Suffer a Witch (2 page)

“No,” Em said out loud.

She forced herself to get out her laptop and read her email. The next time she looked up, George was holding a cup of coffee in front of her nose. His long, grey hair was wet and tied back. He’d shaved. He was wearing clean clothes from his side of the closet. She took the mug from him, and he rewarded her with a soft smile. They drank coffee in hungry silence.

“What are you caught up in?” George asked.

“Some kids are into the whole Salem thing,” Em said. “I was watching their videos. They’ve found Gallows Hill, you know — the real one, not the park.”

“Oh, yeah?” George asked

“They say they’ve caught Bridget’s ghost on camera.”

“How is that possible?” George asked.

“Who knows?” Em shrugged. “Maybe we lost our souls when we were hanged.”

George instinctively rubbed his neck. Em smiled at his gesture.

“How did this morning go?” George asked.

“Bridget was on the hill,” Em said.

“What?” George squinted with surprise.

“She was even wearing a reproduction of the dress she was hanged in. Shoes, too.”

“She can’t be there!” George said.

“I told her, but you know how she is,” Em said. “What’s the point of . . .”

“ . . .being immortal if you can’t do what you want,” George joined Em in quoting Bridget.

“Exactly,” Em said. “She told me about these kids. You know, Bridget’s convinced that there was an actual specter that tormented our accusers.”

“Bridget.” George gave a sad shake of his head.

“You know, I never thought of it,” Em said.

“Of what?” George asked.

“I never gave even one thought to the idea that there might have actually been an entity that tortured those girls,” Em said. “I always thought they were . . .”

“Full of shit,” George said in unison with her.

“But this morning,” Em nodded, “I mean, Bridget was so sure that I wondered if she was onto something. Let’s say there
was
an entity. It presented to the girls in our likeness. And . . .”

Em shook her head.

“And?” George raised his eyebrows. “Disappeared for the last three hundred and twenty-two years?”

“And nothing,” Em said with a shrug. “That’s as far as I got. Do you think it’s possible?”

“No,” George said.

“Why?” Em asked.

“This
entity
would be responsible for giving us immortality and magical powers,” George said. “This entity would be a part of us, and . . .”

“The Devil,” Em said with him.

“Or God,” George said. “Remember, it was God who marked Cain.”

“Yes, Reverend, but Cain was only protected from being killed by others,” Em said. “As you know, we are truly immortal. Plus, I never killed my sibling.”

“Are you the child of the Devil, Em? Or marked by God?”

“No.” Em instinctively shivered. “No. I am only that from which I was made.”

“That’s because there are no devils, and we were not marked by God, Em,” George said. “The girls were psychopaths. They made everything up. You know that.”

“I do,” Em said. “Anyway, Bridget was hoping to catch a glimpse of this alternate version of herself.”

“And do what with it?” George asked.

“No idea,” Em said. “It’s Bridget. She didn’t really think it through.”

“Who are these kids?” George came around the counter to stand behind Em. She clicked to the website, and George read over her shoulder.

“High school, maybe college-aged, kids interested in investigating the whole Salem thing,” Em said. “They are
huge
fans of Bridget Bishop. They think she was incredibly brave for being hanged first.”

“Like she had a choice,” George said.

“I think any one of us would have preferred to be hanged first,” Em said. “Better than languishing in that stinking jail.”

“I honestly never thought they’d actually do it,” George said. “Right up to the end. And some days, I still can’t believe it happened.”

“That’s why you’re special, George Burroughs,” Em said. “You’re an optimist. Even after you were betrayed by your fellow man and hanged for your efforts, you still believe they are good at heart.”

“Guilty as charged,” George said.

Em leaned back into him. He wasn’t a large man by modern standards, but he was sturdy and strong. He put his arms around her waist and held her in his warm, loving arms.

“You think this is serious,” George said.

“With technology and the never-ending interest in our trials, it’s only a matter of time,” Em said with a nod. “Someone’s going to figure out that we’re still here. I showed you that article in the
Huffington Post
.”

“The one wondering where our skeletons are?” George asked. “In use, ma’am — thank you very much.”

“They’re going to go looking, and . . .”

Em swallowed hard. She shifted away from him, and he let go of her.

“And?”

“It will start all over again,” Em said in a low voice.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” George said. “People should know what they’re capable of creating with their hatred and fear.”

“Mmm,” Em said.

“Mmm?” George said.

“Even in 2014, Americans believe in evil people like they are a separate species,” Em said. “It’s not that different from 1692.”

“We could appeal to their reason,” George said.

“What reason is that?” Em asked.

“I know. I know,” George said. “I hear the foolishness in my own words and your voice in my head.”

“What do I say?” Em asked.

