Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  “Yeah?” The metal folding chair Rebecca sat in creaked as she leaned her feet against the wall. “Is she comparison shopping again?”

  “Becky, she asked us to be in Sunday’s séance on the Common!”

  Rebecca let the chair fall, stood, and nearly hit her head on the sloped ceiling. “What!” For years, she and Berniece had been seeking a way into the leagues of Loni Hodge, the official Salem witch.

  Berniece giggled. “She asked!”

  Rebecca flicked her cigarette ashes onto the floor. “Don’t be kidding me, Bernie!” She took a drag.

  “I ain’t shittin’ ya!” Berniece clapped. “She came into my shop and invited me and a guest.”

  “No fucking way!” Rebecca threw her cigarette to the floor and stamped it out.

  “No way would I be messing w’cha you on this shit, Becky!”

  Red Vanilla’s door chimes clanged. “Oh well,” Berniece said. “Mother and her chubby kid just went running out the store.”

  “Berniece, do you know what this means?” Rebecca paused.

  “That chubby kid running out? It a sign?”

  “No! Loni asking us to a séance, silly.”

  “Um-hum.”

  Rebecca leaned against the two-way mirror. “We’re finally going to be real Salem witches.”

  Getting Lost

  In a heavily air-conditioned lounge at LaGuardia, Carolyn waited for Michael. She sat at a barstool and wore a dark-blue nylon running suit, tortoiseshell reading glasses, a green Red Sox baseball cap, and a pair of running shoes. She hoped no one would recognize her from her mishap only hours ago.

  Oddly for a performer, Carolyn Sohier preferred the comfort behind the limelight. Earning a decent living singing backup and touting the virtues of Chrysler automobiles on television suited her fine.

  If her father, Jim Sohier, were still alive, Carolyn knew he would be proud of her attempt toward stardom—picking up where he left off. Rolling Stone once summed him up as: “a talented San Francisco rock musician from the sixties who’d frequented with the likes of Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane and Jimi Hendrix. Sohier never quite made it to the big leagues, and like his colleagues met an early demise to drugs and alcohol.”

  “Must’ve gotten that great voice from your dad,” her mom would say as she would drag her to the next kiddie talent show. “Lord knows, it ain’t from me. I can’t sing a note worth a tune.”

  Across the airport bar, a man with a Yankees hat eyed her. “Boston, huh?”

  She smirked and looked away to avoid any conversation.

  As it helped her get into a role, she’d sometimes go out in public, playing the part of a character. This time, she made it all up and impersonated an affluent suburban-Boston mother, waiting for her husband to arrive so they could go to their summer place on Long Island. Right now, being someone else besides Carolyn Sohier suited her fine.

  Hopefully, this character can contain her bowels. While her vomiting had taken center stage—even making the rounds on The Late Night Leer Show—she suffered more embarrassment about soiling herself.

  After Michael’s call from the car, on his way to Sea-Tac, Carolyn insisted on meeting him at the airport. Despite being able to get to her apartment on his own—even having a spare key—Carolyn welcomed the diversion.

  She fiddled with the flip top of her cell phone. A full glass of pinot grigio perspired into a red cocktail napkin, and she watched tiny waves of wine crest inside the glass as planes thundered overhead. The alcohol and an accompanying glass of water grew warmer while the hour passed. She took a nibble from the cracker-and-nut mix, and looked at her watch.

  Another plane rumbled.

  Carolyn took off her baseball cap and combed her fingers through her hair. The familiar scent of her shampoo reminded her of a television commercial she once did. Perhaps I’m a part-time hair model, she thought, regarding her role. She looked around, picturing the bar as a set, and shook her head in disgust. Modeling would be too glamorous. It didn’t fit.

  The bartender winked.

  She looked down. God, I hope he doesn’t recognize me.

  She twirled the cubic zirconia rock on her finger and reached for her cell phone. “Lucille?” she said, continuing to play the role.

