Suffer a Witch (4 page)

Unable to sit still anymore, Em went to spend time in the honeybee colonies she kept on the roof of the building. Two hours later, she was hot, sweaty, and happy. There was nothing like the ordered chaos of honeybees to make everything in the world seem right. She kept her Italian honeybee hives in two Top-Bar hives and three traditional Langstroth hives. She looked up when a shadow came over the Langstroth hive she was working.

Sam Wardwell had dressed in one of the beekeeper’s white jumpers and head net that Em kept in the bee shed. He was standing near the hive. She gave him a wooden frame of wax comb covered with bees. He held the frame up to his eyes to look at the rice-grain-sized honeybee eggs.

“They’ve settled in,” Sam said.

“Hopefully they’ll thrive,” Em said with a shrug.

Like most beekeepers in the United States, Em had lost more than half of her hives over the winter due to a combination of a long, hard spell of cold weather and pesticides. In early May, she had replaced the ones she’d lost with new beehives in the hope they would survive. Sam had picked up beekeeping in the early 1800s, when he lived with Em for a few years while getting back on his feet. He now kept his own hives at his suburban home in Lincoln, Massachusetts.

“I replaced the windows,” Sam said.

He had been a carpenter in Salem Village. After getting sober and addressing his inner demons, he’d opened a small carpentry shop. The business had flourished and was now a multimillion-dollar construction company.

“I replaced them with double-paned,” Sam said. “They’re nice and will keep you warm next winter.”

“At least the bathroom won’t be drafty,” Em smiled. “Next winter, I’ll live in there.”

“You should let me replace all of them,” Sam said.

“I can’t afford it,” Em said.

“Em . . .” Sam started.

Em shrugged.

“If I don’t save as much as I can, what will we have when we need it?” Em asked.

“We could put in more . . .” Sam started.

“Everyone does what they can,” Em said. “Immortality isn’t for the meek of heart.”

“Or Bridget,” Sam said.

“I was going to say ‘Susannah.’” Em smiled and turned her attention back to the open beehive in front of her.

“You know, I hear myself talk, and . . .” Sam laughed. “I know I’m ridiculous. You’ve bailed me out of more than my share of expensive disasters. I guess I’d like to give back a little.”

“I appreciate the new windows,” Em said.

“Nothing, really,” Sam said. “If I write you a check, will you put it in the fund?”

Em looked up at him. For a moment, their eyes held. She nodded.

“Thanks,” Sam said. “You’re our rock.”

“I’m kind of your crazy rock,” Em said. “Did George tell you what happened last night?”

“George, Alice, Ann, Margaret, . . .” Sam nodded. “Everyone’s downstairs waiting for you; even Giles managed to show up.”

“Gee, that sounds fun,” Em said. “An inquisition of witches.”

“Kind of a role reversal,” Sam said. “George is cooking.”

Em looked up at him.

“It smells divine,” Sam said. “That man of yours . . . You don’t think he’d swing over to my side?”

“I don’t,” Em said. “I think you and John will miss out on George.”

“And Giles?” Sam asked.

“That man never left the 17
th
century,” Em said.

Sam laughed. They settled into beekeeping. They went frame by frame through the beehives together. They managed to find the queen from one hive. Another hive looked like it had been split in half by swarming. The split hive was healthy enough, but Em marked the cover so she’d remember to keep an eye on it. They moved on to the next hive. The hot, satisfying work took all their attention. When they finished reviewing the hives, they placed special compartments, called “Supers,” where the bees could collect honey.

“Thanks, Sam,” Em said as they hung their bee suits in the bee shed.

“For what?” Sam asked.

“Beekeeping, new windows, friendship . . .” Em smiled. “I owe you.”

Sam snorted as if she’d made a joke.

“Ready to face the music?” Sam asked.

“Not really,” Em said.

“Hey, you guys!” Margaret Scott appeared on the stairwell. “George has readings to do tonight. You need to . . .”

“We’re coming down,” Sam said.

Margaret smiled at Sam. He passed her on the stairwell and continued down to Em’s floor.

“How are you, Em?” Margaret asked.

“I’m okay,” Em said.

“Any darkness today?” Margaret asked. She squinted as she scanned Em’s physical and spirit bodies.

“Not that I can tell,” Em said.

Margaret had been in her late seventies when she was hanged in Salem Village all those years ago. In modern life, Margaret looked like she was a fit woman in her mid-forties. She worked as an economic forecaster for the state of Massachusetts.

“See anything?” Em asked.

“Not a thing,” Margaret said. “You’re such a radiant light. I’m sure you’d just block out any darkness.”

Em smiled. Margaret’s words were always in inverse relation to her forecasts. If Margaret saw a negative outcome, she’d always say something incredibly kind and nice. Margaret must have seen something that she didn’t like in Em.

