One Night in Salem

by Amber Newberry

  “Good thing you’re an honest woman,” Goff said, “or there’s some who’d be whispering about foul play.”

  “Aye,” Lowry chimed in. “Mysterious death like that, tongues will wag. There’s those that’ll swear she came in with pockets of gold, and went out with nary a penny to her name.”

  “I’m naught but a poor widow trying to earn my keep. I swear I never touched anything on her person. The pocketbook was hanging by its strap over a chair.” She put a trembling hand to her face. “Now what do I do?”

  “Call in Dr. Inch.” Ranker stamped his foot for emphasis. “He’ll be here in a trice.”

  “And no doubt charge me for the visit,” Mrs. Whiting said with a flash of her usual tartness. “No, I’ll send a message to Deacon Larcom over to the poorhouse. He’ll see to it she gets a decent burial in potter’s field.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Lowry pointed out. “No digging of graves on the Sabbath.”He gave her a sly grin. “You’ll be giving her a free bed for two nights, Mrs. Whiting. That’s most gracious of you.”

  After a long moment, Mrs. Whiting sighed heavily. “It’s my Christian duty.”

  “What a load of codswallop,” Ranker said sharply. Tempering his tone, he added, “Once word gets out that your rooms double as crypts, I think business will indeed slack off, Mrs. Whiting.”

  For a moment, she stared at him doubtfully. Then she shook her head. “It’s my Christian duty to let her lie in peace through the Sabbath. She stays where she is until she goes to her final resting place.”

  * * *

  “Stubborn, stupid woman.” Ranker realized he’d muttered the words aloud. Lowering his head, he stared into his empty glass. He hadn’t had anywhere near enough rum to be pleasantly drunk, never mind oblivious to his penniless future. In less than an hour the church clocks around town would strike twelve, and he’d be out on the street. Salem’s Blue Laws weren’t as rigid as they’d been during Puritan times, but there were still fines and punishments to be meted out for those who failed to observe the Sabbath. Even cooking a hot meal was forbidden, so many a Dutch oven contained a dinner’s worth of baked beans or a rye loaf.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Ranker.” Mrs. Whiting stood at his elbow. “Would you be wanting another? I’ll be closing up soon.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Whiting. I’ve reached my limit, thank you.” Ranker stood and inhaled deeply. “Cooking something?”

  She shook her head. “Why, sir?”

  “I smell smoke.”

  Mrs. Whiting raised her head, sniffing like a mouse sensing cheese. “Do you, now?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis coming from back there.” Ranker jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Did you leave something in the oven?”

  She frowned anxiously. “The new spit boy, he’s a bit careless. I’d best go see what he’s been up to. If he’s ruined tomorrow’s roast, I’ll pin back his ears. Good evening, Mr. Ranker.”

  When she vanished through the door leading to the kitchen, he rushed to the staircase. Taking the stairs two at a time, he peered up and down the hallway. Pitch black, it was, and cold as a witch’s teat. Ranker ran his hand along the wall until it came in contact with a door. The latch rose at his touch; he slipped inside.

  There she lay, just as Mrs. Whiting had described her, a still mound buried deep in the bedclothes. A thin, pale light leaked in faintly through the un-shuttered window. The skies had cleared and a cold moon had risen. Flinging the window wide, Ranker looked down into the inn’s back garden. It was little more than an open midden, heaped with discarded bottles, broken plates, and all the other detritus of human habitation. One crooked apple tree raised ragged arms toward him like a beggar pleading for alms.

  Tiptoeing back to the bed, he tugged off the mattress, a shabby old thing stuffed not with feathers but corncobs, and stared down at the swaddled corpse. Poor girl, she’d unknowingly created her own shroud out of bedclothes and crawled into them fully clothed, down to her black velvet bonnet. Slender, and of small stature, she lay as if carved out of marble, her lips slightly parted, her eyes closed. Reluctantly, as if in some small corner of his heart he believed he might yet disturb her from her eternal sleep, Ranker patted her cheek.

  Oh, so icy. But the cold had staved off deep rigor. She was still slightly malleable.

  Scooping her up, bedclothes and all, Ranker staggered to the window. Panting, he balanced the unwieldy bundle on the windowsill. For a moment she perched there, reminding him ridiculously of a painting of a maiden in a swing he’d once seen while robbing a mansion up in Ipswich. Then, backward she fell into the darkness with soft thud.