“‘How did that work out last time?’” George asked. “‘You tried to reason with people who’d been your parishioners; the very same parishioners who had just a few years earlier professed their
love
for you!’”

George shrugged.

“They thought I owed them money,” George said.

“You didn’t,” Em said. “They took your shirt and breeches off your dead body to repay their imagined debt.”

“And left me mostly unburied,” George said. “Yes, that much I do remember.”

George smiled.

“Where’s it get you, Em?” George asked.

“Where’s what get me?”

“All this cynicism,” George said.

“A visit from you,” Em said.

George laughed, and she smiled.

“You staying?” Em asked.

“I don’t know,” George said. “You want me to stay?”

Em turned around to look at him. Her eyes reviewed George Burroughs’ worn face. He’d never been a handsome man. The last hundred years or so, his body and mind had taken on a sense of permanence brought by being immortal. He was incredibly alluring.

“Was everyone at the party today?” George asked.

“Everyone but you,” Em said.

“How was it?” George asked.

Em shrugged.

“I’m the only stable one,” Em said. “I see everyone all the time. Whenever anyone’s in town, they stop by. They were happy to catch up with each other, but me . . . I see them all the time.”

“How’s Giles?” George asked.

“Good. Happy,” Em said. “He bought that big horse farm upstate and has a new wife — young, pretty. He’s happy for Viagra.”

“He’s a witch,” George laughed. “What would he need Viagra for?"

“Don’t tell the wife,” Em said. “They don’t have kids, but he’s not worried about it. I mean, it’s not 1690. He’s talking about adopting from overseas.”

Em shrugged. George kissed the back of her head and moved out from behind her.

“Do you ever wish you were them?” Em asked.

“Them?” George asked.

“John Proctor, Rebecca Nurse, George Jacobs,” Em said.

“Those hanged who were reburied?” George asked.

“The human beings who didn’t transform, whose souls are at rest, probably because they were reburied by people who loved them,” Em said. “Their families’ love saved them from this.”

“Not really,” George said.

“Why?”

“I’d miss this,” George said. “I’d miss you.”

“And the other witches?” Em smiled. “It’s a barn full of frisky mares, Mr. Burroughs.”

“Just you,” George said.

“You’re swearing off the others?” Em laughed at the idea.

“I’m saying I’d miss you,” George said. “This.”

“You are a charmer,” Em laughed.

“Wanna make some magic?” George asked.

“I need to open the shop,” Em said.

George clapped his fingertips together. The “Be back later” sign appeared on the door, and an unseen mist appeared around the shop to discourage people from coming to the door. Em smiled. George held out his hand. With a blink of her eye, they were lying on her bed in a cloud of white sheets and comforters. Her bedroom was expansive, with large, double-hung windows that looked out onto the Boston Common. The floors were made of wide wood planks, and the walls were painted a faint yellow.

“I love this room,” George said. His clothing disappeared with his words. He glanced at Em, and she was naked. “And the woman inside it.”

Em smiled.

“See, this,” George nodded for emphasis. “This is what we are alive for.”

“Mid-day screwing?” Em asked.

“Love,” George said.

“And magic,” Em said.

“Let’s make some loving magic,” George said.

“OM.”

The Mystic Divine vibrated with the sound of thirty people chanting their ending mantra. Em looked up at the ceiling. The few patrons glanced at Em before mimicking her look at the ceiling. Em smiled.

Sarah Wildes taught this crazy yoga and meditation class on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Most of the Salem Twenty, as they called themselves, taught at the Mystic Divine. But Sarah was special. Her innate nonconformist nature drew people to her in flocks. Em got up from her usual spot behind the glass case to light the pillar candles around the shop. Sarah’s class would be getting out soon, and the candles encouraged people to buy. Hearing laughter, she turned to look.

George and his client were just finishing up. George kissed the woman’s hand, and she thanked him profusely. He gave the woman a mystical nod before going back into his reading room. The woman floated by Em on a cloud of hope. Em watched the client pay for her reading with one of the college-aged helpers. The woman chatted with the helper about the incredible George. When the woman left, the assistant shot Em a cross-eyed look.

Every woman loved George, and George loved every woman. Em glanced at his room. He had two more clients before the night was over.

“I don’t know how you do it, Em,” Shonelle Richland, one of her assistants, said. “He’s really . . . yummy. How do you let him . . . do that?”

Em turned to look at Shonelle. Even with eleven generations in between, Em could see her son’s eyes shining in Shonelle’s face. Em shrugged.

“Age, I guess,” Em said. “I’ve known George for a long, long time.”

“Mom says you’re destined for each other,” Shonelle said.

“Your mom . . .” Em started.

Shonelle’s mother had worked for Em when she was in college.

“Can’t resist a Harvard man?” Shonelle asked. The young woman leaned into Em. “Don’t tell mom, but me, neither.”

