Part 3Cottonmouth Son

With Uncle Ray gone, you’d think Grandma Maeve would be miserable. But she was happier than I’d ever seen her. Because Ray had left the Miller family a parting gift.

Clara was pregnant.

Suddenly, nothing was too good for my sister. The best cuts of meat, fresh eggs every morning, a new mattress so she wouldn’t “catch a chill.” Grandma was convinced her grandson was finally on his way. Clara and I would share secret smiles when she’d sneak me one of her eggs.

But the waiting was killing Grandma. She had to know if it was a boy. A trip to the hospital in the city was too expensive, especially if the news was bad. So she went to see the root doctor again.

The old woman looked at Clara, felt her belly, and shook her head. “It’s a girl,” she declared.

Grandma Maeve’s face turned to thunder. Daddy grabbed a thick stick, ready to bring it down on Clara’s stomach. “I’ll get rid of it right now!” he roared.

“Hold on!” the root doctor said, stopping him. “I said it’s a girl now. I didn’t say it had to stay one.”

She produced a small vial of dark, oily liquid. “This here is ‘turnin’ oil,’” she said. “One drop in her tea every night at the stroke of midnight. It’ll turn that girl baby into a proper boy. Twenty dollars a bottle. You’ll need three.”

Sixty dollars. It was a fortune to us. But for a grandson, Daddy paid without a second thought.

Grandma Maeve forced the vile stuff down Clara’s throat every night. But before the first bottle was even empty, Clara started bleeding. We rushed her to the clinic. The doctor said she’d been poisoned. The “turnin’ oil” was loaded with nightshade. If we’d waited any longer, it would’ve killed them both.

They saved Clara, but the baby was gone. The doctor held up the tiny, lifeless form. It had been a boy.

Grandma Maeve collapsed, wailing about her lost grandson, cursing Clara for being too weak to hold onto him even with the magic oil.

The worst news came later. The doctor said the poison had ruined Clara’s womb. She’d never be able to have children. When Clara heard that, a small, relieved smile touched her lips. At least the torture was finally over.

Grandma Maeve’s hope died that day, replaced by a simmering, silent rage. And sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, I’d catch her staring at me. A long, calculating stare that sent a shiver down my spine. Her eyes were darker and more terrifying than the unlit country roads at night. I started staying out late after school, doing anything to avoid being home alone with her.