The Life and Death of Cordelia Abrams

When I was a young girl, my family and I moved out of the city, and into the sleepy town of Weston. My father had painted us a beautiful picture of what living in the countryside would be like. My sister and I were promised fields of flowers, and Sunday picnics and cold creeks to splash through. We moved into a large, beautiful house, surrounded by hills, fields, forests, creeks, and anything else two adventurous little girls could want. In the city, we had lived in a tiny apartment that always smelled musty. It wasn’t safe to go out at night, we were in cramped quarters, and we were always sick. Some illness or another would rip through the complex, leaving children and babies in its wake. All three of my baby brothers were stolen away by a fever, leaving my sister and I in a confused state of grief. We didn’t understand why our brothers were taken to the church, or why our mother wept while clutching their blankets. Years later, I would come to understand that their sudden deaths were our reason for leaving the city.

Out in the country, my sister and I eagerly explored the house and the grounds. We each had our own rooms for the first time in our lives and spent hours talking about how we were going to decorate them. Neighbors visited, bringing us gifts of food and trinkets. Those who had heard about us girls brought old dresses and ribbons and flowers and toys. The neighbors in Weston were much friendlier than the ones in the city. They spoke to us with a level of familiarity that we thought was reserved for family. Adults invited us over for playdates with their kids, old ladies gave us compliments and hugs, and other children asked about the city with rabid curiosity. My sister and I always had something to do. We climbed trees, helped our dad take care of the chickens, and played make-believe. Gone were the days of being cooped up in our room all day, watching the adults work, and choking on smog from the factories. We ran and played in the sun, becoming healthier and happier children. For a while, everything was perfect. Until we met the Benjamin’s.

The Benjamin’s had seemed like a perfectly lovely family. They brought us a jar of honey on our first day in Weston, but my sister and I paid them little attention until we started school. The Benjamin children quickly took an interest in us and invited us over to play after we finished our chores. They were a large family, with fifteen children and another on the way. It guaranteed that there was always at least one child that wanted to play with us. I didn’t see much of Mrs. Benjamin in all my time there, but I vividly remember the few moments I had with her. The first time I had seen her, she’d been walking barefoot in the small flower garden that the bees were kept in. The ways the bees buzzed around her, and how the wind moved her hair, and the swollenness of her belly beneath the plain cotton dress made her seem almost angelic. We spoke briefly, she told me strange facts about bees and honey. I don’t remember everything she said anymore, but one exchange has stuck in my head for decades.

“If you ever have a honey farm, never grow oleander.”

“Why?”

“If the bees eat it, they’ll make poisonous honey.”

When my sister and I were teenagers, I noticed a change in our relationship with the Benjamin’s. Mr. Benjamin would come around with candies and sweets just for my sister, and the children began to distance themselves from me. My sister got invited to help harvest the honey; I did not. She was brought to the market to help sell the honey; I was not. Mr. Benjamin insisted on employing her to help take care of the youngest children when I offered my services, he behaved rudely. Foolishly, I was jealous of the attention she was getting. One day, after the two of us had gone to bed for the night, she crept into my room. I was annoyed and had every intention of turning her away, but she seemed so afraid. She confessed to me that whenever Mr. Benjamin invited her to help, he forced her to do terrible things. If she struggled or tried to stop him, he threatened to tell our father that he had raised a whore. She was sobbing, and I didn’t know what to do. It was then that she revealed the reason she was telling me. She feared that she was pregnant by Mr. Benjamin.

At the time, her confession had come out of nowhere. However, there were so many signs that I had ignored out of jealousy. She’d grown distant, not wanting to talk. When we did speak, she reacted aggressively at the mention of the Benjamin’s. She made excuses to stay home, claiming she was sick or hadn’t finished her chores. Back then, I judged her for it. Now, I’m angry with myself for not seeing the signs and doing something about it.

Despite my shock, I believed her. Even then, there was something off about Mr. Benjamin, I just didn’t know what it was. We came up with the best plan that a child could make. She was to tell Mr. Benjamin about the expected baby so he would get scared and leave her alone, then we were going to take a trip until the baby arrived, then give it to whatever old spinster we met on our travels. In hindsight, we should have skipped the first step.

She left to tell Mr. Benjamin the next day but never came back. After a few days, my parents wrote her off as a runaway. I knew something terrible had happened, but no one would listen to me. Mr. Benjamin told my parents that she was in love with a boy in the next town and that they had run away together after she had gotten pregnant. After that, my family forbade speaking her name. To this day, I can still feel the sharp sting of my mother striking me whenever I think of my sister’s name. I was afraid for the Benjamin children, so I gathered them and told them what I thought had happened. They denied it, and when I insisted that Mr. Benjamin’s story was a lie, they beat me with sticks. Their collective reaction had revealed one thing: they knew. They knew, and they did nothing.

45 years later, I still live in Weston, in my family home. Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin died a long time ago, but all their children are still alive and live in town. I’m now the local honey farmer. Recently, I haven’t been selling much because I’ve been preparing a gift for the Benjamin children. A stack of honey jars, each with a little handwritten note, were ready to send out. I watched the bees buzz around the oleander plants, then wrote the last little note.

Thank you for the memories!

Love, Eleanor Abrams