“Oh?” Em asked with a laugh. “Do tell!”

“You have to light the candles.” Shonelle gave Em a taunting grin.

“I’m done,” Em said. Behind Shonelle’s back and hidden from the front, she lit the other candles with a flick of her fingers. “Who is he?”

“He’s smart and funny and friendly and . . .” Shonelle’s dark skin flushed red. “He has dark, curly hair, sexy facial hair, and these cool glasses, totally hipster, and . . .”

A burst of applause indicated that Sarah’s class had ended.

“And?” Em asked.

“He says he’s a descendant of a Salem witch.” Shonelle nodded.

“Oh, yeah?” Em raised an eyebrow to show her intrigue. “It’s been three hundred years. Given the way people breed, I’d guess there are
a lot
of descendants of Salem witches.”

“No. He says he’s a descendant of Alice Parker
after
she became a witch.” Shonelle dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know, after she was hanged?”

“What?” Em gave Shonelle a dismissive shake of her head to contain the panic she felt inside.

A sweating, smiling woman and a man walked past Em and Shonelle as they made their way through the shop from Sarah’s class. Em glanced at Sarah’s class participants and turned back to Shonelle.

“Alice got pregnant in jail.” Shonelle said Alice’s name as if they were best friends. Em bit her lip to keep from commenting. “When she woke up — you know, after being hanged — she went back to her husband and family. She had a baby about six months later.”

“Excuse me,” said a woman shining with yoga release and chanting bliss. The woman touched Em’s shoulder, and Em turned toward her.

“That’s just what he says,” Shonelle said to the back of Em’s head.

“How can I help?” Em said to the woman.

“I’m interested in the CD — you know, the one Sarabelle used in class,” the woman said. “She said you had it down here.”

“Sure,” Em said. She glanced at Shonelle to find her talking to another person from the class. “It’s this way.”

Em led the woman across the floor to the display of chanting CDs.

“Sarabelle is amazing, isn’t she?” the woman asked in a conspiratorial tone. “I’m surprised she doesn’t have one of these herself.”

Em smiled to keep from telling the woman that Sarah, like all witches, would only cause the recording equipment to scream.

“She said her vibration can be heard on a microphone,” the woman said.

“Vibration,” Em nodded.

“Is that true?” the woman asked. She leaned in and said in a low voice, “Is Sarabelle spiritually gifted?”

“Of course, she is,” Em smiled.

The woman gave Em a big smile.

“Do you know if she does readings?” the woman asked. “I would love her to read my energy. I just . . . Well, I don’t want to burden you with my troubles.”

“Sarabelle does do readings,” Em said. “You can sign up at the desk or online at our website. You’ll see her under Sarabelle Wilderson.”

Nodding, the woman held the CD to her heart. Em smiled at her, and the woman went up to the desk to pay. A man from the class asked Em another question. For the next few minutes, Em helped customers from Sarah’s class, and everything started to hum. Sarah laughed and talked to her customers from behind the counter. George’s next client came in and was escorted to the back with flourish.

And the cash register dinged every time they sold something.

Em loved it when things hummed. From top to bottom, this store and building belonged to Em, and she to them. When things hummed, it was easy. When no one came in, Em worried. While she could ride out a storm, the store also supported the Salem Twenty. At one time or another, they had each needed Em’s help. When the crowd thinned, Em took out her cell phone and placed a call.

“Did you have a baby after you went back to John?” Em asked.

“Hiya, Mama,” Alice Parker said in a surprisingly good southern accent. “It was such a treat to see you this morning.”

She heard Alice walking to somewhere they could talk more privately.

“Uh huh,” Em said.

She followed Alice’s lead and went into her office, near the reading rooms.

“I love it when I get to visit the north,” Alice said for whomever was with her. “I’ll just be a second, hon.”

George’s voice came as a deep rumble through the wall while Em waited for Alice to come back on the line.

“You know I had a baby,” Alice said, slipping into her usual New England accent in her hushed whisper. “I got pregnant in that filthy jail.”

“I was with you the entire time!” Em said.

“Then you remember what happened,” Alice said in the same low tone. “It happened to you, too, Em, and you know it.”

“Why didn’t I know you were pregnant?” Em asked.

“It wasn’t like I peed on some little piece of plastic and we celebrated with cake and balloons,” Alice said.

“You didn’t know,” Em said.

“I didn’t know,” Alice said in a disgusted voice. “Shit, Em, what I didn’t know then could fill the entire Atlantic Ocean.”

“That’s the truth,” Em said.

“You feel that way, too?” Alice asked.

“No, just you,” Em said.

Alice laughed, and Em smiled at her joke.

“He didn’t live long,” Alice said. “I’d had such a hard time in jail, and we were on the run when he was born. John loved him like his own, but the child was sickly.”

