The Fifth Petal

by Brunonia Barry

  “I don’t know. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What they’re serving for dinner, and what I’d have to wear.”

  “Don’t worry about your clothes,” Callie said. Rose’s concerns weren’t that different from the ones she herself had raised about the Thanksgiving invitation. If anyone met Rose for the first time at this moment, she would seem normal. Callie’s heart swelled as she allowed herself the thought: Maybe Rose is coming back. “It’s not formal. You can wear what you have on now. And I’ll come by early and do your hair.”

  “Will they have pie?”

  Callie laughed. “I’m sure they will.”

  Rose smiled. “I like pie.”

  “So that’s a yes? You’ll come to Pride’s Heart?”

  Rose shrugged. “Well, I’m not staying here. That’s for damned sure.”

  “It’s a pretty good deal if you think about it,” Paul declared, taking a bite of the lobster Newburg that the cook had prepared. “Marta pays no rent and no taxes. The land is maintained by our grounds crew—with the exception of her kitchen garden. All she’s required to do these days is participate in the house tour. She could do worse. And she’s complaining?”

  “I don’t know where you got the idea that Marta’s complaining,” Emily corrected her son. “She’s been very gracious about the whole thing.”

  “As she should be,” Paul said.

  Finn said nothing but helped himself to another glass of Meursault.

  For the last few days, all anyone had been talking about was the Holiday House Tour scheduled for Saturday. Paul had filled Callie in on Marta’s backstory. Evidently, the Whitings had owned the land Marta’s house was situated on since the time of the witch trials, when Marta’s ancestor couldn’t pay her incarceration fees. This had been a long-standing sore point for the Hathornes, who had been granted generational life rights to the house itself. There had been various prices extracted over the years for the arrangement, some in the form of labor, some less tangible. In recent years, participation in the house tour was all that was required.

  Tonight, as usual, the spacious dining room was lit mostly by candlelight, the sterling chandelier that hung over the center of the room had been dimmed to emit the same simple glow as the candles themselves. Already there were signs of the impending tour. A flower designer from Ipswich and his staff of four had been at work all day, placing arrangements in strategic nooks and on table surfaces. Tomorrow they were expecting another designer, this time from Boston, who had created handmade ornaments for the massive two-story spruce that lay prone in the foyer, surrounded by six humidifiers, all puffing steamy fog through the entryway and into the library. Earlier today, Emily’s own team had lowered and polished the sterling chandelier and the wall sconces that ringed the room.

  In the midst of all the activity Emily had insisted that both Paul and Callie join them for the last lobster of the season. The Whitings’ traps sat just off the rocks, and tomorrow they would be pulled out of the water for maintenance and winter storage.

  “The Newburg is very good tonight,” Emily said. Darren stood next to her offering a second helping, something she accepted. “My compliments to Hildy.”

  Callie was happy to see Emily’s appetite returning; it was a good sign.

  “You’ll enjoy the tour, Callie,” Emily said.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Callie said.

  “Did you ask Rose about Christmas?” Paul asked Callie.

  “I did,” Callie said, turning to Emily. “She said she’d love to come. Especially if you’re serving pie.”

  “What’s this?” Finn asked.

  “I’ve invited Rose Whelan to join us for Christmas dinner,” Emily said. “Does she have a favorite pie?”

  “I don’t understand,” Finn said.

  “Callie has invited Rose Whelan to join us for Christmas dinner,” Paul said to his father. “And Rose has accepted. And evidently Rose is fond of pie.”

  Finn said nothing.

  “Hildy makes a delicious mince pie as well as all the sweet ones. Do you think Rose likes savories?”

  “I’ll ask her.” Callie smiled, thinking about her earlier conversation with Rose. She wouldn’t agree to come without the promise of pie. Now there would be pies, plural.

  “Why didn’t you ask me before you invited extra people?” Finn said to Emily.

