Carolyn wondered when he’d bring it up. Bruno and Michael had dated years ago, when he lived in New York and Carolyn attended NYU. “Yes. And he says hello. I talked to him earlier this evening.” She didn’t want to reveal too much and spur Bruno’s jealousy.
Prior to meeting Terrence, Michael had had a short stint as a model. He and Bruno roomed in an apartment in Brooklyn. Michael’s most prized gig during that era, the late eighties, won him an appearance on a package of Thurston underwear—sold at upscale department stores.
“Twenty extra pounds, a husband, and several million dollars changed Michael,” Bruno said, with a bitter edge.
“He’s still like a brother to me.”
“Why he followed you from Boston to New York City after high school, I’ll never know.”
She knew why but wasn’t about to get into it with Bruno. Michael would always feel a need to protect her. “After a few years in New York, I blame the industry for pushing him to the West Coast.”
“I blame Terrence,” Bruno added. “I wouldn’t want their money if you gave it to me.”
“So how is Bobby?” Carolyn asked of his partner.
“Oh, he’s great. He’s upstate on business.” Bruno wiped peanut shells off the counter. “Well, girl, you ready?”
Carolyn looked to the stage and microphone. “Bruno, can I ask you a favor?”
“Why, sure.”
“Would you mind if I stay here a little while longer? Alone?”
He looked to the stage and smiled. “Why, of course. All your tracks are on the audio.” He took his coat from a hook by the bar. “Feel free to have at it. The spare keys are in the drawer. You can lock up whenever you want.”
He put on the fake-fur coat he always wore in the winter. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“Good, ’cause I got myself a date at the house.”
“A date?” She walked with him toward the stairs. “What about Bobby?”
“Honey, it’s a date with my Panasonic. I got to catch up on Queer as Folk.” He walked up the stairs. “Ciao, honey!” At the top, he stopped. “Just leave the keys in the mail drop. I’ve got my own.” He swung them around a finger.
“Will do.”
Carolyn leaned against the banister and listened to the low, dull hum of cars on Seventh above.
He locked the door behind him with a loud clunk.
At her back, the stage called to her. She went to the electrical panel and flipped a switch. The proscenium lit and her stomach fluttered. She loved the stage yet at the same time, it frightened her.
At the sound system, she selected Frank Wildhorn and Nan Knighton’s torch song “I’ll Forget You” from The Scarlet Pimpernel. She’d wanted to include it on her last album, but Rudy wouldn’t have it: “It’s too cabaret.”
A soft, crying saxophone filled the air, and piano accompaniment followed.
The spot’s beam shone on the microphone, and from the bar, she sang the opening line without effort. She hadn’t sung for so long. It needed to come out. She let go of worry and her perfect pitch surprised her.
Compelled to take the stage, she bit back the fear. Her cathartic need to sing took precedence.
The song’s beauty overcame her as she succumbed to its plea. When she touched the microphone, a shiver went through her. She dipped the stand at an angle, sang, and swooned over it as if caressing a mate. Her voice echoed throughout the club.
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she sang with an energy and vigor she couldn’t replicate in public. Every lyric and each note flowed readily.
When the ballad climaxed, her voice matched its power with equal intensity. Involuntarily, her foot stomped the stage.
Another tear slid down her face, and she scratched its itch away while holding onto the note’s beauty. She rode orgiastic heights into its final mark. When she finished, she stood in silence and could hear the applause, like she’d imagined as a child.
The Archangel
Carolyn knocked at the door to Peggy’s apartment. The narrow, humdrum hallway—contrary to the lavish apartments on the other side of the walls—smelled of curry, bacon, and cabbage, an unpleasant mix that had Carolyn’s nose in her turtleneck.
“How did you get up here?” Peggy fussed with her hair when the door opened.
The turtleneck snapped down. “Your guard man let me up. He said he called you.”
Peggy stepped aside and let Carolyn enter.
Despite it being high noon, the apartment was dark. “You got the blinds shut?” Carolyn walked in farther. “Did I catch you napping?”
