Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  The traffic on the Tobin edged forward as they neared its toll—about a mile and half from the bridge’s beginning. “I can’t go any faster,” Rebecca said. “The train station isn’t that much farther, anyway. We’ve got plenty of time.” Boston’s Big Dig—a multiyear and multibillion-dollar construction project to place the city’s highway underground—redirected traffic in strange configurations. Rebecca hoped that once they got off the Tobin, South Station—at only another mile or two away—wouldn’t take much longer to get to.

  “And why you hating my car?”

  The fan belt whistled as they inched along. “Um, that noise, for instance.”

  Ignoring her friend, Berniece rustled through her change purse. “It’s a buck now?”

  A sign flashing the cost of the exact-change-only lane beamed over them. “Quick, we’re coming up to it.” Rebecca cupped a hand to Berniece.

  “Feel that?” Berniece placed four quarters into Rebecca’s hand.

  “Feel what?”

  “The shaking of the bridge. In high winds, the whole thing shimmies a bit.”

  Eyes trained on the white Lincoln in front of them and keeping Berniece’s car in the bridge’s center lane helped Rebecca avoid the fact that they were hundreds of feet in the air. “Don’t tell me that.” The bridge rattled as she neared the change basket. “Oh, God, I don’t like heights.”

  “This coming from a girl who flies through the air.”

  “Funny.” Rebecca tossed the change in the bin. She hadn’t had a vision since the dumbwaiter scenario. “Only twice. I told you.”

  “Wish I could do that,” Berniece said.

  “It’s weird. It’s like dreaming but you know you’re not, and at times, you can manipulate the situation.” The road cleared, and she sped away from the booth.

  “I have a book at the shop on lucid dreaming. I tried some of the exercises in it but could never get it to work.”

  “I’m not sure it’s lucid dreaming.” She glanced at Berniece, who twirled her thumbs over her belly. “I don’t think they were dreams. These things really happened. Josefina. I saw her fall into that damn contraption. And Carolyn…and a friend of hers I never even met, who happened to have a flood in her apartment…Uh!” Rebecca tired of trying to find an explanation for it all.

  “Well, when I get to New York, we can do our spells.”

  “I hope this works.” The car entered a tunnel. A jackhammer ratcheted loudly nearby. The man operating the apparatus could be Derek, she thought, if his time off for disability hadn’t been extended. While her lover’s slipped disk seemed fine to her—at least he never complained when she fucked him forcefully, arched backward and pinning down his quivering thighs with her hands—she didn’t question his not wanting to return to the job. The checks came in. Viola, and now Michael and Terrence, paid him some for the handiwork he shared with Dave and Food.

  Berniece muttered.

  A light appeared at the end of the tunnel. And he gives me some money now and again. Though I hate to ask. She’d never forwarded her mail to Summerwind. She let Berniece hold the collection notices.

  “You listening to me?” Berniece asked.

  “Oh, sorry.” Rebecca righted sunglasses from her head to the bridge of her nose. “I was just…” She avoided saying more.

  Berniece huffed. “You still thinking about that man?”

  “No.” Boston Sand & Gravel loomed below as the car made its way around a calculated turn, seeming to go in the opposite direction they’d intended, the wheel at a constant angle.

  “Well,” Berniece chuckled, “you better not be ’cause half of Salem thinks we’s lovers. I might get jealous.” The stoking of their lesbian rumors assisted Berniece in getting help from Loni Hodge. “Loni told me the spells I found on the internet are good ones.”

  “So a three-way will really do it?”

  Berniece laughed. “Good, Lord, you make it sound like we’re all gonna have sex.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes. “You in New York…” She retold the plan. “Me in Salem, and Derek in Summerwind.”

  “You sure your boy toy can handle spellin’ in the widow’s watch?”

  “He’s on board.” They neared congestion, and Rebecca moved into the right lane. Since finally getting back the Book of Shadows from the kook in California who Berniece auctioned it to, they hadn’t been able to ward off the pending doom Loni predicted. Carolyn still can’t sing. Their reciting of spells from their old book—as they’d initially planned—didn’t work.

  “Once we get her to sing, all will be good.” Berniece pointed to the exit.

  “I see it. I see it.” Rebecca flipped on the car’s directional.

  “The right turn signal don’t work.” Berniece rolled down the window and stuck her head out. “Hold on, real Salem witches coming through.” She popped her head back in. “That Caddy is letting you in. Go.” The passenger window buzzed up.

  “If we get Carolyn to sing, Loni’ll let us into the coven?”

  “Well…”

  “What do you mean ‘well’?”