  Good enough name for my maid. Let’s place this in Oyster Bay. “Lucille, honey, can you make sure the kids get up early for camp?”

  She looked back over at the bartender. I shouldn’t have worn the Red Sox cap. It sticks out.

  “Yes, Lucille. I’m at LaGuardia, waiting for the plane to Barbados.”

  Barbados?

  “Yes, you can let the dog out. Just make sure he doesn’t get into my prize roses. We need to clip some for the Wellesley house.”

  How do I come up with these things?

  She said good-bye to the fake maid, flipped shut her phone, grabbed her Gucci from the back of the barstool, laid a twenty on the counter, and headed for the exit.

  With Michael’s plane set to arrive in twenty minutes, she wanted to greet him at the gate.

  A man sitting near the door to the terminals whispered to the bartender. The patron—stout with balding gray hair—turned to Carolyn. “Excuse me.” He smiled.

  She stopped and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like that singer?” He nodded. “You know, that one who sang on the VTV Awards? The one who—”

  “Excuse me? You mean that…” She held up a finger. “I ain’t no singer,” she said, playing the Oyster Bay housewife. “Don’t even go there with a comparison to that woman who made a fool of herself on television.” She put a hand on her hip.

  “Oh,” he said, straightening his slumped posture. “I didn’t mean to offend—”

  “That ugly thing? You think she’s me? What kind of sick motherfucker are you?”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought…well…my apologies.” He grabbed his beer.

  “For the love of God.” Carolyn pushed open the door. “Fucking lowlifes around here.”

  “I’m sorry, lady,” he said.

  She sashayed into the hallway.

  Through the open partition, she could hear him continue, “I didn’t think that singer was ugly at all.” He carried on with the bartender. “I just thought, this being New York and all, she might be a celebrity or something.”

  The soles of Carolyn’s sneakers squeaked their way toward the flight information console. “Well, you thought wrong,” she mumbled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  After learning of a slight delay to Michael’s plane, she sat on the floor, leaned up against a Terminal B column and called Peggy, her former NYU roommate.

  “This guy at the bar thought he recognized me,” Carolyn told her.

  “Thought?” Peggy asked.

  “You would have been so proud of me. I had your, as you call it, ‘sassy black woman’s neck roll’ going on as I read him the riot act.”

  Something about Peggy’s tone seemed different. She didn’t applaud Carolyn’s assertion per usual. Instead, she let out a patronizing tsk. Peggy veered the conversation toward concern for Carolyn’s well-being. “I’m telling you, Rudy Galante is a piece of shit, girl.” She cleared her throat. “Why do you think I left and signed with Alistair?”

  Carolyn wanted to forget the business, especially the show, but continued listening to Peggy’s advice while tracing patterns on the floor.

  “Heard he flew out of town shortly after your…your performance,” Peggy said.

  A young girl grasped an outstretched finger of her father’s hand as they walked together down the terminal. The man pulled a suitcase behind them. Carolyn closed her eyes and let out a sigh.

  While Peggy droned on about Rudy’s apparent disappearance, Carolyn’s mind wandered: a flash of light, and she saw herself—as a teenager—huddled front and center on a barren stage. Michael hid under the grand piano. Loud music played from the auditorium speakers—Aerosmith or Janis Joplin. She couldn’t rem
ember…it didn’t matter.

  “Right, Carolyn?” Peggy asked.

  Carolyn sat up, adjusted her glasses and tried to recall the conversation. “Oh, yeah…right.” She sighed.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re still going to do it.”

  It? Do what?

  “Move on. No one’s heard from Rudy,” Peggy said. “Besides, you’re a star! You don’t need him.”

  “I’m a star?”

  After a week of sitting around her apartment—situated in the heart of the Village, more west than east—Carolyn watched a Bette Midler videotape montage she’d recorded for inspiration and waited for Michael to return with breakfast.

  “Why can’t I be like that?” she said to the television set, which played an engaging, confident, and audacious Bette parading about the stage in a wheelchair and dressed in a mermaid outfit. Carolyn nibbled on her fingernail.