“Yes?” Em asked.

Margaret blushed.

“It’s okay,” Em said. “We can talk about it at dinner.”

Em trotted down the two flights of stairs to her apartment, and Margaret followed. Em opened the door to her apartment and felt the wave of warm friendship and noise of talking voices. Margaret slipped in behind her. Rather than going straight into her living room, she slipped into the bathroom for a quick shower and inspection of the new windows. She had just stepped into the shower when the door opened.

“Hello?” Em asked.

“Just brought you some clothes,” Sarah Wildes said.

“Thanks, Sarah,” Em said. “Are you . . .?”

Sarah Wildes’ face appeared around the shower curtain.

“I’m sniffing around,” Sarah Wildes said. “I hate the subterfuge, but Margaret asked me to check and . . .”

“And?”

“Finish your shower!” Sarah Wildes smiled at Em and left.

“Witches,” Em said under her breath.

She made quick work of her shower and got dressed. She brushed out her long hair before opening the bathroom door. Giles Corey was standing on the other side of it.

“You’ve brought this on yourself,” Giles said.

Em rolled her eyes and tried to move past him. Angry, he grabbed her by the arms.

“You should have listened to me,” Giles said.

Em shook her head. He yelped and let go. There was an odd rumbling in the apartment, and everyone stopped talking. Now furious, Giles took a step toward her.

“How dare you?” Giles asked. “You’ve brought this upon all of us.”

“You have no more idea of what’s going on than I do,” Em said. “Don’t pretend you do.”

“I know who’s at the root of it,” Giles said.

“Who?” Em asked.

Their energies pressed against each other’s in the tight hallway. Angry, Em refused to give him any ground.

“Giles?” Sam asked from behind them in the hallway.

“What?” Giles asked.

Giles tried to overpower Em. She kept him off her. She was at least twice his strength, which infuriated him even more. She could have easily overpowered him, but she refused to do to him what he’d always wanted to do to her.

“You remember what happened the last time you went after Em?” Sam asked.

Giles didn’t let up his press upon Em.

“Why don’t you come out of there, and we’ll talk about it?” Sam asked again.

“She’s the root of all of this!” Giles said.

“Come out of there so we can talk,” Sam encouraged. “She’s not your problem alone. We all want to talk to Em. You can have your say then. If you’re right, we’ll back you. You know that.”

Exhausted, Giles let go of his press with a sigh. He shot Em an angry look but was clearly relieved to have a way out. Giles spun around and stormed away from her. Sam touched Em’s arm to make sure she was all right. She nodded. Sam followed Giles into the living room. For a moment, Em stood in the hallway to catch her spiritual breath.

When she looked up, George was standing in the hallway. As if to say that she couldn’t help it, she shrugged. He smiled. He held his arm out, and she tucked herself into him. He held her close for a moment. Kissing her neck, he stepped back, gave her a nod, and took her hand. They went into the living room to face the music.

Em stepped out onto Boylston Street. Turning, she pulled closed the door to the back stairs, which went to the living areas. She looked both ways down Boylston Street before setting off across the street. While she would survive being hit by a car, she didn’t have time for the hassle today. She stopped walking to let a man running with a baby stroller pass before entering the Boston Common. She’d gone only a few feet into the Common when she picked up a familiar ghost.

“Where you going, Em?” the woman asked.

Em put in the wireless earpiece to her phone so that no one would notice that she was talking to the air. Even though the Common was quiet this early in the morning, Em couldn’t be too careful.

“Good morning, Ann,” Em said to Ann Hibbins, who’d been hanged for witchcraft on the Common in 1656. The wife of a wealthy merchant, no one, including Ann, was sure why she was hanged for witchcraft. She’d lingered in the Common since 1656. She was one of the first souls Em had met when she moved to Boston in 1692.

“I saw all those
witches
at your house this morning,” Ann said.

Em inwardly groaned. Ann was feeling sorry for herself this morning.

“Why
I
was hanged and died?” Ann gave an angry snort. “But you
witches
! You get to live on and on and on . . .”

Em let her continue in her “on and ons” until Ann got tired of saying the words.

“You could move on,” Em said.

“I could move on!” Ann said. “You could have the decency to
die
!”

“Many of us would love to do just that!” Em chastised Ann. “It’s not like we planned this!”

“I know,” Ann sighed.

Em kept walking while Ann floated along beside her. They weren’t exactly friends. They just belonged to the same club of innocent women who’d been hanged for witchcraft. Ann had the dubious honor of having been widowed by one of the magistrates who condemned witches. Em glanced at Ann.

“Why don’t you move on?” Em asked.

“I lost the light, Em,” Ann said.

“‘Lost the light’?”

