Keeny Family Headcanons
During the antebellum, the Keeny Plantation had hundreds of slaves that cared for the fields and the manor.
The more chemically inclined members of the family created a concoction that, when applied to the clothes of the rebellious slaves, attracted wild dogs and threw them into a bloodthirsty frenzy.
Mary Keeny was born in 1904. Her husband, Ephraim Keeny, was her second cousin.
Mary and Ephraim were a strange yet balanced pair; Mary being firm and Ephraim being fair.
He called her his little lamb
She called him a goose, which was a backhanded pet name if there ever was one.
Marion Keeny was born in 1922 after a long labor that nearly killed her mother. The doctors stressed that, if she valued her life, she was to never have another child.
Mary’s mother and grandfather committed suicide after the stock market crash. Ephraim hung on longer, but he eventually poisoned himself. Mary never forgave him for that.
She was twenty-six, Marion was eight.
Marion Keeny married her third cousin, Aldrich, in 1954. Karen was born a year later.
The labor was eleven hours and she hated ever minute of it. She never wanted to be a mother, but Mary’s will was stronger than her own.
She didn’t have postpartum depression–Marion had postpartum resentment.
Speaking of resentment, Mary was livid when she found out that the baby was a girl. A boy would have kept the family name going; a girl was yet another mouth to feed.
As soon as she was able, Marion resumed being part of the small town socialites. All descended from gentry, all pretending that they were still wealthy, all too self-involved to care about anyone other than themselves.
Aldrich was a better parent, bar none. When he wasn’t at work or tending to the fields, he would do his best to be there for his daughter. Mary would wonder aloud what kind of man would let himself be emasculated like this.
In the summer of 1968, as he was tending the fields on the manor’s property, Aldrich Keeny died from heatstroke.
His body was out there for almost a full hour before Mary demanded that someone check on that layabout.
Karen found him.
The funeral was long, drawn out, and Karen was not allowed to cry.
Marion sold all of his things. The money didn’t last.
With the only caring figure in her life gone, she turned to a deviant lifestyle to fill the void in her heart and get the attention she craved.
She started experimenting with drugs and alcohol. It started with marijuana, and over the years she graduated to harder stuff.
In January of 1972, a man crossed her path. A navy man came into the bar she was in swept her off her feet during the entire duration of his shore leave.
Gerald Crane was twenty-six years old at the time. Karen was sixteen.
He left her with the promise of visiting again. He never did.
Two months into her pregnancy, Karen turned seventeen.
On October 23, 1972, Jonathan was born to a love-starved and scared girl late at night.
Karen passed out during the last leg of pushing. After Jonathan was taken away, Marion shook her awake. She told Karen that the baby was stillborn, no doubt due to the drugs in her system, and was disposed of. Karen begged to see the body. Marion dragged her out of bed and shoved into the car. On a long stretch of barren highway, she was violently thrown onto the side of the road like a bag of trash and watched her mother drive off into the horizon.
Karen lived off of the generosity and pity of others for the next few decades, hating herself for causing her baby’s death. She kept herself at arm’s length when it came to allowing herself to get close to others.
She never stopped loving Gerald. And truth be told, Gerald never stopped loving her.
