“I-I’m fine.” Flannery touched her cheek and felt the soreness where Hollis had hit her. “Just stumbled back there a ways.” Flannery made a show to dust herself off, grabbed the banister. “Is Mama okay—”
“Yes, she’s still napping. I’ve had dinner ready for a while and I was just waiting on you.” Mrs. Taylor looked past her, and Flannery followed her gaze to a plume of smoke rising in the distance. “Look. It’s a fire, Flannery,” Mrs. Taylor said, pinning a finger to Ebenezer Road.
“Sorry, the time got away from me. I heard something too, Mrs. Taylor. I, uh, I was in the barn. That’s why I came running,” Flannery lied. “I wonder if one of the farmers is burning something. Maybe someone’s tractor caught on fire or . . .” She tried to think of more excuses to give the old woman.
“That doesn’t look so good. I should call the fire department,” Mrs. Taylor said.
“I better check on Mama.” Flannery hurried past her and into the parlor. Trembling, she stuffed Jesse James’s pistol back into the secretary drawer and then looked in on Mama, who was still sleeping, out cold from her swim.
Flannery pulled a quilt up over her mama, pushed a fallen lock off her cheek. “You rest, Mama; get better. I won’t let anyone hurt us again.” Flannery retreated to her own bedroom.
Digging out her old sky-blue Samsonite suitcase from under the bed, Flannery laid it on the mattress. She flipped open the clasp and scattered the small pile of clothes, locking her fingers around the smooth neck of the fifth of whiskey Honey Bee’d given her long ago.
A swallow would help knock down her fear. Or knock her on her tail. But just one long pull could right her nerves. That’s all she wanted. Just to steady her nerves. So she could right her mind with calm thinking.
Flannery pressed the cool glass to her forehead. From outside came the long, quivering cry of sirens. A few seconds later, another, and another. One, then one more wailing, piggybacking onto the others.
Rolling the bottle over her cheek, she pressed the glass to her hungering mouth, tapped. “Not for the Devil,” she finally whispered, and stuffed it back into the suitcase. She wouldn’t open it, not unless it was her daddy’s birthday, and then only for a nip to toast him and his goodness. Certainly not for the likes of Hollis Henry.
She would never do that again. Wouldn’t disgrace herself and her kin, like Uncle Mary had rightfully accused her of back then. It might start her hankering for bigger things that were locked up in white apothecary cabinets kept in bigger places. Couldn’t risk the long tooth for those pills again, those stronger, newer medicines, those feeling deadeners. Those bigger things that at one time helped bury her drowning aches and despairs. Those tonics and elixirs in locked, sterile hospital wards.
Flannery teared up remembering what she’d just done, all of it, the bullets, the silences when asked—and called for Honey Bee to help her, prayed that she’d given Hollis no more of a paddle than he deserved, and then begged for her sister’s peace. “Patsy, your secrets are safe. You can sleep in peace now.”
She prayed that justice had been met, and that there was nothing more needed telling. Her sister’s and her family’s reputation would remain unsullied, and Hollis’s tale of Danny playing around with a gun would eventually stick. Stick like most tall tales and gossip did in small-town Glass Ferry.
Mrs. Taylor came to her bedroom door and said she’d reheat the dinner and it would be ready shortly, chattering on about the “fire over yonder.” Flannery stood in the middle of her room, waiting for the officials to drop by, to come snooping, and told Mrs. Taylor she’d be down shortly. When minutes rolled past and still not a one had called, she started breathing tiny sighs of relief.
Mrs. Taylor served up chicken and dumplings, cornbread, and mustard greens. Mama ate hearty, and Mrs. Taylor said she was relieved to see the color bloom in Jean Butler’s cheeks.
Flannery picked at her food, tried to eat, but couldn’t stop thinking of how she’d robbed Hollis of his last meal, couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.
Mrs. Taylor and Mama chatted about old times, and soon Mama smiled.
Flannery washed the supper dishes, while Mrs. Taylor visited with Mama on the porch.
Myrtle Taylor left just before a storm blew in. It rained hard, coming down in sheets that pelted the panes, whipped at the old two-story, dropped dead branches onto both the roof and Flannery’s spirit. She checked on Mama several times, wearing out the floorboards in front of her window, jumping at the slightest sounds.
Parting the curtain, she looked out. Again and again. When the rain settled into a mist, Flannery seized hold of a thimble of hope and magpied it away. The rain was a good thing, she surmised; surely it would hide any footprints left on Ebenezer. Hide what the fire hadn’t—and maybe erase her deed completely.
Holding that hope, Flannery fell into bed, tossing and turning most of the night until she climbed back out at four in the morning.
Flannery dug in the drawer for Patsy’s pearls, then packed the family heirloom back inside, damning the night she’d found them and all the lies and souls she was stacking up because of them. For God’s sake. What have I done? I only meant to scare Hollis. She spilled bitterly into her pillow until spent; her head ached, and a fitful sleep took hold again.
In the morning, Flannery served Mama breakfast, keeping their conversation away from their worries. She chatted with Mama about the weather and other meaningless things that wouldn’t beg for more, and Mama stuck with it, the meds sedating her old nerves and then sending her off to nap.
Flannery cleaned up the kitchen, made iced tea, and whipped together ham salad for dinner. Turning on the radio, she kept one ear cocked on it, the other bent to the drive for unexpected visitors.
She rested at the counter with a glass of iced tea. The radio announcer interrupted a Marvin Gaye song. “It has been confirmed that Sheriff Hollis Henry of Glass Ferry died last night on the way to County Hospital, Deputy Miles of Glass Ferry’s Sheriff’s Department said. The sheriff died of injuries sustained in an accident.”
Flannery’s hands shook, and she set down the glass, pressed a hand over her mouth.
The announcer went on. “Apparently the Glass Ferry sheriff was removing an old gas can, and it blew up due to an unexplained cause, fatally injuring the thirty-nine-year-old father of three, husband to Mrs. Louise Crawford Henry.... Deputy Miles said that the department does its best to control litter, picking up everything from old ammunition, lighters, and all kinds of trash kids leave behind. Sheriff Henry was particular about keeping vandals off Ebenezer Road, but the department had seen an increase in offenses now that school was out.... The department will now permanently close off the old gravel road with a bull gate that neighboring farmer, Rusty Parsons, offered to have erected.”
A puff of static lit the airways.
Flannery leaned into the counter and turned up the dial. “. . . Deputy said many times the good sheriff took it upon himself to pick up the trash.... Funeral arrangements are being made by . . .”
Flannery sank down onto the kitchen chair. She wasn’t happy or proud that Hollis was gone by her doing, but a deep gratefulness slumped her anxious shoulders.
Mama came into the kitchen. She peered at Flannery’s face. “What is it, baby girl?”
“Oh, Mama, more bad news.”
The house creaked, gasped like it couldn’t take anymore, couldn’t choke down one more sorrow.
“Flannery Bee?”
Flannery wiped the reprieve from her damp eyes. “It seems Sheriff Henry had an accident. A horrible accident.”
CHAPTER 28