Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

The door opened. “Hello, dear. May I help you?” the elderly woman stood waiting.

  Susan was afraid to proceed. “Ah—you don’t know me, Ms. Mijss, but I’m here to talk to you about something that happened a very long time ago.” There was a lull while she checked for a reaction. There wasn’t any.

  “May I come in?” she continued. “I don’t really want to say what I have to say out here.”

  The woman locked her knees and drew herself up. “My dear, whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in the doorway.”

  Here goes, Susan thought. “Have you ever heard of a little boy by the name of Jacob Brodsky?”

  It was as if the woman had been slapped. Her eyes watered instantly and stumbling back, she caught herself on the doorknob before lowering her head and sinking to the ground.

  Susan knelt down beside her. “I’m so sorry to do this to you. Are you all right?”

  Sasha Rosoff turned to her, whispering, “Someone found me at last. I can’t believe it—after all these years…”

  Later, over tea and homemade cookies, it all came out. The switched jewelry identities, the escape across the unfortunate cutters’ backs, the despair of losing her friend Irma, and the realization that she could start a whole new life without her dominating father.

  “But the Delacinas ended up doing OK. I guess they got an anonymous donation from some Italian organization because they moved to…” Then Susan caught the corner edges of Sasha’s lips curling.

  Her elderly cousin nodded slowly. “After all, a life for a life, I always say. She saved mine, so the very least I could do was to save her family’s.”

  Rounding the table to hug her newfound relative, Susan could sense beneath the old woman’s frail shoulders, the toughness that had served her well all these years. Yet, as they clung to each other, Sasha started to cry. “I suppose everything has come full circle,” she murmured.

  Wiping away her own tears, Susan shook her head. “Not quite. There’s just one more thing I’ve got to do to make things right, and I need you to be with me…”

  **

  Cameras flashed as Susan’s boss, the well-known actress-turned-clothing-guru, entered the room. Marching defiantly past Susan with her team of lawyers, she put on her most dazzling smile for the press. The steady flux of voices in the hearing room buzzed like a swarm of locusts, as the gavel came down hard on the judge’s podium.

  Seconds before Susan got up to testify about unfair, dangerous labor practices in her boss’ overseas factories, she gave her cousin’s hand a nervous squeeze, and even up on the mahogany stand, the blood draining from her tight face, she needed to look over at Sasha one more time for another infusion of courage.

  The skin on the ninety-five-year-old was shriveled, her shoulders hunched over like the letter ‘C’, but just watching Susan begin her deposition, the seamstress sat bolt upright for the first time in many years.

  A DRUNKARD’S PATH

  It wasn’t your typical wedding present. Wedged in between high-tech blenders, irons, toasters, and boxes of crystal champagne glasses, very few people could resist walking past it without running at least a finger or two over its soft, comforting texture. Several guests even placed entire hands on top of it, palms down, their arched fingers moving in tiny circles, to get the fullest tactile sensation.

  “This is the quilt that my quilt group and I sewed for you two these past six months. It’s called A Drunkard’s Path,” Deborah’s Aunt Natalie explained, ceremoniously handing the ‘prize’ over to her niece, who was, at the moment, attached at the hip of her new husband, David.

  “My group suggested doing this because of your connection to me, of course, but also because of your famous ancestry and all your ties to American history,” she continued, winking at Deborah.

  David beamed, looking down at his wife and giving her an extra squeeze on the shoulder. For four years, he had enjoyed bragging about Deborah being a direct descendant of Nathaniel Hawthorne, author of The Scarlet Letter. He had judged his fellow classmates well; having a girlfriend with such a lofty heritage definitely gave him leverage at Harvard, but tonight, Deborah’s reaction to the gift was altogether different. Childhood memories of visiting her Aunt Natalie suddenly washed over her, reminding her that even at ten- years-old, she had always been accepted in the sewer’s inner circle while they discussed quilt patterns, gossiped, and howled with laughter.

