The Witch of Belladonna Bay (2 page)

Don't get me wrong, even the Gulf Coast of Alabama sees snow once in a while. When we were growing up, an inch or so fell sometimes in December or January. When Paddy and I were little, we used to envy the children up north with their snow days and snow angels. We'd whine about it, but Jackson would say, “We Southern folks have sunshine in our bones. Cold weather makes a 'bama native cranky as a gator.” But snow was an event, no matter how short-lived.

By the time May came around we'd be in an all-out summer assault of hot humid air. You just get used to the heat because you don't have any other options. That's why summers in New York City never bothered me.

Those men in my apartment that day stared at me with a look I knew well. One that stated, “She's too cool to sweat,” but the only stare I cared about that day was Ben's. Even before I knew his name.

I've always been vain.

I've never wanted to look like anyone else, unless you count my mother … and I wasn't counting her, I was forgetting her. When I looked in the mirror, especially back then, I saw someone I was proud of. Wide, blue eyes that told stories of where I'd been and what I'd seen. A self-confident chin that told people to “shut up” before I had to say it. I was aware that I was wanted, and it made men want me
more
. Fact is, when you could care less about someone or something, that's when everything you thought you wanted falls right at your feet. What I didn't know back then, is that I was cold. I'd turned off the longing, knowing that if I let one bit of weakness in, I'd tumble down that rabbit hole of sorrow.

When I think of that fearless young woman I used to be, I see a refugee. I see her sadness and desperation. Hindsight can slap you humble sometimes. I started to change the day I met Ben. He quieted my soul and showed me the solid person I could grow to be. He gave me a path, and I walked down it gladly.

We drank a lot of wine that day. The windows were open, and smooth jazz drifted over us in a haze of hours that felt more like days. Then, half drunk on the presence of that beautiful man, I spread out my tarot cards, the ones my mother gave me when I was little.

“I can't use them anymore,” she'd said, her voice soft and far away … Naomi under glass. “Maybe they'll work for you now. Maybe you'll have better luck with all that crap.”

I was born with a touch of my mother's “shine.” Just enough to make me believe the impossible and run away from the inevitable. I don't think any women born into the Green family can avoid it really. I only had a little and never used it much, except to make some money here and there. Truth be told, I've always thought it was instinct more than magic. Like how you can look into a person's eyes and tell what they want to hear. It's taken me too long to realize that instinct and magic walk hand and hand.

For the first seven years of my self-imposed exile, I'd set up card tables on the streets of whatever city held my interest enough to make me want to stay a while and read the fortunes of strangers walking by.

That day, when I read Ben's cards, he helped me turn the spread, his hands brushing against mine—sending a shiver down to my toes. Our eyes met, and his soul locked in on a certain kind of truth, making every chaotic thought in my head straight and steady.

Later, I would understand why.

That afternoon was one of those lucky surprises, where the unexpected becomes far better than anything you could have planned. As the day slipped slowly into dusk, I left the musicians in the living room to lie across my bed as a comfortable fog fell over me. I drifted away on the sounds of the music and the city. My mother and father were both addicted to that feeling. Naomi called it “living inside the walls.” I thought it felt more like floating in a calm, private ocean.

At some point a hand touched one of my ankles, and Ben whispered, “Goddamn you are beautiful, don't open your eyes. Stay just like you are. I want to admire you.”

He slowly kissed the length of my body, from my legs to my lower back to that sweet spot on the side of my neck. I could have stayed in that moment forever. Then his kisses moved across my shoulder and I turned to face him. He eased my second-hand 1960s sundress over my head gently. Soon, his body pressed against mine. The passion building inside of me was unlike anything I'd ever known. Calm and riotous all at the same time.

Then he kissed my lips.

It began with our faces brushing, hesitantly. Our mouths catching hold, as my arms looped around his neck. We opened slowly to each other, taming my unquiet inner ocean.

