The Shape of Mercy

by Susan Meissner

  I couldn’t shake the image away.

  At eleven thirty, annoyed with Clarissa, I snapped open my laptop and typed Raul’s address into a new e-mail.

  I agonized over what to say to him, finally deciding on this:

  Hey, Raul.

  Been busy but finally finished Robinson Crusoe tonight. I can see why it’s a classic. The language and detail is quite remarkable for that time period. But I never quite developed a fondness for Crusoe. Abigail, the lady I work for, told me she felt Crusoe never lost his imperialistic mind-set, even when he was reduced to nothing. It was hard for me to see past that once she mentioned it.

  I think my favorite parts were those places where Crusoe had to admit he was merely human after all, flawed and weak just like everyone else.

  It was a good read. Thanks for recommending it.

  Hope you had a good weekend.

  Lauren

  I hit Send and waited at the computer until midnight to see if Raul was at his computer too and would respond.

  But a few minutes after twelve, and when no new messages had arrived, I shut off my computer, turned Clarissa’s desk light on for her, and crawled into my bed.

  I woke up when she came in a few minutes before one, but by then I was mad at her for staying away. It didn’t occur to me that she often stayed out late. I pretended to be asleep.

  For the next three days, I only saw her from a distance in the dining commons or asleep in her bed. She wasn’t awake when I left for class, and she wasn’t home when I went to bed at night.

  To make matters worse, I had heard nothing from Raul in response to my e-mail. Not a word.

  By Wednesday night, I couldn’t stand Clarissa’s silence anymore. I waited for her to get in that night. It was after midnight when she stepped into our room.

  “Clarissa?” I could see her shape moving in the semidarkness.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Her voice was sincere but curt.

  “It’s all right. I was waiting up for you. I want to apologize for what I said the other night.”

  She paused a moment. Then I could see her pulling off her hooded sweatshirt. “Apologize for what?”

  So she was going to make it hard for me. So be it.

  “For thinking you were only interested in Cole because he has money.”

  Clarissa kicked off her shoes. “Lauren”.

  “What?”

  “I am not interested in Cole. I liked going to your house. I liked talking with your dad about economics. I liked your mom. I liked your housekeeper and the way she made me feel while I was there. I liked Cole. I liked the party at Malibu. But I am not interested in Cole or anyone else. I have two more years of college and three years of grad school ahead of me. Cole is a fun date and you have a beautiful house and I had a great time while I was there. Get over it.”

  I sat up in bed. “That’s what I’m trying to apologize for! For jumping to conclusions.”

  “You didn’t hurt my feelings, Lauren.”

  “But I feel bad.”

  “That’s what your conscience is for,” she mumbled.

  “What?” I had heard her, though.

  “You want to apologize so you can feel better about the way you think.” She stepped out of her jeans.

  “I want to apologize because I was wrong.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me for being wrong.”

  I couldn’t help raising my voice. “What do I have to do then?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. You’re not accountable to me for how you think or what you do. Go to sleep. I’m going to go brush my teeth. And I don’t want to talk about this when I get back.”

  She was gone for a few minutes. When she came back, she said nothing. She just switched off her light and got into her bed.

  Not too long after that I heard steady breathing from the bed across the tiny space we shared. She really wasn’t bothered by any of this.

  I lay awake for another hour at least.

  And when I finally did fall asleep, I dreamed I was eating yellow peas.

  Twenty

  14 April 1692

  Papa went again to Salem Town to hear Elizabeth Proctor’s examination. He came home in a foul mood, coughing and muttering. Everyone, it seems, sees yellow peas and green kernels. Papa said Goody Proctor could scarcely answer the charges against her, so astonished she appeared at the scope of them. Her husband, John, stood up to protest such ridiculous proceedings, and as soon as he did, the screaming girls named him a tormentor as well! Papa said Goodman Proctor will spend the night in chains, accused of being a wizard. I am glad Papa issued his complaints to me and not the magistrates.

  19 April 1692

  She who was afflicted is now an afflicter. The shape of Mary Warren is now flying about the countryside torturing people. Goody Bishop too. Afflicted girls carried on throughout the sermon today. I do believe Papa was of a mind to take a strap to them and whip the foolishness out of them. Would that it were only foolishness.

  More names have been added to the list of the accused besides Mary Warren: Goody Corey’s husband, Giles, Abigail Hobbs, and Bridget Bishop.

  Prudence told me Abigail Hobbs is a beastly wench and no one likes her.

  I wanted to say, “But that does not make her a witch.”

  I hated waiting to hear back from Raul. I hated that it mattered that he respond.

  I didn’t want to be on the edge of my seat, waiting for his response to my e-mail, but that’s exactly how I felt. I’d never checked my e-mail as much or as often as I did that week.

  It didn’t help that Clarissa spent as much time away from the dorm as ever and that my dad was hounding me to get Abigail to state her intentions for the diary. Between Clarissa, my dad, and Mercy’s hauntings—I dreamed of her almost every night—I was a distracted mess.

  Abigail could sense I was bothered by something, and I knew she wouldn’t continue to accept my lame excuse for my grumpiness. I told her I had midterms to prepare for. That was true, but my irritability had nothing to do with midterms.

