Suffer a Witch (7 page)

Her long, dark hair was tucked up in a thick knot — the way she liked it. The fog had made ringlets out of the wisps of hair around her face. Framed by the curls, her dark eyes looked enormous. Out of habit, she touched the cleft in her chin. Her father used to say that he’d made that cleft with a kiss when she was born. Of course, he never could explain why he had one, too. She smiled at herself and revealed her pretty, straight, white teeth, courtesy of modern dentistry. She never thought of herself as beautiful — tall, skinny — but not beautiful.

History remembered her as an elderly crone with a sharp tongue. For an old bird, she didn’t look half bad. Hearing a noise, she looked up to see George coming in from his run. He wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“What . . .?” she asked.

He turned her so she would look in the mirror.

“I wanted you to see us,” George said. “You and me.”

Em turned toward the mirror but closed her eyes. About her same height, he looked over her shoulder. He gave her a little shake, and she opened her eyes. Her unfamiliarity with the mirror caused her to see them — George and Em — as if they were other people.

“And?” he asked.

“They’re a lovely couple,” she said.

“We belong together,” George said. “We look like we belong together.”

“But . . .”

“No ‘buts,’” George said. He kissed her neck and shoulder. In a thick voice, he whispered, “Say it.”

“We look like we belong together,” Em said in the flat voice she used when he made her say things. He grinned, and she laughed. “But . . .”

“No ‘buts.’”

“I need to go,” Em said.

“Give me five minutes, and I’ll be there,” George said. He pulled off his sweatshirt on his way to their bathroom. “Who’s coming?”

“No idea,” Em said. “I told everyone.”

“Susannah and Mary are back in Pennsylvania?” George asked. “Giles is upstate.”

“As far as I know,” Em said and wondered if they had time for coffee.

“The pot’s on,” he said, answering her thought.

“I’ll get it,” she said, but he was already in the shower.

Her apartment stretched over the entire third floor. The windowless kitchen took up most of the back west corner of the building. While George always got the credit for being the chef, he mostly turned on appliances and warmed up things. She loved to cook and was fairly good at it. She loved excellent food more than getting credit for making it. This kitchen was exactly as she wanted it. She took down two travel mugs, added a scoop of homemade chocolate and a dash of cinnamon, and filled the cups with coffee. George took cream, but she liked her coffee just like this. She was pressing down the cover of his mug when he appeared. With a nod, they took the stairs to the street.

It had been a week since the demon had appeared at the Mystic Divine. Despite everyone’s dire predictions, everything had gone back to normal. They went ghost-hunting with the teenagers and had seen no spirits, ghosts, or anything paranormal. Alice had finished her work with her gentleman and had even humored Em by returning to her apartment on the fourth floor “just for the summer.” Sarah Wildes’s weekend meditation retreat had gone off without a devilish hitch, and Elizabeth’s knitting group had been unscathed after meeting in the room where Em had seen the demon. To be certain, Mary Ayer Parker, their realtor, had gone through the building top to bottom, and found only love and light.

Everything was back to normal. Everyone was back to normal.

Em and George trotted across Boylston Street and into the Boston Common. They hoped to send Ann Hibbins on this morning. While even a weak witch could send on a spirit, Em wanted to give Ann a proper sendoff. Like the Salem Twenty, Ann Hibbins hadn’t done anything that warranted being hanged in the Boston Common. She deserved to live in peace. Em had asked the Salem Twenty to come help Ann rest in peace.

Em waved to Sam. He was a talented finder, even when he lived in Salem Village. He was a master at it now. This morning, he was looking for the exact location where Ann had been hanged. Unjust death leaves a stain that can tie the spirit to the ground. Sam easily found the stain.

“It’s over here.” Sam waved Em and George in his direction.

Em went over a rise and saw that most of the Salem witches were waiting for them. Giles, Susannah, and Mary lived too far away to make it. Sarah Good had flown her helicopter from New York. She waved to Em and George. As they approached, the others looked up. Elizabeth ran to Em.

“Wait ’till you hear what John and Martha found out,” Elizabeth said. “From the NSA, no less!”

John and Martha walked over to them.

“What did you find out?” George asked. He looked at John and Martha.

“John Parker?” John said.

“The little shit with a demon inside?” George asked.

“Him,” John said.

“Yeah?” Em asked.

“The records show that he’s Ann Putnam’s great-times-ten-grandson,” John said.

“Our Ann Putnam, Junior?” Em asked. “The little shit from Salem Village who got us all hanged?”

“Not me!” Elizabeth said.

Em grinned at Elizabeth and looked back at John.

“Turns out being a little shit runs in the family,” John said. “He’s on an NSA watch list.”

“Any idea why?” George asked.

