Curses and Other Buried Things, page 4
Eyes in picture frames watch me as I backtrack down the corridor. I try not to envision my photo alongside the similar faces. After I lose my mind and die, Nanny will hang my picture next to Mama’s as a warning—
I rush to the bathroom and puke in the toilet. Great-Aunt Susie fell asleep at the wheel of her car and crashed into a tree. Mama battled insomnia until the imaginings drove her mad.
Imaginings—a softer word than hallucinations, which is softer still than psychosis.
They must’ve sleepwalked too.
Meat sizzles in the kitchen. On days when we get an early start, Papa likes to make sandwiches from leftover biscuits, country ham, and whatever preserves Nanny has in the fridge.
I wipe my mouth and flush my sick. Mustering what remains of my composure, I finish getting ready, then join my grandparents for breakfast.
“What’s on the itinerary?” Nanny hovers over the sink, washing red Solo cups and Cool Whip containers. She hoards plasticware, reusing them until they crack.
Papa carries a plate of sandwiches to the table. “Susana is helping me rewire the hog pen,” he says. A toothpick juts from the corner of his mouth. “We gotta get a jump on the day. Don’t want us overheating like Pastor Walker.”
“That man knew better than to mow his yard at high noon. Praise the Lord he didn’t stroke.” Nanny scrubs a pan with steel wool. She refuses to use the dishwasher for no reason other than she likes cleaning by hand.
I pour coffee into a mug, filling it to the brim.
“Rough night?” Papa asks me.
“What?” I give him a wide-eyed look. My heartbeat goes haywire. If he and Nanny learn about the sleepwalking, they’ll realize their worst nightmare is coming true.
I don’t want to admit they’ll lose me.
Papa motions to my cup. “You’re drinking more than usual.”
“Yeah, I’m dragging this morning.” I lower into a chair and gulp the caffeine. I refill my cup, but exhaustion nags at me. My eyelids dip lower and lower.
Did the firstborn daughters keep the sleepwalking a secret? If my grandparents knew about it, they would’ve told me. Or maybe not. They have their share of secrets.
I pick apart a biscuit and take small bites. Instead of buttery, the bread tastes like ash.
There must be a reason for the sleepwalking. My dreams have offered glimpses of the past, Suzanna Yawn wading into the swamp, the origin of her curse.
Suzanna hexed the people of Kettle Creek, but somehow it backfired on her. That day at the church, she gave the Douglases instructions for reversing the spell.
What if I can break the curse before it destroys me?
After breakfast, Papa and I load supplies into his truck and drive a quarter mile down the road to the hog pens and cotton fields. He feeds the Yorkshires—we have thirty-six of them now that the sows farrowed their piglets—and I uncoil new fencing for the enclosure.
Papa mucks out stalls. I crouch alongside the pen and use a hammer claw to rip nails from posts. Hogs squeal and snort, churn mud with their hooves. Most of them—the dry sows and young boars at slaughter weight—will meet the butcher soon.
They’ll end up as parcels in the Green Frog’s refrigerator.
I drown my anxiety with chores as the sun climbs the sky and Papa’s friend Mark Shealy drives a picker across our fields. Sweat pours from me, drenching my clothes.
If the answer to breaking the curse lies with the past, I’ll find it. Papa owns the best genealogy and history books in Ware County. Somewhere, hidden within the forgotten pages of his records, must exist a remedy for Suzanna’s hex.
I startle as Godwin snatches an extra hammer from my toolbox. “Morning.” He lifts a panel of wire mesh and secures it with the nail tucked behind his ear.
I sit back on my knees and use a bandana to wipe the sweat from my face.
Papa must’ve asked for Godwin’s help. Around these parts, farmers barter their services. Not many folks can afford to hire workers, so the trade system compensates.
“Pass me that spool, would you?” Godwin motions to a roll of wire netting.
I nudge the material toward him. “What’s the swap?”
“Your granddad said he’d fix my cotton stripper.” Godwin removes his Yosemite ball cap and tunnels fingers through his hair, piles and piles of golden strands that become copper when the sun hits them just right. He returns the hat to his scalp.
