Page 24 of The Feud

I didn’t expect to get her since it’s the end of the school day and I know principals don’t stop at three p.m. I leave her a short message. “Hi, Marcie. It’s Ethan Blackburn. I know you said I could call if I needed help with Sylvie and I do. I’m hoping you can give me a call back and we can discuss it.”

I leave my number, even though I know it will be on her caller ID and she can access it through Sylvie’s records. I shift into gear and head up the driveway toward the house. I hope Marcie calls me back before the day is over because I could really use some advice on what to say to my daughter.

When I walk in the front door, the sound of raised voices has me lengthening my stride to reach the kitchen. Sylvie stands there with her hands on her hips, face bright red, yelling at Kat. “I am not going down to the barn with you later. Stop trying to tell me what to do. All of you people are awful and I’m done taking orders from you.”

“Now, Sylvie,” Miranda says from the other side of the kitchen island. She’s in the process of cutting up an apple that has a scoop of peanut butter on a plate beside it. Presumably my daughter’s snack. “Let’s lower it down.”

Sylvie whirls on Miranda, who has been the one person within the confines of this house who’s been able to have semi-decent conversations with the child. “Don’t you talk to me and tell me what to do. You work for these people and you’re just as bad as they are.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I bark, and Sylvie spins around, eyes wide. I’ve never used that tone with her before, and a flash of contrition filters through her eyes. That’s good because I’ve often wondered if she even knew how to be obedient or respect an elder. I’ve been hoping that most of her bluster is full-on acting and that Alaine had raised her better. Her response gives me hope.

But she lifts her chin and glares at me. “Screw you, Ethan,” she sneers, rushing past me out of the kitchen. I then hear her stomping up the staircase.

Kat turns to face me just as I hear Sylvie’s bedroom door slam. My sister throws her arms out. “What in the world?”

I fill both Kat and Miranda in on the visit with Rosemund. “I’ve called in reinforcements.” I explain about reaching out to Marcie DeLeon.

Kat pats my shoulder before leaving, giving me a sympathetic smile. “I sure hope Marcie can work miracles because, if not, I feel like we are all shit out of luck.”

I couldn’t agree more.

CHAPTER 9

Marcie

To say my office is modest is an understatement. I inherited the compact room, which is more about functionality than flair. My wooden desk bears the marks of years of service by those who came before me, flanked by chairs that, although uncomfortable, have comforted many a concerned parent and staff member.

I’ve peppered the space with personal touches—photographs of smiling students, handmade gifts that were tokens of innocent affection, and certificates that speak more of my dedication than accolade. The walls, a gallery of educational inspiration, are adorned with motivational quotes and a well-used bulletin board, its edges frayed with time. A modest window frames a view of the schoolyard and I love watching the kids play at recess. It’s one of the ways I combat the stress of a job that pulls on my reserves almost minute by minute.

Amid the simple furnishings, my computer and the stack of well-thumbed policy manuals on the shelf are my silent allies in steering the ship of learning. In this humble office, I chart the course for kids’ futures that have yet to be unfurled, my resolve unwavering despite the school’s lean budget.

Every day, I face a gauntlet of challenges that stretch my capabilities as an educator to the limits. My heart aches for the children who come to school bearing the scars—both visible and invisible—of abuse and neglect. I navigate the turbulent waters of bullying and violence, a shocking circumstance to have to deal with in children as young as mine. The specter of poverty looms large, with students arriving in class hungry and in threadbare clothing. It is a constant reminder of the inequities that plague our beloved community. My days are punctuated by the complexities of mental health issues, family crises and educational hurdles, each demanding a unique blend of empathy and resolve.

Beyond my office walls, I grapple with staff management, always aiming to uplift the morale of my team despite the ever-tightening budget constraints. Amid all of this, the relentless demands of administrative duties and regulatory compliance never cease, a constant backdrop to the more visible aspects of the job. In the quiet moments of reflection when I stare out my window watching the kids running around, laughing and playing with the delight of innocence, I often wonder how I manage to keep afloat in this sea of challenges.

Yet each morning, I arrive at school, resolve undimmed, ready to face another day because that’s what my heart demands I do.

The school is quiet, having emptied of everyone over an hour ago. With no husband or children of my own to go home to, I often stay to chip away at the never-ending mountain of paperwork that each day’s crises bring.

I am in the middle of writing a report for social services regarding a very sweet seven-year-old boy who told me that his father whipped him with a belt. My stomach threatened to expel my breakfast this morning when he showed me the welts on his back. My first order of business was to hug him gently, promising I’d help him. The second order of business was to release control to social services, my duty requiring that I involve them. I know tonight’s sleep will not go well because I’ll worry about him all night.

I take a break from the heaviness of the information before me and nab my phone from my purse, intent on checking my texts and voicemails. I’m surprised to find one from Ethan Blackburn.

I’m not sure why, but the minute I hear his lumbering voice my pulse begins to race. I try to ignore that and instead take note of what seems like desperation in his voice. I call him back immediately.

“Hello, Marcie… thank you for calling me back,” he answers when the call connects.

I sit up straighter in my chair and brush my hair back behind my ears. “Yes. Ethan. Hello. What can I do for you?”

He’s silent for a moment and then his gusting sigh tells me that something is very wrong. “It’s Sylvie. I need help.”

I listen while Ethan tells me how things have been going with Sylvie in the Blackburn home over the last several days. I take it all in quietly and intently, not interrupting, saving my questions for later. He seems like a man who needs to get a lot off his chest.

“I’m at my wits’ end. I thought she would be settling in by now but if anything, her behavior is getting worse and I’m worried that I’m not handling things correctly. The last thing I want to do is traumatize her, but I also feel like I need to take a firmer hand.”

I’m fascinated by the layers of complexity regarding this matter. It’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with a child who has lost a parent and had to go live with unknown relatives. I have helped guide many students through such scenarios. In fact, I’ve paid special attention to Sylvie since she enrolled at Shelbyville Primary, checking in with her every few days to see how she is doing. I’ve found the child reserved but not antagonistic. I definitely see sadness, but there are moments when I’ve observed Sylvie just being a little girl. Usually when I see her on the playground running around with the new friends she’s met.

The complexity comes because of this underlying feud between Sylvie’s current family situation with the Blackburns and her history with her mother’s family. I don’t really know why the feud exists or how deep it runs. I assume it’s due to intricate business ties that may have soured at some point in the past and I only assume this because the Blackburns and Mardraggons are the two wealthiest families in the county and probably the entire state. It only makes sense that their bitterness stems from some sort of rivalry, although I don’t understand how that could be so as the two businesses—horses and bourbon—are very different. Still, those two stalwart industries are synonymous with the great state of Kentucky.

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