CHAPTER 28
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.