Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  From the lobby’s phone bank, they arranged for a taxi.

  Out front, where Seth Stevenson had parked, they found a discarded Canadian Club bottle. Michael tossed it into the woods. “Motherfucker.”

  When the cab arrived, the driver made no mention of their battered appearance. Carolyn was grateful for the cover of night. From Michael’s house, they bypassed his drunken mother and Carolyn called her own. “I’m staying with a friend.”

  In Michael’s bed, they held each other and slept.

  Remembering Halloween

  On Summerwind Island, Michael hiked through the woods. Acres of forest located behind the Nesbitt home—a donation from Viola’s grandfather through the Atwood Land Trust—calmed the man.

  He and Carolyn’s retelling of that night at the high school brought up so much. She’d never been willing to talk about it before. While discussing it together helped, he needed to be alone with his thoughts and nature, too.

  With his back to an apple tree, Michael removed his journal and a pen from his knapsack. He picked up where he’d left off the day before:

  Eventually, the bruises healed.

  The emotional scars never did.

  Carolyn and I had made up some scheme about falling down the school stairs…drunk. Partially true. We were drunk…unintentionally.

  We got in trouble for breaking and entering. Partying in the school. Ha!

  Back then, Carolyn’s mother and mine rivaled each other for alcoholic of the decade. Eventually, mine won. Carolyn’s sought AA. I think Mrs. Sohier feared Carolyn would fall in her footsteps—us pretending a night with Canadian Club as the culprit for our bruises.

  We never told anyone about Seth and the team. They scared the shit us senseless. We even lied to Father Twomey about our story, so even he would believe.

  Shortly after it all went down, I began to summon the nerve to tell the truth.

  Seth squashed that.

  During Halloween 1980, Michael recalled the moon glowed with the intensity of an incandescent bulb about to burst.

  Carolyn, over thirty pounds heavier than she was in the spring, had him over to watch Kramer vs. Kramer on Starcase. They gave out candy to the kids with her mother “out with the girls” at Skal’s Lounge.

  Around ten, the movie ended, and Michael got his keys to leave; his aunt’s hand-me-down Peugeot had been a gift when he got his driver’s license over that summer. “Don’t forget the Algebra quiz tomorrow.”

  “I know.” Carolyn wore a baggy sweatshirt and a pair of stretch pants. She looked like a younger version of her mother. The weight—no doubt due to the stress they’d been through—added years.

  Discussions about that night rarely occurred between the two, other than her once telling Michael she didn’t blame him. While it relieved Michael, he felt guilty and harbored anger toward Seth.

  The former high school quarterback became a freshman at Salem State College, and even though he commuted to the campus just several miles from his parents’ West Peabody home, he avoided Michael.

  Leaving Carolyn’s, Michael revved the engine of his old French coupe to keep it from stalling, and as he pulled out of the driveway, Seth’s yellow Camaro pulled up to the house across the street.

  “What the fuck?” Michael threw the clutch, and the car shimmied into second gear.

  Seth got out of his car. He wore a Halloween costume: black stretch suit sans mask. The house he’d parked at—the nemesis of Carolyn’s neighborhood—rattled with music. Peter and the rest of the football crew exited the Camaro.

  Michael slowed as he passed. In his rearview mirror, Seth stumbled into the street. “Drunk. What else is new?” Michael drove away.

  The following day, the front page of the Salem Evening News read, “Deadly accident on Lowell Street in Peabody.” Seth Stevenson was arrested for drunk driving and manslaughter. The passengers—his football friends from that night—were killed on impact.

  On Summerwind, Michael pondered the event and doodled in the margins of his notebook until inspiration hit for more writing.

  I always suspected Seth was gay—so far in the closet I swore he saw Narnia. (God, I loved The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe back then. Note to self: read again!) But I pretended he was straight—the big macho boy he wanted to be.

  “Hey,” Carolyn crested the embankment by the water, “Terrence said I might find you here.”

  Michael closed his journal. “Hey, sweet cheeks, what’s shaking?”

