“They do?”
“Yes. They filmed right here in this hotel.”
Pop Ditties by the Sea
In an early afternoon break—one of many in a slow-moving first day of filming—Carolyn, in her character’s black wig and velvet cape, sat on a rock wall, and gazed out at the ocean. A finger found its way to her mouth as it often did in thought—a nibble to her fingernail and a thumb scratch to her cuticle.
A cool breeze blew. She closed her eyes and took it in. If the smell of the ocean had a color, it would be turquoise. The air, the crisp touch of autumn, the clang of boats in the harbor and the Salem Willows Park, which she hadn’t been to in years, all provided good memories. Despite her mixed feelings about being home, so much time had passed since she and Michael lived there. Some good must remain.
Since leaving the area for NYU in the eighties, she had only been back to Massachusetts once—a few years ago, for her aunt Esther’s funeral. With Carolyn’s mother now retired in Florida, she had no family, or reason to return.
She turned around as Michael approached, holding a box of popcorn. He wore a navy sweater, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. His bushy hair needed trimming, and the fifteen-plus years since Carolyn had last seen him walk this very spot added heft around his tummy. Lines marked his jowls, framing dark Italian features. If he ever went back to modeling, he’d make a good fatherly type.
Carolyn stretched, her back arcing to the bay, legs dangling over the stone wall. The set, with trailers and cameras, was on her left. A large crane with a camera on top of it swept down. Carolyn lost count of the number of times it attempted to lower. As Michael drew near, it jammed again.
He held out the popcorn box to Carolyn. “I grew tired of the food from the studio’s canteen. I haven’t had this in years!” He sat down beside her. “Remember we used to come here?”
“I do.” She took a handful from the box. “Remember I used to play superstar on the amphitheater?” She cocked her head in the vicinity of the stage.
“Of course.” Michael fed popcorn to chickadees that appeared by his feet. “I spent most of the morning chatting with the crew at the food truck. What did you do?”
“Ah, twenty takes,” she said and held up her index finger, “and only one small scene. At this rate, we’ll be here for years.”
Michael ate some popcorn while two large seagulls swooped low. The small birds scattered.
“Oh, poor things.” Carolyn pointed to the birds.
Michael threw some more to the ground. “The seagulls got to eat, too.”
“Yeah, but the little ones barely got a bite.”
Michael looked over at the harbor. “Rumor has it, you know, that Dodger wanted someone else for your role.”
Carolyn nodded. “I know. I’d heard. Last Rudy told me, they’d cast a buxom blonde from the couch.”
“Rudy must have had quite the pull to get you the contract.”
The small black-capped birds came back, and Carolyn threw some popcorn to them. “I think this will be it.”
Michael dropped his eyebrows. “No more popcorn?”
“No, Michael. Movies. Maybe even showbiz.”
The food in his open hand took to the breeze and skipped along the grass. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” A couple of squirrels chased after the kernels. “I think I’ve had enough of the business. I’ll finish the film, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a normal life.” She crossed her arms. “To not have to be in the spotlight in order to be a success and make a living. To not be on display.”
They watched a fishing boat pull out from the docks. A crew member ran toward the pier, no doubt to ask them to stop so as not to ruin the shoot.
Carolyn brushed remnants of popcorn from her witch outfit. “I don’t want it, Michael. I don’t think I ever really did.”
“What do you mean, you never did? You’ve been through a lot.” Michael closed the lid to the box. “Is this the same Carolyn Sohier who used to practice signing autographs with me at, what? Twelve?”
“Michael, I’m over thirty.” She stood up and brushed the back of her cape. “I embarrassed myself on national television and have been seeing a shrink for about a hundred years.” She turned her back to him and tightened the velvet belt around her waist to keep her costume from flowing in the breeze.
“You can’t quit…not now. You’re so close! You’ve worked so hard for so long at this.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you really want your greatest achievement to be having sung backup on a Ricky Rick hip-hop song?”
Carolyn faced him. “Nothing wrong with that. That song made me a lot of money—paid off my NYU student loans.”