“Some ideas, no proof,” Martha said. “The agency is looking into him for sending money to groups outside of the country.”

“Terrorists?” Em asked.

“Maybe,” Martha shrugged. “I’ll tell you, no one was happy when I asked about him.”

“Right,” John said. “When I called about him, the field desk acted like a thousand people had been asking about him.”

“Huh,” Em said, and shrugged.

“We need to get going!” Wilmot said. “Or we’ll lose the power of the dawn.”

The Salem witches made a circle around the patch of grass where Ann was hanged on June 19, 1656.

“Ann?” Em asked the wind. “We’re ready if you are.”

The specter of Ann Hibbins appeared in the middle of the circle.

“Since I’m the strongest witch, I figured I would do it,” Wilmot Redd said.

“Go ahead,” Em said.

Em glanced around the circle. Over the last three hundred years, this group of strangers had become something of a family. John Willard took her hand, and she took George’s hand. George took Sarah Good’s hand and kissed the back of it. Sarah Good smiled at him and took Elizabeth’s hand. John took Martha’s hand, and Martha took Sam’s hand. They continued around the circle until Ann Pudeator reached out her hand to Elizabeth. The women smiled at each other and turned to the center of the circle, where Ann Hibbins and Wilmot stood.

Wilmot began:

“We call to the light of dawn.”

“We call,” the Salem witches repeated.

“We call for the love and peace of the mystic divine.”

“We call,” the Salem witches repeated.

“We call for peace.”

“We call,” the Salem witches repeated.

A stiff wind blew the fog from the area.

“Ann?” Wilmot asked. “Is there anything you’d like to share?”

“Good luck,” Ann said.

“Good luck?” Wilmot asked with surprise. “Don’t worry, Ann. We’ve done this many times before.”

Ann’s eyes locked on Em, and Ann nodded as if Em knew exactly what she’d meant.

“Anything else?” Wilmot asked.

Ann’s ghost shook her head. Wilmot held her hands out in front of her with her palms together. A dim light grew between her palms. The light blazed — blinding, white light — and Wilmot struggled to hold onto the light and power as she waited for the dawn.

The sun hit the horizon with a resounding crack, and Wilmot let go of the ball of light. Her ball of light rose above Ann.

“Be at peace, Ann Hibbins,” Wilmot said.

“Be at peace,” the Salem witches chanted. “Be at peace.”

Ann Hibbins looked around the circle until her eyes fell on Em again. She mouthed “Thank you,” before rising to follow the ball of light. While they watched, her spirit followed the ball to the great divide. A hand reached through the other side for Ann. She lit up with delight and took the hand. The ball of light sealed the divide. They fell silent. George stepped forward. Em grabbed Sarah Good’s hand.

“Please join me in a silent prayer for our sister, Ann Hibbins,” George said. They bowed their heads and spent a few moments in silence. When it seemed like everyone was done, George said, “May she spend eternity at peace. May her soul heal from the injustice put upon her.”

“May she be at peace,” they said in unison.

They clapped and cheered for Ann. Wilmot gave a little bow for her role in the ceremony. With a nod to each other, the witches left the park. George stayed to talk with John. Alice and Em walked back to the store. Alice threaded her hand through Em’s elbow. They were almost to Boylston Street when Sarah Good’s helicopter buzzed overhead on her way back to New York.

“I saw you,” Alice said.

“You saw me what?” Em asked.

“You made that ball of energy, not Wilmot,” Alice said.

“I did not,” Em scowled at Alice.

“I saw you move your finger,” Alice said.

“I had an itch,” Em said.

“I don’t have any idea why you put up with her ‘I’m the strongest witch’ crap,” Alice said.

“Practice,” Em said.

Alice laughed. Em opened the door to the stairwell, and they went up. Alice stopped on the landing to Em’s apartment.

“Are you going to ask me in?” Alice asked.

“Are you eating breakfast?” Em asked.

“I will,” Alice said. “Mostly I wanted to know . . .”

“What?” Em scowled.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you did to Ann Putnam?” Alice asked.

“Who?” Em asked.

“Very funny,” Alice said.

Alice brushed past Em as she went into the apartment. Em began pulling food from the refrigerator while Alice poured herself a cup of coffee. Alice drank her coffee in one swallow and poured another.

“Should I make another pot?” Alice asked.

Em looked up from her review of the ingredients on the butcher-block table in front of her.

“Please don’t,” Em smiled.

Alice laughed. Em turned back to the food in front of her.

“Eggs and toast, Emmy,” Alice said. “That’s what I like.”

“I know,” Em said. “I’m just trying to figure out what
George
is making for breakfast.”