  Keys at the door jingled.

  “Hold on.” She put the remote down—“Let me get the dead bolts”—went to the door and unlocked it.

  Michael stood holding a tray of coffee—cups of blue and white, peppered with Greek designs—and a waxed-paper bag. “Are you watching The Rose again?” he asked as a 1979 Bette Midler in a glittering sequined gown raced across the screen, dragging a microphone stand. “You’re torturing yourself.”

  She shut and bolted the door. “Michael, I don’t think I can do it. The energy, the charisma…the voice. I mean…God, look at her!”

  Michael handed her a coffee. “You should have worn black.”

  “What?” She took the cup and headed for the kitchen.

  “I was thinking on the way back. You wore the wrong color at the awards show.” He followed after her. “Black wouldn’t have shown the…well, you know.”

  “Michael, I don’t need to hear this right now.” She flipped back the perforated lid.

  “Okay.” He took a sip from his cup and scowled before he swallowed. “Yuck, just like mud. New York coffee is so gross. I don’t know how you guys deal.”

  “You’ve become so West Coast.” She took a sip of her own and frowned. “Yeah, it is pretty bad.”

  “Move in with us,” Michael said, holding up the bag of pastries.

  “Ooh. Where’d that come from?”

  “The bagel shop down the—”

  “No, the moving to Seattle part.” She took the bag and walked back toward the couch. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  “We could have so much fun in Seattle. You’d love it. Plus, there’s quite a bustling film scene—”

  She waved the bag over her head. “Surrender! No more entertainment…no more acting, singing—”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I can’t do it. I need to cool it before I end up in the funny farm.”

  “You’re not going to give up your career. Not after getting this far.” He sat down next to her.

  Carolyn glanced at Michael and then at the TV. She shook her head.

  Bette Midler sang from the television, “Hitler had only one big ball!” The audience roared.

  Michael chuckled. “I love that scene.”

  Carolyn put her feet up on the coffee table. “Josefina would have a fit if I moved in.”

  “No! She loves you.”

  “Yeah, like a bad menstrual cycle.”

  “Stop,” Michael said. “You’ve got to get out of this apartment. Sitting around all day is not good. Why don’t we head to Central Park, go for a walk, grab lunch, or spend money.” He slapped a hand on her knee. “Shopping always cheers me up.”

  “No, I need to get outta here. This city. Sometimes, living in New York is like being a prisoner…or being stuck on an island.”

  “Well, Manhattan is technically an island.”

  Carolyn lowered the volume on a redheaded Bette Midler. “Well, Manhattan is not my definition of an island.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re throwing in the towel on showbiz.”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth. He’d worked too hard to help her get this far. “No, I’m not saying that. All I know is…Rudy’s gone.” She grabbed the bag of pastries from the table. “I’ve got no agent, no manager, no work…no boyfriend.”

  “Carolyn, you’re one of the best singing ladies in the history of showbiz.”

  She chuckled, recognizing the line he used from their favorite movie, The Rose. “Don’t fuck it up,” she said, finishing it for him.

  “Exactly.”

  They watched Bette perform until Michael got up, ejected the tape, and put one in of Carolyn.

  “There,” he said, “now here’s a real performer—not that Bette isn’t but…”

  The reel Rudy used to send to prospective clients played on the TV.

  Carolyn covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh, why do you have to put this on?”

  “Because you’re fantastic and you need to know it, Carolyn. Look!” He pointed to a taping of her singing on Broadway. “Amazing. Even the critics loved that performance. They called you the next Judy Garland. Your talent is beyond singing…you can act…you’re beautiful.”

  “You’re trying to butter me up. Motivate me. I can’t dance for shit.”

  “You’re not bad and, yes, somebody’s got to instill confidence in you.”

