The Shape of Mercy

by Susan Meissner

  I was both anxious for and dreading the time I would spend with Mercy while she still lived. I couldn’t wait for class to get out on Friday so I could rush over to Abigail’s and work as much as I wanted.

  No one showed me to the door.

  I walked out into the autumn twilight and switched on my cell phone. I’d turned it off while I worked. Two voice mails waited for me.

  The first was from my dad.

  The second, from Clarissa’s economics professor.

  Twenty Six

  The professor’s message was short and to the point. He’d learned from my roommate that I was working on the transcript of a diary written during the Salem witch trials. Clarissa had told him the diary’s author was one of the women accused of witchcraft. He would very much like to talk to me about my work.

  That’s what he called it—my work.

  Professor Turrell gave me his home phone number and e-mail address in addition to his number and e-mail on campus.

  He sounded interested. He also sounded unconvinced the work I was doing was authentic. There was something in his tone that made me nervous. I didn’t want to talk to him. Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  I drove to the dorm and made a mental list of all the reasons I could postpone calling him back.

  I hadn’t read the whole diary yet, so my “work” was incomplete at the moment.

  I should ask Abigail’s permission before speaking about the diary to a man writing a book. Even if he was a college professor.

  I had no insights on how the Salem witch trials affected the colonists’ economy.

  I owed this man nothing.

  My cell phone trilled as I composed the list. I reached for it with one hand while driving with the other. It was my mother.

  “Didn’t you get Dad’s message?” she asked when I answered. No hello. No how are you. She sounded agitated.

  “Sorry, Mom. I was working. I just got off.”

  “Well, he’s been waiting all afternoon for you to call him back.” She sounded on the verge of tears.

  From somewhere behind her, I heard my dad say, “Julia, just give me the phone. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. It is a big deal.” My mother began to cry. I negotiated a turn with one hand while trying to cradle the phone in the crook of my neck.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” I grabbed at the wheel as I swung wide, nearly hitting the curb.

  “I knew something like this would happen. I knew it.” Mom wasn’t into theatrics, but something had her shaking with dread. And she wasn’t talking to me anymore.

  “Mom, please!” On impulse, I pulled into a grocery store parking lot and took the first available spot.

  “Just let me have the phone, Jules.” My dad’s voice was near hers. I heard the phone exchanged from hand to another.

  “Lauren.”

  “Dad! What’s going on? What happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened. I just have to have surgery.”

  “Tell me,” I said, hardly aware of having said those words, that way.

  “I’ve got three blocked arteries. The doctors want to do a bypass. They told me it can’t wait.”

  A wave of alarm sliced through me. For a brief moment, I saw Mercy weeping over the body of her dead father. I tossed the unwanted image from my mind.

  “Dad,” I finally managed to say, “when did all this happen?”

  “Over the last fifty-two years.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. This has been waiting to happen for fifty-two years. It doesn’t matter that I’m at the gym four days a week. It’s just the way I’m wired, apparently.”

  I was still trying to process the idea that my father was ill. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the thought. I had never known my dad to be sick. He got the occasional cold or sore throat, but he never spent a day at home in bed. It’d been years since he’d seen a doctor.

  “When did you find out?”

  “Today. I’d been feeling kind of crappy. Your mom made me make an appointment. I put it off as long as I could, so she’s mad at me, of course.”

  “When are you having surgery?”

  “Tuesday.”

  In five days.

  “Do you want me to come?” I asked.

  “On Tuesday? Your mother would probably appreciate it.”

  “I mean now.”

  “You don’t have to come now. I’m going to have a very boring weekend sitting at home and trying not to take care of things at the office. Don’t come for me, not this weekend. I wouldn’t mind seeing you on Tuesday, though. I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

  There was an inflection in his voice I hadn’t heard before. He sounded afraid.

  “I’ll be there.”

  A moment of silence passed between us. Neither of us seemed to know how to segue into another topic following that one.

  “Got a big weekend planned?” he finally asked.

  “Abigail’s going out of town. She left me the key to her place so I can work on the diary as much as I want. I’m almost finished.”

  “Still haven’t convinced her to get it published, eh?”

  “I think she needs to see it finished before she decides. I think there’s something about how it ends that makes her unsure what to do.”

  “But I thought you knew how it ends. The girl gets hanged, right?”

  I winced. “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. But I’ll finish it this weekend, I think, and then maybe I’ll know.”

  “Then, by all means, stay and finish it. When I see you on Tuesday, you can tell me all about it.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Hey. Maybe I’d like to read it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Think she’d let me?”

  “No, actually. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  In that little niche of time, while I sat in my car and talked to my dad, I saw for the first time that I was part of—for lack of a better title—a trinity of mortals. Me, Abigail, and Mercy. Until the diary was done, until I understood whatever it was that Abigail wanted me to understand, there would just be the three of us. Three women. Three daughters. Three searching hearts. Three destinies to be forged.

  Just us three.

  “Because it’s too soon,” I said.

  My father said nothing for a moment.