Alice laughed. Em smiled at Alice and set to work at making some oat-blueberry muffins. She gave Alice a mixing bowl and a carton of eggs for her to crack open. They worked in companionable silence. When Alice finished her task, she picked up her coffee cup and watched Em put together the muffins.

“You’re not going to tell me,” Alice said.

“About what?” Em asked.

“You and Tituba did something to that poor little Ann Putnam,” Alice said.

“Who?” Em scowled.

“Tituba, the slave,” Alice said. “I know you bought her because she helped take care of us that first year, as soon as you got her out of the Boston jail.”

“Sweet girl.”

“You’re pretending not to remember the Putnams?” Alice laughed. “Surely you remember the horrible insane girl — who said you made her that way — and her awful mother.”

“I remember them,” Em said.

“Remember them?” Alice gave an angry snort. “That Ann Putnam, Junior, put that noose around my neck as sure as if that little shit was the hangman herself. And her mother . . .”

Em touched Alice’s arm as she moved past her to the coffee pot.

“Bacon?” Em asked. “I can’t remember if we’re eating pigs or worrying about our arteries.”

“You’re really not going to tell me,” Alice said.

“Not today,” Em said as she dumped out the spent coffee grounds.

She gave the empty pot to Alice, who rinsed it out from the tap and filled it with filtered water. Em checked that they had enough coffee beans, replaced the filter, and took the pot from Alice. A moment later, she pressed the button, and the coffee maker responded with the loud whirl of coffee being ground. Em turned her attention to the muffins.

“Then tell me about you and George,” Alice said.

“What about me and George?” Em asked.

As if the question were obvious, Alice laughed. Em nodded with her eyebrows toward the cabinet. Alice took out the silicone cupcake baking cups. Alice put the baking cups in the holes of the cupcake pan, and Em ladled in the dough. Alice gave Em an irritated sigh.

“When did you
know
you were in love with George?” Alice asked.

“1681,” George’s voice came from the entrance to the kitchen.

Alice put her hand over her mouth and gasped in mock horror. She looked from Em to George.

“What?” Alice said in her fake southern accent.

Laughing, Em shook her head at Alice.

“You knew when you asked the question,” George said with a laugh.

“Well, I’ll be, Reverend Burroughs, whatever are you talking about?” Alice asked with a flutter of her eyes.

George laughed. He picked up the tray of muffin dough and slipped it into the oven just as Bridget and Elizabeth came into the kitchen.

“What did you make us, George?” Bridget asked.

“Oat-blueberry muffins,” Em said. “Eggs, bacon.”

“Fabulous!” Elizabeth said.

Elizabeth made a cup of coffee for herself and Bridget before they continued on into the living room. Sam and John came in. When the men started talking about their beloved Red Sox, Em shooed them out of her kitchen. Mary Ayer came in with her cell phone glued to her ear. She waved to Em and Alice before heading into the office for privacy. Em set to work on the eggs and bacon.

“So . . .” Alice said in a low tone. “It’s true?”

“What’s true?” Em asked.

“You and George?” Alice asked.

Em’s eyes drifted toward the doorway George had gone through. She gave a slight nod.

“Henry had been ill for a long time,” Em said in a low tone. “George came to see if we needed anything.”

“Mm-hm,” Alice said.

“He wanted to bring me to Christ,” Em said. “We just studied the bible and talked. I was interested in religion, so he brought me everything he could find.”

“No woman can resist the Burroughs charm,” Alice said.

“It wasn’t like that,” Em said. “He was married to Hannah.”

Alice winked.

“He was,” Em said with quiet emphasis. “He never strayed on his wives.”

“I know,” Alice said. “Slutty behavior after death. I think that’s true for all of us.”

Em smiled.

“Except you,” Alice said.

“Not my thing,” Em shrugged.

The egg timer rang to indicate that the muffins were done. Em gave Alice the spatula and went to check the muffins. George came in before she could get there. He opened the oven to check them.

“A few more minutes,” he said. Em went to turn on the timer. “Did she tell you?”

Alice shook her head.

“I fell for Em,” George said. “Hard.”

“But you were so much younger!” Alice said.

“The heart doesn’t care,” George said. “Henry was ill. My Hannah had just died.”

Alice gaped at him.

“What?” Em asked.

“
He’s
Benoni’s father,” Alice said.

“My son?” Em asked at the same time George said, “What?”

Em recovered first.

“What pot are you stirring, Alice?” Em shook her head at Alice.

George looked stunned. He turned to Em, who was focused on putting the scrambled eggs onto the serving plate. She gave him the plate of eggs and gestured for him to bring it out to the dining room. He asked the question with his eyes. She answered with a veiled smile.

“He doesn’t know,” Alice said in a low voice.