  Carolyn wore jeans, sandals, and an airy blouse. Her hair billowed in the warm breeze when she walked. “I just got off the phone with Barry Manilow.”

  “What?” Michael dropped his pen.

  “He wants me to sing at his concert.” She bit her lower lip as she stood in front of him.

  “And you said ‘yes!’”

  “No.”

  Michael threw his head back and exhaled.

  She crouched beside him. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  He rubbed her leg. “It’s up to you.”

  She pointed to the journal, as if knowing what he’d written.

  “Yeah,” he acknowledged with a finger point, “I’m still writing about it. Helps me clear my head.” With Carolyn now open to discussing, he continued, “Remember that Halloween night, we watched Kramer vs. Kramer and gave out candy?”

  “And I burnt the strawberry strudel I’d been making to surprise you?”

  “I forgot about that!” He tilted his head. “But I ate it anyway.”

  She brushed his shoulder with hers. “You did. Practically barfing with each bite.”

  The wind danced in the branches above their head, and they looked up.

  “What about that night?” she asked.

  Michael shrugged and pointed above. “Hey, see that cloud?”

  Carolyn lay down, head on his lap. “Which one?” She clasped her hands over her midriff.

  “The one that looks like Snoopy.”

  “Snoopy?”

  “Yeah.” He bent to get a better view from her angle, picked up her hand, and with it pointed to the sky. “That one.”

  “Snoopy?” She laughed. “Looks like a walrus.”

  Michael leaned back, head up. “A walrus? You think?”

  “Or a grim reaper.”

  Michael shuddered. “Why do you say that?”

  “Halloween 1980. Isn’t that what you said he dressed as?” She didn’t let him answer. “A grim reaper. Remember, after he”—of course she meant Seth—“jumped off the Tobin and we got those eerie letters?”

  Michael recalled. “Uh, yeah. Anonymously postmarked and saying, ‘Never tell. I’ll haunt you from my grave,’ written in chicken scratch.”

  “Maybe they weren’t from him.” She sat up and brushed back her hair.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always thought it coincidental they showed up shortly after he offed himself. I think it might have been his father threatening us not to damage his son’s reputation any further.”

  “You really think his dad sent the letters?” The idea hadn’t occurred to him before.

  “I…I don’t know. I guess the more important issue is even if he did write it…” Carolyn’s incompletion hovered with obvious intent as if she’d said, he couldn’t return from the dead. “We worried, unnecessarily, about it, because we never really talked about it.”

  “Hmm.”

  A gentle wind fueled the silence.

  Michael combed through a strand of her hair. “Have you been using your mother’s protein packets?”

  “Yes,” she said, with feigned annoyance. “Are you two in cahoots or something? Geez.” She leaned into his hug.

  “So, what else did Barry say?” Michael brushed through her hair.

  “Oh, just wanted to say hello. It’s Rudy! He’s the problem. Bugging the heck out of me. Leaving voice mail after voice mail.”

  Michael moved, and Carolyn pulled away. “C’mon,” he said, “Josefina’s cooking meatloaf tonig
ht. We’ll have you over for dinner.”

  “Josefina? Cooking?”

  “Stranger things have happened.” He rose, threw his knapsack over his shoulder, and extended a hand to Carolyn.

  Routines

  As days went by, thoughts of Seth Stevenson, Rudy, and show business slipped further from Carolyn’s mind. Acknowledging the trauma felt freeing, like she could finally move on from her past. She took comfort in running the café on Summerwind Island and providing sandwiches, coffees, and pastries for the construction crew across the way.

  Maine: The way life should be; she recalled a bumper sticker she’d read as she placed a blueberry pie in the café’s oven.

  She sat alone at one of the three tables. Before her was a notepad, a pen, a bowl of tuna with a spoon sticking out of it, and a basket of freshly baked rolls. On the chair beside the table was a ceramic plate piled with finger sandwiches she had already prepared for lunch. She continued filling the rolls while jotting down grocery items for Food to shop for on his upcoming trip to the mainland. While she needed to complete her list, the lack of pressure to do so brought a smile to her face. She didn’t have to memorize it like some line for a commercial or sing it in front of a camera to be shared with thousands, if not millions of people. There were no performances on Summerwind. That, most of all, healed her soul.