  Raul’s short response came Thursday, four days after I’d e-mailed him. I didn’t routinely check my e-mail before heading to Abigail’s, but I did all that week. Three e-mails waited for me that afternoon: one from Raul, one from my dad, and one from the leader of one of my study groups. I purposely read the other two first, even though Raul’s had arrived ahead of them. The study group had moved the location of our next meeting from the library to the Coffee Cat. My dad wanted my finishing touches on the proposal for the gallery project by that weekend. And Raul’s said simply this:

  Lauren: Sorry you didn’t like the book that much. I have to admit I’ve never looked at any book that close. Pretty deep thoughts you had. Robinson Crusoe was the first chapter book my dad ever read to me. I just remember it being full of adventure hey lauren this is cole when are you and clarisa coming down again Sorry about that. Cole is hovering over me.

  Your aunt and uncle are back from Singapore. Cole and I are flying down this weekend to see them. Maybe we’ll see you?

  Hey, have you read Moby Dick?

  Raul

  raul sez he’ll take you for a ride in the plane if you read moby dick by tomorrow

  Cole is a liar. I said by Saturday.

  I grinned at the idea of reading Moby Dick in two days’ time, but the lighthearted moment melted away as I reread the entire message three times, dissecting the sentences to uncover any hidden meaning. What exactly was Raul saying about my opinion of Robinson Crusoe? Did he think that I was being nitpicky? that I read into the story stuff that had never crossed his mind? And was he insinuating that he wanted Clarissa and me to come down that weekend, or was he just telling me why he and Cole were going?

  I had no desire to go cloud-hopping in his plane, joke or no joke. And it wasn’t because I didn’t like flying. It bothered me that I was attracted to him, a rich kid with a plane. Someone the Durough gatekeepers would approve of.

&nbs
p; I didn’t want to go for a ride in Raul’s fifty-thousand-dollar toy. I knew I was going to be late to Abigail’s, but I had to type out my reply then and there. It took fifteen minutes to fine-tune.

  Raul:

  I liked the book. Really. I just didn’t love it. And I’m flattered you said my thoughts were deep. They’re not. To tell you the truth, I don’t know that I would’ve come to the same conclusion about Crusoe if I hadn’t talked about the book with the lady I work for.

  I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about class and privilege and what we find easy to believe about people we don’t really know. That might explain why I keep feeling the need to apologize for assuming you were part of the catering staff the weekend I met you.

  I am coming home this Saturday to work on a project for my dad, and I can ask Clarissa if she’d like to come home with me. I don’t know what her plans are. So maybe we will see you and Cole.

  But I’ll have to decline the airplane ride. I’ve already read Moby Dick

  Lauren

  I read my own message three times too. Then I saved it into Drafts so I could send it later that day.

  Or perhaps the next.

  Abigail was waiting for me when I arrived twenty minutes later than usual. She opened the front door, not Esperanza. And I didn’t need to ring the bell. She opened the door as I walked up the winding path.

  “Is everything all right?” Her tightly wrinkled face was creased with concern.

  “Yes. I’m sorry I’m late. I had some things I needed to tend to. I should’ve called.”

  “I was worried. It’s not like you to run late.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Abigail stepped aside to let me in and then closed the massive door heavily behind us. She said nothing as I headed for the library doors. The entryway was half lit and quiet. The doors to the sitting room were closed, and no stray sunlight fell upon the tiles.

  I set my purse down and Abigail busied herself with retrieving the diary, just as she did every afternoon. I knew my father would ask me that weekend if I had spoken to her about her plans for the diary. He had mentioned it in his e-mail that day and in a phone call earlier that week, and he’d even brought it up to my mother, because she had called me about it too. I didn’t think my mom was too concerned about Abigail taking the credit for transcribing the diary; she didn’t care for the subject matter and would have been fine with the diary being published with Abigail Boyles as its editor. But since it bothered my dad, it bothered her. She had to live with him and his disappointments.

  I fired up a wordless prayer for boldness and smarts. Then I cleared my throat and said Abigail’s name.

  “Yes?” Abigail laid the diary on the desk in front of me and began carefully removing her gloves, finger by finger. She looked up at me, and I saw fear in her eyes. Or maybe dissatisfaction.

  Or maybe a double dose of both.

  It suddenly seemed like a terrible time to ask what her plans were.

  “Are you going to tell me you’re quitting?” she asked.

  The question was off her lips in a second, but it seemed to rattle around in my head for much longer. I said what people always say when they don’t know what to say.

  “What?”

  “Are you quitting?”

  “No.” I didn’t even try to hide the surprise in my voice.

  Abigail looked at me for a long moment. She tossed the gloves onto the table, took a few steps, and sank into the armchair she often sat in while I worked. “You’ve been acting so distant lately, and then today you were so late, and I know you don’t need this job …” Her voice trailed away.

  “I have no intention of quitting, Abigail.”

  She inhaled deeply. “But something is on your mind.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “What is it?”

  I sat in the chair next to hers. “I’d like to know what your plans are for the diary.”

