Conversion (5 page)

“Anyway,” he added, “it’s pretty cool, being on your own. Like college.”

“Yeah,” I said, my eyes roaming over the faces of the throng. I could easily pick out the college kids. A lot of them looked preoccupied and tired.

“You’re a senior, right? You know where you want to go next year?” he ventured.

Talking to him felt deceptively easy. So easy it made me examine him more closely, to see what he really wanted. I tended to assume that people who were too nice were being that way because they wanted something. Maybe because at St. Joan’s, that was often the case.

“Um,” I demurred, “I’m not really sure. I’m applying, like, a million places.”

The trick, when someone asked me where I was applying, was to see if they were sniffing around to find out if I was their competition. Was my list the same? Was it different? How smart was I? Was I smart enough that they should be worried?

“Here?” he asked, gesturing with his lifted chin to the gate behind us leading to Harvard Yard.

“Yeah,” I said. A flush crept up my neck and started to wrap itself around my ears.

His smile broadened as he said, “Me too.”

He didn’t look threatened, or worried. He looked . . . happy.

A gap opened up in the crowd of people pouring out of the mouth of the T station, and in the gap I spotted Anjali, looking older without her school uniform, her fingers threaded through an indifferent hand that was loosely attached to a boy with a skinny beard lining his jaw who was wearing a red tracksuit. Yeah, I said a tracksuit. They were half an hour late, and Jason pimp-rolled his way over to where we were standing with such studied care that it felt like another half an hour before they finally got to the newsstand. I felt the boy in the button-down shirt slide his eyes over to watch me watch them.

“Colleen!” Anjali squealed, rushing up to give me a hug even though we’d just seen each other at school the day before.

“Hi, Anj,” I said, embracing her. “Hey, Jason.”

“’Sup,” said the always-articulate Jason, tilting his head to the side.

I turned to the boy in the button-down, embarrassed, trying to come up with a way to make introductions. But I needn’t have bothered.

“Spence. My man,” said Jason as he slap-clicked their hands together and then back-pounded him in a bro-hug.

The boy in the button-down gave me a sheepish look.

“So
you’re
Colleen,” he said.

I blinked in surprise at Jason’s decidedly not-yo-boy friend and smiled.

“Guilty,” I said.

“You guys, I am starving,” Anjali announced, bouncing on her toes with a hand on Jason’s sleeve. “I’m dying for waffle fries. Don’t you want waffle fries?”

“I also am dying for waffle fries,” Spence said with just a little too much formality, gently teasing Anjali but still watching me.

“Do you think we could get into Charlie’s? Is it early enough?” Anjali looked from Jason to me and back. “It’s totally early enough, right?”

“Yeah, baby,” Jason said, resting his hand on the back of her neck, a thumb in her hair, and starting to steer her away from the Pit. “We’ll get in, no problem. I know the bouncer.”

We moved together, the four of us, weaving our slow way through the Saturday night crowds washing over the Square. I watched Jason’s hand resting on Anjali’s neck and felt my fists ball up inside my coat pockets. The boy in the button-down shambled along beside me. I could feel him looking at me every so often. Why had I worn a peacoat, for God’s sake? I could have borrowed Mom’s trench at least.

“
Spence,
” I said after a while, arching an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

He laughed once, his mouth open, and did a funny jump-step in his gait.

“Which is worse,” he said, “the fact that my name’s really Spence, or the fact that Jason even talks like that at headmaster’s tea?”

We were just early enough to get into Charlie’s without being carded, but only if we made a beeline for the back stairs and didn’t look anyone in the eye. The lobsters in their downstairs tank watched us slink by, and I imagined they were waving their feelers with extra-pathetic desperation as we passed, maybe hoping to hitch a ride to safety. We thumped up the stairs and found a big guy with a shaved head settling in for the long haul on a bar stool at the top, but he waved us in without saying anything.

Jason said “Thanks, dude” in the guy’s general direction, but the guy either didn’t hear him or didn’t care, so I guessed this was Jason showing off for Anjali’s benefit.

Of course the upstairs was already full. Not packed, not so tight you’d have to elbow your way to the bar and you’d never get your food, but full. Every booth and chair had someone parked in it, everywhere we turned were faces thrust together, pint glasses of beer and plastic baskets of hamburgers and waffle fries. We hesitated, befuddled, before Jason elbowed past us to establish his bona fides at the bar. I didn’t have a lot good to say about Jason, but he knew how not to stand out when the bouncer’s just waved everyone in.

