Rebecca Nurse’s other sister, Mary Easty, is accused of witchcraft. I know Mary Easty. She surely is no witch. I cannot envision her torturing anyone. She is one of nine new souls who have been accused. Nine more people. Papa went to her examination. He said Mary proclaimed her innocence with such grace and dignity that the magistrates turned to the accusers and asked if they had named the right woman. They assured Mr. Hathorne with shrill cries and much moaning that Goody Easty was the woman who tormented them, among so many others.
Papa is not so much angry now as fearful. He told me I shall no longer attend any of the examinations. He did not give reasons, but I think he wishes me to appear too terrified to attend. He may also fear I shall raise my voice to the madness and find myself in chains. He told me it is dangerous to kick against the will of the people without something in your hand to prove your argument. But what is there to hold? What proof have the accusers? Anyone can say they see someone’s shape when no one else can see it. Who can argue with them? But that is not holding anything in your hand. That is suggestion and raw acceptance.
I wonder what would happen if someone collapsed to the ground, writhed in pain, and accused Ann Putnam or Betty Parris of bewitching them. What would the magistrates say then? I should not desire anyone to do this, but I do. Though it would not solve anything.
I am nearly out of ink. And I am out of vinegar.
I’ve reminded Papa twice that I could use a little vinegar from Ingersoll’s Ordinary to make more ink but whenever he goes to the Village, talk of witches and examinations and specters consume him and he forgets.
I asked John Peter if he would trade some eggs for vinegar, but he would not take the eggs as payment. He would not take payment at all. He gave it to me.
The most dreadful thing has happened.
Rev. George Burroughs has been accused of witchcraft. I can scarce believe it. Rev. Burroughs left Salem Village parish for Maine years ago. He does not even live here.
Ann Putnam has claimed Rev. Burroughs’s dead wives appeared to her and spoke to her, and his shape stood right there among them. She said their blood cried out for vengeance, that Rev. Burroughs had murdered them. Ann was in a room full of people when she had this vision and all who saw her were astonished. Ann said George Burroughs’s specter then turned into a cat.
Papa is furious.
He told me Ann’s father and Rev. Burroughs were at odds with each other when Rev. Burroughs was the minister here and that they disagreed over something having to do with money.
I have never seen Papa so angry. It set him to coughing, and he has not stopped though I brewed him a draft of ginger, tea, and honey.
Papa said Rev. Burroughs will have no idea whatsoever why men are coming for him to escort him back to Salem.
I wonder if Papa will say anything in his friend’s defense. I want him to and yet I don’t. He holds nothing in his hands except contempt.
And contempt is not enough to sway the will of people who assume too much and have no wish to do otherwise.
I had no idea if Clarissa would want to come home with me that weekend, especially if she knew that not only would Cole and Raul be there, but Cole had practically asked her to come. She wasn’t at the dorm when I arrived back on campus from Abigail’s that Thursday. Not that I really thought she would be. I did homework until eleven thirty, and when I could no longer keep my eyes open, I went to bed.
I didn’t hear Clarissa come in.
On Friday morning when my alarm went off, Clarissa was in her bed across from mine, wrapped like a burrito in a jumble of loosely woven blankets. One leg stuck out, hovering in midair, half on the bed and half off. Her toenails were painted a deep shade of purple, and a sizable toe ring was snagged on a loop of one of her blankets. She didn’t have class until ten on Fridays, and I wasn’t going to wake her just to ask a question.
I toyed with the idea of leaving her a note inviting her to come home with me, but then decided to just visit her at the coffee shop later that day. I didn’t want her to think I was still trying to make myself feel better. My asking her to come wasn’t a peace offering so I could ease my conscience, though I knew that’s what she would think. I had told the boys I would ask her to come. It was that simple.
I attended my four classes that day, dropped by the dorm to unload my book bag, and then headed to the coffee shop.
The place was a sea of students, books, and open laptops. And it was noisy. Conversations flew about the room, and every few minutes there was the loud pounding of metal on wood as saturated espresso grounds were emptied by hurrying hands. Clarissa was behind the counter, filling cups and calling out names.
“Tall dark roast with steamed milk for Tyrel!” she yelled.
The man named Tyrel reached for the drink she put on the counter. “Thanks, Clarissa.”