When it was over, he said, “I've been waiting for you, you little lost thing,” and I cried, because he'd acknowledged what my gypsy legs knew all along.

“Have you ever been in love?” he'd asked me a few days later in an Italian pastry shop called Rocco's in the West Village.

“Only once,” I said, taking a bite out of a creamy, rich cannoli. I'd always had a soft spot for Italian food. Grant and Lottie's mother, Susan Masters, was the cook at the Big House. Their last name, Masters, was just the Anglicized version of La Maestra. Susan loved to tell us stories about how their people were around since the colonies. And Grant used to joke that it was probably the
convict
ships that sent them there. I didn't care what it was, because when I was growing up, and though they were Southern through and through, everything Susan made was Italian. From Sunday sauce to fresh cannoli cream. I knew it wasn't a coincidence that he asked me about love in that shop right when I was pushing Grant out of my head and heart.

Hindsight is something everyone falls prey to, even those of us with a little magic. Sitting in that pastry shop, I wondered if Ben had read my mind, had somehow seen Grant there. But in all my travels I hadn't yet met another person who shared the “ways” of my mother's people, so I ignored it.

He pressed me. “Who was it? How long? Do you still know him?”

“I don't talk about it,” I said. “I don't talk about where I've been, only where I'm going. How about we pretend there's no past at all. We can be the present.”

“And future,” he'd finished, smiling. We kept that promise. It's easier than you think to put blinders on and move forward.

Humans have short, selective memories. If we tuck away something important, put it in a safe place … we always end up spending hours trying to find it. Let it stay out in plain sight, and you never have to look for it.

Add that to the things I wish I'd known back then.

And now, seven years later, we still lived together in the confines of the blissful domesticity we'd created that first July day in Manhattan. Ben was my safe haven. My protector. But most of all, my escape.

*   *   *

He stood in our kitchen that morning, comfortable and worry-free, with a dish towel carelessly thrown over his shoulder and his bare feet solidly on the wood floor. For a moment I thought I might say yes to his seven-year open-ended question: “Marry me?”

But then the damn phone rang, bringing me back to the life I'd left behind.

It was my father. I hadn't heard his voice since we said goodbye face-to-face. But every month, like clockwork since the week I'd left home, I'd gotten a letter and a check. No matter where my vagabond legs carried me, no matter how many years passed, those letters found me. They never asked me back, and though I'd long since stopped needing the money, he sent it anyway. But he
never
called, so I knew I had to talk to him.

Damn Southern manners.

And there it was, the trouble I'd never expected, all wrapped up in a little girl who shared my name but saw fit to call herself Byrd.

 

2

Byrd

Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is exhausting for children to have to provide explanations over and over again.

—The Little Prince

The Old-timers and Towners all think I'm crazy. They say I act too old for my age, and that my strange ways (even though the whole damn town depends on them) curdle up my thoughts. But that's not the thing that bothers me most. I swear, I'm kept up nights just thinkin' on how anybody could manufacture such an evil thought about a girl. You know what they think?

Everyone in this godforsaken town thinks I'm a
tomboy
.

Damn it. They don't know much about anything. When I grow up and get my woman boobies, they're gonna be surprised. Everyone but Jamie. He's always told me how pretty I am. Well, and Jackson (he's my grandpap). My daddy, too. They tell me I'm beautiful. But they have to because they're related to me, and I'm the only person they got in this whole wide world who loves them. Also, it don't hurt that I look just like the one true love of both their lives, the grandmother I never met—at least while she was alive and everything—Naomi.

And then, there's Minerva (or Minny, “
Minny with the red, red hair
,” as Jackson used to tease her), she's sorta old now. I tell her she's
old as dirt
), but I can't
not
love her because she's Naomi's aunt who came down this way when Naomi and Jackson got married. So she's family too, and “blood is blood,” my daddy always says.

Minerva's husband is Carter. He's like another grandpap to me, and another father for my daddy 'cause Jackson's mostly livin' in his own world. Thing is, they
all
live with me. They're my family, and they're supposed to love me and think I'm beautiful.