  Ranker sucked in his breath in relief. Silently he lifted the latch and stepped out into the hallway. A creak of floorboards and a faint flutter of candlelight down below, warned him that Mrs. Whiting was on her way up to bed. Whipping back inside, he shut the door and ran to the window.

  No time to ponder—just—jump!

  Ranker was overjoyed that he’d landed on the corpse. Then, as a cloud passed over the moon, he wondered—damaged goods? His bones may not have been broken, but what of hers? There was no time to pull apart the wadded bedclothes and feel for jagged stumps. Dr. Inch would have to accept her as she was.

  Thrusting himself to his feet, Ranker tugged at the welter of bed coverings until the body rolled out to lie face up, oblivious to the indignities that were already being rained down upon her lifeless flesh. He shot a glance at the open window. Darkness reigned. Mrs. Whiting had wisely gone to bed without checking on her freeloading boarder.

  Ranker stifled a groan as he lifted her, hefting the dead weight until he felt he could carry her, cradled in his arms, without dropping her. Dr. Inch’s house was only three blocks down Federal Street, but right then it felt as far away as China. If the night watch caught him, he’d have to spin a pretty story. Even if a lie succeeded in the immediate short term, he’d still have to leave town in the morning, perhaps forever. But with two gold doubloons he could start over easily, so why worry? Drawing a deep breath, he set out among the dark, silent houses.

  * * *

  The clamor and clash of church bells awoke Ranker with a start. Their wild peals contained a certain ferocity, as if they were ringing to inform the town of a raging fire or—an invasion by the British!

  Hastily dressed with his two gold doubloons tucked into a small leather purse fastened to his undershirt by means of a two-inch copper pin, Ranker ran out into the street. “What’s happening?” he shouted to a cluster of men standing on the street corner with their breaths holding fast in icy clouds above them as they traded news. “Are we being attacked?”

  “It’s a miracle!” one cried, and lifted his hat to the heavens. “Can’t you hear the bells, man? Salem is the new Jerusalem!”

  Thoroughly confused, Ranker looked up and down Summer Street for signs of red coats and bayonets. Standing before houses and closed shops and pouring from the doors of the two churches within his sight, masses of people were sharing a rapturous chorus of prayerful thanksgiving, their faces radiant. Approaching the man who had answered him so enigmatically, Ranker asked, “What do you mean, the new Jerusalem?”

  Barely able to speak from emotion, the man said, “Last night was All Hallows’ Eve, when the veil is momentarily lifted between Earth and Heaven.”

  When he burst into tears, another took up the story. “Just at the approach of midnight, Mr. and Mrs. Jerome P. Hastings were putting their cat out when they saw the Angel of the Lord, in his shimmering raiment with his white wings spread in glory flying over the rooftops just yonder.” He pointed with a trembling finger in the direction of the Redwing Inn. “At that same moment, Mrs. David Brown, their neighbor, was standing at her window, feeling the first pangs of childbirth coming upon her, when she lifted her eyes unto the heavens and saw the angel soaring upward.”

  Ranker allowed his jaw to drop.

  “But it gets better,” another man cried. “The landlady of the Redwing Inn had taken in a mysterious guest,
a beautiful young woman who spoke no language known to man. When the proprietress went to see if this radiant being had any earthly needs, she discovered only a cold corpse.”

  Somewhat recovered, the first man broke in to say, “Distraught, she told her patrons that it was her Christian duty to keep the mortal remains of this poor stranger in safekeeping until she could be given a decent burial. But upon the stroke of midnight, the Angel of the Lord retrieved the stranger, body and soul.” He shouted into Ranker’s face, “Do you hear me, man? Body and soul! Gone! Gone to her heavenly reward, and witnessed by many!”

  “Well, blow me down,” Ranker said, for lack of a better means of expressing his genuine astonishment at where last evening’s adventure had led.

  “This is the beginning of the New Millennium,” someone sobbed, “when peace and love shall prevail forevermore.”

  “Hallelujah,” Ranker said, and edging away from the ecstatic group, dashed back to his room to retrieve his worldly goods. It was most definitely time to move on.