Dressed in a silk robe, Peggy tugged at its lapels.
“Greetings,” said a voice to Carolyn’s right.
Carolyn spun around. A tall man, wearing a white T-shirt and boxers, came out of the bedroom.
“Kelsey!” Peggy said to him. “Put some clothes on.”
He opened the blinds over by the piano.
“Oh my God.” Carolyn faced Peggy. “I didn’t realize you had—”
“The guard called,” Kelsey said to Peggy, “when you were in the bathroom.” Sun rays lined the teakwood floor.
“I’m surprised he let her up without talking to me,” Peggy said to him and turned to Carolyn with a sly grin.
Carolyn waltzed backward toward the door. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Peggy put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. Is everything all right?” She didn’t let Carolyn answer and turned to Kelsey. “Why don’t you leave us alone? Watch the baseball game in the other room or some man thing—”
“Baseball season hasn’t even started.”
Peggy dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Whatever.”
Carolyn put a hand on the door’s brass knob. “Look, I can come back—”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Peggy shut the door that Carolyn had partially opened. “Please,” she muttered.
“Actually,” Kelsey said, “I have a meeting at the theater.” He shuffled into the bedroom and closed the door.
Peggy plopped onto the couch. “Oh, thank God.” She pointed to the armchair across from her.
“Who’s he?” Carolyn sat.
“The archangel from the show.” She leaned forward and whispered, “They’re replacing him. His understudy is taking over.”
Carolyn glanced back at the bedroom door. “Is that what his theater meeting is about?”
“Poor thing doesn’t know yet.” Peggy tucked her legs under her. “I wanted to fuck him before they fired him.” She rubbed her temples with one hand. “Dreadful, though. He wasn’t worth it. Now, I can’t get rid of him.”
Carolyn fidgeted. The chair’s stiff seat made her wonder if it even had a utilitarian purpose—Peggy always being one for show. “I sang last night.” Carolyn announced the reason for her visit.
“Great. Where?”
“At the Maniacal.” She futzed with the throw pillow behind her. It left little room for her to fit.
“Watch that pillow, honey. It’s Chanzeaux from Paris.”
“I have it in me…still.”
“A Chanzeaux?”
“No, no.” Carolyn moved to the chair’s edge. “Singing.”
“Of course you do.” In the other room, the shower squeaked as it came on and Peggy shook her head. “You’d think he’d just leave.”
Kelsey’s singing infiltrated the room.
“What part did he play again?” Carolyn tried to recall him from the opening night performance of Any Place I Hang My Hat that Peggy’d invited her to.
“The archangel. You know, the guy with the dark wings who flies across the stage singing ‘Mona Lisa Loves to Smile’ while I bathe in the pond.”
“Oh, yeah. That one.” The performance didn’t strike Carolyn as overly memorable.
“They should’ve hired the understudy. Roberto is a much better performer—gay, not as cute, but better.”
“Oh?”
“I’m glad you rescued me,” Peggy said. “He wasn’t taking the hints to leave.”
Kelsey’s voice boomed, singing something about Lollobrigida.
Peggy rolled her eyes.
Carolyn snickered. “He’s not terrible.”
“Enough of him.” Peggy tucked her nightgown under her legs. “So tell me about your performance. Was there a big crowd? Did they like it?”
Carolyn bit her cheek and studied the Oriental carpet at her feet.
“Carolyn, did you…? Did you flick the clit on stage?”
“Peggy!” Her friend thought all performances were for the pleasure of others—anything else masturbatory.
Peggy threw her signature neck roll. “Well, I don’t care if you sang with the intensity of a fucking freight train all by your little lonesome with your pre-recorded tracks from Bruno. You need to sing like that in front of an audience. I know you can. I’ve seen glimpses of it.”
Carolyn hated being lectured but figured visiting would give her the motivation she needed. “It was the first time I’d been able to sing since—”
“Since the friggin’ movie. I know, you told me. Oh, and how did Rudy take you walking off the bee commercial?”
