The Witch of Belladonna Bay by Suzanne Palmieri Page A

cinematic nightmare playing out right in front of you.
    There was one big fight Jackson and I had before Naomi died. Sometimes I think if it weren’t for that particular fight, I might not have left home at all. I might have stayed.
    We were on one of the upstairs porches, the one we used to sleep on when the summer nights got too hot. The Big House porches are not ordinary porches. There are handwoven carpets covering white-painted, wide wooden floors. Massive tropical potted plants live out there in the summer and are moved back inside during the winter months. And ceiling fans line the bead board under the roof, bringing a constant soothing breeze. They were a sanctuary, my own personal heaven—until that fight with my father.
    A huge storm was rolling in, bringing an unbearable humid heat. Naomi lazed in her rooms, and Paddy and I ran out onto the large porch and took up our usual spots. Paddy, the hammock, and I, one of the cushioned porch swings.
    â€œYou ready, Wyn? It’s gonna be a big one!”
    â€œI sure am, maybe it’ll take down this whole damn house.”
    Jackson was walking past the porch doors and heard me.
    â€œThat what you want, sugar?”
    Problem was, he wasn’t drunk that day, he was lucid. And he was mad . And I just didn’t know how to deal with a mad, sober Jackson. So I did what BitsyWyn did all the time. I fought back, only I never fought fair.
    â€œYessir, I do. I hope it comes and takes down this place and you and Mama with it.”
    That made him come right out onto the porch.
    He sat next to me on the swing, and I squished myself as far away from him as I could.
    Why do you suppose we do that, push ourselves away from those we love right when we need them the most? The whole damn fight could have been avoided right there if I told the truth—that I loved them both more than anything—and just sidled up next to him for the hug he wanted. But if BitsyWyn Walen was anything, it was downright stubborn.
    â€œGo on inside, Daddy. Go on in and check on Mama. I don’t need you now. Paddy don’t need you. We needed you years ago.”
    â€œDon’t drag me into this thing, Wyn.” Paddy laughed it off, but there was a whole lot of anger all caught up in my chest and brewing up like the storm.
    â€œOh, here we go. You’ve been so neglected. Jaysus, sugar. You’ve never wanted for anything. And I love you. You know that. And your mama loves you,” he said.
    That was it.
    â€œLove? Oh, please. If all this”—I made a wide circle with my arms—“if all this is love, then I don’t want it! I don’t want you! I don’t want any of this! You are killing her! You’re a fucking murderer!”
    Lord, how we sometimes scream out our own prophesies.
    â€œBronwyn, quiet that vile tongue of yours or I swear to God I will rip it out, and rip it out slow,” said my father through clenched teeth.
    â€œGood! Because then I could go into town and actually have some abuse to report!”
    â€œYou’d have to bring a pad and pencil with you, as you wouldn’t be able to speak.” Paddy smiled, trying to get a laugh out of us.
    My father grew still. Our brutal words leaving marks on both of us. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I continued talking, knowing I was hurting him, wanting to cut him deeper than he could ever cut me.
    â€œTen to one you get up right after this little ‘vile’ speech of mine and drown your sorrows in that bourbon calling to you downstairs. But how about we have a little wager, Daddy? Tell you what: if you stay here, right here next to me, and watch the storm come in with us, I’ll shut up. Forever.”
    Only now did I realize the trap I’d set. There was no way he wasn’t going to need a drink. An alcoholic always chooses escape. But I was sixteen with a heart full of anger, and a whole world to punish.
    He left, and I scooted right on back