“Protest?” Rebecca asked, looking to Berniece. “I thought this was a séance.”
Berniece shrugged.
“As you all know,” Loni said, “Cantor Productions and its cast of Hollywood folk will ascend upon our fair city this week to begin filming Witches of Salem.”
“A movie?” Berniece whispered to Rebecca.
While Loni continued talking about the film—a parody of The Crucible—and its disregard for Salem’s real witches, Rebecca’s mind strayed. This could be a chance at something big…like Bewitched or Buffy.
“How’d we miss hearing about this?” Berniece whispered. “I knew I shouldn’t have canceled the newspaper.”
“Canceled?” Rebecca shielded her candle from the wind. “What do you expect? You didn’t pay that poor paperboy who kept knocking on the door every Friday afternoon.”
A cluster of worshippers shot them scowls.
Loni cleared her throat. “This week, filming will begin at the Salem Willows, followed by a week and a half of sequences at Forest River Park.” She looked at a clipboard the man on her left held out. “They’ll be filming some on Misery Island, followed by more here on the Common.”
Her assistant nodded. “At least, that’s what our sources tell us now.”
“True,” Loni said, “this all could change. We’ll send emails and call on the phone tree with any updates. We’ll need your participation—”
Berniece fidgeted. “As extras?” she asked, her voice carrying in the hush.
Loni lifted an eyebrow. “For our planned demonstrations.”
The group cheered.
Rebecca and Berniece shot each other a look and smiled.
Loni held up a hand. “As you know…” She waited for the crowd to quiet. “Witches of Salem portrays our Wiccan community in ill regard.” She looked to the man beside her. “I managed to procure a copy of the script. Trust me. I know.”
“We’ve come too far!” shouted someone from the crowd.
Loni looked to her associate. “We have.” She turned to the gathering. “Cantor Productions portrays us as a bunch of beasts, casting trickery…the concept an insult to our heritage and our beliefs.” She glared at Berniece and Rebecca. “We might as well all be a bunch of Samantha Stevenses from Bewitched.”
Berniece’s mouth fell open.
As Loni continued on about the schedule, Rebecca’s smirk grew. Could they fashion a plan that rivaled a spot in Loni’s coven?
Berniece elbowed Rebecca. “We gotta find out about this picture show.”
Moving closer to Berniece, Rebecca said, “Let’s do our homework. If we can get in on this thing…”
“Sky’s the limit.”
“There is no sky,” Rebecca said. “There are no limits.”
“Don’t start with your highfalutin’ philosophy again.”
While Berniece researched at the computer, Rebecca watched the eleven o’clock news and ate microwaved popcorn from a large, red bowl on the coffee table.
Their apartment—a two-bedroom off Essex Street—sat above a late-night pizza shop, and the smell of fresh pie constantly infiltrated their confines.
“I think that’s a pepperoni,” Berniece said.
Rebecca sniffed the air. “No, sausage.”
“Look at this one.” Berniece pointed to the computer screen.
“Are you checking out men’s underwear sites again?”
“No, I’m not. I’m looking for stuff about the picture,” Berniece said.
“I can’t believe we didn’t know about them making a movie here. How could we—”
“It’s the Salem Evening News’ site. It’s taking forever to load, though.”
“Did you pay AOL?”
Berniece fiddled with the mouse while Rebecca listened to a weatherman forecast rain.
“Here we go,” Berniece said. “Says here Witches of Salem, a sure-real film—”
“Surreal.”
“A surreal film featuring magical spells, potions, and poisons—sounds right up our alley—will begin filming in Salem this fall.” She turned to Rebecca. “It’s all here on the website. Why pay for a prescription?”
“Subscription,” Rebecca corrected and shut off the television. “Prescription is the thing you take for your high blood pressure. Remember?”
Berniece put a hand to her side and glared over the top of her glasses. “Look, I ain’t no dummy. So I fumble up a word now and again. Why don’t you get over here and run this here computer?”
“You know I hate technology.” Rebecca popped a kernel into her mouth.