  1943

  the grieving trees

  Bret Valdez

  I stayed a little too late at the cemetery. The moist earth beneath me had become warm. I dug into it with my fingers, grabbing at chunks, pulling them up and then sifting them through my fingertips, as if I were peppering the soil. I did not desire to move, for this was as close as I would ever be with him again. In the crude box beneath me lay my love, eternally now.

  I traced his name on the cold cobblestone grave marker before me, barely enough will to lift my own head. C-A-N-A-V-A-N. 1-9-0-7 - 1-9-4-3. “The end and the reward of toil is rest,” it read. I cradled my head and curled up on my side as I began to weep again, my tears carelessly sloughing away the day’s makeup, runny with black mascara.

  Donagh and I were wed just 3 months ago, though we’d courted much longer. I gave him the ole run-around at first, playing hard to get. We met in New York, at a gin joint where I was paid very little to dress vampy and serve tonics and ale to a lot of rowdy men, most of whom were on leave from their efforts in the War. I’d noticed him almost immediately: his blond hair slicked back with a trendy curl on his forehead, and the most oceanic blue eyes I’d ever seen. He was seated with a real boisterous crew, but he was quiet. He’d smile and laugh at the right places, but was reserved. I got the feeling he wasn’t the gin joint type.

  Eventually, as closing time drew near, the boys at Donagh’s table were rounding up a game of poker, and one fella was really taking it home. He was drunk and obnoxious, shoving everyone, including Donagh, right off the edge of his seat at the booth, landing him on his rear end on the hard tiled floor.

  “That’s enough, now!” I exclaimed, worried a fight may break out. I extended a hand to the stranger on the floor, and he looked at me askew. “Well, aren’t you gonna take it?” He hesitated some more. His friends were ‘oohing’ and sniggering, teasing him for needing help from a girl. A little miffed, I grabbed him by the forearm and yanked him to his feet, dusted my hands off on my apron and sauntered off, nose in the air. The hooting and hollering and raucous laughter echoed behind me as I hurried to the kitchen to hide my blushing face.

  “Well, what’s the matta with you?” Arlene sounded like Katherine Hepburn, and looked nearly as beautiful. In fact, her beauty was such that Rizzo, our boss and the bar owner, let her wear her natural brunette hair, while the rest of us waitresses had to wear sticky-hot blonde wigs, to resemble Jean Harlow.

  “Oh, that man, he thinks—what’s he, too good to take a lady’s hand? Why I’ve never been so insulted,” I ranted, ending with a huff that blew the bangs of my wig off my sweating forehead. I looked down and shuffled in place a while, gathering my composure.

  “You know how men are, darling. Now go buy him a drink, that’ll really twist his gears!” Arlene bellowed as she swung open the door to the kitchen and returned to the patrons in the main bar. I could hear her sweet talking a gentleman at the bar stools. One lit her cigarette for her, just because she told him to.

  I finally collected myself and left the kitchen to wipe down some tables in the bar, as it was nearing closing time. I almost shrieked when I bumped right into the very man who’d made me feel like a fool just minutes ago. He caught me around the lower back with his forearm while I swam in his eyes a few seconds too long. Eventually, I swatted his advance away and backed up, my hand clutching the collar of my uniform blouse. “Well! Haven’t you got nerve? Too tough to take the hand of a woman, are ya?” My voice was wobbly and I felt unsure on my feet.

  “I—my friends, you see…” He attempted to explain away his awful show but it only flushed my cheeks with more anger. “Well, they aren’t my friends, miss, but anyway, that ain’t the point. I came over to apologize, see? I feel awful bad I upset ya.”

  I felt where this was going, so I quickly interjected, following Arlene’s advice. “Ralphie, a gin—neat, for my friend here, please?” Feeling very confident now, I swayed back to face the stranger, a cocky grin on my face. I looked up at the much taller man through eyelashes thickly coated in mascara, and fluttered them flirtatiously. “I’m Eleanor, sir,” I offered, extending my hand for a proper introduction. He took it in his and I was stunned when he held it up to his mouth and kissed it, forcing more blush in my cheeks, deepening my rouge. I did an awkward curtsy, unsure of how to react.