“So when are we going to Morocco, Tyrel?” Clarissa asked as she sprayed a plume of whipped cream onto someone else’s mocha.
“Can’t this week. Midterms.” Tyrel winked at her and began to walk away.
“You better not keep me waiting too long, Tyrel. I might have to go with someone else.” She placed the mocha on the counter. “Super tall raspberry mocha for Claire!”
Then she saw me.
“Lauren. Hey.”
“Hi, Clarissa.”
“You ordered something?”
“No. Just wanted to see if you wanted to come home with me this weekend. Cole and Raul will be there, and Cole asked if you were coming. Would you like to?”
She didn’t look up from the espresso machine. “I’m working this weekend.”
“Well, um, you could come down after you get off, if you want. It’s not that long a drive.”
“I’ve got a double shift. I’m working Saturday afternoon at the bookstore and Saturday evening here. Sunday afternoon and evening too. Gotta pay the bills.”
She grabbed the stainless steel receptacle of spent espresso grounds and whacked it on the side of a wood-framed trash bin.
“Oh. Okay.”
“But thanks for thinking of me.”
“Clarissa …”
“Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever it is you were going to say.”
I sighed and said it anyway. “You’re not trying to punish me, are you?”
She laughed heartily. “I don’t have to. You do a fine job all by yourself. It’s okay to be who you already are, Lars. In fact, I bet most therapists recommend it.”
I stared at her. “Yeah, but it’s not okay to be who people say you are when you know deep down you’re someone else.” I wanted to add, And I’m not going to act like I’m better than everyone else just because you think that’s what I believe.
Clarissa looked up at me and blinked. Then she turned to the clutter of people waiting for their afternoon jolt of caffeine and cream. “Skinny white chocolate latte for Denise!”
She turned back to me. “I’m not quite sure where you’re going with that thought, but hey, you don’t owe me any explanations. Sorry I can’t come. Tell Cole I’m sorry I can’t come.”
“All right,” I said, even though I did want to explain to her what I meant.
“Hey,” she said, as if I had already turned to leave. I hadn’t. “I’ve got a prof who’s interested in that diary you’re working on.”
“The diary?” I felt a tiny spark of devotion to the diary ignite inside me, a jolt of protective hesitation.
“Yeah. He’s writing a book on the effects of stigma on culture and economics. He was lecturing today on the historical significance of the Salem witch trials and the role stigmatization played. I stayed after class and told him you were transcribing a diary from one of the women who stood trial. He got all excited. He wants to talk to you. Tall vanilla nonfat for Pete!”
“He wants to talk to me? What about?”
“About the diary, of course. What else?” She dumped two shots of espresso into a cup and pumped a tiny stream of hazelnut syrup into it.
“Well, when?”
“I dunno. After midterms, probably. He wants your cell phone number. Can I give it to him?” She spooned steamed milk into the cup.
“Um. I don’t know. I guess so. I might need to talk to Abigail first.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t own you or that girl who got hanged, whatever her name is. You don’t have to ask Abigail’s permission.”
“I know, but …”
“So I can give it to him?”
“Give what?” Surely not the diary.
“Your cell phone number, Einstein.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” But I didn’t want to talk to some professor about Mercy. She was still alive to me. It was October now, but I was with her in April. Abigail had already told me the hangings ended in the fall of 1692. I still had several months to spend with Mercy. She wasn’t yet a statistic of stigma and hysteria. She was a young writer in love.
“Great. Tall hazelnut latte for Lauren!”
I looked at Clarissa, wide-eyed.
“You look positively panicked, Lars. Lighten up. He just wants to talk to you.”
She pushed the cup toward me and then turned to the next order.
Perhaps it was a good thing Clarissa didn’t come home with me. I didn’t see Cole or Raul at all on Saturday, though I knew they were just a few miles away at my aunt and uncles in Beverly Hills. I hadn’t e-mailed Raul back to let him know Clarissa wasn’t coming. I guessed because I hadn’t, Cole assumed she wasn’t. And apparently neither one of them wanted to see me. Fine with me.