  “It’s not extra people. Rose is Callie’s aunt. And I’m not in the habit of getting your permission before I invite dinner guests.”

  “Marta won’t want to come if that woman is here. Nor will any of our other guests.” He looked not at Callie but directly at his wife.

  “Marta Hathorne and any other guests you’ve apparently invited without informing me are all still most welcome.”

  “They’re not going to feel comfortable with a crazy homeless woman sitting at our table.”

  “Then you should tell them not to come.” Emily rose from her seat, placed her napkin carefully on the table, and walked out of the room.

  A few seconds later, Finn stood, leaving Paul and Callie without a word, walking out of the house and slamming the heavy front door behind him.

  As soon as his parents were gone, Paul moved to a seat closer to Callie. He wasn’t fazed by the scene they’d witnessed.

  “What just happened?” Callie asked, staring at Paul.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Where does it hurt?” Callie asked Emily the next morning.

  Emily pointed to her right side. Callie played the bowls, targeting the third chakra, to address the liver. Emily was trying to relax into the sound, but she was weak and clearly in pain. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position.

  It was cold this morning, and Callie had come to the spa early to dial up the thermostat so Emily wouldn’t freeze. Emily was late, and, twenty minutes in, Callie had used the house phone to confirm that she was actually coming down.

  “She’s on her way,” Darren said.

  Callie was taken aback by the change in Emily’s appearance. She hadn’t slept. Her hair was uncombed, her makeup not applied. She was holding her right side as she stepped out of the elevator, and Callie had to help her onto the treatment table.

  “Hang in there, Emily.” Callie played the second chakra, trying to move Emily’s energy down and out, the way she had been taught by an acupuncturist she’d worked with in Northampton. It wouldn’t budge. There was a sound she wasn’t reaching, she could feel it: a note in between the third and second chakras, between the clear E and D.

  She began to sing, letting her voice slide downward from the solid E to the E flat and then another quarter tone lower, searching for the place where Emily’s pain lurked.

  “Oh!” said Emily, and Callie knew she had found it.

  Callie sang the note, and the room, with its perfect acoustics, picked up the tone and propelled it. As the sound moved, it broke into fragments that circled the room separately, coming together and then splitting apart again, bouncing off the granite walls; the room itself had become a singing bowl.

  Note splitting was something Callie had never achieved before. Still holding the original note, she laid her hands on Emily’s right side. The area started to warm and then began to vibrate, first intermittently, then more and more steadily.

  Callie moved to Emily’s feet and removed her slippers. “Send what’s hurting you down to me,” she said, gently touching Emily’s toes. “Let the pain go.”

  Callie sang, and the fractured tone again circled the room. She felt no energy at all from Emily’s feet. Then the strands of sound came back together in a quick burst of energy that was so astonishing it felt the way Callie imagined a lightning strike might; the force of it almost knocked her to the ground. She grabbed the table for support and waited until the tone faded to complete silence before she dared to speak. “Did you feel that?”

  Emily was so still that Callie feared she had killed her. Then she opened her eyes and said in
breathless amazement, “The pain is gone.”

  With Callie’s help, Emily sat up. She was still too weak to stand so she faced Callie, readjusting the emerald ring she wore on her right hand. She looked up and met Callie’s eyes, holding her gaze for a long time.

  “Thank you.”

  Callie had trouble shaking off the energy Emily had released during their session. She tried to meditate but couldn’t relax. She took a hot bath, then, finally, a nap.

  She dreamed of the hedge bush. She felt herself held captive inside a maze of branches, in a thick liquid that oozed like blood. All of her nightmare images were trapped with her in the abyss alongside the severed openings where tree limbs should have grown. She could hear harp music in the distance, drowned out quickly by another sound.

  The piercing scream was so high pitched and loud she could feel her blood vessels bursting. When she could bear it no longer, she simply let go, surrendering herself to its power.