  “Pardon me for being so forward, Eleanor. Gosh, a beautiful name for a beautiful lady. I’m Donagh Canavan.” I must have looked as befuddled as I felt, because he clarified, “It’s Irish,” he said with a quipped giggle. I looked at him, baffled.

  “Why, that may just be the most exotic thing I’ve ever heard, Mr. Canavan.”

  “Please, call me Donagh,” he smiled warmly.

  “Okay…Don…” I agreed sheepishly, afraid I couldn’t quite pronounce his name.

  “Don will work fine,” his pouty lips spread over a bright, wide grin. “Say,” his voice started, quiet. “Why do you wear that color hair?”

  Confused, I patted the top of my head and pulled on the curly blonde wig.

  “May I?” He gestured his hands toward my hair, and I stood motionless, stupefied. I was stunned when he pulled the wig a bit forward, and embarrassment overrode me. The hairpiece had slipped back, revealing my natural, straight, chestnut brown hair which was hidden underneath.

  “Oh, my!” I exclaimed, and hurried back into the kitchen once again, to hide. I heard his laugh like a song, which lasted a long time until eventually it faded.

  I awoke with a start. The ground of Harmony Grove Cemetery had become foggy, and the October night was approaching, chilling my bones. Somewhere behind me, a bit of a distance away, I heard a neighboring weep. I came to my knees and dusted my dirty hands off on the skirt of my black dress. I turned my head curiously, trying to locate the haunting feminine whimper. As my irritated eyes adjusted, a black figure appeared through the heavy white fog far in the distance. She was swinging from a rope tree swing, at an eerily slow pace. I felt a chill altogether separate from that of the crisp fall air. She was cloaked in an old-fashioned black-on-black silk and lace mourning gown, almost Victorian in appearance. I thought she was looking away, but as her swinging slowed to a stop, I noticed she had been focused on me behind her gauzy veil.

  Dread crept over me and caressed my skin like an unwanted lover. I hurried to my feet and stood, facing the woman clad in black, backing away slowly. My pink slingback heels sunk with each step into the freshly dug ground beneath me, and I stumbled. Gathering my skirt up to my knees, I began to run toward the entrance of the cemetery, leaving behind one of my shoes. I was panting with fear, and I kept checking over my shoulder until eventually, the black silhouette had vanished. I stopped and pierced my vision through the wet fog, and when I was confident I wasn’t being followed, I carried on, nearly diving into Donagh’s car, locking the door behind me.

  I turned the ignition of his Chrysler New Yorker, waited as it chugged to life, and peeled out of its place on the side o
f the road and continued hurtling my way back home, to the empty house just south of the North River.

  * * *

  After a year, Donagh had talked me into moving with him to Salem, Massachusetts, the infamous setting of the Witch Trials. I had dreaded the thought of the place since I’d learned of it in primary school, a horrifying place of gallows and evil. But so in love was I, that I’d placed my fears aside: I’d have done anything for Donagh Canavan.

  He was from a long line of Massachusetts natives, especially Salem, his father now a prominent judge for the Salem Commonwealth. Liam Canavan had been a lawman since Donagh was a boy, he’d explained. His mother, Mabel, was in ill health and wasn’t expected to last the winter. Donagh would take Mabel’s place as Mr. Canavan’s bookkeeper and would have a job doing clerical work in the courthouse.

  It was with grim complaisance that I sat in the New Haven train car and watched as New York faded away from me, the very picture of dreams and opportunity evanescing with it. However, I sat forward soon after and gleaned at Donagh, who was reading the morning paper, excited about a future with a man I actually loved, and who was mad about me in return.

  We’d been settled in for five months, and all was grand. Donagh had a weekend free, and decided to take me on a proper date. The winter had begun to melt away, leaving silvery frost on the blades of grass and snowdrop petals. Walking amidst the scary historic locales with my beau in tow made the horror of their past somehow manageable. We were in quite a mood, as we chewed warm hot dogs with relish and onions and walked the length of Derby Wharf, where an ancient white lighthouse still stood at the very end. Upon arrival, the ocean breeze was strong and cool against my cheeks.

  We had been laughing all day. Donagh was very funny, with a sardonic sense of humor that made me squeal with delight. So, it was to my great surprise when suddenly, with no hint whatsoever, he bent to one knee in front of me and presented a canary yellow satin box with a cream ribbon bow.