Ms. Abbott

It was the height of summer when even the evening winds blow warm and don’t offer much relief.

We’d distract ourselves from the heat by runnin’ and hollerin’ like untamed creatures. We’d try and cool off with sips of lemonade our Mas made, and sips of beer offered by our Pas, when our Mas weren’t looking of course.

The sun had begun its orangey melt in the sky, when some mix of the heat, too much time on our hands, and just being stupid, shitty kids, led us toward Old Ms.Caroline Abbott’s house.

“I heard she murdered a kid.”

“Th-th-that’s not true, is it?”

“Sure as shit is. Was some stu-stu-stuttering kid, too.”

“Th-th-that’s not funny.”

“My Pa said she’s a witch. ”

“Bull-shit.”

“You callin’ my Pa a liar?”

“I’m sayin’ your Pa knows you ain’t got nothin’ but hog shit for brains, and you believe anythin’ yer told.”

“Shut yer mouth, Porky!”

“Make me, shit-fer-brains!”

Outside her house, the others started tearing up her garden, such as it was, breaking branches off the bushes, throwing mud and rocks at anything their shit aim could hit.

I stood, as if my feet were bound by some entangling vines, and my mind lost in the fog of a dream.

“Run!”

I didn’t.

The others were long gone when the front door creaked open, and I had begun to see the edge of Ms. Abbott’s silhouette.

I felt the spell break, and I turned and ran home.

~~~

“Yes ma’am… I fully understand… He’ll be down tomorrow to make restitution.”

Pa hung up the phone and turned to me.

“That was Ms. Abbott,” Pa said, knowing full well I knew who had called. “You’ll be spending the rest of your summer working off your debt.”

“The whole summer?”

“Was I not clear, son?”

“But I didn’t do nothing!”

“And you should think on that.”

Pa had a way of speaking in such calm disappointment, that it never failed to make me wish he would just holler, and beat the tar out of me like other kids’ fathers did.

The next morning, Pa walked with me over to Ms. Abbott’s house, but made me ascend the stairs of her porch alone.

I could hear the echo of the rapping of my knuckles against the thick, but worn, wood of the front door.

The door unlocked and opened so immediately, I imagined she had spent the night standing behind the door waiting for me.

She looked down at me with her cold, blue and gray eyes before looking past me to my Pa.

I felt a shiver run up my spine.

“Ma’am.”

I knew my Pa had tilted his head all gentlemanly like without looking.

“Here’s the boy, as promised. He’ll work until you tell him he’s done. He knows the way back, so no need to wait on me.”

I looked back at my Pa, staggered that he was going to leave me here alone, but I knew better than to argue.

“Thank you, Mr. Ferrell.”

Her voice cracked like dried clay in my ears.

Pa nodded once again, and raised an eyebrow at me to let me know to more than mind my manners.

As Pa turned to leave, I looked back at Ms. Abbott, who was staring down at me.

Her white hair was done up in an immaculate bun, matching the tautness of her expression. Her lips pulled tight above the high and choking collar of her dress. Her hand gripped the top of her cane like it would run away if she didn’t hold it as such.

“You can start with the front garden.”

“Yes ma’am.”

She went back inside, shutting the door behind her, and I descended the stairs to begin my duties.

I cleaned up the shattered pots, did what I could to salvage the displaced plants, removed and stacked broken limbs, and pulled weeds from the ground.

I lost track of time, but was becoming aware of the growing pain in my hands.

I heard the front door shut.

I looked up to see a picture of water, a glass, a few plain sandwiches, and a pair of work gloves set on the little table between two chairs.

I eagerly poured and drank a glass of water, and ate a sandwich, as bland as it was.

The gloves were clearly Ms. Abbott’s from back when she could do some of this work herself, but I didn’t care. They’d at least keep my hands from getting worse.

After several more hours, Ms. Abbott appeared to inspect my work.

“Good enough for today, boy.” She tapped her cane on the porch and didn’t look at me. “Tomorrow then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I slept heavy that night, and returned to Ms. Abbott’s house right after breakfast.

~~~

A few weeks later, I was busy painting the railings of the porch, when I could hear nattering, like the buzzing of flies on a dog’s corpse, approaching.

“Hey shit-fer-brains! We’re goin’ down to the crick.”

“Yeah. Chuck that business and come with.”

Without looking, I shook my head, and kept painting.

“Or you rather p-p-play in your l-l-l-lady gloves?”

“Haw haw!”

The flies departed.

I felt the furnace in my ears and face blasting its heat.

“Friends of yours?”

I had no idea how long Ms. Abbott had been standing there.

“No, ma’am.” I never felt so sure of something before that point in my life.

“Hm.”

Ms. Abbott went back inside and I continued my work in silence.

She returned some time later with a plate of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade.

“Come on, boy,” she said, as she set the items down on the table and sat in one of the two chairs.

I ate and drank as we sat in silence.

“Tomorrow then?”

I looked at Ms. Abbott, her hair in a braid over her shoulder, her hands resting in her lap.

“Yes, ma’am.”

~~~

My work eventually turned to inside of the house, and my attention was soon pulled to banging, scratching, and sounds of unrest coming from the basement.

I leaned my ear against the door, and slowly began to reach for the handle.

“Boy!” Ms. Abbott called for me from somewhere else in the house.

I left the door alone, though I heard those sounds almost every day I worked there.

Summer came to an end, and I accepted Ms. Abbott’s offer to continue my work the following summers, but for pay this time.

It was one of those later days when I picked up a photo album to dust and rearrange a shelf, and a folded picture fell out.

I retrieved the old photograph, and looked at the pretty young woman, who I realized was Ms. Abbott, staring back at me.

Slowly, I began to turn the photograph over, when Ms. Abbott’s hand stopped mine.

“Sorry. I…”

She gently shook her head.

The noises in the basement grew as loud as I had ever heard them.

“Tomorrow then?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

~~~

“I know you’ve been curious about what’s down there.”

It was the week before I was to move to college.

“Yes ma’am.” There was no sense in denying it.

“I suppose I do owe you the truth, but…” she paused for a moment. “Once you learn a thing, there ain’t no unlearning it. And this ain’t a burden I want to force on your shoulders.”

“Whatever it is, I’m choosin’ to see.”

Ms. Abbott nodded, stood, and led me to the basement door. Her hand shook as she raised the key to the lock.

I lightly placed my hand on her shoulder, and the shaking stopped.

She inserted the key, unlocked, and opened the door.

We descended the stairs together, her right hand on my left arm for balance, and at the bottom I finally saw it.

The source of all the banging, scratching, and sounds of unrest.

The ghosts of her guilt and regret, built up strong from her decades of isolation and self loathin’. A swirling mass of chaos and hurt that, I imagine, had started as a small, but sturdy seed, and had grown unchecked into the rage that churned around us.

Ms. Abbott looked at me waiting for my condemnation.

I opened my arms to her, and we hugged and wept while the monsters tried, in vain, to reach us.

~~~

Three weeks left in my first semester, my Pa called me to let me know Ms. Abbott had passed on.

Her funeral was attended by me, my Ma and Pa, and the pastor.

“Don’t let hurt and guilt consume you.” Ms. Abbott looked at me with her eyes, gray like the fog of a peaceful morning. “You’ve seen what it done to me. And don’t let anyone, especially you, snuff out the kindness inside you.” Her voice flowed in my ears like a crystal clear brook. “Go and be somethin’.”

Dear, Ms. Caroline Abbott.

I think of you often.

I know you are at peace.

And I hope I make you proud.