“And made Rudy some decent cash, too.”
She paused. “Seagulls got to eat, too.”
He sighed.
“What do you mean, I can’t quit? It’s my life!”
Michael grinned and began to sing a verse from a Bon Jovi song.
“Oh my God!” Carolyn put her hand to her ears. “My life’s falling apart and you want to sing pop ditties by the sea.” The corners of her mouth turned upward. “Off-key, I might add!”
They both laughed and then strolled down a path leading toward the fishing boat, smoke venting from pipes on its bridge. A film crew member walked past, shook his head, and explained his failed attempt into a walkie-talkie.
“Good luck,” Carolyn said to him.
“These North Shore people are friggin’ brutal,” he said into the device.
Michael and Carolyn looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders.
“So,” Michael said to Carolyn, “you’ve got a couple of hours free. You want to walk into town? It’ll be fun. Maybe we can get our fortunes read or something.”
She ambled forward. “I don’t know.”
He brushed her hair off her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll find your true destiny in a cup of tea leaves or in a crystal ball. You never know.”
Carolyn looked over at the set. “Dodger did tell me I could scoot—that it would be awhile before they got to my scene.” The crane started its way back up then jammed. Jonathan Dodger screamed expletives into a megaphone.
“Why so much yelling?” Michael asked. “Are all movies like this?”
She huffed. “A nice jaunt through downtown Salem might do me well.”
“Now you’re talking.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey, maybe we’ll see Father Twomey driving around in his old Beetle?” Their high school theater teacher, who’d also served as a man of the cloth, was Michael’s way of bringing up the past—one Carolyn chose to bury.
“Oh, God, please—not all that.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t want to discuss the old days.”
Michael walked ahead, leaving Carolyn behind a few paces. He stopped and turned around.
“I should tell Julia I’m going. And drop off this wig.” She pulled a pin out from her neckline.
Michael poured out the remains of the popcorn box onto the ground. Birds flocked to it. “Don’t you think God, or some higher power, might have a purpose for us?”
Seagulls cawed and pigeons cooed.
“Why do you say that?” Carolyn pulled the black hairpiece from her head.
“Don’t you find it a coincidence that we’re back here? I mean, after all these years.” He threw the empty box into a metal trashcan.
She fluffed her matted hair. “I don’t believe in coincidences.” Her heels clapped along the tarred walkway, heading to her trailer.
Red Vanilla
Halfway down Derby Street—a one-way road flanked with shops, museums, and historic homes—Carolyn and Michael came upon a store, with flaking blood-colored shingles, named Red Vanilla. Inside, under a transom of aged beams and an ajar window, they met Berniece, who carried a poster board with purple lettering—the sign indicating something about closing early.
Before Carolyn could read it all, Berniece rested the notice—hiding its message—against the checkout co
unter, replete with cash register, phone, and receipts stabbed onto a large upward pin.
After short greetings, Carolyn said, “We were just walking by.” She looked up at the Bewitched clock atop the doorway. “Do you have time for one more fortune?” Carolyn pushed a stubborn strand of hair away from her face.
“What kind of place in Salem don’t do fortunes all times ’a day? ’Course I do,” Berniece said. Her pudgy face shined happily.
“Great! We…Well, I need some advice. We’re—” Carolyn broke off at Berniece’s held-up hand, indicating for her not to divulge further.
“Husband and wife from Ohio?” Berniece guessed.
“Nooo,” Michael said and pursed his lips.
“Hmm. Don’t tell me…don’t tell me. I’m a professional. Professionals don’t need no details. Let’s go in the back to the tarots.”
With nothing to lose, Carolyn figured even if the woman presumed their relationship wrong, the cards could speak truer.
Down a tiny aisle, they followed the large black woman. On their right, a glass display chest contained many brightly colored stones, gems, and rings—and connected to the store’s main desk. To Carolyn’s left, various spiritual books on witchcraft, meditation, and other New Age works were vertically stacked in two matching open-faced cabinets. In the back of the store, a lopsided card table leaned under a small white shelf holding red candles and a couple decks of cards—one for tarot, another for playing.