“Oh my God, we’re never going to get a table,” Anjali shouted in my ear.

Already this night was turning into a total bust.

“We could just go for pizza instead,” I hollered back.

“All right, we’re good. What d’you guys want?” Jason yelled upon his return from the bar. He was holding a pint glass of something dark and amber colored.

“Coke,” said Spence, turning to me. “Coke’s okay by you, right?”

“Yeah,” I said.

I was kind of relieved, actually. It’s not that I had a problem with people drinking. Not exactly. Everyone did it, basically. I didn’t know why I was so on edge. Something about Jason just brought that out in me.

“Jasooooooon,” Anjali whined. “We’re never going to get a table. Do you think we’ll ever get a table?”

Just then, I noticed a girl who was sitting at a corner table by herself. It was way too big for one person, the circular kind that’s meant for like five people, and she had at least one empty chair next to her. Empty, except for a coat and a handbag heaped in a way that was clearly meant to indicate that someone was sitting there when someone really wasn’t. It was a Coach handbag, from the outlet store, just like mine. I recognized it because Emma and I had bought them together.

“Emma?” I called.

It was too loud, though, and she didn’t hear me. Emma was looking into a pint glass of her own, something lighter than whatever Jason was drinking, and it was nearly empty. She looked like she’d been sitting there for a while.

“Oh my God, EMMA!” Anjali squealed and rushed over to Emma’s table.

Anjali’s arms were around her neck before Emma could register what was happening.

“Anjali?” she started to say, and her eyes hunted back through the crowd to settle first on Jason, then on me, and quickly she rearranged her features into a semblance of happiness to see us.

“This is so awesome! I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Anjali said. “Can we join you?” Jason was already moving Emma’s coat and handbag off the chair.

“Hey,” I said, settling next to Emma. “What’s up?”

She looked sort of nervous. She even pulled out her phone and scrolled through her texts and frowned before putting it away.

“Emma, this is Spence. Spence, Emma. She goes to St. Joan’s with Anjali and me.”

I gestured to Button-Down Boy, who made like he was toasting Emma with his Coke, said “Madam,” and then sat back to give us room to talk.

“Were you waiting for someone?” I asked.

I didn’t remember what Emma had told me she was doing that night, but she definitely hadn’t said anything about hanging out in the Square.

“Um. Kind of?” she said. “But it’s good to see you guys. This is better anyway.”

She didn’t say whom she’d been waiting for. I thought about asking, but the waitress appeared with menus, and we turned ourselves to the pressing decision of how many orders of waffle fries to get, and did we also want onion rings, and since two of us had beers already, could we get away with ordering three more, which, it turns out, we could, because some Saturdays just work out that way and nobody hassles us even though we’re still in high school.

To be honest, I don’t really remember what else we talked about that night. I’m pretty sure we didn’t talk about Clara Rutherford, because the guys wouldn’t have heard about it, and what would be the point? We’d have wanted them asking questions about
us,
not Clara. Two guys and three girls, and all three of us friends, and even if one of the guys was Jason, it was still fun to laugh and tease one another and jockey for attention. I’m willing to bet we didn’t talk about Clara Rutherford for one second.

The only reason I even remember that night at all is that I met Spence. And that it was so weird coming across Emma, sitting alone at Charlie’s, waiting for someone who never came.

SALEM VILLAGE, MASSACHUSETTS

MAY 30, 1706

I
t was January 10,” I say to Reverend Green.

He looks confused. “This last January?”

It’s not his fault. He’s heard what happened, maybe he’s even read the book about it, but he didn’t live here then. I have to explain.

“No.” I shake my head. “A long time hence. I was thirteen,” I say. “January 10, 1691/92, with the old calendar. I was supposed to be home already, but Abby Williams stopped me.”

“Oh!” the Reverend says, sitting up straighter in his chair.

Recognition splits open his fine features. His hands twitch for the ruffle of linen at the end of his sleeve, and he glances at the door that hides his wife away. I can feel him wanting to summon her, but I want his attention for myself alone. It’s time someone listened to me and heard the truth.

“Come see Betty with me,” Abby says.

I’m supposed to be home already, my mother’s waiting, but Abby’s stopped me, and it’s hard to break away when Abby’s stopped me. She’s smaller than I am, small for eleven, and her work in the parsonage keeps her busy most days, but on the days when Abby sneaks off alone, there’s no stopping her, whatever you might wish for yourself.