Curls escape the brim and tumble into his eyes.
He doesn’t match the boys Cleo and Daisy call hot, so I’m not sure the word suits him. He looks like himself, sharp and sunburnt, with a dimpled smile that defies his dour expression.
Every inch of me burns from his proximity. I’ll blame the summer heat.
“You settled yet?” I peel my gaze from the ridges of his rib cage. He must’ve cut off his T-shirt’s sleeves with a pocketknife.
Godwin holds a nail between his teeth as he measures and cuts wire. “I unpacked a few boxes and cleaned the dead squirrels out of the attic,” he says from the corners of his mouth. “Once I get the AC working, I won’t hate the place so much.”
I uncap my water bottle and drink until the knot in my throat loosens.
Godwin hammers mesh onto the fence, each motion careful and considered. His hands, like mine, belong to the earth. They’re scarred from fishhooks and hard work, calloused, with dirt under their fingernails. Gentle hands that can thread lines and gather bolls.
He touched me that night at the bar.
A fuzzy sensation washes through my body, followed by goose bumps on my forearms. I shouldn’t allow these feelings. I know where they lead. But Godwin returning gives me hope. Maybe we can make amends for what was said a year ago.
“You’ll be a senior at Berryville High, right?” Godwin asks.
“Don’t pretend you forgot,” I say with a huff.
“What if I did?”
“You didn’t.”
Godwin locks eyes with me. He must sense my hurt because he gives a nod in place of an apology. “What’re your plans for after graduation?”
“I suppose I’ll stick around here. Nanny and Papa need help with the farming.”
Unless I break the curse, I don’t think I’ll live long enough to see graduation.
Godwin pries rusted wire from the hog pen. His arms flex with each pull. “You should leave town. The longer you stay here, the more likely you’ll never leave.”
“My family has farmed this land for over a hundred years—”
“If you decide this land is the only place worth being, come back.” Godwin tosses wire mesh onto the ground. “You won’t know who you are until you go and find it.”
“Is that why you left?”
“I don’t like the swamp.”
“But you came back.”
“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Godwin snaps. He wears anger on his face. His jaw is set in its ways, perhaps because he knew something good, and life confiscated it from him. “Once Dad finishes rehab, he’ll work the farm, and I’ll reenroll in school. Get out while you can, Susana. This place will suck the potential clean out of you.”
He doesn’t care where I plant my roots.
He fears his have already taken to the soil, and no amount of tugging will set them free.
I rise and confront him with hands on my hips. “Next time you decide to leave, do me a favor and say goodbye before you hightail it out of town. Papa was upset—”
“He was upset?” Godwin snorts.
“I know you think you’re too good for Berryville.”
“Why do you want to stay here, Susana?”
“This is my home.”
“See, that’s not a reason.” Godwin fingers his gator-tooth necklace. “You don’t like Berryville. You’re just too scared to want something for yourself.”
“I’m not you, Godwin.”
“You’re not your mama either.”
A breath catches in my throat. I grit my teeth and drop my hammer into the toolbox, shaking with an emotion I can’t name. “I’m done with this conversation.”
“Fine, if you’re so in love with this town, tell me why.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you. I can do what I want.”
“And what is it you want, Susana? Did you figure it out this past year?” Godwin sighs and shakes his head. For a moment, we’re a year younger, standing across from each other in a smoky bar. Nothing has changed. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. The curse is all I think about.”
“Don’t give me that malarkey.” Godwin steps closer. His voice softens to a whisper. “What, you’re gonna let superstition rule your entire life?”
He’s heard the stories like everyone else in Berryville.
“I’m tired of having this fight, Susana. I’d rather not hang around someone who thinks they’re cursed.” Godwin fits another nail between his teeth and busies his hands with rough work. “Come find me when you decide to think for yourself—”
“Knowing you, you’ll be long gone.”
“Yeah, I hope so.” He looks at me without a trace of remorse. “Curse or no curse, believe something long enough, and it’s bound to come true.”