“I don’t know if I can anymore,” Ann said.

Em shot Ann a glance. Ann was smart and sly. Em wasn’t sure if Ann was trying to manipulate her. Catching Em’s look, Ann gave Em a sad shrug.

“I’m stuck here, Em,” Ann said.

Em snorted.

“Why did you make that sound?” Ann asked.

“I’m stuck here, too,” Em said.

Ann laughed. Em kept walking. Knowing Ann would stay in the park, Em stopped at the
Freedom Trail
near Beacon Street.

“Your hanging day is next week, right?” Em asked.

“June 19
th
,” Ann said.

“Why don’t I see if we can’t help you?” Em asked. “We’ll have a little celebration and see if we can’t send you on your way.”

“Would everyone come?” Ann asked.

“By everyone, you mean George and John?” Em asked.

“Sam’s my favorite,” Ann smiled.

“Yes,” Em said. “I can promise George, and I’ll call John and Sam. I’m sure some of the others will want to come.”

“That would be nice,” Ann said.

“We’ll see if we can’t help you transition,” Em said. “What if you change your mind?”

“I won’t,” Ann said. “I’ve wanted to ask you about it for a long time. I just never got around to it.”

Em smiled her goodbye and started walking.

“It’s time,” Ann said. “I need to do it before . . .”

Em spun in place.

“Before what?” Em asked.

Ann had disappeared. Em cursed herself for trying to help the hanged-for-witchcraft crowd. It only ever caused her grief. Em scowled and continued down Beacon Street to Joy Street. It was a little less than a mile from the Mystic Divine to the Vilna Shul. After last night, Em needed the walk to clear her head.

Everyone thought Em was in trouble. As soon as George said that he thought they were
all
in trouble, everything erupted. Of course, Sarah Wildes, Sam Wardwell, and Elizabeth Howe were loyal to Em. They agreed that if Em was in trouble, they were all in trouble. Giles banged the drum that Em got herself into this trouble and should get herself out of it. No one ever listened to Giles.

Margaret Scott agreed with George. She felt like something was changing. She couldn’t define the “something” — she was just sure that it had changed.

“For whom?” Wilmot Redd had asked.

“For all of us,” Margaret had said.

Em watched the flicker of hope dance across Alice’s face. When Alice realized Em had noticed, she made a sad shrug. Em had no doubt that, if there were ever a chance that they could leave this life, Alice would be the first one to go. John Willard jumped in to say that he’d not heard even a whisper about the Salem Twenty at the FBI, his current employer. He thought people were more concerned with terrorists from other places than homegrown witches. A sigh of relief went through them.

Then Martha Carrier spoke up. She said that Em was right. Increased technology meant increased surveillance. Their days of anonymity were numbered. As general counsel for the CIA, Martha knew of nothing that would stop various government agencies from detaining and extracting the information they needed from the Salem Twenty. A wave of frost went through the group. Never one to hold back, Martha went on to remind everyone to be careful of what they said — anywhere.

Susannah Martin and Mary Eastey piped up to invite everyone to live with them in their Amish community in Pennsylvania. No cell phones. No worries. This led to a huge fight with Susannah, Mary, and Giles arguing a return to Puritan life, against everyone else.

Of course, John thought they should leave for their islands in French Polynesia and wait for a more reasonable generation. This irritated Sarah Good, who thought of the islands as her personal property. Sarah Good said something smug, and they argued again. Ownership of the islands was put to rest by Martha, their resident lawyer, who assured everyone that the islands were owned by the Salem Twenty, LLC, which Em ran.

Fighting her bruised ego, Sarah Good had to have the final say. Never one to mince words, she told Em that, since she had seen the Devil, it was up to her to work it out. They would expect either a resolution to the problem or Em’s report on
her
progress by July 19
th
— Sarah Good’s hanging day.

After everyone left, she and George had argued over a best plan of action.

“If it’s up to me, then you can be damned sure
I
will take care of it,” Em had said.

“You don’t have to take care of it yourself!” George had said.

“Who’s going to help me?” Em had asked. Angry and exhausted, she couldn’t keep herself from saying, “If I count on you to help, you’ll just schedule another trip to save some stranger!”

George’s hurt face was icing on her already awful night. He’d grabbed his jacket and gone down to do readings. She pretended to be asleep when he returned. He wasn’t fooled, but at least she didn’t have to talk to him. She got up this morning before he was awake.

If this was her problem, she was going to deal with it. Em groaned at herself.

Why did she have to be so stubborn?

Why couldn’t she share her life?

Em had always taken care of her own problems. No matter what happened in life, she soldiered on. Alone.

George hated that. She swallowed hard at what she knew was true. He loved her. He wanted to share her burdens. Certainly, he told her that enough.

