stars reflected and shimmered on the water casting an eerie glow over us. Crickets were singing and bullfrogs were croaking like there was no tomorrow. “I just want to get this over with and move on with my ever exciting life.”

  “I don’t imagine ghosts follow a time schedule as we do.” She forked out the last pickle.

  I was about to ask for half the pickle when I heard thrashing about in the nearby trees and almost jumped out of my carcass. I do believe poor Teri swallowed that four inch pickle whole. “I do wish you would stop using that word.”

  “What word? Ghost?” She was busy peeling the wrapper from a raisin cake, but her hands were suddenly trembling so badly I imagined she would have to pour the crumbs into her mouth. “Face it, Eve. That’s what Seth is. Ghost. Poltergeist. Spirit. Hobgoblin. Whatever he is, he needs our help. But it’s damn creepy in these woods tonight.”

  “Must you call him Seth?”

  “Why ever not? For crying out loud that’s his name.”

  “Still, there’s no need for us to try to get too… chummy with him.” We hadn’t heard giggling or been the target of any well-aimed projectiles since our arrival, so hopefully the child was otherwise occupied. “It’s getting late. Maybe he’s asleep.”

  “More likely out gallivanting with the other spooks, Eve. I don’t think they sleep.”

  “God,
I hope there aren’t any others. I don’t want to be one of those people who sees dead people.”

  “Not to burst your bubble, sweetie, but I would say you already are. In my opinion, little Seth is about as dead as dead can get and you have definitely seen him.” The thrashing sound was getting closer. Too close for comfort, in fact. Even Teri was beginning to look a little green around the gills. “It’s probably just an animal.”

  “That’s what I thought in the cornfields.”

  “Oh. Right.” She nervously glanced around, then pulled the last raisin cake out of the box. “It’s really dark in these woods at night.”

  Suddenly the noises around us seemed to be amplified. The jumping fish sounded like whales splashing in the river. The minks and beavers climbing up the riverbank sounded like Brahma Bull's pawing the earth. The chorus of insects blended to produce a high pitched steady drone and the thrashing sound had stopped. Only a few feet from our campsite.

  It was 2:00 am. We were still sitting and trembling, we would have been eating if there had been so much as a crumb left. “I just can’t sit here all night waiting for that little hellion to make an appearance.” Teri stood brushing the crumbs from her shirt and shorts with suddenly jittery hands.

  Could it be? Was the imperturbable Teri actually getting unnerved? I knew the answer was yes when she said, “Let’s go home. Evidently, Seth had other plans tonight. He’s probably romping through the cornfield with the other sprites.”

  She was scared shitless. So was I. It took us less than a minute to be in the truck and headed up the river road. Neither of us spoke until we were past the cornfields.

  Trust me, it’s quite challenging to drive with your eyes closed.

  Teri’s courage returned when we were past the gate. “What’s up with Seth? He gave us the journal and now he has decided to be disagreeable again. Why didn’t he show us where his mother is buried, if he expects us to help him? I have a life you know.”

  “He doesn’t, so it’s probably not a big deal to him. But what if he doesn’t know where her body is?”

  “You know, I hadn’t thought of that. You’re absolute right. Duh!” Teri slapped her hand against her forehead. “If he knew where she was, he would be with her. That’s why he needs you. To find where his mother is buried. It seems like we are back to square one, doesn’t it?”

  Then I had an epiphany. “I wonder if Lady Wonder could tell us where she’s buried?”

  “I suppose it’s worth a shot. But I am booked solid next week. Would she talk to you on the phone?”

  “I doubt it. I can take the day off Monday and ride down to see her. It’s no big deal. I need a break from the county offices anyway. Honestly, I have never been confronted with filth on such a grand scale before. It boggles the mind.”

  On Monday morning after leaving instructions with my crew I set out on the three-hour drive. I was happily munching a Twix and sipping Diet Pepsi when Kelly Clarkson’s song Because Of You came on the radio. That song reminded me of Adam. “Because of you I stay on the safe side so I don’t get hurt”. So true! Tell it like it is girlfriend! It would be a long, long time before I put my heart back on the chopping block, to be callously shredded into bite sized pieces again, if ever.

  I pulled off the exit, traveled the dusty, rutted road and parked behind the doublewide trailer. I found the waiting room packed as usual, so I plopped down on the crackling plastic and picked up an old People magazine. It must be the only magazine she subscribed to. I immersed myself in the lives of the rich and famous and came to the conclusion that fame and fortune, more often than not, spell misery.

  The room was again crowded. Although this group was a decidedly more miserable lot than on my first visit, with complaints of woe and misery most often heard in the Deep South.

  One white lady’s daughter was pregnant with a black man’s child. Oh! The absolute shame! I wanted to smack her silly. Couldn’t she just pray for a healthy baby and not go nuts over the hue of a precious, innocent child’s skin? I can’t abide prejudice in any form.