“It was a hornet!”
“Whatever.”
Carolyn sighed. “He didn’t take it well. I think he’s drugging again. I think he may have poisoned me that night on the VTV Awards.”’
“What?” Peggy put her feet on the floor. “What are you talking about?”
“I think he mixed the candy with ipecac or laxatives. By accident! Of course.”
Peggy buried her head in her hand. Then, she tapped her legs. “C’mon.” She rose and waltzed over to the piano. “Assuming Kelsey doesn’t throw us off-key, let’s belt out a few show tunes and really show those men off.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Carolyn remained in the chair, eyeing her friend, who positioned herself on the piano bench.
The shower squeaked off. Kelsey’s singing continued.
“Enough!” Peggy yelled. When the man quieted, she fingered the keys. “C’mon, girlfriend, we’re going to sing from The Wiz.” With a free hand, she fiddled with pages on the music rack.
Carolyn’s throat ached as she neared. The beginning to “Ease on Down the Road” rendered from the baby grand.
“Love that song!” Kelsey shouted. The bedroom door opened, and he stood in the frame wearing only a towel.
Startled, Carolyn stepped back. When Carolyn opened her mouth to sing, nothing came out.
Peggy sang.
Kelsey joined.
Carolyn’s cell phone rang. She pulled it from her coat and moved toward the foyer. Rebecca? She recognized the number. “Hello?” she muttered, her voice clogged.
“Carolyn? It’s Rebecca. Are you all right?”
Carolyn turned around. Kelsey’s towel-clad butt jiggled as he and Peggy sang. Carolyn cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”
“What’s wrong? You sound strange?”
“I’m just”—she swallowed—“coming down with a cold or something.” She rubbed her throat.
Peggy yelled, “C’mon, Carolyn! Join us.”
Carolyn stepped onto the Oriental rug, which marked the entrance to the open-concept’s living room—with its non-utilitarian furniture. She sensed her larynx soothe, and she touched her throat again. “How’s Maine?” she asked Rebecca.
“Fine. I just…wanted to check in with you. I felt compelled to call.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to hear from you.”
“Are you at a rehearsal?” Rebecca, no doubt, heard the singing in the background. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No. I’m at a friend’s.” Carolyn chose the couch this time. “Rebecca, I’m having trouble singing.” She found the witch someone she could confide in.
“What? No!”
“Ever since I got back from Summerwind.”
Kelsey and Peggy giggled as they sang.
“I was afraid of that,” Rebecca said.
Carolyn unzipped her coat. “Afraid of what?”
“I think Bernie and I may have jinxed you when we cast that spell.”
“Oh, c’mon. You can’t blame yourselves for my issues.” Carolyn doubted how a squirt of primrose oil and a little chant could affect her. “I’ve been battling stage fright for years.”
Rebecca sighed. “Yes, you told me that. I just… Have you heard from Michael?”
“Oh, he’s fine. He and Terrence are in Europe acquiring art and such for their home.”
“You’ll never believe who I’m seeing.”
Carolyn leaned back on the couch. “Derek? Are you two an item?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I saw you eyeing him the very first day on the set. I’m happy for you. I hope he treats you well.”
Kelsey pranced his way closer to the living area. “C’mon, Carolyn.” He put his hand out as if asking her to dance.
“Look,” Rebecca said, “I’ll let you go.”
Kelsey sang louder.
Carolyn chuckled. “Okay, I’ll call you later.” They hung up. Carolyn took Kelsey’s hand and was whisked out onto the teakwood floor.
“Let’s dance!” His singsong voice matched the key Peggy played.
Laughing, Carolyn danced beside him.
Peggy stomped on the piano keys and sang.
Carolyn sauntered over to it. Her throat didn’t ache. Determined to sing, she felt confident and waited for the beat. She knew the lyric. Yes! On the tip of…She stepped up, grabbed the piano top, and hacked out a note like the belch of a walrus at the circus.
The music stopped.
Kelsey clutched the towel around his waist. “I should get going.”
