I Like Marigolds

Glenda Murphy glanced around the crypt and groaned. Cobwebs everywhere. She frowned at the vase of wilted marigolds but ignored it. Forget about flowers, because that floozy would never think about them. It was good that Glenda had opted to wear an old dress, because she'd have hated to get her new suit grubby. She planned to be buried in it.

After leaning her cane against the stone wall, she bent low to kiss the cold marble separating her mortal flesh from her eternal destiny. The arthritis afflicting her joints caused them to scream in agony, but she only had thoughts for the space next to her dead husband two feet beneath her lips.

A wail of agony outside disturbed the sacred silence. Glenda heard herself gasp. That little monkey was at it again! After retrieving her stick, she hobbled out as fast as her short legs could carry her.

“Granny, help me!” cried little Krysha, sweeping a flame red lock from her tear-stained face. Her short dress appeared dishevelled, and both her knees featured vivid grass stains. Clearly, the children had been play-fighting. At least, it was play for her grandson. Not so much for his twin sister.

Noticing her granddaughter's bloody nose, Glenda glanced around the gravestones. “Where you at, Kyle?”

The little imp glanced out from behind a tombstone and grinned like the mischievous leprechauns in legends her own grandmother used to tell. Sometimes her breath caught when she saw how he resembled his father at that age, with his chubby red cheeks and sparkly eyes.

She scowled at Kyle. “What did you do to your sister, scamp?”

“Aw, Granny. I didn't do nothing.”

“I'm old, but I ain't blind.” The boy was growing too like his father for her liking. She frowned. Like his grandfather, for that matter.

Krysha straightened, anger flaring in her eyes. “He hit me good.”

“Now, child.” She waggled a finger at her granddaughter. “Don't you go telling tales, y'hear.”

Krysha lowered her head and kicked at the dirt with her shoes, and Glenda's heart sank. She reminded her so much of Angus' sister, Lyn. Her daughter hadn't spoken to her in over twenty years. That was understandable. “That's better.” She forced a smile for the girl. “No need to make such a fuss.”

Poor Krysha would likely marry some brute who fed her knuckle sandwiches for breakfast and an underdone sausage for supper. Well, such was the life of Murphy girls—a vicious cycle—world without end, without end, amen.

She offered her hand, which was readily snatched. She winced, but she wasn't sure if it was from the pain in her gnarled fingers or the tears that ran down her granddaughter's cheeks. How many times had those been her own?

Turning her back on the crypt, Glenda led her grandchildren back toward the decaying antebellum pile that six generations of Murphys had called home. They crossed sun browned fields that cried of neglect—fallow fields with feral livestock. This land had been in the family since the Purchase. In fact, it's where they first settled upon arriving from the old country. She had never been to Ireland, but as a child she'd heared her mother sing in Gaelic. She wished she'd learned those songs before her mother passed. It had always been such a thrill to hear Róisín Dubh sung with proper gusto, but poor Krysha would never get to hear that from either Glenda or her own mother.

***

After tucking her grandchildren in, Glenda crept onto the creaky landing. At last the imps were asleep, and she could get back to that Stephen King novel. Settling them had been difficult, what with the howling wind outside. Misery was her favourite of his books, though she often pondered why it was she felt more sympathy toward the antagonist than the victim.

Rain smashed against the age-yellowed windowpanes. “Katrina”, Angus had said the storm was called. Made sense for such a destructive force of nature to be named after a woman. Like his father before him, her son knew such things. That was Murphy men for you. Clever men who married ignorant fools. Yet, you can always teach a young bitch new tricks. That was a lesson her mother-in-law had taught her.

Glenda made for the stairhead, keeping herself steady with one hand on the oak handrail, worn smooth by two centuries of Murphy womenfolk's sweat as they polished away the grime. A single tear dampened her wrinkled cheek as she recalled how much Lyn had wanted to join in with the weekly ritual. That was before her father began paying special attention to her. After that, nothing interested her.

A muffled cry came from the master bedroom, and she paused. The noise of the argument beyond vied with the howling wind for attention. A crash followed by a tinkle told her that her daughter-in-law would be out buying a new vanity mirror sometime next week. She shook her head and hoped they wouldn't wake the children. Like father like son; there was a demon who possessed the Murphy menfolk, and his name was Legion. Sarah might be a floozy, but she didn't deserve the beatings Angus gave her. It looked as though she'd have to broker a peace again. She didn't want to, but it was becoming unavoidable.

She'd do it tomorrow dinnertime. She'd cook the old family recipe stew, the one her mother-in-law passed to her, then take Sarah aside—into the kitchen as was proper for women folks—and set her straight. A woman had a place in the Murphy family, and that floozy had to understand. Of course, she'd been just as bad. Worse, if she was honest. Why, she'd never even shouted back at her husband once. At least Sarah had backbone. She supposed it was all this women's liberation nonsense made her that way.

Glenda chuckled and turned her back on the troubling door. Her own mother-in-law had taught her how to smooth things over. But that wasn't what made Glenda laugh. No, it was the memory of how much she'd hated the evil, old cow. All those years she'd wished the hag had died in childbirth. Her shoulders shook with mirth as she recalled how that hatred and resentment had vanished in a few minutes of epiphany one stormy night, one much like this one. All too late, of course, because any chance of reconciliation was lost. Strange how she should feel so close to the old bitch now.

