Everyone who knew the Blanchards sent condolence cards or flowers. Many also brought food to Blanchard House. The family had many friends in Daihmler- people they’d helped in various ways over the years, and when the townspeople heard the news of a death in the family, they showed their support with baked and fried love. The funeral was held on the Blanchard property, as was custom in the family. It was a double funeral, officiated by Travis Dandridge. As he stood before the family—and being a private funeral, it was family only—he was completely unaware that the little coffin beside David’s was empty.

  He spoke lovingly of his nephew and grandnephew. He told stories about David’s childhood and the joy he had brought Travis and Molly through the years. He told the story of how he’d been the one to rush Salem to the hospital the day she gave birth to Michael. He talked about how close he came to being in the delivery room holding her hand until, in the final hour, David was tracked down at work and made it just in time. Travis spoke with a mixture of laughter and tears for his nephews. At one point, he placed his hands on each coffin and stood in silent prayer. He had no idea baby Michael’s remains were not in the box before him.

  A sorrowful sky sat overhead that afternoon—a greenish gray horizon carrying a still, hot air all around. Tornado weather, but thankfully none developed. Travis and Molly were invited to stay for dinner and overnight if they so desired, but declined. They said their goodbyes to the family, and to a numb and silent Salem. Travis assured her that her job would be waiting for her whenever she was ready to return. He reminded her that David’s death did not end the fact that she was family to he and Molly and always would be. She was now their last relative on earth. Olympia made a point to let the Dandridges know they were also part of the Blanchard family and were welcome anytime.

  After the Dandridges drove away, Olympia sat down in the living room to contemplate the day. Salem was already sitting in one of the winged-back chairs by the fireplace, her legs pulled up to her chest like armor. Silently, she sunk her face into her knees. Olympia watched her, wishing there was something she could do to ease her pain. There was nothing Olympia Blanchard hated more than seeing one of her babies hurting. She understood all too well the pain Salem was feeling. She had lost three husbands in her time. First John Windham, then Martin Caswell, and lastly her sweet Sinclair. She also understood the pain of losing a child. She had gone through that torment with Nacaria. Olympia knew the fine line between grief and madness. Salem was holding it together much too strongly. Olympia knew her granddaughter well enough to know Salem would never release the pent-up emotion with tears. Since the crash, she had only cried once the swell became too much to contain, and then she cried only the amount needed to release the overflow—the rest she locked inside behind the dam. She had learned to do that after her mother was taken. Olympia regretted now having allowed that child to cope with pain by stoically suppressing it. Adult Salem was not equipped for releasing grief because the child she’d once been refused to succumb to it. What Salem needed was a laugh. Laughter could release the pressure just as well as giving into tears. And a release was needed to empty out everything her granddaughter was holding in. No one wanted her to blow anything up again.

  Olympia noticed that the rest of the family were busying themselves in their own way. Fable was in the living room with them, sitting on the sofa, glancing through family photo albums. She had paused at the pictures of Salem and David’s wedding, staring blankly at the happy snapshots of the day. Olympia could hear noise in the kitchen where Demitra and Beryl were helping Artemis wash up the coffee cups and saucers. Seth was out in the graveyard, covering David’s grave. And Olympia could hear the faint voice of Yasmine from the porch. It sounded as if she were greeting, and stopping, her new boyfriend from coming inside.

  “It’s just not a good time to come in, Jake,” Yasmine said uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. It’s just family right now.”

  Jake ran his hand clumsily through his dark, curly hair and broke eye contact. He felt a little embarrassed to have barged in on such a private moment. He didn’t know the Blanchards. Only Yasmine. He realized it had been presumptuous to drive out there.

  “I understand,” Jake replied. “I didn’t exactly know what I should do. I know I don’t really know your family, but I felt like I couldn’t stay home, not without at least driving by a minute to tell you in person how sorry I am for your family’s loss.”

  “I appreciate it. That was really kind of you. It’s just a hard day. My cousin isn’t very responsive. She just sits there.”

  Jake looked away a moment out into the meadow. Just beyond a cluster of trees he was able to make out the figure of a man shoveling earth. It seemed out of place for a moment until it dawned on him the man with the shovel was burying something. “Is that where they are being buried?”

  “Yes,” Yasmine answered. “Seth dug the grave and is now covering it.”

  “Grave?” Jake noted. “I thought there were two losses.”

  “Sorry, graves,” Yasmine corrected.

  “Isn’t it a little strange to bury people in your yard?” Jake questioned.

  “Not here,” Yasmine explained. “Blanchard relatives are always buried here. Out where Seth is, is the family graveyard. My grandmother’s three husbands are there. My grandfather being one of them. One day that’s where I’ll be too, I guess.”

  “Not if someone marries you and takes you away from here to start a life of your own.”

  Yasmine gave him a gentle look, but firmly said, “I would never go away from here.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a car pulling up in the gravel driveway. Vanessa Collins stepped out and shut the door behind her. She began walking towards the porch until she spied Seth in the distance. She glanced up to Yasmine as if to ask permission.

  “Go ahead,” Yasmine said. “He is having a hard time. It might help if he sees you.”