I yank the ball cap from his head and throw it into the hog pen.
Godwin scoffs. “Mark my words, Susana Prather. Next time I leave, I ain’t never coming back. I want more than arguing with you next to pig crap.”
“Careful with that bitterness of yours. Carry it around long enough, and nothing’ll ever taste sweet again.” I turn on my heels, creating distance between us.
The worst part is I think he’s right about me. I’m too scared to want anything.
If I break the curse, maybe that will change.
1850
Swampers found three bodies dangling from Hangman’s Oak at the old Trader’s Hill.
The boys had been dead for well over a week. Their corpses were swollen. Birds had picked the flesh clean off their faces.
One look, and the swampers knew an unlawful lynching had occurred. They sent word to Kettle Creek for the Yawns to come retrieve their dead.
The bodies appeared of Muscogee descent.
News reached the Yawns’ homestead in the dead of night. Thirteen-year-old Suzanna awoke to her daddy’s hand on her spine and her mama sobbing nearby.
Mr. Yawn instructed Suzanna to fetch her shoes and coat and follow him outside. She obeyed, careful not to disturb her little brother, who slept beside her.
With a lantern as their only light, Mr. Yawn led Suzanna from their cabin to a pole boat camouflaged on the shoreline. He pushed the vessel into water, then signaled for Suzanna to climb aboard. In his possession were three quilts, three ropes, and a knife.
Suzanna inquired about their destination and the reason for the late hour. She studied her daddy’s expression in hopes of learning his intentions, but his face was inscrutable.
She realized their brief spell of luck had ended.
Following the Indian Removal Act of 1830, the Yawn family had lived as border trotters, crossing from Florida to Georgia to Alabama to escape state laws. Their Muscogee blood restricted them from work, hunting, and fishing.
Certain death for a household with nine mouths to feed.
Suzanna, along with her siblings, did not know the comfort of four walls until they sought refuge in the Okefenokee. The Yawns retreated into the labyrinth of cypresses, to the haven Kettle Creek, where Muscogees deemed “friendlies” had gathered among Scottish farmers.
There, the Yawns settled and filled the pews of Hard-Shell Baptist. They never breathed a word of what was—not the War of 1812 or the Creek civil war, nor the atrocities committed against them. Kettle Creek was a good place, a safe place, or so Suzanna’s daddy swore.
He called the “land of trembling earth” their home, but to Suzanna it seemed a secret, a stolen freedom, the tick, tick, tick of a clock soon to die.
Mr. Yawn propelled the boat across Skull Lake.
Suzanna huddled on the bow seat and beheld the dark, inhaled its miasma—the smell of earth dying and birthing in unison.
The swamp played parlor tricks on the senses. At first glance, it appeared simple, its essence contained to tupelos, pines, and tannic water. But dissect it, uproot and slice open a shoot, and the swamp became an enigma.
Suzanna understood it as well as she understood her daddy’s silence.
Protection came with conditions. Those hidden in the swamp, behind curtains of vines and Spanish moss, were free to go about their lives if they assimilated, or until soldiers discovered Kettle Creek and dragged the Muscogees from their homes.
The Yawns wanted peace, so they cloaked the past in taciturnity. They committed themselves to the Good Lord and inhabited a cabin near Skull Lake, once a spiritual place for local tribes. Bones from cattle and other creatures still hung from trees like mute sentinels.
Rumors swapped among children suggested Muscogees or Seminoles had filled the lake with blood twice a year and bathed in its red water, believing the ritual would drive away evil spirits. Of course, no adult would confirm the hearsay, nor speak of their ancestry. History was reserved for headstones, nightmares, and glares from church pews.
Suzanna wished to learn what lurked beyond the secrecy. She had asked for stories from Creeks living in Old Nine, but they spoke only of loss and relocation.
The fear of the silent thing—whatever prompted her mama’s nightmares—haunted Suzanna. Her daddy called Kettle Creek a safe place, but Suzanna smelled the danger like blood in the water. Anything could become a monster, she’d learned.