“Know what?” Em asked.

Alice laughed and shook her head.

“Listen,” Em said. Her tone was so serious that Alice stopped laughing and turned to look at her. Em’s accent slipped into her native 1600s’ English. “Henry was very ill. Thomas was a toddler. My family and friends were in
England
. I belonged in
England
. I was loved in
England
. I was
stuck
in awful Salem, in this
horrible
colony. I was so alone, so very alone. George was the first person who’d spoken even two kind words to me in . . . a very long time. His mother had raised him in Roxbury on her own, so he understood what I was going through. We were friends. He saved me and introduced me to Christianity, brought me to the church. I was so overwhelmed, just outdone by this New World and the frontier . . .”

“The Indians,” Alice interrupted.

“Those horrible Indian raids,” Em said. “I was terrified. Every day. Terrified. Not that I blamed the Indians. But for me, it was . . . awful. I wished every day that I could go home, just to see England again. George came along . . . He’d survived many Indian raids. He’d been to battle and overcome the horrors.”

“And was still kind,” Alice said.

“Solicitous,” Em said.

Em shrugged. She took the muffins out of the oven and gave Alice a plate of bacon.

“Every woman in Salem Village loved George Burroughs,” Alice said. “He was so kind and incredibly handsome. He paid attention to us.”

“Listened,” Em said.

“Except those awful Putnams,” Alice said.

“I guess they had the last laugh,” Em said.

“I always knew he loved you,” Alice said. Em looked up at her. “I think everyone knew. Even Sarah.”

Em swallowed hard at the idea that George’s second wife knew that he loved Em. Alice nodded her certainty and brought the bacon into the dining room. Mary Ayer came out of the office. Lost in her own thoughts, Mary Ayer poured herself a cup of coffee on her way through the kitchen. George swooped back to the kitchen for a reassuring kiss and the butter. When he was gone, Em spent a worried moment washing her hands and wondering if Giles was right.

By loving George, had she gotten everyone killed?

She swallowed hard and stared at the large painting of the English countryside. Shaking her head at herself, she took down a serving plate and transferred the muffins onto the plate. Alice returned.

“Why didn’t you tell him about Benoni?” Alice asked.

“What’s to tell?” Em asked.

“You let everyone think you’d had some dalliance with . . . someone exotic and . . .” Alice said. “History records you as having a ‘questionable’ sexual past.”

Em set the plate of muffins in Alice’s hands to shut her up.

“Then, who was Benoni’s father?” Alice asked.

Em gave such a sad shrug that Alice kissed her cheek. Em poured the last of the coffee into a serving thermos and started the coffee maker again. She’d just pressed “Start” when they called for her. Rearranging her face from worried to smiling, she went into the dining room for breakfast with the family.

“Em promised to tell us what she did to the Putnams,” Alice said when she entered the room.

Em laughed and took her place at the table.

The hurt and confusion in George’s eyes when he’d said, “What?” had torn a hole in Em’s conscience. She saw those dark eyes staring at her across a chasm of sorrow.

Even though it had been a long day. Even though she’d laughed with John, Sam, and Mary on their way to work. Even though Bridget and Elizabeth had begged her to come for a spa day. Even though the day had been full of customers and employees and questions and problems and laughter.

Even though she hadn’t seen him since this morning, George’s dark eyes burned like an ember in her psyche.

She cursed herself for not dealing with this a hundred years or so before.

She knew he was furious because he’d taken special care to avoid her all day. When the store closed around ten, she made her way upstairs. She was standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, when he came in.

“You were waiting in your office,” Em said.

“Of course,” George said.

“I . . .” Em started at the same time George said, “I . . .”

Em looked down, and away, from him. He turned his back to her.

“You . . .” George started at the same time Em said, “You’re . . .”

He walked out of the kitchen. She could tell by the sound that he’d plopped down on the couch. Not sure if she should follow him, she lingered in the kitchen. Finally, sick of her own nerves, she clicked on the electric kettle and went out into their living space.

“What?” she asked.

“What?” His voice rose. His eyebrows rose with insult.

“Right,” she said. “You’re clearly angry with me. What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” he mumbled, almost to himself. He shook his head and looked up at her. “Are you truly this dense?”

“Dense?” Em asked. “What are you talking about?”

George patted the cushion beside him. Em scowled.

“I promise not to have a fit,” George said.

She hesitated. George had a terrible temper. Abusive only to her eardrums, he could storm around screaming for an hour before he was ready for any kind of a conversation.

“Really,” George said.

She sat down next to him. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.

“Do you love me, Em?” George asked finally.

Em tucked her foot up under her and turned to him. He stared straight ahead.

“Do you love me, Em?” George asked again. “Even a little bit?”