  “My plans.” It was a question, but she didn’t phrase it like one.

  “Yes.”

  “You think I have plans for the diary?”

  I shifted my weight in my chair. “Don’t you?”

  “What is it you want to know, Lauren?”

  Again I fidgeted. “Are you thinking of having it published?”

  Abigail inclined her head. “I have made no plans to publish the diary.”

  I was trying to guess what my dad would want me to say next when she asked me what I would do.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “What would you do with it?”

  “I … uh … My father says it should be published.”

  Abigail’s eyebrows arched slightly. “He does, does he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what does your father know about the diary?” I saw a flash of doubt in her eyes.

  “Only the little I’ve told him. That it’s a first-person account—a very well-written first-person account—of the Salem witch trials. Is there another book like it?”

  Abigail laughed gently and inclined her head. “No. I don’t think there is.”

  “Well, then. That’s reason enough to consider getting it published.”

  She tipped her head. “Indeed.” But I got the feeling she didn’t really agree with me.

  “Is there some reason you wouldn’t want it published?” I asked. “I mean, everything about Mercy’s conviction and execution are matters of public record, aren’t they? It’s not like you’d be exposing some deep, dark family secret that’s been buried for centuries.”

  Again the little laugh. Not quite a laugh, really, but there’s no other word for it. “Very true.”

  I didn’t know what else to say at that point. Several seconds of silence passed.

  “Is there a reason you’d like to know what my plans are, Lauren?” she finally asked.

  I hesitated. Isn’t there a reason for everything? “Yes.”

  “You want credit for your work.”

  “Do you think I don’t deserve it?”

  She immediately shook her head. “Not at all. You’re doing a wonderful job. You deserve as much credit as can be given to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Another long pause.

  “If the diary is ever published, your name will be on it as editor, Lauren. Certainly not mine. Does that answer your question?”

  I nodded wordlessly.

  She stood. “Well, then. I’ll make us some tea.”

  And she left the room.

  It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized how worried she had been that I would quit.

  As if I couldn’t be replaced.

  Twenty-One

  21 April 1692

  Rebecca Nurse’s other sister, Mary Easty, is accused of witchcraft. I know Mary Easty. She surely is no witch. I cannot envision her torturing anyone. She is one of nine new souls who have been accused. Nine more people. Papa went to her examination. He said Mary proclaimed her innocence with such grace and dignity that the magistrates turned to the accusers and asked if they had named the right woman. They assured Mr. Hathorne with shrill cries and much moaning that Goody Easty was the woman who tormented them, among so many others.

  Papa is not so much angry now as fearful. He told me I shall no longer attend any of the examinations. He did not give reasons, but I think he wishes me to appear too terrified to attend. He may also fear I shall raise my voice to the madness and find myself in chains. He told me it is dangerous to kick against the will of the people without something in your hand to prove your argument. But what is there to hold? What proof have the accusers? Anyone can say they see someone’s shape when no one else can see it. Who can argue with them? But that is not holding anything in your hand. That is suggestion and raw acceptance.

  I wonder what would happen if someone collapsed to the ground, writhed in pain, and accused Ann Putnam or Betty Parris of bewitching them. What would the magistrates say then? I should not desire anyone to do this, but I do. Though it would not solve
anything.

  I am nearly out of ink. And I am out of vinegar.

  I’ve reminded Papa twice that I could use a little vinegar from Ingersoll’s Ordinary to make more ink but whenever he goes to the Village, talk of witches and examinations and specters consume him and he forgets.

  I asked John Peter if he would trade some eggs for vinegar, but he would not take the eggs as payment. He would not take payment at all. He gave it to me.

  30 April 1692

  The most dreadful thing has happened.

  Rev. George Burroughs has been accused of witchcraft. I can scarce believe it. Rev. Burroughs left Salem Village parish for Maine years ago. He does not even live here.

  Ann Putnam has claimed Rev. Burroughs’s dead wives appeared to her and spoke to her, and his shape stood right there among them. She said their blood cried out for vengeance, that Rev. Burroughs had murdered them. Ann was in a room full of people when she had this vision and all who saw her were astonished. Ann said George Burroughs’s specter then turned into a cat.

  Papa is furious.

  He told me Ann’s father and Rev. Burroughs were at odds with each other when Rev. Burroughs was the minister here and that they disagreed over something having to do with money.

  I have never seen Papa so angry. It set him to coughing, and he has not stopped though I brewed him a draft of ginger, tea, and honey.

  Papa said Rev. Burroughs will have no idea whatsoever why men are coming for him to escort him back to Salem.

  I wonder if Papa will say anything in his friend’s defense. I want him to and yet I don’t. He holds nothing in his hands except contempt.

  And contempt is not enough to sway the will of people who assume too much and have no wish to do otherwise.

  I had no idea if Clarissa would want to come home with me that weekend, especially if she knew that not only would Cole and Raul be there, but Cole had practically asked her to come. She wasn’t at the dorm when I arrived back on campus from Abigail’s that Thursday. Not that I really thought she would be. I did homework until eleven thirty, and when I could no longer keep my eyes open, I went to bed.