The Sisters of Glass Ferry

by Kim Michele Richardson

  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.

  Flannery didn’t say a word and clasped her trembling hands behind her back.

  Mama held out her hand. “Come on up and have a seat, Trooper.”

  Flannery moved the newspaper off the rocking chair and remembered. Remembered where she knew the trooper from. She’d seen him in the Glass Ferry Gazette’s newspaper a few years ago, read about him right here on Mama’s porch. The trooper had gotten into a bit of trouble about tickets he’d turned in at the end of his shift.

  Yes, that was it. A sort of depression had taken hold of the young lawman, the paper reported. Law officials found out no one had showed up for court, or paid fees on the tickets Trooper Green handed out for almost a year after his mother died.

  His mama’s car had been struck while crossing a train track. Unable to bear any more misery, cause anyone more suffering or sadness, they said that during the young trooper’s shift he began visiting the cemetery where his mama was buried.

  A year passed before a court clerk discovered the indiscretion after one of Trooper Green’s tickets landed on his desk. The clerk had been surprised to see it was written to his grandmother, who’d died ten years ago, and every single citation from the trooper had been issued to dead folks, the names plucked from their gravestones.

  Nothing came of it, Flannery recalled, just some light-duty desk work for a short spell, meetings with the police chaplain, until the incident was good and hushed.

  Flannery snatched a glimpse of the trooper. She supposed everyone had a bit of blue book in them, or at the very least, was just a blink away from getting themselves on that list.

  Now, Trooper’s shoulders seemed to relax, and there was warmth on his strong face when he looked at her mama, a softening inside him.

  “Ma’am, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Trooper Green gave her a smile. “You’re sure looking fit today.”

  “Thank you, T
rooper Green. I do feel better now that we got Patsy back and had her a proper burial. Do have a seat,” Mama patted the chair, perking.

  “God rest her,” he murmured, and sat down. “Ma’am, my captain wanted me to wrap up this case. Before I close it, I’d like to make sure I have everything right. Mind?”

  “Of course not. Will you have a glass of tea?” Mama asked.

  “No, ma’am. Thanks. I need to ask a few more things about your daughter. Sorry for prying, but it’s important. Did Patsy have a temper?”

  “Heavens no,” Mama piped. “Patsy was more like me, where Flannery”—she smiled kindly at her daughter—“is a lot like her daddy.”

  Flannery felt her face warm, but stayed put and rested her back against the porch beam.

  “I know it’s been a long time, but did Patsy have any reason to want to harm Danny? Did he do anything to make her upset that you might recall?” Trooper pressed.

  “Lord a’mercy!” Mama startled. “I raised my girls as good Christians, sweet girls. My Patsy wouldn’t do harm to anyone. I know that as well as my name.” She fluffed her frumpled duster, tugged at the collar. “Better than anyone.”

  Flannery wanted to scream, to shout out that it had been Hollis Henry. It was all Hollis Henry. Instead she crossed her arms and said, “That’s just old gossip, Trooper. Instead of accusing my sister, you need to find the person who pulled a gun on them, maybe. Maybe somebody forced them off the road like that after shooting at them and hitting Danny.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Trooper said, turning to Flannery. “I don’t mean to disrespect. We’re just trying to find out as much as we can.” He tapped the clipboard with his pen. “Now, about the guns you have in the house—”

  “I told you, Trooper.” Flannery walked up behind her mama. “There’s just my daddy’s old shotgun in the closet and the outlaw’s pistol.” She rested her hands on Mama’s shoulders.

  Mama opened her mouth to say something.

  “Nothing but those. Right, Mama?” Flannery lightly squeezed Mama’s shoulders and patted. Confused, Mama nodded and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Mind showing me that shotgun?” the trooper asked. “I’d like to be sure that I record it on paper.”

  “Sure, Trooper. We’ll be right back, Mama.” Flannery walked over to the screen door and held it open. Inside the foyer, Flannery opened the closet for him. “In there.” She stepped aside, looking once over her shoulder to the parlor at Honey Bee’s old secretary.

  The trooper reached inside, lifted the shotgun, and inspected, then leaned it back against the wall, poking his eye to the top, bottom, and sides of the tiny coat closet. “Thanks, Mrs. Hamilton.” He wrote something down on his clipboard.

  Relieved, Flannery shut the door. And then, to cast suspicion away from her, from Patsy, everything, she wrung her hands, thinking how she could cinch it all.

  “Anything else, Mrs. Hamilton?” The trooper looked at her busy hands.

  “You know, Trooper”—she herded him closer to the door—“back then those Henry boys were always trouble.”

  Trooper straightened. “How so?”

  “Seems everyone knew, talked about those two brothers snuggling too close to the batwing.” Flannery patted her backside pocket where guys kept their bourbon flasks.

  The trooper lifted a brow.

  “Well”—Flannery licked her lips—“those boys were always drinking, and I suspect it wasn’t any different prom night, maybe a bit extra to celebrate.”

  “Hollis said no one was drinking.”

  “Patsy wasn’t drinking. Never drank a drop. But Hollis now, that’s another story.”

  The trooper scratched his chin with the clipboard.

  “Especially Hollis. Lit. Now that I think back, Trooper, I’m pretty sure I’d smelled the whiskey on him . . . lots of other times, too. But on that night, I’m sure I did.” She wrinkled her brow in thought. “Yes, I did, though I’m sure I didn’t want to get Patsy in trouble with Mama.”

  Trooper frowned. Flannery waited for him to write it all down, but he didn’t.

  “My classmates said Hollis never went anywhere without his ol’ batwing,” Flannery said. “Did ya’ll find his flask in the wreck?”