No, she really didn't want to do it, but it was for the better. She had to think of the children, just like her mother-in-law, and her mother-in-law before her.

***

Sarah stared across the table at her, wide-eyed, her lank strawberry blonde locks a reminder of Glenda's own lost youth. “Why, Mother dear, this is the best venison stew I ever did eat. Whatever did you add to it?”

She smiled. This was her cue. “Well, why don't you help me clear the plates, and I'll tell you all about it, and give you the recipe.”

Angus chuckled, his ruddy cheeks a mature version of his sons. Sometimes it was strange to note how much he resembled a pig fattened for market. But it was good to see her son in a good humour, especially now. Especially this hour. That snarl he usually wore didn't suit him.

“Mom, you outdid yourself today,” he said. “Why, I don't think we've had the old Murphy stew since… well, not since Pa was still with us.”

She nodded and stood, gesturing to Sarah to join her as she cleared the willow pattern dishes from the table. “Be careful with—”

“Been in the Murphy family since 1850… blah, blah. I know.”

“Well”—Glenda smiled to take the edge off her nagging—“It has, you know. Remember, Sam Houston himself presented this dinner service to Abigail Murphy in recognition of her husband's service at the Alamo.”

“His death, you mean.”

She let that go. Sarah would understand all too soon. Lifting the plates one by one and loading them onto her squeaky hostess' trolley, she wished once again she could leave some of these heirlooms to Lyn. It was pointless, she knew. Anything from this house that came into her daughter's possession, no matter how valuable, would be smashed and placed upon a bonfire.

Once in the kitchen, she inhaled the sweet, lingering aroma of the stew. Glancing back, she saw her son telling his own son jokes while ignoring his daughter, just like his father. Glenda would remember this scene for the rest of her days… well, minutes anyway.

She turned to her willowy daughter-in-law. “Leave the dishes.”

“Pardon, Mother?”

“No time to waste. I've got to give you the recipe before I go.”

“Go? Have you booked a holiday?”

“In a way.” She smirked. “First, you see those two pots on the hob.”

“Y-yes.”

“Throw the small one away. Don't ever use it again.”

“But, why?”

Glenda grinned. “That's the one Angus' and my stew came from. You wouldn't want the children to taste any.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “What on earth are you on about?”

Glenda ignored the question. “Come here.” She staggered to the cupboard, feeling dizzy, then opened it to reveal jalapeños and a jumbo-sized Victorian medicine jar that had been handed down in the Murphy family from mother-in-law to daughter-in-law over six generations—half-full now.

“Jalapeños are the key ingredient. You must use two peppers to two teaspoons of the secret ingredient.”

Sarah gaped. “What 'secret ingredient'?”

Glenda tapped the jar. “I have no idea, but it always works.”

“Works?”

“It'll all make sense soon.” She gripped Sarah's hand, sending a jolt of pain up her arm. It didn't matter; she wouldn't suffer long.

“Mother, you're scaring me.”

“Don't be afraid. Only Angus and I ate the special recipe. I ensured none came near you or the children.” She smiled, though it was difficult with such pain in her stomach. It wasn't as bad as she'd expected. “I couldn't send him on his way but stay behind myself. You'll understand.”

“No… No I don't!”

“You'll know when the time comes…for Kyle, I mean. Don't blame the men. They can't help what's in their genes.”

Her daughter-in-law's frightened face blurred. Her legs buckled beneath her, and Glenda collapsed to the floor, dragging her lightweight daughter-in-law along.

Sarah crouched over her. Her gaze shot to the closed door. “You're serious! You poi—”

“Shush!” She tightened her grip on Sarah's hand and grabbed her blouse with her free hand. “Listen! You know Angus won't change. You know he won't stop at hitting you. Once Krysha is big enough to gain his attention, it'll be her too. And he might not stop at just hitting.” She bit her lip, drawing the bronze tang of blood. Should she tell her everything? It was only fair. “His father didn't.”

Sarah's eyes widened. “He didn't…?”

Glenda nodded.

“My God! Poor Lyn.”

“That's why you must keep our secret. And, for God's sake, be good to Krysha. Don't make my mistakes. Make your own.”

“I-I promise.”

“Tell Lyn I'd like her at the funeral.”

“I'll ask. No, I'll demand. But, the doctor. Won't he…?”

Glenda cackled, but it transformed into a rasping cough. Once she caught back her breath, she whispered, “Angus is younger and bigger, so the poison won't touch him for an hour or so. But by tonight, he'll be gone.”

“You've done this before. Angus' father?”

“Doctor Quinn's lazy. Knows none of the Murphy boys e-ever made it to fifty. H-he'll call it a heart attack.”

“Angus is overweight, but are you sure?”

“'S what h-he said las… last t…”

Sarah shook her. “Mother?”

Her throat hurt, but there was one last thing. “The f-flowers in the crypt. Please… change… I like Mari—”



WORD COUNT: 2000

"Drama Newsletter (April 5, 2017)"