  Vanessa walked the distance across the meadow to the patch of trees sprinkled with headstones. Seth was shoveling the final layers of dirt as she came up. Sweat covered his brow and had soaked through the back of his shirt and under his arms. He wiped his brow with the back of his dirt-stained hand, leaving a smudge on his forehead.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  Sticking the shovel in the ground over David’s grave, he lifted a water bottle from a nearby headstone and took a sip. “It’s not easy.”

  “Why are you digging the grave?” Vanessa asked. “Your grandmother is loaded. Couldn’t she have hired someone to do this?”

  “We bury our own,” Seth said as if the tradition gave him a sense of family pride. “I would never let anyone else bury David. He was my brother.”

  Vanessa looked around at the graves. There were several. Each had a tall headstone etched with the names and dates of the beloved Blanchard relatives. It was an odd practice from her experience in the church. She had never known anyone to be buried on a family property before. She was certain her father would not approve. Then again, he would not even have approved of her drive out there to see Seth today. She’d made that excursion in secret.

  “Are your parents buried here?” she asked.

  “No. My father is still alive.” His jaw tensed, betraying a rage boiling beneath the surface. It was a rage he was adept at hiding, but in the moment he slipped, opening a crack allowing her to glimpse inside. “I’ve just never met him.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Vanessa nervously retracted her lips into a pursed expression, “I’m sorry, Seth. I didn’t know. You’ve never told me that. I assumed both of your parents were dead. Is your mother’s grave here?”

  “No,” Seth answered flatly, without further explanation. “My mother isn’t buried here.”

  A long pause passed between them. Seth picked the shovel back up and smoothed out the clumps of dirt and grass over the grave he had dug. Vanessa watched him in silence. There was so much she did not know about his life. He’d been through things in his life--hard things. It wasn’t difficult to figure that out. But what they were remained a mystery. Seth wasn’t the type to dwell in uncomfortable places. Vanessa knew him well enough to know that whatever pains he carried inside he considered private. He never shared them. In fact, he avoided them at all cost, usually masking them with humor. She realized now that the characteristics she found most endearing about him—his sense of humor and his almost religious dedication to fitness were only shields to distract from whatever wounds he was trying to hide.

  With the job completed, he rested the shovel along the edge of the waist-high iron fence nearby. Vanessa pushed a strand of hair out of her face which the gentle breeze was blowing into her eyes. Birds were chirping in the trees as the sun was beginning to set beyond the woods across the meadow. Seth was unusually quiet. Pensive. Vanessa wasn’t sure what to say or do for him. He’d never been this way before.

  Exhausting all other possible things to say, she simply said, “I wish I could have been with you at the funeral.”

  Seth looked at her and made a bad attempt at a smile, “I know. I appreciate that.”

  “I suppose coming inside to pay my respects to your sister isn’t a good idea either?” Vanessa asked. “I see Yasmine has porch-blocked her boyfriend.”

  “Jake is here?” Seth shrieked, turning to look towards the house. It was the first bit of real emotion he’d displayed since she had approached. “Why is he here? He isn’t her boyfriend. They are barely even dating.”

  “Does he bother you?” Vanessa asked.

  “No,” Seth replied. “I don’t even know him. I can’t see him well from here. Kind of short, isn’t he?”

  “I didn’t think he was particularly short,” Vanessa said looking again.

  “Well, hopefully he’s leaving. He shouldn’t be here.”

  Vanessa bristled, “Like me, too, I suppose.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” Warmth was returning to Seth’s eyes now. He felt bad at how his remark had come off. “You are my girlfriend; Jake is nothing to Yasmine.”

  Vanessa eyed Seth for a moment and then said what she was thinking, “Do I need to point out the fact that she is your cousin?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Vanessa said concernedly. “You just seem to have a noticeable aversion to your cousin’s boyfriend.”

  “I don’t care either way,” Seth snapped. “But he’s not her boyfriend. Like I said, they barely date. It just seems pretty presumptuous of him to drive out here—today of all days.”

  Back in the house, Salem had not stirred from her place in the chair. Fable tried offering her some tea, but she did not look up. Yasmine came back into the house. As she passed Salem’s chair, she reached her hand out and caressed her cousin’s soft red hair. Words were useless now. The simple gesture was all she could think of to show she was there and she cared. Salem took no notice of that either. Olympia was worried. The air around was heavy and solemn, deafened by the sound of loss. The old woman had rarely felt powerless in her life, and when she had, she hated the feeling. She felt powerless again now. Part of her job as a grandmother was to protect her offspring. And her sole job as Hecate of their family coven was to guide and protect her witches. There was nothing she could do with this situation except wait it out and watch her granddaughter mourn. Suddenly the front door swung open as Zelda stomped inside. With her swept in a wave of chatter and life, infiltrating the somber air.

  “Hey kiddies!” she yelled slamming the door behind her. In her arms were bottles of Pepsi and two buckets of fried chicken. “I know you all want to be alone, but hey—you’re not gonna be.”

  Salem looked up for the first time in a half hour. It surprised her that she felt like giggling at the sight of Zelda in her chartreuse moo-moo juggling chicken and soft drinks. And that magenta hair! Salem had not seen Zelda’s new dye job since she’d been home.

