“No,” Zee said. “I just wanted to know if you believed in it.”
“I’m not sure what I believe about it,” Ann said.
ANN FIRST MET MAUREEN THE year before Zee was born, when Maureen enrolled in one of Ann’s herbal-remedy classes, one that was meant for practicing witches but was open to the public as well.
It was a decidedly manic period of Maureen’s life. She was spending Finch’s money with abandon and signing up for everything in town. It would have been annoying if she weren’t so charming. Seldom had Ann seen anyone as beautiful as Maureen. When she walked into the class—late, of course—the energy of the entire room changed. Heads turned.
Maureen’s purpose for taking the class, she said, was that she was afraid she couldn’t conceive. She was desperate, had tried all the regular methods, and wanted to try an herbal remedy. She announced this to the class as they went around the room, each person stating her particular areas of interest in herbalism. Most wanted spells, or child-safe remedies, or to learn to make perfume by brewing essential oils.
“What kind of traditional methods have you tried?” Ann asked Maureen at the break. No matter how New Age Ann might be, she was still a New Englander, and she didn’t believe Maureen should share such private information with the whole class.
“We tried different positions, of course, with me remaining prone with my legs in the air for hours. We’ve tried different times of the month. We’ve even tried a turkey baster.”
“Why would you try that?”
“The problem is really more with Finch,” Maureen said. “His libido, if you must know.”
Ann didn’t need to know—in fact, she would have preferred never to know. But she was afraid that if she didn’t address this new bit of information right away, Maureen might be tempted to share it with the whole class. “Talk to me after this is over,” Ann said. “Maybe I can brew something up for you.”
Maureen looked so grateful that Ann feared she might turn to the class and make another announcement, but she didn’t.
After class was over, Ann did brew something up—several things, in fact. Though it was long before Viagra, Ann had pretty good luck with raising people’s libidos, sometimes to the point of being less a gift and more of a curse. “It’s a tea,” Ann said. “Steep it for at least five minutes, and make sure he drinks it hot.” It was one of Ann’s most powerful potions, and it was popular among Salem’s male population. Even so, she doubted that her potion would work for Finch and Maureen. Ann had known Finch for years. She had been surprised when she heard he’d gotten married.
Maureen completed Ann’s introductory class in herbology. And then she took another, more advanced class. And somewhere along the line, Ann and Maureen became friends.
All that spring, Maureen fed Ann’s tea to Finch.
“So is it working?” Ann asked her one day after class.
“It is,” Maureen said. “Though I’ve taken to putting it in his wine instead of brewing tea.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Ann said. “You’re supposed to drink it hot.”
“Well, it seems to be working,” Maureen said. “Plus, I added a little something.”
“What kind of little something?” Ann asked.
“Just something I read about that enhances pleasure.”
Ann looked at her strangely. In the last month, Maureen had purchased every book on herbs and plants that Ann sold. If there was something in there that enhanced pleasure, chances were that Ann had already added it to the mix.
Maureen picked up on Ann’s concern. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.
“Hey,” Ann said. “If you found something that got Finch going, you ought to give me the recipe. We can package it and make a fortune.”
“Thanks so much,” Maureen said.
Ann didn’t realize quite how it sounded. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she said.
“Sure you did,” Maureen said.
It was the first time Ann realized that Maureen wasn’t in denial.
“I don’t get it,” Ann said. “Why do you stay?”
“Hey, it’s working,” Maureen said. “And we really want to have a baby.” Maureen’s eyes filled up with tears. “Finch would make such a good father,” she said.
Ann had already overstepped, and she knew it. “I wish you many blessings,” she said.
THAT SUMMER MAUREEN AND FINCH went their separate ways, Finch to Amherst and Maureen to Baker’s Island. It had been Mickey, and not Maureen, who’d told Ann about the split. So when they showed up at the store together, Ann was surprised.
“We have something to tell you,” Maureen said. “We’re pregnant.” For someone who had just gotten everything she said she wanted, Maureen didn’t look quite as happy as one might expect.
Finch, on the other hand, seemed ecstatic.
“Congratulations!” Ann said. “This is the best news!”
The pregnancy kept them together, as Maureen had hoped when she originally asked Ann for potions. The father-to-be was so attentive that Maureen couldn’t help but be happy during the duration of the pregnancy. Still, something was clearly bothering her. When Ann finally decided to ask, Maureen quoted Oscar Wilde: When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.
ANN DID FOUR MORE READINGS before Zee showed up. She was beginning to doubt that Zee was coming at all when she suddenly appeared at the door.
Ann got one of her girls to take over her station, then led Zee through the back rooms past beakers, bottles, wands, crystals, jugs of distilled water and stacks of handmade soap, candles, and rows of books on magick and the healing arts.
Ann had recently replaced her Indian-print door curtain with a beaded one and her futon with a brass daybed she’d bought from an old witch she’d met at the Farmington midsummer festival who was retiring and moving to Florida.
Zee hadn’t been in Ann’s private room in years. Looking around, she thought it seemed more brothel than witch’s lair.
