“Everyone’s heard of Joetta. Such a tragedy.”
“When I was little, Mama used to bring me here to Glass Ferry, out to visit Ebenezer. I’d help put flowers on the graves. We’d clean up the weeds as much as we could, but it was hard to keep up, hard to come all this way. My parents both worked,” JoLynn said. “But we would try to visit a couple times a year and make the trip at least once. Mama said there should always be flowers there for her baby cousins, Uncle Ebenezer, and her sweet Aunt Joetta. God rest.”
Flannery said, “I didn’t know any Deer kin were still around.” “Most of us settled in Tennessee in the ’40s and ’50s, and a few stayed put like Joetta,” JoLynn said. “But my old heart’s always been in Kentucky. Mama would drive by your place here, and I remembered how beautiful it was. Declared I’d have it one day so I could make sure my relatives’ graves would always have flowers. Stopped by once when I grew up, and left my contact information with the owners to call if they ever had a notion to sell. One day they did, and I knew I had to have it.”
“I hadn’t heard the Murphys put it up for sale,” Flannery said.
“It was too much for them, getting on in years like that. A lot of upkeep. The very first thing I did was plant a big flower garden out back. I’ll make sure and share some with your kin on Butler Hill, too,” JoLynn said with a sweet, sad smile, her eyes suddenly watering.
“Thank you. Joetta’s grand-niece,” Flannery marveled.
“In the flesh.” JoLynn pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh. I almost forgot. Speaking of flesh. I believe I have something that belongs to your family. Let’s go down to the dining room.”
Flannery followed her downstairs.
JoLynn ran a loving hand along the massive cherry sideboard, bent over, pulled open the bottom drawer of the chest, and lifted out a little photograph and a wooden box about the size of a small book. Nervous, she handed the box to Flannery. “When Ben was painting and laying carpet upstairs, he moved some of the furniture and found these. I tried to get them to you.”
“It’s lovely.” Flannery rubbed the smooth wood, touched the tiny pearl inlay on the lid.
“We called the Murphys, but it didn’t belong to them. The initials carved on the box are J B. I guess it’s Butler.”
“I’ve never seen this.” Flannery inspected the box. “It could have been Mama’s.” The hand-carved box had a delicate scroll border and a tiny lockset drilled into it.
“We didn’t open it,” JoLynn offered a little more nervously.
“I didn’t want to . . . to intrude, or risk busting the lovely wood. We wanted to mail it to you, but I couldn’t find your address.”
“It’s locked,” Flannery said, and shook it. Something solid was inside.
“Sorry, we didn’t find a key.” She handed Flannery the photograph.
Flannery narrowed her eyes, pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. “This is my mama. But how—”
“I wondered if that was Mrs. Butler sitting on the bed there with Aunt Joetta, holding her newborns. Or another relative of yours.”
“Yes, it must be.”
“Are those the same babies up in your cemetery? The headstones up there are so old we couldn’t read the names very well.” JoLynn tapped the back of the photo.
Flannery flipped the photograph over and saw in faded ink, 1931, April 22, Paxton and Preston Butler with Mother and midwife Joetta Deer.
“Oh my, yes. My mama’s handwriting. But I’ve never seen this photo. My brothers only lived about a week. The summer diarrhea or such claimed them and a lot of infants back then, I believe she told us.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hamilton,” JoLynn said sadly, and cast her eyes down.
Flannery peered closer. “I never knew Joetta delivered them. My sister and I were born in the hospital, you know.”
“Aunt Joetta died in 1931,” JoLynn said quietly.
“That explains it. We didn’t come along till ’36.”
“Mama said Aunt Joetta delivered lots of babies around these parts. Guess the apple didn’t fall far and all. I’m a delivery nurse too.”
Flannery peered closer at the photo, seeing the resemblance between Joetta and JoLynn.
“Your brothers were beautiful boys, ma’am,” JoLynn said.
“May I keep it?” Flannery asked.
“Sure. I made a copy, and I have plenty of other pictures of my aunt that my family has passed around.”
Flannery studied the old black-and-white picture again, looking at Mama sitting on the bed, tired but smiling with her babies in her arms. “From the date here, Mama was twenty, and it looks like Joetta wasn’t much older. Both handsome women.”
JoLynn said, “I believe my mama said Joetta was close to thirty in this picture. But she didn’t know for sure. Joetta started midwifing when she was barely twenty. My family said she brought over a hundred babies into the world and never lost a’one in delivery.”
“Remarkable lady,” Flannery said quietly, studying the photo some more.
Flannery never dreamed Mama knew the midwife like that. Though she now remembered that anytime someone said anything about old ghost Joetta, mused about or poked fun of her legend, Mama would shush them, demand they never utter Joetta’s name in her house. Usually it was Patsy doing the poking—Patsy who hated Joetta’s tale. Though Patsy could never really say why, just tried to make Flannery feel the same.
“Well, you must be starved,” JoLynn said. “Let’s get you that lunch I promised.”
JoLynn and her husband shared a fine meal with Flannery.
Flannery enjoyed the young couple, and they welcomed her warmly and asked her to spend the night, but Flannery declined.
JoLynn was easy to talk to, and Ben reminded Flannery of Honey Bee, the goodness in her daddy, and he’d told her to visit anytime. By the time lunch was over, Flannery insisted they call her by her first name.
JoLynn took down Flannery’s address, promising to write, and told her she and Ben would visit her in Louisville one day. They hugged on the porch, and still something more tugged at Flannery’s heart, was tucked in JoLynn’s solemn eyes, she felt.
Flannery held up the wooden box, gave it another shake.
JoLynn frowned, her gaze set on the box before she caught Flannery studying her. JoLynn looked away.
For a second Flannery doubted the key had indeed been lost. Wondered why the keepsake had been hidden, why Mama would hide the key unless she’d lost it.
Ben came out onto the porch, said good-bye to Flannery, and told his wife he’d be in the barn finishing chores.
JoLynn gently took Flannery’s arm and helped her down the porch, giving her guest one more hug.
Flannery thanked her again and put the box onto the backseat of her car. She pondered on what Mama had thought was so important inside that it had to be locked away from her girls.
2012
Nearly a decade had passed since she had buried Mama.
Flannery had placed the wooden box JoLynn had given her on the mantel in her home, admiring the rich, reddish tones on the locked keepsake, never bothering with it much, just enjoying the beautiful wood and its carvings, resolving that Mama probably kept old compacts, makeup inside she didn’t want her young twins getting into, and had placed the pretty box out of reach of clumsy hands that might break it.
Years passed, and Flannery mostly forgot about it, but JoLynn hadn’t forgotten about her.
Flannery returned to Glass Ferry once a year to visit Ebenezer and the Butler cemetery. JoLynn always flagged her down as she was leaving, inviting Flannery in for a chat, tea, or a meal.
The two became close. JoLynn surprised Flannery with monthly letters, unheard of in this day and age when advertisements and scam flyers littered mailboxes.