Susannah Morrow (36 page)

From the door of the ordinary, I heard the call, “The girls! We need the girls in the meetinghouse!” I turned to see Ezekiel
Cheever pushing through the crowd, and beyond him, through the window, I saw the form of Susannah’s blue cloak, and Jude beside
her, hurrying down the path with Hannah Penney. I felt an uncomfortable and strange relief.

Ezekiel arrived red-faced to the table. He was breathing hard; his words came in gasps. “The prisoners are waiting, Your Honors.
’Twould be better if we could start soon. The crowds…”

Hathorne nodded. With an abrupt and authoritative gesture, he motioned to the crowd. “We’ll adjourn to the meetinghouse.”

’Twas like a river moving toward the door. Within moments, my neighbors were emptying from the ordinary, and the girls went
suddenly calm again, as if soothed by God’s giant hand. Edward Putnam and Tom began to lead them out, along with the ministers.
I was the only one unmoving, and as they passed, I grabbed Charity’s hand and pulled her from her friends.

Tom reached for her. “We need her testimony, Lucas.”

“Not hers,” I said. “Not for these women. Charity has said nothing of those accused now.”

“She may—”

“No,” I said firmly. “She will not go today.”

“Release her, man,” came John Hathorne’s voice. He had stopped at the door, and he motioned impatiently for me to let my daughter
go. “She is a witness now. We shall return her to you at the end of the examinations.”

Tom took her arm, and I reluctantly released my hold on my daughter. She went with him as easily as a lamb, with only a final
look back at me—her gaze troubled and dark, confused. Her arms were covered with welts that were beginning already to fade,
as if she were recovering from some terrible disease.

But I knew better. She was not recovering; she was in the very midst of it, and I was afraid for her. I could not leave her.

Quickly I followed after.

The meetinghouse was as crowded today as it had been yesterday, more so, I thought, because those who had not heard the first
day of examinations had rushed to listen now. I cared nothing for it, not at first. When Sarah Good was led in and questioned
again, I watched Charity as she called out with the others. In my wretchedness, I could not even listen to the testimony.
I heard nothing but her cries until Hathorne said, “Who among you is William Allen?”

William rose, twisting his hat in his hands. “I am he.”

“Did you not testify that this woman came into your chamber one night and sat upon your feet?” Hathorne asked.

I thought of a cold winter night, of Susannah standing at the end of my bed, with scarlet all around. It had been a dream,
I’d thought. Only a dream. Had it not been?

“’Tis true,” said William. “She bore a strange light with her. When I…When I kicked at her, she went away.”

“What say you to this, Goody Good?”

“I was never in that man’s house,” the woman replied. “He lies to spite me.”

“Why do you not say the truth?”

“’Tis no truth I know.”

I listened in growing dread. It had been a dream. Yet, I could not help but remember how real I’d found it, how I’d burst
from my bed to follow a figment of my imagination, how the window had been opened when it had been closed before, how solid
she’d felt.

I had thought only the afflicted saw the specters. Only the girls in their torments. But William Allen was a hardworking man
not given to flights of fancy, and his experience was enough like my own that I could not discount it.

’Twas then the word came into my mind: bewitchment. And this time it had a power I could not ignore.

W
HEN THE EXAMINATIONS WERE OVER, AND THE PRISONERS WERE
led from the meetinghouse, and then the afflicted girls, I hurried after them. Tom had already forgotten his promise to return
Charity to me; he had a tight hold on her arm as he led her down the path. When I rushed to him and stopped him with a shout,
he looked disconcerted and faintly guilty.

“I had come to find you,” he said, though I did not think it was the truth. “Do you think it wise, Lucas, to take her back
to your house now, given what has happened?”

I glanced at Charity, who was blank and exhausted. There was nothing in her eyes, not even recognition of me. She stood as
one whose spirit had left her. “She is my daughter,” I said. “Do you not trust me to know what’s best for her?”