  That the banshee can kill is a given. But any killing done in anger exacts a heavy toll. The banshee and the dying become as one. Time shifts, then stands eternal, in the moment the joined spirits pass between the realms.

  —ROSE’S Book of Trees

  The Holiday House Tour was a charitable event, and people from all over the North Shore bought tickets and roamed freely through Pride’s Heart, invading any space that wasn’t roped off.

  Finn called the tour a “ladies’ event.” He and Paul always cleared out early, ostensibly to do their Christmas shopping in Boston followed by dinner at the Harvard Club. Today, they were running late, because Finn was still rifling through things in the library, looking for his glasses.

  “You didn’t find those yet?” Emily asked, sounding put out. “With your glaucoma, I don’t know why you don’t keep a second pair.”

  “I have bad eyes,” he said. “I do have a second pair of glasses, but they’re simply not strong enough anymore. And you know as well as I do that the glasses don’t do a damned thing for glaucoma.”

  “You’re on two medications, but it’s still getting worse. You should let Callie treat you with her bowls.”

  Paul said, “She’d be happy to do it, Dad.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Not interested in what?” Callie asked, entering the room.

  “No one’s interested in helping me find my damned glasses,” Finn said.

  “You lost your glasses?” She’d always considered them an affectation. Finn had found a designer frame that almost perfectly matched his brown eyes, tortoiseshell with the same flecks of green, yellow, and blue. She’d wondered if he’d had them fabricated expressly for him. It seemed like something he’d do.

  “It appears I did. You haven’t seen them, have you, Callie?”

  “No, but I’ll help you look.” Callie started checking shelves, the mantel, any flat surface he might have laid them on without thinking.

  They all searched quietly and unsuccessfully for a few minutes before Finn gave up. “I’ll take these,” he said, grabbing his older, weaker pair from the desk drawer. “Let’s get out of here before the ‘fun’ begins.”

  The two men took their leave, and Callie noticed Finn’s eyes looked bloodshot.

  Both women followed them into the foyer. The Christmas tree in the front hall towered up to the vaulted ceiling.

  “Notice that neither of them is driving,” Emily said, pointing to the chauffeured town car that waited outside. “Which is a good thing, considering the condition you’ll see them in upon their return. To say they’ll be doing a little tippling tonight would be an understatement.”

  Emily looked so much better to Callie, though everyone including Paul was cautioning her to take it easy playing hostess today.

  As Callie admired the tree, the docents and the carolers arrived, soon followed by the staff, who would serve wassail punch to the tourists.

  “Have you seen Marta’s house yet?” Emily asked.

  “I haven’t.”

  “You should. The foundation arranged for it to be decorated by local designers. And the house itself is something to behold. The only change that’s been made since it was built was the addition of the saltbox kitchen. And that happened hundreds of years ago.”

  “I’ll see it some other day. I want to help you out with the crowds.”

  “Please. I feel wonderful. And I have plenty of help. Go. Enjoy a quick look. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Callie had wanted to let Marta know about Rose coming to Christmas dinner in person, but Marta had caught the flu and declined all visits. Indeed, she’d sounded terrible when Callie had called. “Can I do anything for you? Bring you chicken soup or something?”

  “Just let me rest,” Marta had said, and Callie had accommodated her. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”

  The call never came.

  Today, Callie waited until the tours were in full swing before heading to Marta’s house. She walked through thick woods on a path that was almost a twin to the one that led to the boathouse. The trees were older on this side of the property, though, and not pine but deciduous. At the end of the path, she came to the kitchen garden, fallow now, except for the two witch hazel bushes growing near the side door and a leftover pumpkin still attached by its stem that the squirrels were taking apart bite by bite. The rest of the herb garden as well as some small bushes next to the witch hazel were protected with hay against the cold weather to come.