  Also called to mind was an old, tattered puppet doll, smelling like a musky mildew, and always accompanied by a group member named Margaret Stinson. The crude doll seemed out of place with all those intricate quilts, but each time Deborah ventured a question about its origin, Margaret would promptly introduce another subject.

  All of a sudden, amidst a swell of cheers, the bandleader announced, “Let the bride and groom have the first dance.” All eyes swiveled to the happy couple, whirling across the polished dance floor, concentrating only on good times, champagne, and bright futures.

  By two a.m., cocooned in David’s arms and drifting off to sleep, Deborah fingered the fluffy quilt one more time, secure in the knowledge that she had indeed married the right man. Life just couldn’t get any better.

  Eight hours later, she woke up and lazily rolling over towards her new husband, was met with an indented pillow and a rumpled sheet. Running shower water from the bathroom teamed in like a tropical rain forest, making her giggle and head towards David, anticipating at least another forty-five minutes of lovemaking.

  Instead, opening the frosted glass door, she was bombarded with a frosty, “What are you doing here? I just want to get on with my day! Leave me alone!”

  She froze. In all the time they had spent together, he had never behaved this way towards her. Arguments, yes, of course; disagreements that needed to be resolved, sure, but never this.

  Backing away from the shower, she turned around and quickly grabbed her clothes off of the newly acquired Art Deco bedroom armchair. A small vial, filled with liquid, fell to the floor.

  Automatically, she called out, “What’s this?”

  He flung open the shower door, and seeing what she was holding in her hand, charged towards her, snatching the vial away. Still dripping, he barked, “It’s nothing! Just a wedding present for me from someone from my office. It’s nothing!”

  Her breath eked out like a quasi-hiccup. What in the world was wrong? Charging past her worried expression, David finished getting dressed and slammed their front door on his way out. She steadied herself on the edge of a chair, waiting for her heart to stop pounding and her better judgment to creep in. OK. Maybe I should leave him alone today; let him work out whatever is bothering him. Pressures from work? Newlywed jitters? Tonight we’ll certainly iron things out, just like we’ve always done.

  The shrill phone jarred her out of her thoughts. “Hey, how are you? Is everything OK?” Aunt Natalie’s voice was tinged with concern.

  “Of course,” Deborah lied. “Oh, just wonderful. David’s gone to work, and I’m going to do some grocery shopping for tonight. Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…just wanted to make sure…” Natalie’s voice trailed off, but Deborah sensed her aunt had wanted to say more.

  Gourmet grocery shopping became the order of the day, and because all the local vendors knew she had just gotten married, there were plenty of free samples—chocolate croissants, Quiche Lorraine, Baba Ganoush, and pickled zucchini—along with jokes and well wishes. The hours passed quickly, and by the time she returned home at five o’clock, her honeymoon mood had completely been restored.

  Just inside the door, the smell of alcohol was unmistakable. Entering the living room, she could see David slumped on the couch, surrounded by a scattered newspaper, a wagon train of shoes and socks trailed across the floor, and on the coffee table, an empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a new crystal wedding flute filled to the brim. When he gazed up at her, his bloodshot eyes reminded her of some of the street winos she had recently passed en route to the subway.

 
; “David…what’s going on? Are you OK?”

  “Of course I’m fine! Married less than a day, and already you’re a nag! What business is it of yours anyway?” He reached over for his champagne glass.

  “You…you usually don’t drink very much, and you have never talked to me this way. I…I just don’t get it. Has something happened to make you want to…”

  “Well, I’m just fine!” Taking a large gulp and flipping his hand upward, he gestured her away.

  Dinner backtracked into silence that evening—an unheard of occurrence—and finally, after a half hour of trying to get him to respond to her, Deborah retreated into the bedroom for the rest of the night, leaving him to sleep it off on the couch. But when the pattern continued, she became truly frightened. This is what it must be like to be an abused woman, she brooded; too ashamed to go looking for outside help and always telling herself things will undoubtedly get better; they certainly couldn’t get any worse.