Berniece went back to the computer and tilted her head up, looking through her reading glasses. “Cantor Productions chose Salem, as well as other undisclosed locations, to depict the setting for their thriller…scheduled for release next fall.” She wheeled her chair away from the desk. “A thriller.” She rubbed her hands together. “Sounds ’citing.”
“Next fall? You mean we have to wait till next year to see it?” She took a sip of soda from a can.
“Takes a long time to make a picture.” Berniece shuffled back to the computer. “You don’t know nothing about making movies. When I was a child, they made Bewitched ’round here.”
Rebecca took more popcorn from the bowl. “I know, Bernie. You told me like a thousand times. And you begged your mother to take you to see Elizabeth Montgomery parading about downtown Salem when she wasn’t even there. You didn’t realize you were watching a rerun. You thought it was all happening—”
“I thought they were filming right then and there. I didn’t know.” Berniece laughed.
“When was that? Back in the sixties or some—”
Berniece slammed the side of the monitor. “Hot damn!”
Kernels of corn flew out from Rebecca’s hand. “Jesus, Bernie!”
“Woo-hoo, look here.” Berniece kissed the screen.
Rebecca got up. “What in the heck are you—”
“They need talent. Says so here. Cantor will be using people from the area for several crowd scenes.” She pointed. “And there’s a number to call.”
Rebecca bent down to read. “It’s a Boston number.” She recognized the 617 area code and exchange—similar to the art supply store she frequented in Downtown Crossing.
“Son of a witch. We’re going to be in a movie.” Berniece pushed back the chair, got up, and danced.
Rebecca shuffled back. “Bernie, what are you—”
“A dance a joy.” Berniece’s fat jiggled as her hips rocked.
“Bernie, we can’t even act.” Rebecca held back a smile. Despite Berniece’s annoyances, Rebecca loved her roommate’s impetuosity. It countered the apathy and stagnation she often felt. “I’ve never even had a bit part in a school play, let alone a Hollywood—”
“So what? You paint.” Bernie banged a hip against Rebecca’s side. “You should be able to act.”
Rebecca caught her balance and danced along with Berniece. When they’d met, at a singles bar in nearby Peabody a few years back, magic brought them together. In a conversation about creating spells—somehow spurred on by the pathetic supply of the opposite sex at the club—the mixed-race women’s friendship grew. “You think I got it in me?”
“You’re an artist.” Berniece twirled her wrists. “Besides, how hard can acting be?”
Rebecca didn’t care what people thought of Berniece. Some labeled her a charlatan who’d moved to Salem from Alabama, only to profit from the city’s fascination with witches. “You are a crazy lady.” Rebecca shook her head. “But I still love you.”
Berniece stopped, with her head pulled back.
“Not like that.” Rebecca waved a hand. Some even thought they were lesbians, but Rebecca didn’t let others’ opinions concern her. “Hey, let’s do some magic. To give our chances a better start.”
“I’m game.” Berniece stopped dancing and went to the other side of the living room, grabbed the bowl of popcorn along the way and took a fistful. She sniffed the air
. “Green pepper and onion pizza in the make.”
Rebecca followed her into the kitchen. “Peppers?” She took a whiff. “Maybe. Hey, let’s get the Book of Shadows.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Parody, surreal…thriller,” Rebecca said. “It doesn’t sound like this movie knows what it wants to be.”
Berniece shoveled a handful of popcorn into her mouth and through it said, “That’s where we can help.”
They sat on a pair of turquoise vinyl seats—framed in chrome and scattered with specks of rust—around a mid-century metallic table.
Rebecca flipped through the book Berniece handed her. “Fifteen cents, at a flea market.” She turned a page. “Worth every penny.”
“You know, that Witchcraft Heights neighborhood should have more yard sales.” Berniece sniffed the air again. “Now, I smell sausage.”
With the guide of an index finger, Rebecca looked for a witch spell. “Who would have thought that in a box filled with romance novels and comic books…in a Brady Bunch neighborhood, you’d find an old book of spells like this.”