  Moments turned to minutes and soon, she scooped the last of the tuna fish into a roll, leaving the remaining buns to freeze for later use. She gathered her plate of sandwiches from the chair and headed toward the back of the restaurant.

  The sweet smell of the pie reminded her to check on it. “God forbid I ruin Viola’s prize recipe.” She lifted up the plate she carried, hip-checked the small, waist-level swinging doors that delineated the dining area from the serving and prep space, and headed into the kitchen. In the refrigerator, alongside the plate of turkey breast sandwiches that she’d made earlier, she placed the tuna and attended to the pie. “Looking good.”

  Back in the dining area, she checked the clock. “Nine.” In ten minutes, I’ll need to reduce the heat. Per usual, Food would soon be coming over for the boys’ coffee. Then, Viola would mosey in for tea and stay until lunch. The day’s predictability warmed Carolyn.

  She brushed crumbs from her apron, moved to the coffee urns, and flipped them on.

  Soon, Food entered with a clang at the front door. “Mornin’, Carolyn!”

  “Good morning to you. And right on time.” She went to him.

  “You bet.”

  They hugged—a common courtesy on the island that Carolyn first found awkward. You just saw the person the night before. She patted Food’s back. He smelled unwashed, earthy and stale. He wore a stained red T-shirt and patched jeans. His hair shone with grease, like a rationing of shampoo occurred at his household. Carolyn wiped her nose with the back of her hand and returned to the beverage station.

  “What kind of coffee do you have for us this morning?” Food shoved his hands into his jeans pockets.

  “I have two new types.” Carolyn washed in the sink. “Aside from the regular, I have a Guatemalan Roast and a Rain Forest Nut.”

  “I smell blueberry pie. Is that Viola’s?”

  Carolyn eyed the clock. A few more minutes. “Yes, it is.”

  “Her secret recipe?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Food rocked on his heels. “So, Guatemalan Nut and Rain…?” He struggled with the names.

  “Guatemalan Roast and Rain Forest Nut.”

  “I’ll get the coffee orders from the guys and come back.” He pointed to the small refrigerator that housed juices, sodas, and milk. “Put me down for two chocolate milks.”

  “You got it.” She took out the cartons and placed them on the counter.

  Food took them while she jotted an entry in Michael and Terrence’s ledger.

  He moved to the door. “I’ll ask the guys about the coffee and be right—speaking of guys, I was at the general store this morning, looking for shampoo.” He combed a lock behind his ear. “There was a guy there asking about you.”

  “Oh?” Carolyn raised an eyebrow.

  The front door chimed, and in walked Rudy Galante.

  Rudy yanked a chair out from table two and sat, after Food scattered. “Do phones not work on this fuckin’ island or something?”

  “I was going to call you back!” Carolyn threw a towel on the counter. “And actually, phones are temperamental here.”

  “Temperamental, my ass!” His jawline throbbed with anger, like it did.

  Carolyn meandered over, pulled out the table’s accompanying wrought-iron chair, and sat. “Fire me.”

  “I ain’t gonna fire you. You got any coffee? That fucking boat trip was from hell. You know I don’t like boats. No wonder you hid from me on an island.”

  “I didn’t hide from you.” With hands on her thighs, she rose, retrieved him a cup of coffee, and returned with it. “Black. Like you like it. And strong. The pot’s still brewing.”

  “Thanks.”

  She sat while he sipped. What the fuck does he want? Ruin everything.

  Rudy’s large mitt dwarfed the mug as he set it down. “So, what’s going on here?”

  “I told you. I needed to escape. I needed some time off to eval—”

  “No.” He pointed out the window to the construction site. “The inn where we filmed Witches of Salem. What are they doing to it?” He turned to Viola’s house. “And that place. They’re ripping off the porch.”

