“It’s a young way to react, isn’t it?” Alston said to Esme, chuckling.
“Yes, but a little too ‘eye for an eye’ for Birchie and Wattie. They wanted to show Lav and Hugh that you have to turn the other cheek.” It was spin, tailored to this small-town Baptist audience, but there was truth in it. I was reminding them of the kind of women Birchie and Wattie were. The kind that they had always been. “Even if that means standing out in eighty-percent humidity making sure teenagers get every bit of the Charmin out of the bushes.”
All three of them exchanged approving glances, nodding to one another in parental solidarity. I stood outside the moment, still only secretly a budding member of that club.
Alston said, “I almost don’t blame the kids, after the things Miss Martina implied. . . .”
It was a delicate, sideways query, but a query nonetheless. Alston was approaching the subject of Birchie and the bones. This was why they were all here, wasn’t it? Grady looked decidedly uncomfortable, sticking his hands into his pockets, while Esme leaned in.
“It was awful. I knew it would be like that. I didn’t want to go to church,” I said frankly. I turned to Esme and added, “It’s why we weren’t at Redemption last Sunday. Wattie and Birchie didn’t even walk down to the vegetable stand this week or go shop for yarn. They felt unwelcome.”
As I spoke, Rachel dropped all pretense that she was working and joined the group. So far she’d been remarkably staunch about not questioning me. She hadn’t asked about the bones, not even obliquely, once she’d seen that Lav wasn’t in danger. It was as if she had entered into the conspiracy without needing to know what it was, trading silent unasking for the haven of Birchie’s house while Jake was MIA. Well, he was found now, and Alston had turned the conversation to the most essential question.
“I hope Miss Wattie knows it isn’t true. We wanted her at church,” Esme said, then thought to add, “And you and Miss Birchie, too.”
“Thank you,” I said. I’d visited Redemption plenty of times, and Birchie worshipped there every other week now, but we were welcomed on day passes, because Wattie loved us. “We knew that certain folks would be saying the worst things they could think of, and what could we do? Look what happened when we did go to First Baptist. Martina knew very well she was asking questions that Birchie’s not allowed to answer.” In an aside to the Franklins, I added, “Her grandson is a policeman. Cody Mack?”
Franklin nodded. “I know him.” His tone was cool and so carefully neutral. He did know Cody, then, down to the bone.
“What do you mean she’s not allowed to answer?” Esme asked.
Alston chimed in, “For legal reasons?”
I had come to the meat of it now, and all three of them had eager eyes. So did Rachel, for that matter. Well, they were human, and this was juicy.
“That’s part of it,” I said. “But look at her.”
We all looked, and maybe it was a good thing that Birchie wasn’t at her best this morning. Just now she was making shooing hands toward her feet, and Wattie stood in profile, whispering in Birchie’s ear.
“What’s she doing?” Esme asked.
I wasn’t positive, but I could guess. “She’s trying to get the sex rabbits to stop . . . well, doing what rabbits do.”
“Sex rabbits!” Grady said.
“Yes. She’s hallucinating,” I said. “This disease makes people see things—usually animals or people. Also, it messes with memory. The police could ask her about the bones five times, but they might get five different answers. Who knows which answer would be true? If any. We can’t let her incriminate herself when we have no way of knowing what’s real and what the Lewy bodies are telling her to say.”
“Dear Lord, how terrible,” Alston said. She put a kind hand on my arm and added in a confidential tone, “I knew things were not right with Miss Birchie at the Fish Fry, when she said the P-word and . . .” She trailed off.
It took me a second to realize what the “P-word” was. A couple of fouler possibilities ran through my head before I realized that Alston meant “penis.” It was a medical term, but when Birchie used it to describe a piece of associate pastor that was being put to an illicit use in the choir room? It was profane enough to earn the abbreviation.
I nodded and said, “She may never be able to tell us the whole story.”
More spin, but not dishonest. Most mornings, given a good sleep and a nice breakfast, Birchie seemed herself. But I had no way of knowing how many more good mornings Birchie would be granted. It wasn’t even 10:00 a.m. today, and she was already shooing rabbits. If the police questioned Birchie on a bad day, she might well say anything.
“So you don’t even know?” Esme asked, surprised, looking back and forth between me and Rachel.
“Nope. Not a clue,” Rachel said honestly. I shook my head, somewhat less honestly.
“And Wattie?” Grady asked.
“Nope,” I lied staunchly, looking Grady right in the eye.
“You asked her?” Esme wanted to know, all pretense that this was anything but a straight-up recon mission dropped now that I was dishing out the goods directly. It wasn’t very southern of me.
“Of course!” I said, more comfortable now. I’d told the lie that mattered, the one I had to tell to protect my grandmother and her oldest, dearest friend. Everything I had left to say was pure gospel. “Between you and me? I would have done exactly what Wattie did. I would have helped Birchie move that trunk if she’d asked. The law be damned. She’s sick, and Wattie loves her.” Three small-town Baptists, and they were so interested they didn’t so much as blink at the mild profanity. “I honestly don’t think it matters who’s in that trunk or how they got there. Not now. I’ve accepted that I may never know why either. . . .” My voice broke, and it wasn’t spin. I wanted to know the why. I wanted Birchie to tell me. But even if she never did, what I had to say next I believed with my whole being. “I do know Birchie, though. I know her character. So do you, and so does Wattie, and so does this whole town. She’s been the same person for almost a century. Something bad happened in the middle, but a box of bones can’t wipe away ninety years of Birchie being who she is. Whatever she did, or knew about, or kept secret, I forgive her. It’s too late for any other course. She’s very old, and she’s too sick now to explain or defend herself. So I forgive her anything that needs forgiving, and I’m going to defend her. So is Wattie. We’re not going to hide in the house like we’re ashamed of her. We are going to help Birchie go on about her business for as long as she can, and we won’t let people question her or judge her. Wattie won’t have it. I won’t have it. It won’t do.”
Those were Birchie’s power words. I said them for her, using her authority and her inflections, and Alston’s chin came up in response to them. Esme reached out and squeezed my shoulder.