Tom looked flustered. “I have not questioned that. But this child called out on your wife’s sister, who lives with you. Until
we can inquire into this latest accusation, I cannot believe ’tis safe for her to be there.”

“Where would you suggest?”

“There is room at my house—”

“No.” I took Charity’s other arm. “I will find a place for her myself.”

“As you wish. But it would be good to keep her close to the village for now. We will need all those who see the specters.”
Tom stepped away, but before he had gone many feet, he stopped again and turned back to me. “What think you, Lucas?” he asked
in a quiet voice. “We had all thought this would end after the first three were arrested. But there has been no relief. Mary
Warren was afflicted today as well, and my own wife…” He paused, obviously pained. “My own wife has begun to see visions.
If we are to believe Tituba, there are many more witches. Yet this time we are not talking of beggars or slaves. I think…we
must tread carefully here. Shall we believe that your sister is one of them?”

I knew what he was asking me: whether or not I would deny my daughter, whether there should be a pursuit of the accusation
against Susannah, if I would join them in it. I did not yet know how to answer him.

“Let me talk to Charity,” I told him.

Tom hesitated, and I saw the suspicion cross his eyes and knew that he, too, wondered about my relationship with my wife’s
sister, that he believed I would try to influence my daughter to exonerate Susannah. Though I cared little for Tom, what I
saw on his face wounded me. I found myself wanting to say to him,
Do not be so quick to judge me. I am so uncertain.

I bit my tongue until he walked away. Then I looked again to my daughter, who stood listlessly beside me. “Shall we go home,
Charity?”

She roused. The fear that came into her eyes was inescapable. “Home? Is she there?”

“Aye.”

“I cannot go there.”

I had meant to question her about Susannah, but with those words, there was no need.

The wind blew, cold and damp, and Charity shivered. There were few of my neighbors remaining; even Ingersoll’s had emptied,
and so I led her there, seating her on a bench at the end of a table and gesturing to Sarah Ingersoll for a pitcher of beer.
When it came, I poured some for myself and my daughter, but Charity pushed it away, saying that the smell nauseated her.

“Pray with me,” I said.

Charity looked at me with clear pale eyes. “Aye. We should pray for truth, Father. Though I wonder…Will you know it when you
see it?”

She had never spoken to me such, and I was stunned into silence.

“You said the Devil has found your weakness,” she went on. “Do you really believe so, Father? I-I do not think I can fight
him alone.”

I took her hand; her skin was so icy cold ’twas strange to touch it. I gripped her fingers to warm them. “I am still myself,
Charity. I will not leave you to fight alone.”

Tears came quickly and suddenly to her eyes so they shone blankly, like the surface of a mirror. She drew her hand from mine
and hugged herself tightly, withdrawing from me.

Sarah Ingersoll came over. “Will you be having something to eat, Lucas?”

“No,” I said, and then as she made to step away, I stopped her. “Sarah…”

She glanced at Charity, who had put her head into the crook of her arms, obviously exhausted. “Whatever I can do, Lucas,”
Sarah said kindly. “You know that.”

“Will you keep her here for me?”

Sarah hesitated only a moment. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

I did not pretend to misunderstand. There was no love lost between myself and the owner of the ordinary, Nathaniel Ingersoll,
who was Sarah’s father. He was a deacon in Parris’s church, one of Tom Putnam’s best friends. Keeping Charity here was akin
to leaving her with Putnam, except that now Ann Putnam senior was having visions as well. Here, at least, was Sarah’s cautious
hand. She and I had been friends many years, in spite of the fact that her father and I disagreed on village politics. I could
trust Charity with her. I did not doubt it.

“Aye,” I said. “If you would promise to care for her.”

Sarah nodded somberly. “I’ll care for her as if she were my own.”