Berniece’s fingernails scratched the inside of the bowl. “Um-hmm.”
“Here it is.” Rebecca brushed the page with her hand. “The fulfillment section.”
Berniece leaned in.
“Don’t get butter on it,” Rebecca said, pulling away.
Wiping her hands on her lap, Berniece smiled. “I’m clean.”
“Fulfilling wishes.”
“Mary Litchfield,” Berniece said, addressing the one inscribed on the inside cover. “Don’t fail us now.”
They went back to the living room, and from the television cabinet, Rebecca pulled out some candles and incense. Berniece lit them and shut off the lights. They sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, faced each other, and chanted their spell.
False Retrograde
Carolyn held the insert to the promotional copy of her CD, Hands Across the Sun, as Michael drove the Chrysler on I-84 in Connecticut. Her recording of “Downtown” played on the stereo.
“He hired this producer from California,” Carolyn said. “Travis…” She flipped the booklet over. “I showed up to the recording studio dressed in a mint-green sweater and my hair pulled back with a little white-satin headband. It pissed Rudy off. He said I looked like Olivia Newton-John. He wanted me to look like this.” From the CD’s jewel case, she tapped a picture of herself dressed in a leopard-print jumpsuit.
Michael looked down. “Oh, God, Carolyn! No.”
She laughed. “I know it. I look like African-safari-themed bed linen.”
“Let me see that again.” Michael grabbed the CD’s cover and held it against the steering wheel. “Oh, Jesus! No. You can’t.”
Carolyn laughed more. “I’m telling you. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Rudy…” He gave the jewel case back to her. “Like he’s a fashion expert.”
“And he got so mad at me that day in the studio. I knew it would be cold in there, so I opted for a sweater. Big deal.”
“That little-old-lady one?”
“It’s not a little-old-lady one. I felt more myself dressing that way rather than as some leather-queen tramp trying to impress a hotshot California producer.”
As she looked at the jewel case, images from that day came to mind: Rudy yelling at her; Travis demanding she push her voice to get that “rock edge,” as he put it. The control room reeked of Scotch, and lines of cocaine were in plain sight when she finally went in, well into the night.
“And blue-and-silver eye shadow?” Michael asked. “You look like a Marshalls’ clearance rack that isn’t sure whether it’s Halloween or Hanukkah.”
Carolyn smirked. “Oh, God. At least I can laugh at myself.” She placed the CD case on the console. “He thinks he knows what the fans want.”
“Yeah. Well, he could have at least made you up like the transformed Sandy in Grease, clad in black leather and spiked heels.” He looked at her. “Oh, yeah, forget the heels. They make you look too tall.”
“Well, if there’s another photo shoot, I’ll be sure to take your counsel.” Lately, she’d considered taking a year off. She’d banked a decent sum to get by for a while.
“What do you mean if?”
“If there’s more to Carolyn Sohier,” she said.
They were silent for a time and finished listening to the track.
“Okay, enough of me.” Carolyn ejected the CD. “All these years, and I still can’t stand listening to myself.”
“Well, despite your wardrobe and makeup, I think it’s a great album. I especially like the ‘Going Out of My Head’ cover.”
“It’s fitting. Isn’t it? Going out of my head…”
“Oh, stop the drama.”
She cleaned the back of the CD with the hem of her shirt. “Me? You’re the drama queen.” She wasn’t making a drama; she constantly grappled with a love for music and the demands of the business.
“So, are they going to use a song from it for Witches of Salem?”
“Oh, I don’t know what Rudy had planned. I don’t even know why I’m involved in this damn picture.” She put the CD back in its case while the radio buzzed static from the weakening of a New York station’s signal.
“We should be able to get Boston radio soon.” Michael looked in the rearview mirror. “Is BCN still on 104.1?”
“Don’t know.” Carolyn hit a button on the radio.
Aerosmith’s “Dream On” percolated. As a teen, she sang the song with a vengeance but always alone. Whether at home or in a secluded area of the high school, belting out an emotional song, such as this, released mountains of stress. Jokingly, she once touted that the acoustics from the A-house stairwell—one of her favorite secret areas to sing—helped craft her perfect pitch.
