Kylie had tried; she had done her best to be ordinary, but that charade had always ended in failure. At one point, when she was already too old for such things, she had joined the 4-H and raised a calf for an entire season before realizing that its prescribed fate was to be sold to a butcher. She and Gideon had stolen it and brought it to an Audubon preserve where it still resided; having reached the weight of half a ton, Beanbag, called Beanie by most, had become a great favorite with the children who visited, offering handfuls of grain and stalks of grass. Kylie and Gideon still laughed about that day, how they’d risked getting into serious trouble for the sake of a calf, how he’d never thought it peculiar that she’d wanted to steal it, no matter the consequences.
“Did you ever hear Jet mention a curse?” Kylie asked her mother.
Sally was not a liar by nature, but when it came to the curse, she had her reasons for never telling her daughters about that particular portion of the Owens history. Once you knew, you could never act freely in the world again. Let them have fun and be young; there would be time enough to live in fear.
“Let’s not talk about family gossip on the day of your aunt’s funeral,” Sally insisted. She went up to the cousin from Maine who thought she was so clever and hissed, “Bring that up again, and you won’t be speaking much.”
Sally could feel her frantic heart at the very mention of the curse. You can hope that the following generations will be immune to whatever plagued their ancestors, you can do your best to keep your children safe, but you can’t entirely change their fate. The only ones with the potential for doing so are the individuals in question themselves, according to the choices they make. Sally had insisted that Gillian and the aunts never mention the curse, and because of this rule, her girls had grown up without its threat hanging over them. But what is meant to be will be, and truth has a way of revealing itself. It’s said aloud at the most unexpected time, when defenses are down, when Honesty Cake is served, cut up on a platter, there for anyone to taste.
* * *
Antonia and Kylie walked side by side on the way home, wearing black coats, holding up wide black umbrellas to protect against the pale spring rain that was spattering down. The world was dizzy with new leaves and the scent of the rain, sweet and fresh and green. It was their task to get to the house and set up lunch before the mourners arrived. It was the sort of damp, soft weather their aunt had always loved. The striking canopy of leaves opening above them could not console the sisters as they walked back to Magnolia Street. Rather, they were even more shocked postfuneral that their aunt had been taken from them. Kylie was hunched over, a habit she’d acquired so that she didn’t seem as tall as she was, nearly six feet, the same height as her imposing aunt Frances, who, in her eighties, still frightened people in the neighborhood when she walked along Main Street. Franny, however, didn’t seem the least bit fearsome now. She stood holding a bunch of rain-drenched daffodils. They were Jet’s favorite flower and for years children in town had called Jet the daffodil lady, for she grew hundreds in the Owenses’ garden and always brought a bouquet tied with blue ribbon when she visited Levi Willard’s grave. Witches were said never to cry, but Franny’s face was puffy and she wore sunglasses in the rain. She could not imagine the world without her sister, who had been wounded terribly in her youth and had still managed to love more, not less.
After the service, Sally came to take Franny’s arm. It was a good thing, for the world had shifted and now seemed a trickier, more slippery place. Franny accepted her niece’s assistance as they trekked over the sodden ground. She was glad that one of the Merrill brothers—George, Franny thought his name was, after all these years she still got them confused—had come in his truck to drive her home, for the path was soggy and Franny felt off-kilter. Her knees were soft, as if she might collapse, not that she was the sort of person who would ever do so. Somehow, while her back was turned she had become old and had lost her husband and her sister and her dear brother, Vincent.
Once home, Franny went up to her large bedroom and closed the door before any of the cousins could trap her in conversation. Long ago, her room had belonged to her aunt Isabelle, who had always favored Franny and had insisted she be the next occupant of the best room in the house. Franny recalled getting into bed beside her sister after her beloved Haylin had passed away. She remembered how Jet had held her hand, and how the telephone had rung and dear little Sally had been on the other end of the line insisting that she and her sister, Gillian, were coming to stay. That is how love worked, Jet had assured Franny. It arrived when you least expected it. But what happened when it disappeared, Franny wondered as she lay in the old bed that had long ago belonged to Aunt Isabelle.