  “Well, when it’s published, I’ll read it,” he said finally. “She won’t be able to stop me then.”

  “If.”

  “When.”

  My mother asked for the phone back, so we said our good-byes. Mom asked me when I was coming, and I told her I’d be there Tuesday. She told me to drive carefully and to go to bed. I sounded tired.

  But when I got back to the dorm a few minutes later, I didn’t feel tired.

  I felt alone. Completely isolated. I was in a circle of three that somehow cut me off from everyone and everything, even my father’s illness. Though it shamed me to admit it, I was relieved my dad didn’t want me to come that weekend, that I would be able to finish the diary after all. Yet within the sense of relief was a thin layer of despondency. I would have been glad for Clarissa’s silent company just to shake the chill of such strange solitude.

  But she was gone, of course, and my room was tomb-like. I had no desire to go to the library or a coffee shop or anywhere else I would be with people but still alone.

  I didn’t want to be like Abigail who had no one or Mercy who had everything taken from her, including love.

  I didn’t want to wind up like either of them.

  So I did something spontaneous and not like me at all.

  I powered up my laptop, opened my e-mail inbox, and clicked on Raul’s address.

  My heart rate quickened as I began to type.

  Hey, Raul:

  Sorry to bother you. Just got some somewhat scary news from home and felt like telling someone. My dad has to have open-heart surgery
on Tuesday. He makes it seem like it’s a simple thing, like getting your wisdom teeth pulled, but I’m afraid for him. And for me. And my mom.

  Hope you don’t mind me dumping on you. Clarissa’s not here and I just found out.

  Been busy with school stuff and the diary. I’ve almost finished it. Such a sad story.

  Hope you’re having a good week.

  Lauren

  I read it twice, then changed “Lauren” to “Lars” and sent it. And immediately wished I hadn’t.

  I sat there for several long moments, looking at my screen, wondering why I had done such a rash and irretrievable thing. I stood up, kicked off my shoes, and yanked my pajamas out of my dresser drawer. I was standing in my underwear when my computer chimed, letting me know I had a new e-mail message.

  In near slow motion, I walked over to my laptop and peeked at the screen.

  Raul had e-mailed me back.

  Hey, Lars.

  Good to hear from you. Sorry to hear about your dad. If it makes you feel any better, the stats are on your dads side. I’m in the cardiovascular program here at Stanford, and I’m studying what doctors can do now with open-heart surgery. It’s not as bad as it used to be. I’m sure your dad has a good doctor and will come through okay.

  But my prayers will be with you and your family nonetheless. Let me know how it goes.

  What will you do when you finish the diary?

  Take care,

  Raul

  Cole hadn’t told me his rich friend was going to be a doctor.

  I didn’t reply.

  I didn’t know what I’d do when I finished the diary.

  Twenty-Seven

  5 August 1692

  George Burroughs has been sentenced to hang. He and five others. None of them are witches, I am certain of that. But they will hang as if they were.

  10 August 1692

  There is no word from Samuel.

  John Peter does not come to the cottage anymore now that Papa is gone. I know why he does not. He is protecting my name. It is a very dear thing I should be glad of it, but I am weighed down by loneliness.

  I wish Papa had seen to my marriage before he left me.

  I miss Papa.

  I miss John Peter.

  I miss being happy.

  17 August 1692

  I have not been to the Village since Papa’s passing. I do not want the Village leaders to see me and remember that I am alone at the cottage. They will ask when Samuel will be here.

  I have not heard from Samuel.

  I have no more meat or potatoes or flour.

  John Peter’s sister, Sarah, brought me honey and some bread. She made the bread. John Peter sent the honey. She told me he was stung a dozen times getting it for me.

  She asked about Samuel too.

  I think John Peter may have asked her to ask. I can think of only one reason John Peter would want to know when Samuel will be here. He wants to talk to him. Ask him something.

  It makes me smile just thinking of it.

  The honey is as sweet as Heaven.

  19 August 1692

  George Burroughs and four others were hanged today. The innkeeper John Proctor was among them. His wife is still in prison, and in her womb, their child grows.

  If I had not promised my papa I would attend, I would not have been anywhere near Gallows Hill today. I would not have heard the sound of the ropes pulling taut, the anguish in the throats of the innocent, or the awful silence when the ropes went still. I would have been in my tree writing a story about water nymphs and secret treasure. I would not have to wonder how to cleanse my mind of the five swinging bodies, the relaxed feet, the tilted heads, the slow swinging back and forth. God, help me.

  Goody Trumball told me a petition signed by thirty-two persons and which attested to Rev. Burroughs’s innocence was brought before the court before his hanging There would have been thirty-three signatures if Papa had been alive to sign it. I would have signed had I known about it, but Papa would not have wanted me to. And one of George Burroughs’s accusers is said to have recanted. But Rev. Burroughs was hanged nonetheless.

