Birdie circles around the counter, plucking two glasses. She passes one to me, glancing up at my mother as she grabs hers, and they exchange a brief look. Birdie moves toward the archway on the opposite side of the room, tipping her head for me to follow her. The house has always been referred to as Birdie’s place, but my mother lives here too—this room is evident of that. She likely read everything in this place twice. The alcove-like sitting area is covered in wall-to-wall shelves stacked with thrillers and romances, well-worn favorites, how-to guides, and farmers’ almanacs from nearly five decades ago, and everything in between. Peppered around the stories are glass jars filled with dried herbs and other tinctures.
Birdie holds up her glass and says, “To my darling girls.”
My mother clinks Birdie’s glass, and then mine, before they both take a sip. The moment feels heavy, like what comes after this drink can’t be undone.
I lick along the rim of the glass, getting a mouthful of coarse salt. I let it rest on my tongue for a moment before my sip, bracing myself for what’s coming. Paying attention to textures and tastes keeps me focused on the moment and prevents me from simply reacting.
Settling into my chair, my drink coats my throat just after the whiskey burns across my tongue. I watch my mother give a nod and then perch herself on the built-in bench below the window as Birdie sits in the chair across from me, sets her margarita down next to her, and then leans forward with her elbows perched on her knees.“This was never meant to be your burden, Wyn.” She looks at my mother and gives her a tight-lipped smile before adding, “It was never meant to be your mother’s either, but life has a real nasty way of reminding me that I only have so much control over how it goes.
“You’re smart, Wyn. Always have been, maybe even more than we ever gave you credit for.” She blows out a breath, her cheeks puffing on the exhale. “What do you know about Stan Billings?”
I glance at my mother first, who’s watching me as she leans against the wall. “I know he was probably the situation that was being cleaned up inside The Whispering Fool the night I walked in on Julian.”
“Anything else?” Birdie prompts before she looks at my mother.
“You’ve already started. Keep going,” my mother says, wordlessly answering what Birdie’s look was asking.
Birdie takes a drink, and then gives me a smile before she says, “I asked what you knew about Deputy Stan Billings, not his demise.” Her eyebrow raises in challenge.
“I don’t know much about him, but Cora, on the other hand,” I say, rifling through my memories of a woman who just loved leaning into the nastiest of the rumors when it came to my mother. She’s been calling Lu all sorts of colorful things for as long as I can remember. I didn’t even know why, other than she seems to be the opposite of what my mom represents. I tilt my head and look at my mom. “Cora loves her conservative values. I can’t remember if she’s Southern Baptist or Catholic, maybe something else entirely, but whatever it is that she believes, she looks at you as the antithesis of it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Cora is an asshole. Don’t let her pearls fool you,” my mom chimes in. “But she didn’t deserve the shit Stan dealt. And I’m not talking about the drugs he was dealing.”
I raise my eyebrow and look at Birdie.
“He beat—” Birdie’s eyes water as she cuts her words and looks up. When she swipes them away, she takes a sip of her drink, draining it halfway. “It didn't matter that he was a cop, or that he swore to protect, because what I’ve learned, my darling, is that monsters aren’t only found in the dark. Sometimes it’s the ones we’re meant to trust in the light of day who turn out to be the scariest.”
I know some things about monsters. The way they don’t ask for permission, how they take whatever they want, and how some don’t need submission. Screaming, crying, begging doesn’t matter or change the outcome. Mine held me against my will, stole parts of me—physically, mentally, emotionally, and despite being ready to die, I survived it. I’m not as brave as some; I don’t know how to kill monsters, but Icankeep secrets.
Birdie stands, opening the slim double doors that lead to her garden. The smells of rosemary and damp earth waft inside as she lights a long skinny cigarette. She leans against the frame, half inside and half out, giving herself an extra moment to decide what detail comes next or to stop sharing altogether.She perches the filtered end between her lips, hollowing out her cheeks and taking a long drag. On her second pull, she finally looks at me. The herb-smelling smoke lingers on her exhale as she says, “There’s a certain way we go about things like this?—”
“Stan got messy,” my mother cuts in.
Birdie huffs for being interrupted. But my mother finishes her margarita, and then claps her hands in front of her, doing it again. “I love the drama, but sometimes we need to cut to the chase, Ma.” My mother shifts her attention back to me. “This will make you an accessory, Wynona.”
I already knew that.
“You won’t be able to unhear it. I know how you already think of me, but Birdie’s flawless charm will seem a little less sparkly?—”
“For fuck’s sake,” I breathe out, exasperated as I tip my head back. This isn’t about her passive-aggressive tendencies shining through.
“Lu,” Birdie says, pinching between her eyebrows. When she looks at me, she says, “Wyn, Stan Billings isn’t missing. He is very much dead.”
Hearing it and the details surrounding it have me feeling lighter, almost relieved. The reality of what it means settles like a heavy weight on my shoulders. I shake my head, knowing I need to hear more. “There needs to be...” I look over to Lu and more quietly say, “Tell me that there’s a good reason why.” I needthemto not be monsters.
Birdie nods as she hops up onto the counter. She knocks over the saltshaker when she says, “Deputy Billings has been dealing drugs for nearly a decade, which, normally, I say, enjoy however you choose to get fucked up.” Crumbling up a piece of paper, she plops it into her empty glass and nudges her chin to Birdie. “We’ll call that fodder for now. His verbal abuse started by putting Cora down privately, then it turned public. Ithappened more and more often. I witnessed it a few times over the years. I’m sure plenty have, but then it escalated. Hurtful words and shitty names turned into shakes then shoves, slaps then punches, kicks then props.”
My chest tightens, knowing what props had been used with me.
“Cora endured it for years.” Birdie tosses my mom a gold lighter. She flips it, pulls, lights the wadded paper in her glass on fire. Gathering some of the spilled salt, she sprinkles a pinch of it into the flame. “It was easy to spot—the bruises and over-explained stories about how they happened.” My mom takes a breath, runs her fingers along her palm and up her wrist. Her pause makes me wonder how well she knows the progression of abuse.
My eyes blur from the tears welling.
“You know people talk, but it’s not our place to step in,” she says as the small flame snuffs out. It leaves a stream of rising smoke that she wafts away. “Usually when the authorities aren’t helpful, or if there’s enough anger simmering beneath a woman’s hurt, then those women find themselves flipping tarot cards and asking for help in a different way.”
I swipe away the couple of tears that fall and sit taller in my chair. There were a lot of people in and out of The Whispering Fool, this house even, my mind swirls with thinking about how that could have been so much more than what I ever paid attention to.
All of the rumorsthat had been circulated about my mother my entire life...The Black Widow of Rumor. The most dangerous Crowne. A death trap.