  As Callie approached Marta’s small house, with its gables and leaded-glass windows, it was easy to imagine herself back in the 1600s. Callie noted the saltbox kitchen with its long slanting roof. She stepped inside. She wasn’t tall, yet the ceiling was only a few inches above her head. The kitchen was cozy. The fireplace took up most of the room, herbs and drying flowers hanging upside down on either side and a big iron pot hanging from its lug pole. She’d walked into the middle of a tour.

  “The main cause of death for the woman of the house? Can anyone guess?”

  No one spoke.

  “Kitchen fires,” the docent said. “Being a housewife back in the day held many hazards, but the worst were burns, which killed a number of women. And even if the burn didn’t kill you, the infection that often resulted might. There were no antibiotics back then.”

  Callie looked past the assemblage into the next room, where Marta stood, deep in conversation with a man from another tour group.

  “Step carefully into the main room,” the docent said, making room for Callie. “The house slopes on each side of the center beam here.” She pointed to the floor in the middle of the room; it slanted tentlike on either side.

  “There’s an interesting story about that beam,” the docent said. “It was once part of the Phantom Ship.”

  The group stared at her blankly.

  “Has anyone heard of the Black Phantom?”

  People shook their heads.

  “No,” the one man in the room said aloud.

  “There were a number of ships that made the journey from the Old World to the New, carrying Pilgrims and Puritans searching for religious freedom. Many of them—financed by the Massachusetts Bay Company—headed for Salem in the early sixteen hundreds, the Arabella and the Mayflower among them. It was a long trip in close quarters, and many people didn’t make it, sometimes dying from smallpox or other contagious outbreaks they had no means to treat. This ship, the Purveyance, suffered the greatest losses. All of her registered passengers died of the Black Death, which had wiped out a third of Europe during the fourteenth century and recurred every few generations for centuries. When she finally reached Salem Sound, only the captain, the first mate, and a cabin boy had survived. There were violent winds that day and a following sea that was higher than the stern of the vessel. The captain, who was already sick with fever and boils, overshot the harbor and ran aground on Norman’s Woe. Though there were only three left alive, locals swore they heard the moans and screams of the dying all night long. By the time the winds had calmed,
and they were able to send rescue boats, not one of them was left.”

  There was a long quiet as people imagined what the docent had just explained.

  Callie was both horrified by the story and amused that the docent had managed, in such short duration, to turn the tour from Christmas festive to Halloween creepy.

  “What does that have to do with the center beam?” the lone man now asked.

  “I was getting to that.” The docent smiled. “The damaged ship was hauled to Beverly Harbor, where it sat for many years. No one dared approach it, for fear of contamination. But resources were becoming scarce in the colonies. England demanded that all good lumber be sent back to London, and the Puritan colonists were left with little they could use to build their expanding settlement. Eventually, the townspeople began to pick apart the old ship, using the wood to build homes here and in Salem Town. The center beam you just stepped over was fashioned from the mast of that ship.”

  “Didn’t the Puritans believe the Black Plague was the work of the devil?” the man’s wife said quietly to him.

  The docent didn’t miss a beat. “The Puritans believed everything was the work of the devil. But necessity dictated that shelter against the harsh New England winters take precedence over fear.” She raised her brows theatrically. “At least for a while.”

  Callie felt her stomach churn the way it had once when she’d gotten seasick.

  The docent motioned for the group to follow. In the corner were a spinning wheel and a small table and chair with a biblical primer opened to a children’s lesson.

  “This is where Mother would spin flax for thread, as the children sat at the table and learned their lessons during those long winters.”

  “What was Dad doing all this time?” a woman asked.

  “In the case of the Hathorne family, the mother was widowed.”

  A few people murmured words of sympathy.

  “Which, at the time, unless you had strong healthy children to help work the fields, would lead to desperation and poverty. In 1692, after the worst winter they’d yet endured, the Puritans began to blame their old standby, the devil. In Goodwife Hathorne’s case, she accused the Whiting matriarch of witchcraft,” the docent said.