But Em could live only one way: her problem, her responsibility. She’d gotten up this morning to get it done.

Turning onto Phillips Street, she saw George standing on the sidewalk up ahead, staring at Vilna Shul. She stopped walking. He turned to look at her. Even from this distance, she could see him grinning in a kind of “I found you” way. She dropped her head and rolled her shoulders forward in defeat. His shoes appeared on the sidewalk before her, and she looked up.

“How?” she asked.

“I’m a witch,” George grinned. He held out his arms, and she let him hug her. “I’ve survived my fair share of Em winters. I don’t really want to go through it again, especially now, when you’re in real trouble.”

“‘Em winter’?”

“When you push me away and decide you’re going to do it all yourself,” George said. “God gave me immortality so I could spend it with you. I’m going to do just that.”

“And . . .”

“No ‘ands.’” George cut her off. He kissed her hair. “Do you want to tell me your plan?”

“My plan?”

“Why are we standing in front of a Jewish cultural center?” George asked.

“Have I ever told you about leaving Salem Village?” Em asked.

“No,” George said. “Not a word. Ever.”

“And how I got this name?” Em searched his face.

“I know that you’ve always hated your given name,” George said. “I’ve always called you ‘Em.’ I know that you insisted on being called ‘Emogene.’”

Em looked away from him. They were a building away from Vilna Shul. She took his hand and led him to the Vilna Shul. Taking a key from her purse, she unlocked the metal gate and gestured for him to go up the short flight of cement steps in front of the historic Jewish Center. He took a seat on an outdoor chair on the porch. She sat down next to him.

“I’ve never been here,” he said.

Em nodded.

“How . . .?” he started and then shook his head. “How is it that I feel like I know you so well, and you have a key to the gate? When did you become Jewish?”

Em smiled.

“How does one go from being a woman of Christ’s gospel to . . .?” George gestured around him. “And when? I rack my brain. When was the first time we reconnected after . . .”

He looked around to see if anyone was observing them.

“I’ll tell you, if you ever stop talking,” Em said.

“I do talk a lot,” George smirked. He made a show of closing his mouth. “Are you going to tell me?”

Em smiled. George tipped his head back and laughed. His laughter brought a large, middle-aged man with short, dark hair and a beard with a white Yarmulke on his head to the door of the cultural center. Seeing Em, the man rushed to her, pulled her from the chair, and hugged her.

“Welcome, Grandmother,” the man said. “Welcome.”

The man let her go to look at her. He glanced at George.

“Is this George?” the man asked. He looked at Em, and she nodded. “Welcome, Reverend Burroughs!”

The man looked back at Em.

“This is a very good day,” the man said. The man looked expectantly to George and then to Em. “Are you going to introduce me?”

Em blushed and nodded.

“George, this is my grandson, Rabbi Isaac Peres,” Em said.

“Great-great-great — and then some — grandson,” Isaac said.

George’s face flushed with emotion.

“Yes, I know,” Isaac said. “One rabbi a generation with knowledge of our grandmother. That is how it’s been in my family since . . .”

Isaac looked at Em.

“1692,” Em said.

“1692,” Isaac said. “Will you come in?”

“George wants to know our story,” Em said to Isaac.

“Please do come in,” Isaac said. “We can talk in my office. I have pictures and . . .”

The man opened the Vilna Shul door and ushered them into the cool building. Em took the blue-grey lace scarf from around her neck and covered her head. George gestured to his head.

“Don’t worry,” Isaac said. “You are welcome here in any form, George Burroughs. Please, come inside our little center.”

They walked down a hall but had to stop as a class of third- or fourth-graders came past them.

“My father will be jealous,” Isaac said when the class had passed.

“You know he’s teaching Kabbalah at the store,” Em said.

“No, I did not know that,” Isaac said with a smile. “Stinker. He always has something up his sleeve.”

Em smiled. They turned a corner and then another before going through an open door to a warm, friendly office. Isaac took a seat behind his desk. George stopped to look at the photos on the wall. He pointed to one, and Em nodded.

“That’s 1905, Reverend,” Isaac said.

“Please, call me ‘George,’” he said. “As you may know, I wasn’t ever ordained, and, anyway, I haven’t been a Reverend in a long time.”

“George,” Isaac said. “I’m Isaac.”

“Plus, Em only calls me ‘Reverend’ when I’ve annoyed her,” George said.

Isaac laughed.

“How can I help?” Isaac asked.

“I wanted to know . . . everything.” George spoke up before Em could say anything.

Isaac looked at Em, and she gave a slight nod. Isaac got up and closed his office door.

“I have never heard the beginning of the story,” Isaac said. Used to helping people tell their truths, Isaac encouraged Em with a kind nod. He sat down. “You start. I will fill in what I know.”