“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.
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.
“Michael, I appreciate it and all, but I—”
“SING! Goddamn it.” He slammed the steering wheel. “You’ve got too much talent to throw it all away.” He changed the station.
“I can’t!” Even though Michael knew her well, Carolyn recognized when to call it quits.
They were silent for a moment. Even the radio quieted.
“He was there, Michael…in the audience at the VTV Awards.”
A new song played, and Michael shut off the radio with a hard tap to a button.
“I saw him staring back at me.” She closed her eyes and tears rolled out. “I heard him. I heard Seth Stevenson…his voice.” She turned to Michael. “As if he were there.”
He took her hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. “It’s all right. I’m sorry I yelled.”
“All these years,” she said, “and he’s still left his scar. And he’s not even alive.”
“I know. I still struggle with it, too.”
Traffic congested, and they came up on the truck again, this time traveling much slower—its tires moving forward.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sing?” Michael asked. “I know it helps you…with the pain.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to rest the voice.” She reached in the backseat and grabbed the film script. “Maybe this silly picture is a good distraction after all. There’s no singing in it.”
“It’s a straight film. This could be your chance to prove yourself as a legitimate actor.”
“All right, I’m Marigold and you’re”—she thumbed through the pages—“an evil priest. Priest? Named Ichabod.”
“Ichabod?”
“I don’t write this shit. I just act it out. C’mon, let’s play.”
“Carolyn, I’m driving. I can’t read lines.”
“Don’t worry. Just listen. We’ll improvise, like we always do.”
Carolyn and Michael entered the foyer of Salem’s Hawthorne Hotel. A sign, with a fleur-de-lis and an eighteenth-century tall ship, hung over their heads.
A bellhop met them at the entrance, took their luggage, loaded it onto a brass dolly with rubber wheels and maroon padding and rolled the contraption to the elevator bank near the front desk.
Carolyn gave her name to a woman with a whipped-up hairdo, who resembled Dear Abby.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sohier?” said the advice-columnist look-alike.
“Ah, no,” Michael said. “She’s Ms. Sohier, and I’m gay.”
“Oh, let’s see, then.” Dear Abby punched something into the beige box in front of her. “Hmm…I don’t have a reservation for a Mr. Gaye.”
Carolyn pushed Michael aside and stepped forward. “Look, he’s staying with me. We’re with Cantor Productions.”
From behind them, a voice rang out. “Carolyn Sohier. I’m so glad you could come.”
Carolyn turned to see a blonde, large-busted woman wearing a pink T-shirt with “Hollywood” stretched across her breasts. She sported faded jeans that hugged her hips.
“I’m Julia Hartfield,” she said and from under the pinning of a clipboard’s faste
ner, she removed a business card that issued her the title of Production Coordinator/Assistant to the Artistic Director.
Something about the woman unnerved Carolyn, and she crumpled the card and threw it in her purse.
“Carolyn, it’s so…nice to finally meet you.” Julia never bothered to look up from her notes. “I see you’re now sans representation. How brave. We weren’t sure you were going to make it.”
“Would never pass up the chance to be in a good witch picture,” Carolyn replied through a grin. Sometimes all it took was a subtle insult to get her inner diva going. Bitch.
“Yes,” Julia said. “Oh, your call’s been changed to five a.m. tomorrow. A car will pick you up at four forty-five to bring you in for makeup. We’re shooting at the Salem Willows. It’s only about a mile and a half from here.”
“Yes, we’re quite familiar with the area,” said Michael, with an air of sarcasm. Carolyn sensed he, too, smelled the woman’s stench of superiority.
Julia walked away without replying and shouted to a crew member who ran up a set of stairs, seemingly to get away from her.
“What am I getting myself into?” Carolyn asked, watching Julia chase after him.
“C’mon, I picked up the keys. Let’s go have some fun and see the town.” Michael stepped into the elevator and held the door open.
Carolyn followed. “Fun? I’ve got to be up at four in the morning.”
“Four forty-five.”