  As the noose was placed around his neck, George Burroughs looked out upon the crowd. He saw me. For a moment his eyes held mine, telling me to be brave. How did he know I was afraid? Then he opened his mouth and proclaimed his innocence to everyone. And after he had done this, he began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. His voice was large and full, and as he spoke, the birds hushed to listen. The mouths of the villagers fell open as though they were struck dumb. Rev. Burroughs recited the prayer of the Lord in full, without hesitation, something we have been told a witch or wizard cannot do.

  There was much rumbling in the crowd then, and for a moment I thought perhaps reason had broken through the cloud of deception. Perhaps the people could at last see Rev. Burroughs was not in league with the Devil after all. But then Cotton Mather jumped onto the platform so that all could see him and shouted that Rev. Burroughs had been convicted in a court of law, and that the Devil himself can appear as an angel of light. I looked away when the ropes fell.

  The bodies were tossed down into the rocks like the others had been. I did not stay to watch. I felt eyes on me as I turned away. Goody Dawes. Goody Harding Prudence’s eyes. Esther’s eyes. I heard Goody Harding whisper to Goody Camden that she knows my cousin Samuel has not arrived and it is a disgrace to the entire Village that I live alone. I pretended I did not hear her.

  I did not see John Peter. But I did not look for him.

  I walked past the cemetery on my way back to the cottage. Grass is starting to grow on Papa’s grave. It is hard to tell where new earth meets old.

  20 August 1692

  The air is thick with mosquitoes and heat and the squeeze of death. Goody Trumball came by today with a leg of lamb for me, and it was all I could do to look at the bloody mass and take it with a grateful heart.

  She asked if there was word from Samuel. She knew I had not heard from him. If I had, I would have told her the moment she stepped inside the cottage. She asked because her husband will ask if she asked. Are people so daft that they think a man on a ship gets letters by post every nooning? Who can say if Samuel even knows Papa has died? Perhaps he has not received my letter. Perhaps his ship has not yet left Liverpool. Perhaps it will be weeks before my letter finds him.

  Goody Trumball told me I must stay with them until Samuel comes. But I cannot leave the animals, and the Trumballs do not have a barn big enough for two of everything and two dozen more chickens. And who is to say someone might not come and claim the cottage as theirs while it stands empty? What would Samuel do then, if he arrived to find I had lost all the animals and left the cottage empty so that anyone could take it?

  “You cannot stay here alone,” Goody Trumball said, her voice kind. But I told her I am not alone. I have Lily the milk cow and Henry the goat and my father’s horse and all the chickens and the birds and the owl that lives in the barn and all the fairies in the glen that I write about. She did not want to hear about the fairies. She bade me to silence.

  “Do not speak of fairies and writing, Mercy, not even to me,” she said. Her voice was then not so kind.

  She insists I come. What am I to do?

  Evening

  Goody Trumball came back today with her husband to fetch me. Goodman Trumball scarce spoke a word to me. I told them that Samuel was surely on his way, though I am sure of no such thing, but Goody Trumball was insistent. “What of the animals?” I said. Goody Trumball said they would make room for Lily and Papa’s horse, but I would have to leave the goat and chickens. “You can come at the nooning each day to feed and care for them,” Goody Trumball said.

  I did not want to leave my cottage. I do not want to share Goodman Trumball’s home or board or the air he breathes. But Goody Trumball took hold of my hands, her eyes wet with tears, and told me it is unsafe for me to be alone. I know not what she meant.

  There was nothing for it but to go with them.

&n
bsp; I had to carry all of Papa’s books and Mama’s little wooden chest. Goody Trumball carried my winter cloak, my woolen stockings, and the coverlet my mama made for her wedding bed. Goodman Trumball carried nothing but the horse’s lead.

  I carried my diary in the hidden pocket in my apron with my quills and ink. But I left my book of stories hidden in the barn. Henry the goat will watch over them.

  I must sleep on the floor by the cooking fire because Goody Trumball’s two young boys have the ticking by the back door. Goody Trumball and her husband have a room of their own.

  I found a quiet place behind the firs that rim the Trumballs’ property. There is a nest of rabbits here and a family of sparrows. I am writing in this quiet place. I shall give it a name so it will be real to me and will be mine. I shall call it Remembrance so I shall not forget what it is to be at peace.

  22 August 1692

  Goody Trumball spoke not a word to me today until Goodman Trumball left the house and took their sons with him. Then she drew me to the fire and spoke as though the walls themselves might care to listen.

  “You know good women sit in chains in Salem,” she said. “Once the accusers point a finger, there is no holding them back!”

  I nodded and told her I knew this.

  She leaned in and whispered, “Prudence Dawes told her mother that you keep a book of stories, Mercy. She told her mother it is your spell book! And that you cast spells on her and Esther Harding to torment them. She said your shape has appeared in the rafters of her house and that your shape has stood over her bed with pins to stab her. Mercy, I fear her mother shall take Prudence to the magistrates. I fear Prudence will tell the magistrates what she told her mother and she shall be believed.”

  I could summon no words. No thoughts. I could scarce imagine myself doing such things. I would have laughed had I not seen so many people hanging from ropes.

  “Mercy, did you hear me?”