  Okay! Okay! I know what you are thinking!

  Chia is Asian.

  And admittedly, I detest and loathe her with a passion that alarms even me. But I would feel the same deep abiding repugnance if she were American, Hispanic, French, Spanish, Italian or Icelandic. My feelings for the slut are directed toward her as an individual. Actually, come to think of it, I have a strong dislike for married trollops of any nationality.

  I have absolutely no problems with the remaining Asian populace. They are a wonderful people, judging from the ones I have met. It’s my fervent belief that those who choose to snub their noses at an entire race from God’s creation - be it the color of their skin, the slant of their eyes or a language barrier- are playing with fire in its hottest form. So, please believe that I am in no way prejudiced, with the exception of home wrecking adulteresses.

  Another woman's husband had invested their life savings in row upon row of now defunct chicken houses. She seemed inconsolable about the fact that they were surely destined for a life on the streets, since they were down to their last twenty dollars. I could definitely feel for her. However, my frugal self would have been more inclined to spend my last $15.00 toward a loaf of bread and a jar of long lasting peanut butter.

  After what turned out to be only an hour and forty‑five minute wait I was summoned to enter. I remembered nervously expecting to find dim lights, candles and a crystal ball on my first visit, but had found nothing of the sort. It was a normal sitting room that reminded me of my grandmother’s house.

  “I desperately need your help,” I said to Lady Wonder as I sank down into the white leather wing chair. “We have quite the quandary back home.”

  “I see,” she said, perched on the edge of her chair with a far away look in her eyes. “Tell me about this quandary and how I can help.”

  “Well, there was this lady, a slave lady, who lived close to where I live now on a plantation called Almond House.”

  “Buttercup,” she said looking at something or someone over my shoulder.

  It would seem that Sylvia Browne definitely had some competition. “Yes. That’s right. Her name was Buttercup.”

  “Seth’s mother,” she continued, slipping easily into a trance. “The child has been searching for his mother for over a century. He refuses to cross over to the other side without her.”

  “Can you tell me how Buttercup died?”

  Her eyes took on a distressed gaze before she closed them and leaned back in her chair. Her pinched lips turned white as a soft, low moan escaped. “She was poisoned. It was a horrible, painful death and she suffered tremendously… I see her spitting up blood. Her body is on fire and the searing pain in her stomach is excruciating. The pain is eating through her stomach and she fears it will soon reach her baby.”

  “She sees the woman who poisoned her sitting in the dark corner, smiling. Buttercup pleads for help. She pleads for her unborn child. She pleads for mercy. She pleads for Delbert. But the woman only laughs and says, “Delbert cannot help you now. Rot in hell with your bastard children!”

  It took a few minutes for Lady Wonder’s eyes to focus and her expression to return to normal. “The woman in the corner was evil.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “However, she knew nothing about running a plantation that size. Within three years after her husband’s death she was penniless. She died a lonely, miserable old woman filled with hatred. Even her own children turned against her in the end.”

  “Where did she bury Buttercup?”

  She glanced over my shoulder, presumably at her spirit guide, and said, “She lies beneath a buckeye tree.”

  “A buckeye tree?” I had never heard of such a tree. Of course, it would be a tree I had never heard of. I wouldn’t have expected less.

  “Yes, a buckeye. A nut from the buckeye tree is thought to be a good luck charm. In those days, if you carried a buckeye in your pocket it was considered to bring
you good luck. Some older people today still search for buckeye trees and carry the nuts in their pockets for luck. The same way you would carry a rabbit’s foot today.”

  “The tree didn’t bring Buttercup much luck, did it?”

  “The tree wasn’t there when Buttercup was buried. She carried a buckeye in her pocket for luck, as did most all slaves of her time. She was buried at the top of a hill in bright sunlight and the buckeye sprouted in the moist earth, took root, and grew into a tall tree shading her final resting place.

  “You mean to tell me that the tree, that will lead us to where she is buried, grew from a nut that she carried in her pocket when she was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is the tree?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. I can only see the tall tree on top of a high hill in bright sunlight. There is moving water in the background.”

  “A river?”

  “Yes.”

  “We think Seth wants us to dig up his mother’s remains and bury her in the family cemetery with him and his father.”

  “That would be impossible to accomplish,” she said, shaking her head sadly.

  “Why? We have to bury him with his mother! That kid will haunt me forever if I don’t!”

  “Because her bones are wrapped among the roots of the tree and would most likely be turned to dust by now.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You will need to dig up the child’s remains and bury him underneath the buckeye tree. He can’t find where his mother was buried. That is why he searches night after night, year after year. That is why he came to you for help. He, like you, had bad experiences as a child. Seth was frequently molested by an overseer on the plantation. He sees you as a kindred spirit.”

  She knew what had happened to me when I was four! She was the one person who could answer my remaining question. “The man who hurt me. Is he still alive?”

  “Yes. He is in prison. He molested several more children before he was finally caught.”