  “That’s sweet and all…you and Terrence asking me to move in, but…” She turned to him, smiled, and caressed his face. “Let me think about it.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  The tape changed scenes to her performing live in a jazz club uptown called the Maniacal Fringe. The audience stood on their feet. Carolyn belted a Janis Joplin song over the din of applause.

  “I love this one,” Michael said. “I nearly wet myself. I had goose bumps on top of goose bumps. If you stay at my place, we could rehearse on the veranda overlooking the Sound.”

  “And Josefina does make a mean meatloaf,” Carolyn said.

  “Mean is right.” He grimaced. “Now are you going to get out of that nightgown or what?”

  “Why, Michael…” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Since when have you ever asked a girl to slip out of her nightie?”

  “I’ve been here…how long? And I haven’t seen you in anything else. It’s gonna start crawling any minute.”

  “All right, I’ll jump in the shower.” She put her coffee cup on the end table. “Just give me a minute.”

  “And while you’re at it,” Michael studied her calf, “you might want to shave. You could grate a tub of cheddar off those legs.”

  “Geez, nothing like a gay man for honesty.” She took a biscotti from the bag.

  He took one, too. “We could go to the museum. I heard there’s a—”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Carolyn said through bits of the cookie. “Let’s go on a road trip.”

  “Okay, anything to get out of this apartment. Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Someplace quiet, someplace rural. Away from the city.”

  “The country. Hmm, let’s see,” Michael said. “There’s always Upstate or the Catskills.”

  They looked at each other. “Nah!”

  She recalled him as a teenager. He’d been there with her every step of the way. Back in Massachusetts—as kids—they’d watch movies on TV together for hours.

  “How about Cape Cod?” he asked. “P-town’s always a blast.”

  “For you! I’ll just get hit on by lesbians.”

  “But the guys love you. You could sing at the Crown and Anchor again. They thought you were a smash last time.”

  “They thought I was a transvestite.”

  With a flourish of his hand, Michael said, “Just wear a little less foundation. They think every tall Miss Thing with makeup is a drag queen.”

  “No Cape and NO singing.”

  “We could always…just get lost,” Michael said. “Remember driving around as teenagers with no cares, no worries?”

  She moved to the bathroom. “We could even take my car.”

&nb
sp; Michael got up from the couch. “Your car? Since when did you get a car?”

  “Two months ago.” She turned on the shower. “Remember that commercial I did last fall for Chrysler? Rudy worked it in as part of my compensation.”

  “Really?” he said, through the partially closed door, and with a raise in volume added, “Rather nice of him, for a change.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s more of a nuisance. It costs me nearly five hundred a month to garage the damn thing…and I never use it.”

  “God forbid you spend money.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re lucky he’s gone.”

  “Who? Rudy?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Peggy heard he skipped town, left the agency. No one’s heard from him. He’s probably in the Keys, toasting his coconuts.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Michael asked, over the sound of the shower spray.

  “I’m gonna wash, shampoo, attend to the leg forest, and then get my fat ass out of the shower.”

  “No. Not like—”

  The phone rang.

  “CAN YOU GET THAT? It’s probably Peggy with the scoop on Rudy. Tell her we’re heading out, and I’ll call her on my cell in the car.”

  “Does Peggy even know you have a car? And where are we going?”

  After showering, Carolyn stepped out of the bathroom—body wrapped in one towel and her hair in another. “Who was on the phone?”

  Michael stood with a notepad in hand. “Ah, Carolyn.” He tapped the pen to the pad. “Did you know you’re making a movie in Salem next week?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He looked over at the phone. “That was Cantor Productions. They couldn’t get a hold of Rudy. Apparently, his number’s not working. You have an eight a.m. call on Wednesday.”

  Carolyn stood slack-jawed. The towel on her head came undone and fell to the floor.

  Two hours later, and three levels down from the street, they sat in Carolyn’s parked car, a blue sedan with slanted headlights. She clutched the Witches of Salem script she’d barely studied.

  “Eight miles!” Michael said, sitting in the driver’s seat and staring at the analog odometer. He turned to Carolyn. “Eight miles?”