“So he can’t be the ancestor of a love interest of Shonelle’s,” Em said.

“Is that what this is about?” Alice asked. “Shit, Em, he didn’t live but five, maybe six, months. He caught the flu, poor thing. We buried him in Charleston.”

“You’re sure he stayed buried?” Em asked.

“Certain,” Alice said. “You remember John. He’d never have left a baby if he thought there was any chance he’d return. We didn’t bury him for a week after he passed. There’s not a chance that baby is anyone’s ancestor.”

“Well, there’s a guy saying he’s your heir,” Em said.

“Liars,” Alice said. “You, of all people, know that some people will say anything to claim a connection to the Salem Witches. Idiots. Is this a big deal?”

“There’s a group of college kids who are investigating,” Em said.

“You said that this morning,” Alice said. “Why are you worked up about it?”

There was a knock on the door.

“Everything okay, Alicia?” a man’s voice said in the background.

“Shit,” Alice said in a low voice to Em. She said in a louder, southern-accented voice, “I’ll be right there, sugar. My mama’s having a crisis over her no-good boyfriend.”

Alice was quiet for a moment.

“Listen,” Alice said in a low tone. “I
have
to go.”

“Client?” Em asked.

“Rich client,” Alice said. “Hung like a horse. We’re at the Boston Harbor for the rest of the week.”

“You know you can always work here,” Em said. “You can move back into your apartment on the fourth floor. You don’t have to do that anymore.”

“Don’t be such a Puritan,” Alice laughed.

“Before you go,” Em said. “How did this kid know the story about you transforming
after
you were hanged and about the baby being conceived in prison, if he didn’t hear it from you?”

“I don’t know, Em,” Alice said. “I’ve never told anyone until just now.”

“Never?” Em asked.

“Never,” Alice said. “Now, you’re going to have to figure out your own mystery. I have something much better to do.”

In the background, Em heard Alice flush the toilet and the water turned on and off.

“Love you, Mama!” Alice said. “I’ll call again soon!”

Alice hung up. Em looked at the phone. Alice had loved John Parker with her mind, body, and soul. He took her love with him when he died of old age all those years ago. If Alice could die — and certainly she had tried — she would have died simply to be with him, even now, almost three hundred years later.

“Whatcha thinking?” George said from the doorway to her office.

“About love,” Em said. “Client leave so soon?”

“Bathroom,” George said. “She got very upset. Had a mascara emergency.”

Em nodded.

“What’s going on, Em?” George asked.

“Just Alice,” Em said.

George gave her a knowing nod. His client came up behind him, and they left for his reading room. Em got up and went to see if there were any remaining customers. Sarah was upstairs cleaning up, so the store was almost empty, and Shonelle was working the register.

“How serious is it with this boy?” Em asked.

“I don’t know,” Shonelle said. “I met him this morning at the Bishop memorial.”

“Bishop memorial?” Em shook her head.

“You know Bridget Bishop?” Shonelle asked.

“Bridget Bishop?” Em asked. She forced herself to make a little shake of her head as if she hadn’t known Bridget for the last three hundred years.

“I can’t believe you don’t know this,” Shonelle said. “She was the first Salem Witch to be hanged. Today was the anniversary of her hanging.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Em said. “That Bridget Bishop.”

“Yeah.” Shonelle gave Em a “You’re-old-and-useless” look. Em smiled.

“How was the memorial?” Em asked.

“I cried,” Shonelle said. “Poor Bridget. Can you imagine? They didn’t break her neck, so she choked and gasped for breath for more than ten minutes.”

Shonelle’s eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head.

“Pretty awful,” Em said.

Em bit her tongue to keep from telling Shonelle the truth — Bridget thrashed on that rope for closer to thirty minutes before she died.

“So you met this guy at the memorial?” Em asked.

“He was running it,” Shonelle said. “They’re having another on July 19
th
. But get this . . .”

Shonelle watched a customer walk by them. She leaned into Em.

“He says he caught the spirit of Bridget on film,” Shonelle said. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“No,” Em said.

“She’s still here,” Shonelle said. “They’re going to try to see if they can communicate with her.”

“Why?” Em asked.

“So they can relieve her suffering!” Shonelle said. “Maybe help the poor thing move on.”

Em scowled.

“You should come,” Shonelle said.

“Come where?” Em asked.

“To the séance,” Shonelle said. “I told him all about the store. He said he’d come in for supplies.”

“When is the séance?” Em asked.

“You should have it here!” Shonelle’s face brightened.

“Here?” Em asked.

“George is in town,” Shonelle said. “I bet George or one of the other women can lead it — Lizzie or Marie.”

Shonelle nodded.

“It would be a great way to get more people into the store,” Shonelle said. “Think of it! The Salem Witch séance — right here in the Mystic Divine!”