I spent the morning putting my last editorial touches on the proposal. I added a paragraph at the end about how the complex could become a truly multicultural venue by offering memberships via scholarships to median-and low-income individuals with interest in fine arts. Such an altruistic gesture would endear the complex to the community and inspire others to develop an appreciation for the arts.
I knew Dad would probably call me later that week after reading it to ask me what in the world that was all about.
I was fine with that too.
With the draft printed out and safely tucked away in my dad’s study, I put on a swimsuit, grabbed A Tree Grows in Brooklyn from the little library, and stretched out on a chaise by the pool.
Mom found me a few minutes after one o’clock and told me we’d all been invited to Uncle Loring’s for dinner to see their pictures from Singapore. Then she asked me to go shopping with her for a new dress to wear to the ballet the following week. She didn’t need a new dress, but I went anyway. While we were at Nordstrom, she saw an outfit on a mannequin, a linen-looking thing with three-quarter-length sleeves in a honey-hued coral, which she said would look divine on me. She insisted I try it on.
I had to admit it looked good with my skin tone and the toast color of my hair. She bought it for me.
That’s what I put on a few hours later when we went to Uncle Loring’s for dinner. There was no use trying to tell myself I didn’t want Raul to see me in it.
But he and Cole weren’t there.
My aunt told me they’d been gone all afternoon and were having dinner with some of Cole’s friends. She didn’t know when they’d be back.
We ate tri-tip on the veranda, devoured a baked Alaska after that, and then watched two hundred images of Singapore fade in and out on Uncle Loring’s widescreen TV.
The food was excellent, the pictures lovely, but I was out of sorts. I usually didn’t mind socializing with my parents and aunt and uncle. I didn’t mind being the kid among the adults. That’s how it always was for me growing up. But it really bothered me that night.
And I knew why. Cole and Raul weren’t there. And they hadn’t wanted me with them wherever they were. Not without Clarissa.
I wandered into the kitchen a little after nine thirty, more bored than hungry. I toasted an English muffin and was slathering it with chunky peanut butter when I heard the garage door open from behind one of the kitchen walls. I knew who it had to be, but I had no idea why they were returning so early. I hurried with the peanut butter, wanting to be out of the kitchen and looking like I was having a wonderful time with the others when the guys came in.
But I was putting the knife in the sink when Cole and Raul entered the kitchen. I could hear that Cole left the engine running on my uncle’s Porsche. They hadn’t come home to stay. They came to pick up something. Me, perhaps?
I turned to face them.
“Lars! Hey. How’s it going?” But Cole didn’t wait for an answer. He brushed past me and dashed out of the kitchen and into the interior of the house. Cole had come back for something, but it wasn’t me.
I looked at Raul. He wore a sapphire blue shirt, silk. The sleeves were messily rolled up to his elbows like it was made of ordinary flannel.
“Hi, Lauren.”
“Guess you heard Clarissa couldn’t make it.”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. Well, you didn’t e-mail back that she was going to come.”
“Right. I didn’t.”
Silence.
“Did you get your project done?” he asked.
Well, at least he remembered why I was even there. “Yes, I did. Thanks for asking.”
More silence.
“So have you really read Moby Dick?” He eased into a smile.
I smiled back. “I really have.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was full of adventure.”
He cocked his head and grinned. “You’re mocking me.”
“It was full of adventure. And way too much detail on how to butcher a whale.”
“So you liked it, but didn’t love it.”
“I appreciated its deeper meaning.”
Raul smiled like he’d just figured out something about me he hadn’t yet known. “Ah, the soul’s quest to understand God.”
Cole dashed back into the kitchen, carrying a black and silvery white Xbox 360 and several controllers, which threatened to fall to the floor. Raul rushed to help him.
“Thanks, man,” Cole said as he swept past me. “See ya, Lars.”
I watched Cole disappear into the garage.
Raul turned to me, looking apologetic. “We’re playing Halo 3 at his friend’s house.”
“I see.”
“Would … Do you want to come watch?”
His eyes were kind, but I detected the signs of a mercy date.
Mercy.
“No, thanks anyway.” I picked up my muffin. “Have a good time.”
“Yeah. Sure. You too.”
“Bye,” I said.
“Bye.”
His hand was on the door to the garage when he said my name.
“Yes?” I looked up from grabbing a napkin.
“That’s a really good color on you.”
And he was gone.