  Once a week, like clockwork, Aunt Natalie would call, cheerful, yet always gently probing until finally, one night, after a particularly nasty quarrel, the phone rang. This time, Deborah came clean.

  “I don’t know what’s happening. It’s not as if I didn’t know him. After all, we’ve been living together for four years and he’s never showed any signs of alcoholism. I just don’t get it…” the phone line filled with her choking sobs.

  There was a long pause on the other end. Then, “I was afraid of this…”

  Deborah gasped, mid-sob. ”What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t my fault…she kept it from me all these years…I swear I didn’t know…” Natalie whispered.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It started so long ago. I don’t even know how it all came about, but there’s…there’s been a curse placed on you and David…that quilt that I was so excited about…Martha Stinson in my quilt group kept silent until after I had given it to you, and…and I didn’t want to say anything in case it wasn’t true.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Deborah exploded. “My life is falling apart! C’mon, curses don’t really happen, do they? I mean, what can I do? You tell me now!” She segued into a screech.

  “Come over to my place tomorrow and I’ll try to relate it all to you, I promise.”

  Aunt Natalie’s narrow brick house, clothed in ivy and steeped in American history, was originally part of a row of common carriage houses. Nestled in the middle of a small, wrought iron gated courtyard in Greenwich Village, it was considered by some to be one of the most charming landmarks in the city.

  Each room was on a different floor, so they both had to walk up a flight of stairs just to get to the kitchen quarters. There, a pot of comforting Earl Grey tea was brewing, waiting for them to begin. On her kitchen table, two books and several sheets of papers were strategically placed in a couple of rows. Deborah couldn’t read the titles clearly, but just recognizing the word Salem across one of the bookbindings, immediately sparked goose flesh that crawled up her arms.

  “Some tea? I have it all ready for you,” Natalie managed a smile.

  Deborah nodded, her eyelids swollen from another sleepless night.

  “Do you know anything about the Salem Witchcraft trials?” The older woman leaned in toward her niece, as if casting a spell herself.

  “No, not much, why?”

  “You remember Martha Stinson from my quilt group? Well after the wedding, she showed me a journal written by a relative of hers and frankly, I am very concerned about you. It seems one of the accused witches from the original Salem trials might have actually had a connection with a real witch, an ancestor of Martha’s…”

  **

  Inside the packed meetinghouse, dust particles from mud-caked boots floated through the air, rendering it dense, murky. That year, April had been an unkind month to Salem Village. Rain-drenched meadows produced a sludge that clung to the edges of women’s dresses, creating odors so foul that in such tight quarters, it became difficult to breathe. But people weren’t concerned with such matters on this day. They had gathered for a higher purpose: the Devil was in Salem, and they wished him thwarted at all costs. Even the constant threat of Indian attacks and surviving harsh winters paled in comparison to what was happening now, in that room, swelling with apprehension.

  Crammed into high-walled pews, dark wooden benches, or simply shoved up against walls, spectators filled every conceivable space in the meetinghouse. Donning black hats, cloaks, and breeches, the men angled forward, their eyes boring holes into the five men sitting up front, yet it was the women who carried the greatest burden that day; their hooded coats and muffs covering their recently unkempt hair and unwashed fingernails, couldn’t disguise the uncertainty they felt about their community’s loyalty to them and how it would all end.

  Sitting at the head of the counsel table, amongst other magistrates in the newly appointed Court of Oyer and Terminer, John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin quietly conferred with each other before beginning their first round of questioning. Arrogant, self-important, the black-robed magistrates assumed their positions on the political totem pole, and having been brought to Salem for such a specific purpose, they dared not disappoint. They were on a mission to deliver souls. Hathorne, displaying the greatest exhibition of self-aggrandizement, seemed the most severe. With no real legal experience, and having only glanced at Sir Mathew Hale’s Trial of Witches, and Joseph Granvill’s Collection of Sundry Trials in England, Ireland the week before, he nonetheless believed he was more than competent to interrogate the accused.