“Betty?” I say. “I can’t. They’re waiting for me.”

“I’ve never seen one so amazed. Or so stupid. You have to come. Hurry up!”

Abby takes my hand in hers, her grip rough from work, and hauls me along behind her. I struggle to keep up. My hand in Abby’s is a soft thing, like a snail, and I fear she could crush it if she chose. Goody Parris never lets her rest much since Abby was bound out to her. Goody Parris runs a household empty of idleness, and no food for wasters. It’s why Abby’s so thin.

“But Abby,” I protest, hunting for a reason to escape.

It’s my fault for dawdling. Mother sent me these two-odd hours ago for some thread, silk if I could get it, and I could, of course, but then it’s so rare I get a couple of hours to myself. She usually makes my sister go with me. I loitered by the Common for a time, and then I looked in on Mary Warren, who insisted I come inside because my mittens were crusted with snow. It took much longer to warm the mittens than I’d planned, time pleasantly spent eating corn bread with molasses and talking, and then I was late, and feeling idle and ashamed.

Now I’m being punished. As soon as the thought comes to me, I feel deeper shame. God’s not about to punish my idleness with a visit to Abby Williams. I can’t help it, though. She makes me uneasy. Mother says I should pity her and show Christian charity and take her for my friend. But I hate to do it.

We burst into the parsonage’s door, and Tittibe Indian cries, “Be wiping those feet, now! You! Abby!” because we’ve trailed in mud, and with the hall door open we’re blowing a gale into the house.

Abby ignores her, frowning and pulling me harder by the hand. “She’s in the loft,” Abby says to me.

We mount the ladder. A chunk of ice loosens from my boot and falls to the floor with a thud and shatters.

“You, Ann Putnam!” Tittibe calls after me, planting her hands on her hips. “Why you want to make trouble for me?”

“I don’t want to make trouble for you, Goody Indian,” I call down through the hatch.

Abby’s face darkens. “Why’re you calling her that?” she asks, poking me hard.

I blink at Abby, confused. “Why, what should I call her?”

“Call her nothing,” Abby spits. “She vexes me all the time.”

I shrink away from Abby, but don’t contradict her. Mother says we must be kind and godly to slaves, too, if they’re Christians. Tittibe loves Jesus, even though she came from that island where the Reverend lived before he came to us. She’s told me stories of the island. How the sun always shines there. How she never saw snow ’til she came to this Massachusetts, and she thought it would be soft to touch, like goose down, which it sometimes is, but she didn’t know how cold it would be. Now when I imagine Tittibe’s island, I dream of the sun shining, and everyone sitting on clouds like in heaven, and lots of good things to eat, and fruit all year round. But Mother tells me it wasn’t like that. When I ask her what it was like, she tells me to be quiet.

“There,” Abby interrupts me. “Look at her.”

Betty Parris is lying in her trundle, with her eyes closed and her cap on, her hands clasped under her chin like a cherub. It’s strange to see her lying in bed so late in the day, and her face in the thin January light looks pinched and white. I breathe out through my mouth, and a cloud of mist billows around my head. The cold in the loft is sharp, and ice has grown thick on the loft window over Betty’s head. Abby’s frowning down at her.

“Betty,” Abby says.

She pokes her. Betty doesn’t move.

“What, is she sleeping?” I ask.

Betty’s younger than Abigail, about eight or nine, and you can see in the slope of their cheeks and the shape of their noses that they’re kin. But Betty’s hands are softer than Abigail’s. She’s the minister’s daughter, and one of the elect, most probably.

“She’s not sleeping,” Abby says. “She’s lain so all day. Let me carry in all the snow to melt myself. Whore’s daughter. Bedbug. Imp!”

I should be shocked, but Abby’s always talking so. Her mouth is something to behold, when it gets going.

“Is she ailing?” I whisper, leaning in closer.

I bring my hand, hesitating, to Betty’s forehead, as I do for my younger sisters when they won’t be gotten up. I half expect to find her boiling hot, clammy with her own sweat. But the skin is cool. Too cool. I wonder if she has enough blankets, if there’s a draught that’s taking her.

“She’s not AILING,” Abby bellows, her mouth close to Betty’s ear. The younger girl doesn’t stir. “She’s a ROGUE.”

Abby goes in for a vicious pinch on Betty’s side, hard enough to make anyone squeal. Betty doesn’t make a sound.

Downstairs, I hear Tittibe Indian holler, “You vexing me, girls! Quiet down!”