“Too McCabe and Mrs. Miller?” Ann asked.
“No, I like it,” Zee said, heading straight for the bed and sitting cross-legged as if they were about to do Transcendental Meditation, as they had in the old days when her mother brought her along. Zee had been the most devout little student, keeping her eyes closed and holding the lotus position for longer than anyone else and with such an expression of sheer determination that Ann and Maureen couldn’t help but laugh.
Ann had made sandwiches with sprouts and early tomatoes on the multigrain bread she bought at A & J King. “Thank the goddess for that bakery,” Ann said.
“I’ve been meaning to stop there,” Zee said. “The place right next to Cornerstone Books, right?”
“The other side of the building,” Ann said, turning on the electric kettle. “Would you like a cup of herbal tea?”
“Sprouts, herbal tea, the world has moved on, you know.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Ann said. “The world is moving backward. Yoga is back. And everyone’s vegan.”
“Not everyone,” Zee said. “I’m sure as hell not.”
“Everyone in my circle,” Ann said.
Zee laughed and took a bite of the sandwich. “Actually, it’s really good,” she said, thinking she should get some of this bread for Finch’s sandwiches.
Zee looked at Ann’s bookshelves. “You still stock books on reincarnation?” she asked.
“A few,” Ann said. “What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Zee said. “I just thought I’d read something about it.”
“You still think your mother’s coming back as a radish?”
“A what?”
Zee had clearly forgotten her earlier speculation. Ann waved her hand to clear the words. She went to her bookcase and pulled out a book by Edgar Cayce that one of her students had given her.
“Cayce is a good place to start,” she said.
Zee put the paperback in her bag.
“Have you started to be
lieve in reincarnation?” Ann had to ask.
“No. Maybe…. I don’t know,” Zee said. “What about you?”
“Pretty much. I believe more in simultaneous incarnations. Though I do agree with what Eleanor Roosevelt said about reincarnation.”
“What was that?”
“I’m paraphrasing here, but it was something to the effect of, ‘I don’t think the idea of my being here in a past life is any more surreal than the idea of my being here now.’ Something like that.”
“I always liked Eleanor Roosevelt,” Zee said. Then, thinking about it, she went on, “I’m considering giving up my practice.”
“Interesting segue,” Ann said.
Zee shrugged.
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m just not sure I’m any good at it,” Zee said.
“I would imagine that you’re very good at it.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Zee said.
“Has something happened?”
“A lot of things have happened,” Zee said.
“Like what?” Ann asked.
“Like, I’m not sure why I got into it in the first place.”
“That’s not too difficult to figure out,” Ann said. “After what happened to your mother.”
“That doesn’t mean it was the right choice, does it?”
“Not necessarily,” Ann said. “But I’m still surprised. You worked so hard to get there. Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
“I don’t know,” Zee said.
Ann thought about it for a minute. “So you’re giving up your practice and your engagement all within a month,” Ann said.
“I’m just thinking about giving up my practice. I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Interesting,” Ann said.
“Which means?”
“Interesting,” Ann said again. She thought about it some more. “Don’t become a full-time caregiver,” Ann said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve seen what it does to people. To Melville, for one.”
“Poor Melville,” Zee said.
“What the hell happened between those two?” Ann asked. She knew it was something big, could feel the weight of it, but she had no clue as to its origins.
“I wish I knew,” Zee said.
Some kids were setting off firecrackers on the wharf. A cat scooted under the bed.
“What was that?” Zee saw it flash past.
“That’s Persephone. She’s a Katrina cat,” Ann said. “They shipped a lot of them up here. I got her at the shelter.”
The three masts of the Friendship moved by Ann’s window. She was headed out for a Fourth of July sail. Ann noticed Zee watching it. She thought about the weather. There was no sign of a storm on the horizon as yet, so they should have smooth sailing for an hour or so.
Maybe it was the reenactors, maybe it was the Friendship itself—the three masts of the tall ship and its rigging made Ann think of Salem’s past days of shipping, the bustle of the busy wharves, the excitement of Salem as a world port. She pictured the powerful shipping families, the man they called King Derby who owned the next wharf and the Pickerings who owned this one. At any time there might be a hundred ships like the Friendship in port, loading and unloading their bounty. The tunnels that ran under Derby Wharf and up to the houses owned by the shipping families were a perfect place for hiding their taxable goods. Ann lived in one of the historic houses up on Orange Street. In the middle of her kitchen floor was a trapdoor that led to the old Derby tunnel. It was a place that Persephone loved to hide, and Ann had taken to blocking it off at night, so the cat wouldn’t end up lost in the tunnel somewhere under the wharves and more frightened than ever.
One of the Friendship’s sails was set, and the huge ship moved solely on wind power as she left the harbor now. Hawk was high in the rigging, helping set the foresail.
Ann observed Zee watching the ship and handed her a pair of binoculars she kept on her desk.
“Binoculars. A police scanner. Have you started working for the CIA?”
“Just nosy by nature,” Ann said.
Zee held up the binoculars and looked at the ship.
