Flannery had taken care of her mama up to the very end. Made it her sole duty and daily drive to give Mama the peace she knew she had stolen from her, and to earn herself a half measure of forgiveness, if forgiveness could be earned. Though Mama would never admit to it, she’d thrived in the city. Her mind had cleared, and a long-lost spark returned to her step.
Mama’d made friends at the Knights of Columbus, where she attended bingo twice a week. Found some more folks at her neighborhood church, and formed a canasta club, and also did some seamstress work for the dry cleaners down the block. Less and less she mentioned Glass Ferry. And less and less Flannery thought about what she’d left behind.
After one of Mama’s new friends learned about Jean Butler’s husband and his distillery business, it wasn’t long until some men came calling on her and Flannery.
They were young businessmen, sons of a bourbon king, who were curious about Honey Bee’s recipes, his old ways with the whiskey.
Lately, Louisville and the rest of Kentucky had embraced their bourbon roots, seen a global promise in that colorful past, and soon, new artisanal distilleries were popping up everywhere. A boom, there were now more bourbon barrels than people in the Commonwealth.
In the end the men paid Flannery top dollar for the recipes, and like Honey Bee, only with an operation larger in scale, those smart young folks began toting their barrels of River Witch across seas and back, aging amber liquor aboard ships, letting those grandmother oceans spank the very fires into their newfangled whiskey, using Honey Bee’s old ways.
Flannery and Mama bought a small cottage on the Ohio River and lived comfortably off the sale. Flannery still taught at the elementary school, had herself a few friends in the faculty, and kept busy tutoring several days a week after school.
Occasionally, a fellow teacher would introduce Flannery to a man for a dinner date, maybe a movie, but it never turned into anything more than Flannery wanted it to—a nice night out and only this.
She and Mama would go home to visit, but just that: a day visit to the graves, then Flannery would drop Mama off to see old friends. Flannery always grabbed a book and read under the elm on Ebenezer until the light began to fade, dirtied, and it looked dingy and done, like someone had washed it too many times.
She couldn’t explain to herself why she was drawn back, other than maybe she was like some hardened criminal pulled back to the scene of the crime, who needed to pocket a secret token from his victim, relive it all, like the villains in those old Jerry Bruckheimer TV shows she watched every Thursday evening. Flannery reckoned visiting Ebenezer was her theft, her ugly trophy she held tight and offered up to Patsy.
The day Flannery buried Mama on Butler Hill, a young couple attended the graveside service. They had a familiar feel to them, like she should’ve known them, but Flannery was sure they’d never met.
After everyone left, the couple approached her. “Miss Butler?”
“Mrs. Butler Hamilton,” Flannery corrected absently.
The young woman approached her shyly. “I’m JoLynn Puckett, and this is my husband, Ben.” JoLynn pulled her husband to her side, and he shook Flannery’s hand and offered a warm smile.
“We’re sorry about your mama. We wanted to pay our respects,” JoLynn said. “I left flowers on the graves up here for your family. . . .”
“Thank you.” Flannery looked around, suddenly noticing the small bouquets on her baby brothers’, Honey Bee’s, and Patsy’s graves. “That’s very kind of you.” Flannery made to dismiss them so she could have a private moment.
“Ben and I live in your house now,” JoLynn said. “It’s a beautiful home. We bought it two years ago from the people you sold it to.”
Flannery looked at them curiously.
“Well, I . . . Ben and I just wanted to ask, that is, if you’re not in any hurry, if you might like to have lunch with us today? I made some tea and sandwiches. A nice luncheon for after the service.”
Surprised, Flannery brightened at the invitation. She was not in a hurry to get back to Louisville. She never got in a hurry about much these days, dragging around her sixty-six-year-old bones.
“Nothing too fancy, but we have country ham and biscuits, and a nice salad we made from our garden. There’s tea. Oh, and lemon pie,” JoLynn pressed. Ben nodded and smiled warmly.
Flannery looked down the hill at the big old house peeking through the trees. She would love to see it. Love to walk into those rooms and pretend Mama, Honey Bee, and Patsy were with her.
The day was sunny, breezy, and not too hot. The young couple seemed kind, and the visit would cheer her.
“Thank you, lunch sounds nice. Just give me a moment to say good-bye to Mama, and I’ll be down in a bit.”
The Pucketts told her to take her time and left.
Flannery reached to the funeral spray lying atop the casket, then jerked her hand back. She grimaced and forced herself to take a flower and then quickly tossed it into the freshly dug grave that awaited, blowing a soft kiss. “Mama, sleep well with your babies and Honey Bee and Patsy. Our kin. All gone too soon. But all together now.”
Flannery stepped over to Honey Bee’s grave and placed a kiss to his headstone, then moved over to her brothers’ and did the same, dusting off the scattered acorns on their old stones. At Patsy’s grave, she rested a hand on the marble. “Sweet dreams, dear sister. Mama is with you now.”
Flannery drove down the hill, pulled up to the house, taking it all in, the freshly painted porch, a new tin roof. Stepping out and under the willow, she smiled. Someone had placed a wrought-iron settee with cushions near the tree.
She touched the lacy leaves, brought a soft branch to her nose and inhaled the earthy scent of green, admired how tall it had grown. Lightly she hummed “The Tennessee Waltz” and swayed her arms a little. “Yes, I lost my little darling the night they were playing the beautiful Tennessee Waltz . . .” Flannery sang softly. Spun around once, the elixir of home lighting music in her bones.
How many times had she dreamed of Wendell Black taking her to a dance one day, practiced her twirls right here under a moonlit weeper.
She wanted to savor everything good from her childhood, spin again. The clap of a screen door stopped her. If JoLynn Puckett had not been standing on the porch watching, Flannery would’ve twirled, would’ve knelt and kissed the earth, kicked off her shoes, stripped her stockings even, and wriggled her toes in the sweet bluegrass to feel the years of her youth once more, feel her family who had once felt it all with her.
Memories. Those times when Mama and Honey Bee would place a quilt under the tree for a picnic of cold fried chicken, stuffed eggs, buttered biscuits, and custard cake Mama’d made, sending the girls back to the house for the china, silverware, and linen napkins to make it fancy.
Uncle Mary would stop by and take his seat near the trunk, whittling on a piece of wood with his knife, carving out a little bird, a dog, spinning tops, or some other whatnots for Patsy, Flannery, and Mama.
Flannery ran her heel lightly over the patch of earth. “The ground is still bald.” She chuckled. From her and Patsy’s doings. Honey Bee used to also set up a big washtub there in the summer when the girls were little, wearing that grassy seat out.
Laughing, splashing, she and Patsy had cooled off in the bucket behind the willow’s green, draping curtain. The twins would wave at Mama and Honey Bee sitting on the porch, drinking their lemonade and sharing smiles.
Tilting her head to the sky, Flannery took a whiff of the sweet summer memories and pulled them into her old soul.
“That old willow there,” JoLynn called out as she stepped off the porch, tucking a cell phone into her back pocket, “is sure a pretty one.”
“My sister and I planted it with our daddy when we were four. He said he wanted a proper kissing tree for his girls and their children to get hitched under one day. Said every homestead should have one.”