A nonchalant nudge from Bernie’s foot straightened the table’s crooked leg. Then, standing on her tiptoes, she slid the tarot cards from the shelf. “There we go.” She wiped the deck’s package onto her thigh, leaving a smattering of dust on tight black leggings.
“How long have you been telling fortunes?” Michael asked.
“Long time.” Berniece waved a hand. “I’ll tell you a bit ’bout me and Red Vanilla.” Berniece sat. “When I first saw yas, I thought you were some tourists from Akron, or maybe even California, looking for a postcard ’a something.” She extended her hand to the empty folding chairs across from her.
Michael and Carolyn sat, both crossing their legs to opposite sides.
“Then I thought maybe you just needed to use the facilities.” Berniece chuckled.
“Don’t need to use the restroom,” Carolyn said. “I just went. Thank you.”
“Just now?” Berniece paused, and then wheezed a laugh.
Incredulous, Michael opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
“I’m sorry,” Berniece said. “Even though I have that there sign”—she pointed to the store’s window—“giving directions to the public toilet down the street, I can never resist the pathetic plea of some old lady from Topeka, with the look of yella in her eyes. Not that you folks are old or nothing…or from Kansas, for that matter.” Berniece rasped a throaty bark that startled both Carolyn and Michael. “It’s just an expression.”
“I see.” Michael’s blue eyes met Carolyn’s brown.
“If a ’casional tourist need to tinkle on my porcelain, it really ain’t no hindrance. Besides, sometimes, after a flush, they feel guilty.” She slapped her thigh and brushed off traces of dirt from her pants. “They may even buy a postcard or two afterward, paying for their use of the facilities.”
Despite Berniece’s awkwardness, Carolyn got a warm feeling about her. Her growing smile held back any apprehension.
“I mistook your good friendship to be something stronger, like husband and wife.”
Carolyn stared at Michael. “No, but we’ve known each other for a while, and have been through a lot.”
Berniece cracked her knuckles. “Well, let’s get started.” She slid the cards out from their package and shuffled the deck—like readying to play gin rummy—and fanned the cards out in front of her face. “You got any tens?” she asked, wide eyes peering over the top of the cards.
Carolyn chuckled. “Go fish?”
“Good.” Berniece’s smile never faded. “So what would you like to know? ’Course, I could always just tell you what I feel. I’m a professional, you know.”
“Oh, let’s see. Where do I start? I—”
“Oh, let me tell you ’bout Red Vanilla first.” The card deck flitted loudly against the matted tabletop, as Berniece continued shuffling.
Carolyn frowned. “Okay.”
“You probably noticed from my accent, I’m from the South. Down there we intuit.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Carolyn said, letting the woman go with it.
Furtively, Michael smiled.
“Well, actually, that’s not true—me being raised in the South, that is. I actually was born here in Salem.” She leaned back against the aluminum chair. It creaked. “Oh, yes, born here in 1692.” She waited a moment, and then broke it with a whiskey laugh. “Just kidding. But I am really from Salem.”
“Oh?” Michael chimed in. “We spent our teens here on the North Shore, in Peabody.” He shrugged apologetically, like he needed to give the psychic some direction.
Berniece sat back. Again, the chair cried. “No shit! You don’t look like Pea-bidy people,” she said, using the local pronunciation for the town.
“It’s a long story,” Carolyn said. “We’re both originally from California and were transplanted here in our teens—”
Michael elbowed Carolyn. “She’s a professional. Remember? Let her tell us.”
Berniece winked and broke the deck in two. “Anyway, my momma sent me off to my daddy’s down in Mobile.” She waved a hand at Carolyn and Michael. “You know how it is: rebellious teen out to learn the world just go and get shipped on outta here.” She shook her head and then placed part of the deck between Michael and Carolyn. “I didn’t hate her none for it. Probably the best thing that ever happened to me.” She pressed elbows onto the table. “Learned the tarots there, but I picked up the goddamn accent right away.”