There was no telling when a smile would sprout fangs.
Mr. Yawn nudged Suzanna with the toe of his boot. She lurched awake, covered in dew. Around them, dawn brightened the landscape with a blue haze.
“Where’re we headed?” Suzanna asked again. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and studied the shoreline. They must’ve traveled six or seven miles south.
The channel had widened into a creeping river.
Mr. Yawn guided the boat into a cypress grove. He lowered his pole and gathered the quilts, tucking the knife into his pocket. “I can’t have you crying. Understand?”
“Yessir.” Suzanna balled her fists to still their tremors. She climbed from the boat, sinking into peat, and followed her daddy upriver.
They reached a campsite where two swampers loitered around a smoking fire. One man had teeth so rotten, he wore dentures made from wood and animal bones.
“We’re here for ’em,” Mr. Yawn told the men.
The swamper with bad teeth motioned to Suzanna. “Best to leave the girl here. Sight ain’t a pretty one. The smell might burn the hair from her nose.”
“She goes,” Mr. Yawn insisted.
The swamper tipped his felt hat at Suzanna, perhaps in sympathy. He abandoned the campfire and headed into a stretch of prairie. Mr. Yawn and Suzanna trailed behind him, wading through grass that reached their waists.
Eventually they reached an oak tree larger than any Suzanna had seen. It towered like a monolith, its nodose branches contorted into elegant shapes.
Three bodies hung from the lower boughs. They swung from nooses, clothed in nothing but underwear. Their faces were so mutilated, bone peeked through gaps of skin.
Organs spilled from gashes in their abdomens.
Suzanna froze, unable to pry her gaze from the horror. She clutched her mouth to cage a scream, the stench of death so noxious, she vomited onto her shoes.
The corpses belonged to her brothers.
“All these yours?” the swamper asked Mr. Yawn.
“I’m their pa.” Mr. Yawn unsheathed his knife and cut down the bodies. He arranged them in a row from eldest to youngest, then bound them in quilts.
He ran his fingers through each of their raven hair before covering them.
“Who did it?” Suzanna gasped, resisting a swell of tears. She would abide by her daddy’s request. With the three brothers gone, she was the eldest child.
She wanted to prove herself fit for the role.
“There’s no telling,” the swamper said. “Mister, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but these parts aren’t safe for the likes of you.”
Mr. Yawn pulled two bodies away from the tree and told Suzanna to drag the third. His face was stone and steel, unbent, unbroken.
The belief in safe places began as a fairy tale, yet over time it grew into a religion for the Yawn family. Suzanna had watched her daddy convert into a devout believer. He’d kept the faith, preached belonging as though his words could make it so.
He needed to believe to lessen the hold of what he’d endured.
After the Creek civil war, the government stole his parents’ land and redistributed it to white settlers in a lottery. Mr. Yawn didn’t remember the land, but its theft gnawed at him.
He took his family on the run when soldiers rounded up Muscogees to move them west. Eventually he found Kettle Creek and endeavored to reclaim a meager portion of what had been stolen. He deserted his Muscogee heritage and became like the Scotch.
He was baptized in the Okefenokee.
His hell-bent wish for survival or acceptance—to Suzanna the two seemed intertwined—led him to strike a deal with half-Creek landowner Willard Ruger.
Since the law banned Muscogees from trapping, Mr. Yawn worried he would face arrest—or worse, the gallows. To avoid lynching and starvation, he registered himself as a slave to work as a sharecropper on Ruger’s property. In return, Ruger promised a fair wage—paid with the utmost discretion—and a plot of land for the Yawns to homestead.
Mr. Yawn claimed he’d never been a free man. At least as a slave, he could farm and provide a safe home for his children.
Safety. The word took residence within the Yawns’ home, spoken as a prayer or bedtime story. A sacred precaution like painting sheep’s blood over a doorway.
“Why were your boys out here?” the swamper asked.
“Tempting death, I reckon.” Mr. Yawn backtracked toward the river, pulling two of his sons behind him. He glanced at Suzanna, and she followed suit.