But Jamie? He ain't got no other reason to tell me I'm pretty. He's just my friend, plain and simple. And gone or not, he's still my Little Prince.

The night his mama, Charlotte, got killed, and he went missin', I'd seen him right before supper.

“Why don't you stay, Jamie? Minerva's fryin' up them catfish we caught.” Minerva always acts like the help. She does all the cookin' and housekeepin'.

“Why don't you go on and hire someone else, Minny?” I sometimes asked her. She says, “Pay good money to a stranger to do something I like to do? Fiddlesticks.”

(Yankees get all strange about things like that, wantin' what they don't want, and never even seein' that they don't want it.)

Anyway, that night Jamie said no to eatin' the catfish (which was downright odd).

“Nah, I gotta get back to Mama,” he said. He could be
such
a mama's boy sometimes.

“Your mama sure is needy these days. She okay?” I asked. I wasn't a stranger to the drama over at their house. Lottie (that's his mama's nickname), she was nice to me. But she'd been actin' funny before she was killed. She'd cut her pretty, dark hair short. Real short, like a boy. She called it a “pixie” cut, but she didn't look like a pixie. She looked kinda lost and alone. Haunted.

So, me and Jamie were sittin' on the side porch of the Big House and the sun was just lazily dancing across his face. I could just tell he was tossin' thoughts around in his head. “Spill them beans, Jamie Masters, or I'll make mincemeat outta ya!”

That made him laugh. I knew it would. “You couldn't
even
hurt me. You'd be like a no-see-um all bitin' at me, and I'd just swat you back into the air.”

“Well, see? You don't want to do that. So why not just tell me? I ain't got nothin' but time and money.” I sat back in one of the old wicker chairs, letting Jackson's favorite phrase come rolling off my tongue.

“Damn, girl, can't I have any secrets?” he asked.

‘Nope. Not from me.”

He leaned against the railing and looked away, but I knew he'd tell me.

“She's altogether torn up over that daddy of yours,” he said.

I didn't want to hear any more 'cause I didn't like my daddy mixed up with Charlotte. I didn't know why … then. Couldn't use my strange ways to see into his mind.

They do that, you know. My ways get all wonky when I'm learnin' something important that has to do with me. If I'm too close, the sight plays tricks on me. Ain't that the way. I'm never able to see things that are too close. Sometimes I wonder what good it is to have 'em at all if they can't help me figure out the things that need figurin'.

“See, I knew you didn't want to hear about this,” said Jamie, watching my face closely.

I got up from the chair and crossed my arms in front of my chest. “
No.
You
are
right. I do
not
want to hear about your mama whining over my daddy. Just run on home and tell her to find herself another man. She's pretty enough, I guess.”

“Byrd, it ain't like that!
She
wants to end it with
him
.”

That hit me hard. My daddy was always teetering on the edge of a great big sadness that could, and would, eat him up whole. I didn't like his relationship with Lottie, but it kept him happy enough. In fact, they'd been friends for their whole entire lives before they started lovin' on each other.

“Uh-uh,” I said.

“Scout's honor! And you know what? I think it's good. Come on, Byrd, you and me ain't liked it from the git-go.”

“All right then, if you're so happy about it, why sulk all around and skip supper?”

“That's just it. I can't figure her out. The whole mess has her screwed up in the head. Cryin' all the time. Disgusting is what it is. And…”

“And what, spit it out.”

“And I think she's on some kind of drug. She's all loose lipped and weak-kneed.”

I was quiet.
Drug
is the worst, most ugly word in the English language. Drugs killed Naomi.

My daddy meddled with all sorts of drugs, too. Not to mention drinkin' it up with Jackson. I was always scared he'd find Naomi's love for anythin' comin' from that poppy flower. Opium was her favorite, like the caterpillar on the mushroom in
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
, which, by the way, is a silly book. (Who'd eat anything without knowin' where it came from? Shoot.)