  “Zelda,” she said, rising from the hold the chair had on her. “I haven’t seen you in a year or more.”

  “I know, Kiddo,” Zelda winked. “I’m sorry about everything. But I bet you’re sick of people saying they’re sorry for you, so I’m not going to say it again. But I had to say it at least the once otherwise I’m just some old, silly bitch. Now grab some of this chicken. I remembered how you liked it.”

  “Thank you, Zelda,” Salem said, taking the chicken from her and grabbing a drumstick off the top.

  “Zelda, Mrs. McKenzie brought us some of her homemade fried chicken an hour ago. We were just about to heat it up in a little while,” Fable said.

  “Throw that mess away!” Zelda cried. “Delma McKenzie is about the worst cook in Daihmler. I bet you she brought that crap over cause her family wouldn’t eat it. She just acted like she made it for ya’ll.”

  “Good old Zelda,” Olympia said to herself as she joined her friend.

  “Lympy, you remember how sick ever’body got after that book club meeting she hosted when she served her sausage balls. That woman is a terrible cook.” Zelda carried the Pepsi bottles to the dining room table setting them down amid the spread of food from the community. “Oh, Lord. I recognize Buella Crowly’s flowerdy casserole dish with the chip in the handle. Toss that out, too. She just throws together whatever cans of shit she has in the cabinet and pours some mushroom soup over it and calls it a casserole. You’re better off eating out of the garbage.”

  Salem laughed. A real, genuine laugh. It felt good and she felt guilty from it. Yet she found herself laughing again. What right did she have to laugh? This was not a day for laughter. She scolded herself, but within seconds she found herself smiling again as Zelda paraded around the table making commentary.

  “Oh, and look,” Zelda snorted. “Inez Dillingham made macaroni and cheese. Filthiest kitchen in town and she’s gonna bring this mess? Mac and cheese! What’s she think, ever’body here is ten years old? Bet this stuff came out of a box. And of course, she labeled her pan with a piece of tape and her name in Sharpie. I’ve seen the bottoms of her pans before. They’re all rusted. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to keep her nasty ass pan! Toss this crap out.”

  Artemis came out of the kitchen, “What’s going on out here?”

  Salem reached for her aunt’s hand and whispered, “Zelda just gave me a cigarette.” Artemis put her arm around Salem and hugged her tight.

  “Anyway,” Zelda could be heard saying from the living room—already midway into another story, “I don’t care if your feet do dry out and crack open when you walk across my carpet barefooted, I’m not ripping up my rug just cause you’re allergic to Scotchguard.”

  “What are talking about now Zelda?” Salem asked, coming into the living room with another chicken leg.

  “I was just telling your Hecate ‘bout how my Sarah says she’s allergic to my new carpet. Says her feet crack open. If you ask me, those feet a’ hern crack open cause the sheer pressure of carrying that big fat ass of hers around.”

  “That’s awful to say,” Olympia scolded.

  “How is that diet of hers going Zelda?” Artemis asked. “I gave her several good recipes for low carb cooking.”

  “Arty, you won’t believe what that fool gal did. Made all that stuff you told her and poured gravy all over it, then made a chocolate cake. The girl is gone need her own area code ‘fore too long.”

  Olympia patted Zelda’s hand as they both sat down on the living room sofa. Zelda understood the meaning and opened her mind to her friend’s mental wavelength, like tuning to her favorite radio station through all the fuzz. Thank you, Olympia mindspoke to her. You always know just what is needed at just the right time. Zelda, being as well versed in mindspeaking as her friend, replied back to Olympia, Old Death can snatch up who he likes but he ain’t gonna break our Salem. Not as long as I got a say.

  Olympia and her family often used mindspeaking to convey private messages to one another, but she and Zelda had been mindspeaking together all of their lives. Back in the old days when the world had been much less safe than it is now, the two of them and Olympia’s sister, Pastoria, had avoided much peril using the ability to silently communicate with one another.

  “Zelda you really should be more supportive of your daughters,” Beryl commented coming into the living room by way of the dining room, where she had scored herself a piece of chicken.

  “Nah,” Zelda scoffed. “I never really liked them very much. Lympy here had the good kids, the whole lot of you. I got shafted. Nothing but lazy stupid girls, the both of them. Course Melinda was pretty at least. Ain’t so much now, but she used to be. I wanted boys. Didn’t get any. Now my girls are so ugly, doubt I’ll ever even get son-in-laws.”

  “You’re awful,” Demitra said.

  “Used to look at them when they was little and wonder how in the world it was those two sperms that made it through out of all the other’ns.”

  The shadow passed across the floor, then onto the wall and hovered a moment. No one said anything. Salem stared blankly at the shadow. Her face contorted a little, as if in anger towards it.

  “Salem, acknowledge her,” Zelda said.

  Salem did not say anything.

  “Salem, dear, you haven’t even spoken to her since you came home,” Olympia said. “He was her grandson after all.”

  “Go away, Mother!” Salem shouted at the wall. “You are the last thing I need to be reminded of right now.”

  The shadow moved quickly out of the room.