“Oh my God,” said Michael. “This song brings me back to high school lounge. Remember, hanging out seventh period, our junior year during study?”
Carolyn dragged a hand through her hair. She didn’t like to talk about high school; Michael, so kind, always broached the subject subtly. Going back there…it’s better off buried. “I never thought I’d live to see the day this song became classic rock,” she said.
While Michael sang part of the verse, Carolyn looked out the window. A sixteen-wheeler’s tires spun in false retrograde, as if going backward.
“It’s so hard to break out,” she said, “and be yourself. Sometimes I wish I wanted to be something other than a performer. Something easier.”
Steven Tyler’s screech filled the cabin. Michael couldn’t hit the high notes—well, actually any, but Carolyn didn’t have the heart to tell him—and as the key ascended, he stopped singing. She’d nailed this part of the song one afternoon, tucked away in the school’s stairwell. Michael had just told her about the suicide of a fellow student, and as she often did, she had to sing away the pain.
“Easier? Like what?” Michael let the semi pass. “Like a truck driver?”
“No, silly. Like a schoolteacher or an office worker.”
“Darn, I had visions of you haulin’ freight down the highway, dressed in your leopard-skin outfit, high heels, and Hanukkah colors…honking on that horn.”
She laughed. Michael could always lighten her mood. He understood her more than anyone. “Well, maybe we can put it in a music video.”
“Yeah, and while you’re driving, you can roll down the window and belt out a Janis Joplin shriek.”
“Oh, no, no.” She chuckled. “I could…I could sing ‘Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee.’ That’d be a sight. Can you imagine? There I am driving the rig—dressed in my little mint-green sweater and headband—chirping show tunes.”
“Yes, perfect. Perfect. And your little-old-lady sweater shall saddle along for the ride.” Michael sped up so that they were parallel to the truck. “Hey!” he yelled and rolled down Carolyn’s window.
“Michael, what are you—”
He beeped and bent down as if to get the driver’s attention.
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Like the game they played as kids, Carolyn knew he wanted to get the truck’s operator to blow the rig’s horn. She stuck her arm out the window and made a downward gesture with her hand. When Michael first got his driver’s license, they’d drive around the North Shore for hours in his aunt’s Buick, trying to get people to honk. She remembered the drill. “Hey!” she yelled and made the gesture again.
The driver looked over and winked. And the truck’s horn blared.
“Yes!” Michael tooted back.
“Michael, he’s actually kind of cute,” Carolyn said, popping her head back in the car and pulling her hair away from her eyes.
“Yeah?” Michael crouched. “I can’t see.” The car swerved.
“Just drive…you’re going to have to trust me on that one.” As she rolled up the window, she leaned back and noticed her tension had left. “Oh, Michael, I love how you make me laugh.”
He patted her knee, and they were silent for a time.
“You know,” she said, “I wanted it to be me up there on that stage at the VTV Awards—not some woman dressed in leather that I don’t even know.”
“I know…I know it’s important to you.”
“I don’t want to hide anymore. I don’t want to hide behind a mask, a persona. It was a risk going out like that—instead of the Leather Queen. I even told Rudy how Madonna took a chance by singing ‘Like a Virgin’ on the MTV awards, and it made her a star overnight.” She pounded a fist on the armrest. Why did she want fame? “It’s so hard! You know you’ve got something in you…something…something you need to share but you just…just can’t get it out.” She took a deep breath. “I know people need to hear me. I know I have a gift, but getting up there and baring your soul”—her voice cracked—“for all to see, in front of millions…it’s not easy.”
Michael turned up the radio’s volume. “Sing.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Sing!”
“I can’t, Michael. I don’t even know this—”
“Sing!” Michael shouted and blasted the song.
Michael often tried to force her out of a slump by having her do the very thing she feared. Even as a kid, he’d make her brave the stage when she didn’t want to.
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