“Well, I need time to get ready. I can’t just roll outta bed and get on the set.”
Michael hit their floor’s button. “Don’t you want to explore Salem?”
“What time is it?” She huffed. Sometimes he still reminded her of a kid. “All right, maybe we can visit the Witch Dungeon.”
“No doubt that’s where Julia Hartfield lives,” Michael said.
The elevator chimed and its doors shut.
Wiccan Consultants
As Rebecca followed her roommate down a sidewalk that led to the Hawthorne Hotel, she questioned why she’d let Bernie run with this new plan to be in the movie. “I shouldn’t have let Ms. Greenfield talk me into working overtime,” she mumbled, recalling the reason she’d been unable to contribute as much to their scheme.
“Hurry, Becky,” Bernie said to Rebecca’s dawdle.
Extras were one thing. Wiccan consultants…out of our league, Rebecca thought.
After learning bit parts in the movie were already cast—Berniece’s original internet query had drudged up an older article addressing the need—they then contacted the production company directly. Initially, their messages went ignored. Yet, after an editorial appeared in the Salem Evening News calling for North Shore residents to protest the filming, things changed. When Loni Hodge appeared on Chronicle—a local TV show—explaining how Witches of Salem would ruin Salem, Julia Hartfield returned their call.
When they entered the Hawthorne, fragrance from an enormous bouquet of red-and-yellow flowers wafted their way, and a shiny brass bank of elevators chimed, lifting cars to higher floors.
“I don’t know why we couldn’t meet in private,” Berniece said. “She tell me the lobby’d be fine.”
“May I help you?” asked the lady at the front desk.
“We’re here for Cantor Productions…looking for Julia Hartfield,” Rebecca said.
“And you are?”
Rebecca started to reply, but Bernie beat her to it.
“Berniece. Berniece Fagar.” She cocked her head Rebecca’s way. “She’s with me.”
The hotel clerk nodded, lifting penciled-on eyebrows, and picked up the phone.
While waiting, Rebecca pondered their connection to Loni Hodge—albeit fleeting—and how they weaseled their way into getting an interview. “I don’t know why I’m nervous,” Rebecca said to Bernie, who’d dressed in a blue suit with the buttons cleaving mounds of flesh across her chest. Rebecca reached out and undid a clasp for her.
Berniece breathed a sigh of relief.
“Relax,” Rebecca said, more to herself than to her friend.
The clerk hung up the phone and pointed a knobby-knuckled hand to the middle of the lobby. “You can take a seat over there.”
Rebecca and Berniece moved to the center of the space and sat on a cushy gold-and-green couch, surrounded by expensive-looking urns and artwork laded with thick brushstrokes.
Berniece twiddled her thumbs, hands folded on her belly. Behind her, an oversized bouquet of dahlias and red-hot pokers lay atop a large marble table, the elegant backdrop in contrast to the woman’s typical surroundings. Taking in the scene, Rebecca tilted her head.
A blonde woman clogged thick brown sandals down the stairs. “The mayor now regrets his decision to let us film here,” she said to a kid carrying a clipboard, who nodded beside her. “Dodger’s deadline is already tight.” She stopped on a step, and turned her back to Rebecca and Berniece. “We can’t be here into October.” She started down again. “From what I’ve heard, this town will be swamped with tourists for a month.” She descended the last few steps, her boobs having barely moved the entire way.
“I hope that ain’t her, but something tells me—” Berniece said, as the woman caught their eyes, smiled, and came forward.
“You must be Bernie,” she said, with an outstretched hand. “I’m Julia Hartfield. So glad to finally meet you. And you must be Rebecca.”
After a few minutes of greetings and gibberish, Bernie went into her story about wanting to see Bewitched being filmed. “And I thought they’d be making it right then and there.” Berniece let out a whiskey laugh that turned heads.
Rebecca smiled politely and threw out fake platitudes such as, “Oh, Bernie,” and “Wouldn’t we all like to have seen it.” She sensed Julia laughed more at Berniece than about her story.
