Sixteen
A week later, just as I had turned off the lamp and was about to get comfortable, Teri called. “How are you holding up, Eve?”
“Tired. The new contract is whipping my butt.” Don’t mention the little boy! Don’t mention the little boy! I desperately tried to channel these words into her brain. But, evidently, the girl has no psychic ability whatsoever.
“That. And the little boy,” she said.
I had been afraid she wouldn’t allow the subject to drop. “What do you have in mind?” I asked around the painful knot that had formed in the back of my throat. “You wouldn’t have bothered to bring it up if you didn’t have something spinning around in that salad spinner you call a brain.”
“I told the husband I was coming to spend this weekend with you. I didn’t mention the child last weekend if you will recall. I thought you needed a break from all the madness.”
For Teri, that had been a thoughtful gesture. “Great, we’ll go shopping and out to eat and to the movies,” I tried, unsuccessfully, to change the topic.
“And to the Buttercup House.”
“I’ll go if you can convince Tammy and Mallory to go.”
It was a joke and we both knew it. Just imagining their reaction if we even suggested they go near the house, caused Teri to laugh until she almost lost her breath. “I should call just to piss Mallory off. But I simply cannot tolerate the girl’s perpetual whining. It’s just going to be you and me, kid. We need to finish this, Eve. That child is all I think about.”
“I know. Me too.”
Against my better judgment, Teri arrived at my house Friday night for another trip to the cabin. We went to Sagebrush for a great steak supper and then came home and popped popcorn and watched Signs on TV. That’s a great movie and still never fails to scare the bejesus out of me! And I still do some serious boo hooing with Mel Gibson at the end, especially when little Morgan gasps air into his asthmatic lungs and says, “Did somebody save me?”
After a huge breakfast at Mom’s the following morning, we hopped into Dad's old beat up river truck.
“That woman can cook!” Teri smiled and rubbed a stomach filled with milk gravy, biscuits, grits, country ham, scrambled eggs, sliced cantaloupe and coffee.
“That’s pretty much an understatement, but come on. Let’s just get this over with.”
Hopping in the truck I drove until we parked the truck in front of what I now referred to as the Buttercup House.
We waded through the buttercups and took another tour of the house. Again we came up empty handed. I was sure the child could speak. He could very easily control the weather and that couldn’t be an easy task. So, speaking shouldn’t be all that difficult an accomplishment for him to achieve. Why didn’t he just tell us what he wanted?
“Okay, so we didn’t find anything in the house, although, I was sure he wanted us to,” Teri begrudgingly admitted. “Maybe we missed something at the graveyard.”
Once more we struck out through the dazzling field of buttercups, but had only taken a few steps when we were stopped dead in our tracks as childish laughter floated from the uppermost part of a 30-feet tall pine tree.
“He’s here, Teri,” I whispered. “Did you hear him laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Lord, please watch over us and keep us safe through whatever happens,” I prayed fervently. “And forgive Teri, for she knows not what she does.”
“Amen!” she said and glared sideways at me.
We turned and nervously glanced toward the tree, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. I shifted my gaze upward to take an apprehensive glance at the sky. Whew! Only clear blue sky filled with white, fluffy clouds floated above us. However, I knew how rapidly that could change and, unfortunately, the child was present and accounted for.
“Teri, do not say or do anything to piss him off,” I warned. “You know how temperamental he is.”
“Okay, okay calm down.”
We were carefully placing our feet between bunches of flowers when the little shit threw something and hit me on my head. I gasped and cried, “Ouch! Why does it always have to be me that gets abused? I wish he would terrorize you for a change!”
Again the child giggled, seemingly from the top of the tallest tree.
“He seems to be in a cheerful mood, Eve! Don’t ruin it!”
“Yeah, for now. We’ll see how long that lasts. I just wish he would direct his attention to somebody besides me for once,” I whispered, rubbing my head and peering anxiously into the pine tree. “Maybe he was aiming for you and hit me by mistake.” Lord knows, I was eager to humor the child and not bring his wrath down upon us again. I remembered all too well his penchant for wind, lightening, hail and bugs.
“Maybe, but I think he drew our attention to keep us from leaving. I knew whatever he wanted us to find was here, at the house. I wonder if he’ll come down and let us see him? There’s only one way to find out,” she said as she moved toward his tree. “Seth, can you come down her for a second, hon?” He chose to ignore her. “What did he throw at you anyway? A pinecone?”
“I’m not sure what it was. Come help me look through the flowers and find it.”
On our hands and knees we rooted around the ground under the magnificent buttercups. “I found it, Teri!”
“What is it?”
It was a very old and raggedy handmade book, the pages held together with yarn. “It looks like a journal of some sort.” Then, she glanced up into the tree and asked, “Is this what you wanted us to find?” We heard leaves shaking in the top of the tree.
“Evidently, he got tired of waiting and finally decided to give us a little assistance.”
I opened the book as gently as possible, but the cover still fell off and landed at my feet. “These pages are so old and fragile they’re going to crumble if we try to turn them.” Glancing at the first page I could tell there was writing on it, but without my glasses I couldn’t read a word. Neither could Teri. “Damn, I wish we could read it. Why does a person have to start going blind the instant they turn 40?”
“I know, girl. Not being able to see what is in front of you is a royal pain in the ass. Let’s go home and get your glasses.”
“We’ll be back,” she shouted to the top of the tree as we climbed in the truck.
At home, side by side on the couch with my ugly reading glasses situated on my nose, I took a deep breath and read the first page:
Property of Mary Beth Almond, May 12, 1854.
“It’s Mary Beth Almond’s diary. Wasn’t she Delbert Almond’s wife? What does it say?” Teri asked. She was so excited she had pulled an emergency cigarette out of her purse, one she had stashed there two years ago when she’d quit smoking, for just such an emergency.
Taking a deep breath, I began to read from the journal.
As I sit here writing this I feel obliged to question whether I ever knew my dear husband at all. The man for whom I left my devoted family in Charleston and came to live in these Godforsaken back woods of North Carolina with. The man I labored and bore four daughters for. He should thank the Good Lord above for his daughters and be eternally grateful that I chose to spend the remainder of my days here, even after I found out about her!”
“I wonder who she’s talking about,” Teri asked in between severe fits of coughing. “Keep reading.”
“For crying out loud put that nasty thing out before you cough up a lung.”
“Would you please just read the journal Miss Surgeon General?” she said puffing away.
May 17, 1854
Today I met her for the first time, the darkie who bore my husbands illegitimate offspring. As much as it pains me to admit, my dear husband has confessed feelings of love for the whore of a slave woman and her bastard child.
“The little boy!” Teri cried. “He is the son of Delbert Almond.”
“I should have guessed that when he placed the buttercup on his grave.” I berated myself for having failed to come to such a logical conclusion. “Plus the fact that when I saw the little boy my first thought was that one of his parents must have been white.”
The next few pages were about the general running of the plantation. I gently flipped through the pages looking for more about Delbert's son.
June 3, 1854
Unfortunately, Yellow Fever is sweeping the land. The darkies are dropping like flies. I fear my Almighty God will strike me dead for even thinking such a thought, however, my most fervent prayer is for my husbands whore, Buttercup, to be the very next to drop.
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.”