“Betty?” I say, grasping her shoulder and shaking her gently.

Her eyes stay closed, and her hands folded under her chin. I place my hands on hers and try to move them, but they won’t be moved. She’s holding them there, tight, and people don’t do that when they’re come over feverish or asleep, so now I’m sure she’s malingering. To cross Abigail, most likely.

“See?” Abby says, petulant. She sits back on her heels and crosses her arms over her thin chest. “They never beat her, and they beat me all the time. She’s a whorechild, and I hate her.”

“Abby, please,” I say, shaking my head.

Abby steps back and sulks.

“Now, Elizabeth,” I whisper to Betty in my most soothing voice. “You know she doesn’t mean it. She never did. See?”

Not a peep from Betty Parris. I rub my hands up and down her arms, bringing warmth to them.

“It were a cold day today, sure,” I murmur. “Who’d want to carry in snow? All those heavy buckets? No one would. Now, God’s seen your sin, and He pities you. But God made winter, too, and doing our work well gives Him glory, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t your papa say so?”

I rub harder.

“Open them eyes, Betty,” Abby hisses in her ear.

“Shht,” I shush Abby with a sour look. I’m older. I know about the special languor smaller children get in wintertime. “Abby, you fetch a mug of hot cider from Tittibe, that’s all we be needing. Isn’t that so, Betty?”

Abby gives me a dark look and whispers “I hate her” before stomping down the ladder into the hall.

Downstairs I hear voices, Abby’s irritable and Tittibe’s aggravated. The clanking of a long spoon in a metal pan. The pop of the fire.

“There, my Betty, she’s gone now. It’s safe. You can open your eyes.”

A tiny flicker of movement on Betty Parris’s face. One eye opens and peeks at me, like my baby brother does when he is playing now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t. I smile at her, encouraging.

“See?” I whisper. “All’ll be well. You tell Abby you’re sorry, you’ll help with chores tomorrow. Give thanks to Jesus for your keeping and tell him you’re sorry, too, and all’s right.”

The other eye opens. They are wide and watery and blue.

“It’s so cold, Annie,” her tiny voice whispers from under the blankets.

“I know it is,” I reassure her.

“I just . . .”

The eyes blink, and a tear puddles up and rolls down her cheek to her ear. The pale white nose bubbles and starts to turn pink.

“Shh,” I say, petting an escaped curl with my thumb. “You can make it right tomorrow, can’t you? Sure you can.”

More stomping as Abby hoists herself, muttering, up the loft ladder, climbing with her left hand and her right elbow so she can grip a little pewter cup. Her feet keep tangling in her skirts. I spy Tittibe’s head, wound in a scarf, coming up the ladder behind Abby’s feet. Betty sees them climbing into the loft and shuts her eyes tight with a squeak.

“Here,” Abby says, thrusting the cup under Betty’s nose.

It’s warm enough that I can see the steam, and my mouth waters at the apple-y smell.

“She’d better drink it, after all that, or by God, I will,” Abby grumbles.

Tittibe hoists herself through the trapdoor, clambers to her feet with a grunt, and joins me at the bedside, smiling down at the form in the trundle. She’s wearing a patched jacket that I remember Goody Parris wearing at meeting last year, the one that was later ruined by a scorch from a firebrand. Now the jacket’s dusted with cornmeal, and there’s a thin mask of it on Tittibe’s face. She has holes in her ears for rings, but she doesn’t wear them. Whenever I’m near her, I have trouble not staring at her ears. I wonder if on her island everyone wears jewels like that, in their skin.

“How my Betty be, now?” she asks. “She feeling more herself?”

“I give thanks to God, Goody Indian,” I say, prodding Betty’s leg through the covers where no one can see. “I think Elizabeth’ll be quite well. By tomorrow.”

But Betty Parris is squenching her face tight closed, and she hasn’t sat up to take the cup yet. We all wait, Abby’s face darkening. A long minute passes with us three staring down at the girl in the trundle bed.

Downstairs, a door slams, and a deep man’s voice growls, “Here, now. John? I’ve had to put the mare away myself. Five o’clock, and an empty house! What, am I to be starved, too, on top of everything else?”

The sound shatters the fragile peace in the attic. Without warning the cup strikes my cheek and the cider’s burning my eyes and dripping down my face. Betty’s flown out of bed and hurled herself into Tittibe’s arms, her eyes straining wide, her mouth open, red and wailing.