Ann watched as Hawk moved quickly down one mast and up another. “I’m surprised he doesn’t fall,” she said.
“He moves really well,” Zee said.
Something about the way she said it took Ann by surprise.
The people on the wharf began to cheer and clap as the Friendship hoisted her second sail.
Zee didn’t stop looking and was still watching Hawk as the ship reached the mouth of the harbor.
Oh, my God, Ann thought. She’s sleeping with him. The thought came to her in words, and she was relieved to find that she hadn’t uttered those words aloud.
And just as quickly another thought came to her, and before she had a chance to censor herself, this time the words did come out of her mouth. “Be careful of that one,” Ann said to Zee. “He’s not who you think he is.”
“What?” Zee asked, surprised to have her thoughts so clearly invaded.
Ann knew that Zee didn’t believe in any of this stuff. But she also observed a blush starting on Zee’s face that quickly spread all the way down her neck.
26
LIGHTNING HIT THE MAST of a moored Hunter 31 that had sailed north to the tip of Cape Ann and into Rockport Harbor even before the storm appeared on the horizon. Luckily there was no one on board at the time. The charge traveled down the aluminum mast, and, not finding a path to ground, it side-flashed, blowing out the boat’s hull.
“Shit,” someone said. “That boat just exploded.”
Hawk flew down the rigging of the Friendship as if he were on a slide.
“Lightning,” he said.
No one agreed. The sun, so strong just minutes ago, was now behind a cloud. But the sky was still bright blue. The general opinion was that it was probably a leaky propane tank, but Hawk had seen the strike from his post high in the rigging.
The captain listened to Hawk and put into Sandy Bay, just outside Rockport Harbor. “Better safe harbor than sorry sailor,” he said. The plan had been to reach Newburyport in time for the fireworks, but the wooden mast on the Friendship had been hit once before, and the captain didn’t want to risk it again. Though Gloucester Harbor would have been a much better choice, there was no time to get there. Within five minutes the sky had blackened and lightning flashed overhead like natural fireworks.
The Friendship dropped anchor.
“Everybody below deck,” the captain ordered. “And don’t touch anything metal.”
As a general rule, Hawk liked thunderstorms. He especially liked them on the water, where they came up fast and you could see the thunderheads forming and pushing upward in the sky. But this one seemed to have come out of nowhere, a phenomenon he’d heard about but had never yet seen. There were people struck by lightning as much as thirty minutes before a storm arrived. It wasn’t that uncommon. The charge could travel.
But today he’d been on the rigging when the strike hit. It was close enough that he felt the elation from it before he saw the burst. The hair on his neck and arms stood up as the errant bolt passed. By all rights it should have hit the Friendship, which was by far the tallest ship around, but instead it moved on, striking the Hunter. He knew it wasn’t random—lightning followed the rules of electricity—but it seemed personal somehow. The Friendship would have survived the strike, but Hawk, on the rigging, would most likely have been its casualty. He couldn’t help feeling he’d been spared.
He didn’t share his story; he knew these guys too well. They’d had enough trouble believing that there’d been a strike at all, though they certainly believed it now. The ocean had come up, and the ship rolled as it took the swells sideways. Even Rockport’s breakwater did nothing to stop the surge.
The sailors sat down below, listening to the crack and boom. As the sky lit up, the town of Rockport froze in silhouette, leaving a burned, stuttering i
mage of terrified tourists huddled in doorways on Bearskin Neck.
Normally a rowdy group, the men were unusually quiet as they watched the Hunter 31 burn and sink.
“I thought aluminum masts didn’t conduct electricity,” one of the sailors said.
“Sure they do,” Hawk said. “The problem must have been in the grounding.”
“Shit,” one of the other guys said.
“Double shit,” another said. “We’re the highest mast in the harbor, and wet wood is a conductor.”
“We’ll be okay,” Hawk said. “We have lightning rods, and we’re grounded with copper.”
Everyone was silent, hoping that he was right.
When it finally ended, the crew made their way back on deck. One of the lines was singed, probably the result of a side flash from the Hunter 31.
Someone pointed to the mouth of the harbor. A rolling fog was moving in slowly from open ocean. It was an odd occurrence, more suited to the Pacific than this part of the Atlantic. Usually the New England fog fell in patches rather than rolled.
“Jesus,” one of the crew said.
BY 6:00 P.M. THE WHOLE of Cape Ann was fogged in. There would be no making it to Newburyport tonight.
They all walked into town. Until recently Rockport had been a dry town. Even now the only place you could get a drink was at one of the local inns, and so that’s where the crew headed. When they got to the top of High Street, Hawk broke from the group.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his friend Josh asked.
“I’m going to Salem,” Hawk said. “I’ll be back here in the morning.”
“How’re you gonna get there? Fly?” someone else asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna sprout little wings.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” one of the other guys said. The group had been in awe of his climbing skills, and of the idea that anyone actually liked being up in the air so high.
HAWK DECIDED TO HITCH A ride to the Rockport train station. The first two cars passed him, but the third one, a car full of college girls, pulled over and opened the door.
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