  At the front of the room facing the magistrates, sat all the accusers, the “afflicted” girls: Abigail Williams, her cousin Betty Parris, Ann Putnam, Sarah Bibber, Sarah Churchill, Elizabeth Booth, Mercy Lewis, Susanna Sheldon, Jemima Rea, Mary Warren, Mary Walcott and Elizabeth Hubbard. With downcast eyes and folded hands, they appeared demure; inwardly they were experiencing emotions quite different from anything they had ever known. Childhoods stocked with adult repression and fear now served as a springboard to the frenzy of accusations they had created, because on this day, along with their catharsis and even exhilaration, came the most important emotion of all: a sense of empowerment. At last, they were getting adults to listen to them, and it was intoxicating.

  John Hathorne commenced with the proceedings. “Bring in the accused, Bridget Bishop.”

  Bridget Bishop was an open target. Years before there had been some speculation that she had indeed been a tool of Satan. When she and her husband had hurled insults against each other, they were made to stand back-to-back for an hour in the public square, their mouths gagged, their foreheads covered with papers describing their crimes.

  Now, as she walked into the room, all hell broke loose. The afflicted girls began writhing on the floor, holding their stomachs, howling with pain, and pointing accusatory fingers at Bridget.

  “You are hereby brought before this court to give evidence of all witchcrafts with which you are knowledgeable,” Judge Hathorne stated.

  “Before these witnesses, I declare I am clear,” came her firm voice.

  Turning to the afflicted, Hathorne asked, “Hath this woman harmed you?”

  All the girls nodded. Quiet, watchful, they waited for a response.

  “You are hereby accused by these girls of hurting them. What say you?” Corwin challenged.

  “I never was with these persons before,” Bridget insisted.

  “They say you bewitched your first husband to death.”

  “If it please the court, I know not of it.” As Bridget shook her head in disbelief, the afflicted ones started moaning softly.

  “I am no witch and am not acquainted with the devil,” she insisted, but with each new word, the girls’ moans grew louder.

  “Your very presence brings witchcraft before us and influence upon the afflicted,” pronounced Hathorne, rubbing his chin with his right hand, tapping his fingers with the left.

  “I know nothing of a witch, for I am clear. Indee
d, Your Worship, if I were such a person, you should know it.” When the accused turned pleading eyes up towards the ceiling, Hathorne noticed all the girls also looking up in the same direction, like marionettes manipulated by Bridget’s motion.

  His next question was directed towards Mercy Lewes and Ann Putnam. “Look upon this woman. Is it she who has hurt you?”

  The two girls nodded vehemently. He turned directly back to Bridget. “What say you now? They have negated your innocence.”

  “In truth, I never have seen these girls. Indeed, Your Worship, I am innocent of these actions.” Bridget’s voice had begun to dissolve into a quaver.

  She was led away from the room then, amidst a torrent of cries and shrieks, and when she was forced to touch one of the girls who miraculously appeared ‘well,’ everyone agreed that this was a true sign of witchcraft. Once Bridget had gone, all the rest of the girls instantly fully recovered, readying themselves for the next series of examinations.

  Thoughts of returning to prison made Bridget cringe. Early spring rains had seeped through the stone walls, flooding her cell floor and carrying rat feces and urine underfoot everywhere. Dozens of other accused women huddled around her—some neighbors, others strangers, people who before now had always believed that surely God would never abandon them.

  Bridget took a long hard look around her. There were Goody Good and her four-year-old daughter, Dorcas, who both slept on either side of her, hemming her in so tightly she could barely move. Night after night the neglected girl would whimper softly until she fell asleep by herself because her mother had no strength left to try to comfort anyone, let alone a frightened child. Next, Bridget stared at Rebecca Nurse in disbelief. Here was a woman whom everyone loved and respected. Could it be possible that she, too, was accused of witchcraft? And what about Elizabeth Proctor? Supposedly she was pregnant. Surely they wouldn’t be so cruel as to try her as a witch with a little one growing in her belly. And Sarah Wildes, Elizabeth Howe, and Susannah Martin. Here they all were, languishing in this God-forsaken place.