“Interesting,” Carolyn said, looking at Michael, wide-mouthed again.
Berniece flipped the top card over. “Oh, look what we’ve got here.” She placed The Star card in front of Carolyn. “I just figured I’d share a bit of me and Red Vanilla’s history…people always so curious about how I came to be.”
“Yes. That is an interesting story but…” Michael fidgeted. “That’s the star. What’s that mean?”
Carolyn shifted in her chair. “Red Vanilla…that’s an interesting name. How did you come up with that? Is it a family tradition?”
“Oh, yeah…haven’t told you ’bout that. You like it? I like it. It’s so different, you know. It’s like, who woulda thought that red and vanilla mix together. It’s an anomaly. You know? I like them.” She flipped another card—The Sun—and placed it over the other.
Carolyn furrowed her brow. “You like red and—”
“No, anomalies! I like anomalies. When something ain’t really what it’s ’posed to be. I thought about naming the place White Chocolate, but that might be considered by some to be a bit racy!” She slapped the table, and it started to lean, again. She kicked the leg to right it, and Carolyn and Michael jumped back. “Besides, white and chocolate exists. You know…white chocolate—used to get white bunnies in my Easter basket…as a kid.” She flipped over another card and placed it in front of Michael—Judgment.
He looked down at it, placing a hand on his chest. “Me?”
Berniece went on, “I never really liked the hollow bunnies. The white chocolate solids were my favorites.” She sat back and looked up at the ceiling. “God, I used to eat so much I’d feel sick.”
“Oh?” Carolyn said. “I preferred jelly beans—” Michael toed her calf.
“They’d last a long time, though, them solid bunnies. After a couple of nibbles.” Berniece held her hands up to her mouth and chomped her teeth. “I’d wrap it back up with that crinkly little tinfoil it comes in, and hide it from my cousins.” She put her hands on her hips. “’Cuz they’d come on over, ignore my little teeth scratches on it, and go on and snap off its head and eat it whole!”
/>
“Oh, no,” Carolyn said, and looked to Michael blanched in horror.
Berniece threw out another card in front of Michael—The World. “Yeah, everyone’s heard of white chocolate, but ain’t no one, unless they’d been here, ever heard of red vanilla. No one!”
“So,” Michael said, “other than it being an anomaly, there’s really no meaning?”
Berniece paused. “No, not really.” She belted out another loud laugh that turned into a coughing fit, resulting in a kick from her foot that toppled the table. It landed on her thigh. Cards tumbled to the floor.
Michael shot up. “It’s got to mean something!”
A cell phone rang.
“Damn it.” Carolyn fumbled through her bag on the floor. “I’m sorry. It might be Julia.”
“That’s okay,” Berniece said and adjusted the leg back to an upright position.
Michael sat and combed a hand through his hair.
Carolyn eyed her phone’s display. “Speak of the devil.”
“Oh, no,” Berniece said. “We don’t speak of him here.” She let out a much mellower cackle than her previous one.
Carolyn flipped open the phone and rose. “Hi, Julia. What’s up?”
The squawking assistant yelled from the phone, and Carolyn relocated to the front of the store. She held the phone out from her ear, Julia’s voice piercing. “I’m sorry…I’ll be—” Carolyn sighed, stopped by the cash register, and listened to the harangue.
The sign Berniece had been working on fell from its position against the counter: Closing Early for Filming.
Julia explained that they couldn’t get the crane operating, so Dodger wanted to shoot Carolyn, using a handheld, for some close-ups by the water. “Small script rewrite,” Julia said, ending their conversation. “Get here now!”
When Carolyn returned to the back of the store, Michael and Berniece laughed readily.
“And I thought they were filming Bewitched that very day,” Berniece said, chuckling. “It wasn’t no rerun.” She slapped a palm to her forehead and swayed. “I didn’t even know reruns existed.”
Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem Page 6