  Trooper Green looked lost in thought. Like he was thinking hard, maybe wishing someone else would do it for him.

  Holding his gaze, she could almost see his thoughts there. The young trooper wouldn’t disgrace a fellow lawman. Above all, he would protect Hollis’s memory and the brotherhood they shared. As thick as kin. “All lawmen are related, and those relations are thicker than blood,” Honey Bee had once remarked to Uncle Mary while discussing the business side of whiskey.

  “Just in case something comes up, I better file this with the other open cases. If you can think of anything, no matter how small—” Trooper said.

  “I’ll call.”

  Trooper turned to leave. Flannery touched his arm and said quietly, “I know you got to take it all down, but please don’t tell Mama. She’s been through so much. It would break her heart.”

  A small relief seemed to wash over his face, and Trooper Green quickly gave an understanding nod.

  Flannery followed him back out to the porch.

  Mama jumped up from the rocker and asked, “Trooper, are you finished here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve finished for now.” Trooper shot Flannery a concerned look and laid a gentle hand on Mama’s arm. “You take care.”

  When he left, Mama said, “Does he think Patsy would shoot someone? Why would he have that notion?”

  “Don’t worry, Mama. The gun they’re looking for was smaller. We only had the shotgun and the James gun when Patsy went missing. Remember?”

  “Yeah, Honey Bee’s old hunting gun,” Mama said as if relieved. “I don’t know what he did with his old snub nose he was so fond of.”

  “Don’t you fret none about that. Not a bit about anything. I’ll worry for both of us.” Mama folded herself back into the rocker. Flannery rubbed Mama’s back, a chill scuttling a choke collar around her neck.

  CHAPTER 30

  It wasn’t a week after the funeral when Flannery met up with the trooper again.

  She awakened one morning to find Mama gone. Flannery called the state police post and reached Trooper Green. Frantic, she asked him to check down at the river. “I’m throwing on some clothes and will be there as soon as I can,” Flannery told him.

  Flannery made it to the boat dock just as Trooper Green was peeling off his shirt and shoes. Mama, once again, stood up to her shoulders in the muddy water.

  Trooper charged into the river with Flannery not far behind him.

  Mama screamed at him and waded out deeper. Her head slipped under and bobbed back up just as the trooper tried to clutch her into his arms.

  Even though he was taller and had a good footing, Trooper had a hard time latching on to Mama, and she pulled him under twice. By the time he and Flannery got her back to shore, the trooper was both furious and spent. After checking her out for injuries, he made her sit in the backseat of his cruiser and called for an ambulance on his police radio. “That was very foolish, Mrs. Butler. Not only foolish, but downright dangerous. Next time, I’ll have to lock you up.”

  Mama’s eyes filled, and she begged, “Please, oh, please, Trooper, get me back my baby’s pearls. Pleeease . . . I miss my baby girl so much. It’s all I have left of her.” Her cold, wet hands shook as she reached out for him. “I need to hold the pearls and remember how beautiful she was in them. Remember her in her pretty yellow dress. The lovely pearls that put a sparkle in her eye. You should’ve seen her, Trooper.”

  “Ma’am, I understand, but—”

  “She had a sweet smile when I clasped them around her neck that night. I can’t, won’t, have only that keepsake . . . a dirty, nasty ribbon to hold to her memory,” Mama said weakly.

  “Mama, please,” Flannery said, not wanting anyone to know she’d brought home the small piece of evidence fro
m the wreck. “Trooper Claymore, just let me take her home. I won’t let her out of my sight.”

  The trooper lightened at the sight of Mama’s tears and draped his dry shirt over her shoulders. He patted her arms. “Come on now, Mrs. Butler. Let’s get you to the hospital and make sure you’re okay.” He turned to Flannery. “Can’t do that again, ma’am. She’s becoming a danger to herself. I have to get her checked out, or it’ll all be on me.”

  Mama recovered from her swim within hours, but the doctors couldn’t fix her broken heart. During her stay, doctors ended up trying something new for her nerves, this new pill, and another, some more new in a syringe another day, and then back to that better new, and again a sure new pill five days later, until they were convinced Jean Butler’s nerves were rested and the old woman was strong enough to be dumped someplace else.

  The doctors tried to figure out what to do with Mama and spent a good deal of that time just talking.

  In town running errands, Flannery overheard folks talking too. Talking a lot. Talking sideways, anyways, and no-ways, trying to make sense of it all. Many gossiped it was ol’ Joetta that had done the sheriff in, same as she must’ve done to his younger brother. Others swore and argued the ghost drew the teens to Ebenezer Road on prom night and sent them off to their cold, watery grave. That Hollis had even done himself in. And more than a few argued ol’ Joetta was punishing Jean Butler, tormenting her for allowing her daughter to run off from Glass Ferry and die like that. Patsy Butler was surely the murderer, a few prattled.

  Lots of scared talk that folks puffed themselves up with to make them feel bigger and less frightened.

  Flannery visited Mama at the hospital in the mornings and returned at night to tuck her in. She wanted to bring her flowers, but she couldn’t make herself look at them, pick them up. Twice she walked into the small florist shop inside the hospital, and twice the scents ran her out and left her shaky and gagging.

  The third time Flannery managed to pick up a bundle of cheerful sunflowers, Mama’s favorite. She plucked them up from a glass shelf, carried them low where she wouldn’t see them, keeping her grip sealed on the lip of the vase, holding it as close to her knee as she could without dropping it. But when Flannery reached the cash register, her legs knocked a little. Quickly she placed the flowers on the counter and opened her purse.