While Julia threw her head back in false hilarity, Rebecca sneered. I wish I could zap that bitch’s silver fillings with a snippet of electricity. Rebecca burst out laughing.
Bernie silenced.
“Well,” Julia said, after a beat, “there’ll be no hocus-pocus on this here set.”
Her emphasis on “here” pissed Rebecca off. “Are you making fun of the way she—”
Berniece slapped Rebecca’s thigh. “So, how can we help Witches of Salem become a blockbuster?”
Julia beamed and held her hands in front of the Hollywood splayed across her chest. Her nipples shot out between two Os.
Slyly, Rebecca grinned. “It is a little chilly in here, no?”
Julia furrowed her brow and after a moment said to Berniece, “Well, you’ll get to see a movie being made for real, this time…provided there are no problems.” She leaned in to them both. “As for you helping, you’ve heard about the protest—” Julia stopped, her forced smile disappeared, and she sat back.
Berniece turned around, as did Rebecca.
In walked Loni Hodge, the Official Witch of Salem, with her telltale long, midnight-black hair streaked gray. Her breasts sagged—a marked difference from the perky ones practically poking at Rebecca’s back, and she sauntered toward the room’s center table. The room hushed.
Julia’s cold hand grabbed Rebecca’s wrist, and she knew what this one-dimensional fake feared. Magic! Real magic.
The room deepened in silence. With outstretched arms, Loni centered herself under a gilded chandelier. The light caught the silver-metal jewelry she wore, and sparkles flared from the gemstones on her rings.
Rebecca, with a throaty laugh, whispered, “I wouldn’t be surprised if fire and brimstone start shooting from Loni’s fingertips.” She hoped it would give Julia a fright.
Loni closed her eyes, shook her head, turned around and, with a flourish to her cloak, walked out the front door.
What the hell is she doing, anyway? Rebecca thought.
A doorman nodded to Loni as she left, and the din of the room resumed.
“Did she just cast a spell?” Julia asked, grinning timidly.
She is afraid of magic, Rebecca tho
ught. “Maybe a little one.” She turned to Berniece and with an all-knowing look said, “At least she didn’t have that voodoo doll with her this time.”
Julia whimpered, but Berniece, with shoulders collapsed, tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips.
Rebecca kicked her.
“Oh, yeah!” Berniece finally said, adding a bit more zeal. She winked at Rebecca. “You should see when Loni’s really pissed, like the time someone accidently stole a potion from her store, and we prevented a curse from spilling all over town.”
Rebecca dug a heel into Berniece’s toe. Let’s leave my proclivities out of this. “Don’t worry,” Rebecca said with a hand wave to Julia. “We’ve got your back. The last time we did this”—she cleared her throat—“we smoothed everything over real nice. Loni responds to reason.”
“We’re more powerful than her, anyway,” Berniece added. “Don’t you concern your pretty little head. We’ll take care of you.”
Julia—looking as if she had tired from her eyes bouncing back and forth between the duo—tapped her hands to her thighs. “Great.” She shot up from the red Queen Anne chair. “As Cantor Production’s Wiccan consultants, we’re counting on your close-knit affiliations in the coven to ensure we’re operating in the best interest of…of Salem’s witch community.”
“In-deedy.” Bernie attempted to get up.
“Wonderful. We’ll see you on the set tomorrow.” Julia left and went back up the stairs.
The pair high-fived each other.
“Becky, this is our opportunity to shine.” Berniece fumbled with the couch’s cushions.
Rebecca rose and gave her a hand. “This could be my ticket out of Wal-dor, and your chance out of Red Vanilla.”
Fussing with her jacket, Berniece said, “Ain’t nothing wrong with Red Vanilla.” She moved in the opposite direction Rebecca intended to go.
“Where are we—”
Berniece cut her off. “I want to show you something.”
They strolled down a hallway nestled behind the elevators.
“Down here,” Berniece said, “they have ’Lizabeth Montgomery pictures, when she filmed here back in the seventies.”
Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem Page 5