  “The porch is going back. It’s just that some of the spindles—”

  “We wanted it the way it was.” The smell of his cologne—a woodsy scent with a hint of pine—wafted her way.

  “What do you mean ‘we wanted it’?” She rubbed her temple to soothe the head throb.

  Rudy sniffed. “You cooking something?”

  “Oh, shit!” Carolyn jumped up. “My pie.”

  “Smells good.”

  She ran to the kitchen.

  “Since when do you cook?”

  The front door chimed. “Good morning,” Viola said, as Carolyn waved away the smoke. “I hope that’s not my pie that’s burning,” the old woman shouted from the dining area.

  “Um, no. Just some…pastries.” Carolyn hated to admit she’d screwed up the preparation of Viola’s beloved recipe.

  “You own that place?” Rudy barked at Viola.

  Carolyn shut the oven off and removed the pie. “Rudy, that’s Viola,” she shouted over her shoulder, setting the burnt pie on the counter to deal with later. “Viola, this is Rudy, my manager.”

  “Oh, heavens to Betsy,” Viola said, and her dog growled. “Outside you go.” The door clanged open, and Sam’s yipping met the outside.

  Carolyn entered as Viola took a seat next to Rudy.

  “I don’t own that place anymore.” Viola pointed over her shoulder to the inn.

  Rudy leaned back, with arms across his chest. “You sold? Does Jack Cantor and the film company know about this?”

  Viola’s brow furrowed.

  “We had contract options on that place for a sequel.”

  Part III

  Magick

  Through the Three-way

  In the Essex Street apartment in Salem, Berniece tossed clothes into a duffel. “The bus to New York leaves at two fifteen.”

  Rebecca muddled over Berniece’s idea to jump-start Carolyn’s success with a triptych approach—using all of the books of shadows in three different locations. “You’re sure about this?” She picked popcorn out of the bag she’d microwaved. Since staying at her old apartment with Berniece—temporarily, for the last couple of weeks—her customary routines, like lounging on the couch in front of the television, resumed. She attributed the gloom that hovered over her to not having seen Derek. Liking another man that much—it’s not love…can’t be…not me—hadn’t seemed possible for the witch. The soap opera on TV made her think that her “boyfriend”—if she could even call him that—could star in one of these shows
based on looks alone: Derek tall and muscular, with his prominent Adam’s apple and persistent five o’clock shadow, masculine hands that caressed her, and work boots that fumbled to the floor when they made love. Derek—budding model, at one time anyway—who snatched food from her plate when she wasn’t looking and shrugged childishly when she caught him. What did I do to deserve him?

  “Yes, I’m sure.” The zipper to Berniece’s bag sounded strained. “How many times I got to tell you?” She sniffed the air. “Hey, I think they’re cooking a pepper and salami pizza downstairs.”

  Rebecca whiffed. “No. Ham.” She ate kernels and took in her roommate: Berniece round and jolly, with her beauty hidden under pounds of flesh—I can still see it, though—and a Southern pronunciation that masked brilliance the African-American didn’t care to show. Berniece—an abused child, something she shared with only a select few—who found things on the computer and the internet when Rebecca lost hope for a solution, shrugging “no big deal” to Rebecca. I can’t even turn on the computer, let alone discover ancient text through it. Bernie had a plan.

  “I’m gonna get me a slice before I go.” Berniece lumbered to the door and looked back before opening it. “You want one?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Well, get dressed. You got to bring me to the city.” She snapped her fingers. “Let’s go.” She exited.

  Rebecca clicked the television off. “That ARMY sweatshirt’s gone to your head.”

  “I heard that!” Berniece shouted from the hall, stairs creaking as she descended.

  The drive into Boston took longer than expected. Rebecca hated driving Berniece’s car but had no choice. “It drives like a tank. I wish I never sold my Hyundai.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to live on a deserted island and needed the money.”

  “I know.” Rebecca’s scrounging for cash and avoidance of credit card companies’ reminders persisted.

  “Hurry. It leaves in ’bout a half hour.”