Flannery and Mama made arrangements to bury Patsy in their family cemetery. But old man Mr. Henry had other thoughts and came out to the Butlers to share them with the women.
The former sheriff suggested the three—Patsy, Danny, and Hollis—share funeral services, even be buried beside one another out at the old Catholic cemetery. “It will quell rumors and unite the community,” he said, taking off his cap, scratching his bald head. “And it sure is a pretty marble orchard for our young ones too.”
“What are you talking about, Jack?” Mama asked him when he dropped into the empty porch rocker beside her.
“Well”—the old man shifted in his seat, pulled his lanky frame toward her—“I’m talking ’bout folks thinking bad things here.”
Flannery stepped out onto the porch. “What bad things?” she couldn’t help but ask, alarm prickling her flesh.
“Killings,” Mr. Henry said, shifting his eyes. “Folks are saying Hollis was so distraught about his dear brother, he took his own life out there. That maybe Patsy shot Danny. We don’t know—”
Mama clutched her chest.
“Now see here, Mr. Henry,” Flannery said. “I know. My sister wouldn’t stomp a blade of grass, and Danny likely did his own self in just like Hollis said he did.”
“She wouldn’t,” Mama echoed.
Mr. Henry held up a hand. “Folks is speculating; that’s all, Jean. Running their flaps. So I thought burying the kids together would bring us all together. Keep us together. Keep folks from gossiping.”
“Gossiping?” The word wormed itself into Mama’s brow. “Jack, Saint Luke’s closed decades ago when it burned down.” Mama bunched up her forehead tighter.
“Not the church’s cemetery though, Jean. And it has plenty of space,” Mr. Henry said. “Fine headstones. We’ll do a grand one for Hollis, Danny, and your girl, too. My Hollis never let a day pass that he didn’t look for those two or worry for their whereabouts. He devoted his days to finding them, raising money for the school prom they’d missed, honoring them. Good son, good brother. We give them a proper burial in Saint Luke’s, we’ll give them poor souls a good Catholic anchor, the one and true, for eternal rest.”
Glass Ferry still had its share of churches: two Methodists, and one Pentecostal in the hollows, a Disciples of Christ, the Colored Christian Church, and a Baptist place of worship for the 826 folks living there.
The Butler family belonged to the Truth Disciples of Christ, or at least Mama and the girls did, even though Honey Bee’d never had the fancy to show up but a handful of times and then only because he’d been henpecked by Mama’s friends to attend their kin’s baptismals and weddings. Sometime during the service, he’d steal out, and Mama and the girls would find him waiting in the lot to tote them home, his tie loosened from its knot, his pressed collar flipped up, tickling his chin, the dark jacket slung over his shoulder.
Mama’d ask him why he couldn’t stay put long enough for the sermon. Honey Bee would grin a little embarrassed and tell her she should’ve joined him for the fine sermon out here. Then he’d point to the sky, the countryside, the grasses and trees, birds and other critters.
Flannery placed a hand on Mama’s shoulder and told Mr. Henry, “We’re burying Patsy with Honey Bee and my brothers. With our kin on Butler Hill.”
“Honey Bee,” Mama said, as if suddenly remembering. “It would kill Daddy’s good soul knowing his baby girl was buried in the Catholic cemetery like that. I have to bury her beside my Honey Bee and my precious boys, Jack.”
“Jean—”
“My family.”
“Suit yourself.” Jack Henry stood, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and left.
CHAPTER 29
Mama called on her preacher, Isaac Nefas, to conduct the funeral service. On a dismal day, Flannery and Mama buried Patsy’s remains in Butler Hill Cemetery, overlooking the river.
They’d hushed up Mr. Henry’s suggestion and had the small coffin of bones placed in the ground next to Honey Bee, Patsy’s brothers, and her grandparents, surrounded by their ancestors, a couple of outlaws, and a few slave graves.
Flannery and Mama and a handful of folks, mostly from Mama’s canasta club, along with old man Henry, Junior and his wife and kids, and a few others, huddled on the hill under umbrellas as Pastor Nefas rang the dead bell four times, calling for prayer for Patsy’s soul and scattering away any lurking evil spirits.
When the service was over, Mr. Henry sidled up to Mama, tipped his brown felt hat, and put his hand on Patsy’s casket. “Jean, it ain’t right how you separated those two,” he said, and pianoed the little coffin with his fingers, tapping out his grievance. “I knew Danny was smitten with her. Hell, he might’ve even married her. And I would’ve paid for Patsy’s burial in the Catholic cemetery.” He shook the dampness off his hand. “Put her beside my good boys.”
Mama’s eyes widened. “Now see here, Jack. She belongs here. And Butlers don’t accept charity.”
“You are a foolish woman, Jean Butler.” His old voice was weak, watery.
“I will surely not be beholden to you again, only to have you come back collecting later like you did on my dear Honey Bee. You’ll not get another red cent of Butler money,” Mama said.
Mr. Henry flinched at the mention of collecting granny fees. “Taxes had to be collected according to the law. Honey Bee knew this. And I know Hollis had been going light on your homestead taxes for some time.”
“Butlers earned that, what with all you took when we were barely scraping by,” Mama said. “We hardly made it out of the Depression.”
“We all pay our dues, Jean.”
“Lord, Jack.” Mama’s voice dropped to a scalding whisper. “You know Honey Bee and I have paid ours dearly.”
“Now, Jean, we’re not talking about—”
Flannery placed her hand protectively on Mama’s shoulder. Mama patted it. “Paid with blood,” she spat, seeming to draw a fire from her daughter’s grip.
“Ssh, Mama, don’t upset yourself.” Confused, Flannery looked at Mr. Henry and her mama locked in a secret moment.
“It’s bad doings what you’ve done here, Jean,” he said. “It’s still not too late to have her transported over to the Catholic cemetery for tomorrow’s service—”
“I will not!”
Mr. Henry looked over to the huddle of old-timers waiting to lower Patsy’s coffin into the ground. “Just saying it ain’t right to separate those two after all this time,” he whispered.
“What ain’t right, sir, is your boy took my girl. Took my girl right over that cliff,” Mama huffed.
“We know Patsy went off on her own accord.”
“She wouldn’t have driven herself into the river like that. Your boy did that.” Mama cut an accusing hand out from under her umbrella into the mist.
Mr. Henry hissed low, “She seduced my boy, sure as a Kentucky summer is long and hot. She caused that accident.”
Mama gasped. “Is that what you think, Jack Henry? Is that what you’re telling folks now?”
“Just calling it like I know it, Jean.”
“Well, we’re done then. Good ’n’ done.” Mama’s eyes filled. “Leave. You can leave right now, Jack Henry, and let us mourn her without your filthy, false accusations.”
“I’m hurting too, Jean.” Mr. Henry rubbed a tight fist over his damp eye, tucked his teeth under a grimace. “Lost both my boys.” He stabbed an eye to Flannery.
Mama reached for Flannery’s cold hand.
“Go,” Mama whispered.
When everyone departed, four men quietly came forward and lowered Patsy’s small coffin into the hole.
Flannery and Mama gripped each other and looked away, Mama’s muffled sobs soaking Flannery’s shoulder. They stayed that way until the sound of shovels and falling earth struck hot in Flannery’s ears and a tightening wrenched her throat and the sadness rumbled—until she could no longer trust her weakened legs to carry Mama home.
*
The next day the state trooper came back to the Butler house.
Claymore Green stepped out of his police cruiser and pulled his tall frame up to the porch.
“Mrs. Butler. Mrs. Hamilton,” Trooper Green greeted. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” He had a clipboard with papers.