The Litch Witch of Salem
Derek drove Food’s pickup. Beside him, Viola sat buckled to the center seat, and to her right, Rebecca fidgeted with the peeling vinyl of the armrest.
“We’re almost there.” Rebecca noted the Salem sign off Route 1. “Does anyone need a pit stop?”
“I’m fine.” Viola wore a purple knit stocking cap and smiled at the girl.
“Nope.” Derek flipped on his directional and took the Salem exit. “I emptied back at the New Hampshire line.”
They drove the additional twenty minutes to Berniece’s shop listening to AM chatter—the only band available on Food’s truck. When they arrived at Red Vanilla in Salem, the portly witch greeted them with firm hugs and tears cresting in her eyes. “I’m so glad you come down to see me.”
Derek hugged Viola at the shoulders. “We’re off to Revere to see my mother. We just wanted to say hello.”
“Not so fast.” Berniece meandered from the shop’s center console. “Becky told me y’all’s plans. She and I get to spend the day together while you two gallivant about visiting your relatives.”
Rebecca put an arm through Derek’s and looked up at him. “You’ll come pick us up around three?”
“Yes.” With a smile, Derek bent and kissed her on the lips.
“Oh, Lawd. No smooching in here,” Berniece said. “Viola, you put up with this stuff in Maine?”
The old woman chuckled, staring at the pair. “Aren’t they cute together?”
Berniece huffed, stretched out an arm, and offered them all a beverage.
Viola shuffled to a vacant stool in front of the counter. “My favorite strapping handyman and my new friend Rebecca.”
After an exchange of sodas—“tonics,” as Rebecca called them—and the use of the bathroom, Derek and Viola left, and the two witches took to conversation by the cash register.
“Can’t believe you come all the way down here—”
“Bernie!” Rebecca put out a hand. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“You really think we spelled Carolyn?” She slurped the last of her Coca-Cola and burped.
“You haven’t changed.”
&
nbsp; “You have.” Berniece threw the empty can in the trash barrel under the counter next to her stool.
“What do you mean, did we really ‘spell’ her?” Berniece’s doubting infuriated Rebecca. “You, yourself, said she changed once we cast it. She did a one-eighty in terms of her performance. God, even Jonathan Dodger was praising her by the time we wrapped.”
“‘We wrapped.’ Huh!” Berniece pulled stabbed receipts from a pin. “Listen to you acting all Hollywood-like and all.”
“Bernie, I know you’re mad at me…for leaving you high and dry the past few months.”
“Ain’t mad.” She jotted something down on a notebook she used to tally sales.
“Well, now you’re doubting our abilities as witches to have even cast the spell. The confidence spell that made Carolyn a success.”
Berniece opened the register with a loud ring. “You really think the reason she’s having problems in New York is because of us.”
Rebecca gnawed a fingernail. “I had a dream.”
Berniece shut the register. “So did Martin Luther King Jr., and I’m still sitting in the back of the bus like Tituba being taken in for trial.”
Rebecca rolled her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry I abandoned you. I needed to work some things out.”
“Like blowing the construction worker on leave from the Big Dig. Why’s he in Summerwind anyway?”
“I told you. He’s on leave from construction work for the winter and is in Maine helping Viola. He’s been going there for years.”
“Big Dig going on all year.”
“Well, I guess he’s on disability.” Rebecca rummaged through her bag and pulled the Book of Shadows she’d taken with her from Viola’s widow’s watch.
“You stole that!” Berniece stood. “I told you not to fool around with it. Leave it be.”
“Listen to me.” She placed it on the counter. “When we cast that spell…on Carolyn. I made that shit up.”
“I knows. That’s why I don’t think—”
“Look!” Rebecca opened the book. It smelled musty, and the pages creaked as if they’d been wet at one time. She pointed to a passage. “Read it.”
Berniece took her reading glasses out from a case beside her notebook, put them on, flipped the book around, and read, “‘With this wax that is fallin’”—she looked over the rim of her bifocals—“and then it says to insert their name.”
Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem Page 21