Together she and I took Charity upstairs. There was a small storage room at the back of the house, with a bed surrounded by
casks of beer and kegs of Canary and Malaga. When Charity was settled onto the mattress, I stood staring at her for a moment
after Sarah left. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she did not stir, not even when I whispered again, “I will not let
you fight alone.” Finally, I left her, quiet and spent in the dark little room.

Sarah waited for me outside the door. “I will see no harm comes to her,” she assured me, and I smiled my thanks at her and
left the ordinary.

The moment I was outside in the cold gray of dusk, my thoughts turned to the woman who no doubt awaited me at home. She
was
a witch—Mary Walcott had called out her name; no wonder Susannah hadn’t wanted Charity to go to the questioning—she knew
she would be named.

I hurried for home, running faster when I thought of Jude, alone in the house with Susannah, of what I must do. When I rushed
through the door to find Susannah and Jude at the settle by the fire, a perfect picture of domestic harmony, I prayed I was
not too late.

When Susannah saw me, she put down her mending and rose, coming toward me with an uncertain smile. Then she stopped, glancing
past me as if she expected to see someone else. Her smile changed to a frown. “Where’s Charity?”

“I’ve left her at Ingersoll’s.”

“Would she not be safer at home?”

I heard the insincerity now. The sound of her voice was as a scraping on my skin.

“Is Charity very sick, Father?” Jude asked from the settle.

“She is sick with the pain of true righteousness,” I said, ignoring Susannah’s gasp.

Jude looked confused. “She said Auntie was a witch, but she’s no witch, Father; I know it.”

I said nothing; I could not. The despair I felt at her affirmation was overwhelming. I saw the way my daughter turned to Susannah,
the bewildered plea on her face.

“Tell him, Auntie. Tell him you are not a witch.”

Susannah paused. To me, she said, “I am not a witch.”

I moved past her, saying, “’Tis late, Jude. I will see you to bed.”

Jude glanced again at Susannah. I moved to block her view and said again, “Come.”

She came to me then, but not without a reluctance that pained me. I took the bed warmer and filled it with coals, then led
her upstairs, settling it between her sheets. I waited while she crawled into the trundle and together we said a prayer to
God for strength and forbearance.

When I was leaving, I heard her voice again, small and quiet. “She is not a witch, Father.”

I went downstairs. Susannah stood at the table. “What is it?” she asked. “Why do you look at me so?”

“How else should I look at you after what happened today?”

“Come, Lucas, surely you do not believe—”

“My own daughter?”

She said quietly, “I am not a witch.”

“Nor are Goody Good or Goody Osborne by their own admission. If that is true, then what do those girls see? Why does Tituba
confess?”

“Perhaps because your pastor beats her.”

“What of the girls, then? Do you accuse them of dissembling?”

“Some of them. Mary Walcott, yes. The older Parris girl, probably.”

“And what of Charity? What of her?”

She had the grace to hesitate. “Charity is…troubled.”

“Aye. Troubled. As would any girl be who saw her father—”

She held up her hand to stop me. “Don’t say it, Lucas. Do not torture yourself this way. You cannot blame yourself.”

“Who else should I blame? You?”

She looked startled, as I had expected her to—how often was the Devil required to answer for his deeds?—and then she said,
“Could it not be that no one is at fault? There are things that just happen, Lucas. Perhaps the stars lined up in just such
a way, or the Fates—”

“I cannot attribute this to luck.”

“Charity’s troubles started long before last night. There is Sam—”

I heard the name and rage swept over me. “Do not dare impugn my daughter in my hearing again. This is none of Sam’s doing,
but yours. Charity’s troubles began the day you set foot in this house.”

“You cannot believe that.”

“I cannot believe the other.”

Her voice was careful, devoid of emotion. “Charity has deluded herself.”

“The Devil would answer the same.”

“What would you have me do to prove my innocence?” she asked desperately. There was fear in her eyes, an expression that reminded
me somehow of Judith. “I am your lover, Lucas. You can deny it, but that does not make it less true. Think of what we are
to each other. Please…do not let your guilt delude you too.”