  “We got to make her a star,” Berniece said.

  “What? You said—”

  “Getting her to sing is half the battle. You know that.”

  Rebecca drove past a group of high-rises. “Sometimes I wonder if being a Loni Hodge witch is all it’s worth.”

  “Becky. Now you know, the recognition alone will get us clout. Red Vanilla will be swimming in business, and I can hire you full time with benefits.”

  Rebecca pulled up to the curb of South Station. “We’re here.”

  “I call you tonight when I get in.” Berniece opened the door some.

  “Remember, I don’t have my cell phone anymore. So don’t call it, like you did before.”

  “I call you at the apartment, like we planned.” Berniece leaned her head into the driver’s seat. “Give me a kiss, lover.”

  “Bernie!” Rebecca pecked her on the cheek and smiled. “You’re too funny.”

  Berniece left.

  On the way back, Rebecca sped—center lane—through the Tobin Bridge’s northbound lane, ignoring the constant fluttering she felt. It’s just the wind. It’s just the wind moving the bridge. “It was designed to sway.” She took a chance and zoomed into the left lane to pass a slow-moving car in order to get over the bridge faster.

  Somewhere over Chelsea, back in the middle lane, the fluttering stopped.

  “Derek, you ready?” Rebecca asked, after connecting him to the three-way phone chat. She propped a rectangular stone on the spine of the Nesbitt’s book of shadows she’d uncovered the day of Josefina’s incident with the dumbwaiter.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m here,” Derek replied.

  “Bernie, how’s New York?” Rebecca moved from the couch.

  “Big city!” Berniece said. “I got our old book here. Ready to go.”

  “Let’s do it.” Rebecca closed the shades to the living room window in Salem.

  “How’s the view from the widow’s watch?” Berniece’s voice scratched from the phone’s tinny speaker.

  “The what?” Derek asked. “Oh, the widow’s watch. Yeah, everything’s great.”

  “Make sure you’re in the center of it.” Rebecca returned to the sofa.

  “You got the one-armed doll on the table there?” Berniece asked Derek.

  “Yeah!” Derek huffed. “God, you two.”

  Ankles under thighs, Rebecca closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and hummed.

  Berniece copied. After an instant, she cleared her throat, and Derek joined.

  “With our chants a triangle forming, bring Carolyn Sohier to her calling.” She snuck a one-eyed peek at the book. “Here in Salem and throughout the world she can gloat, her voice like an angel it will float.”

  “Ummmm,” the girls chanted.

  Derek snickered. “Ummm.”

  “I’m next,” Berniece said. “With our chants a triangle forming…”

  Could It Be Magick This
Time

  In a blue-sequined evening gown, Carolyn crossed her legs. Beside her, Michael sported a dapper tux. They occupied two seats in row N at Radio City Musical Hall. “I’m not moving back for Rudy’s sake,” she whispered. They’d been arguing about her return to New York since they’d left her apartment for the Manilow concert.

  Michael leaned her way as Manilow’s ballad neared ending. “I just wanted you to consider Summerwind as an option is all.”

  She did. She had. “Not yet.”

  Barry Manilow finished “Weekend in New England.” The audience roared with applause.

  Michael clapped and leaned into her. “Are you sure it’s not for Rudy?”

  “I told you. Shush, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He just doesn’t get it. “No, I need to prove this to myself. I told you, enough.”

  Michael waved her off. “Let’s enjoy the show.”

  Carolyn rolled her eyes.

  On stage, Barry peered into the wings—hand over his brow, shading glare. Then, he played it—the droning opening to “Could It Be Magic.”

  Oh, shit. Carolyn felt a pit in her stomach. He’s not supposed to perform this.

  Michael patted her knee—knowing. “Are you going to be all right?”

  She nodded quickly. “I didn’t think he’d play it.”

  “Relax. Try and—”

  “I have to use the bathroom.” She got up and excused herself through the crowd of people in the aisle.

  When she got out, she looked back at Michael with his puppy-dog concern. “I’m fine,” she mouthed.

  Michael sported a weak smile.

  Carolyn whisked her way up the incline; her sequined gown crinkled through the air. She glanced backward. Hints of rose had flowered her steps and cast her scent over a mesmerized crowd.

  In the lobby, she closed the doors. The muffled sounds of Barry’s voice, the resonance of the piano, and the climb of the chorus all taunted.

  A security guard, a heavyset woman, chatted with an older black man. Their laughter filled the lobby.

  At the entrance to the women’s room, Carolyn stopped. What if? Instead of sitting out the song in a public restroom, she went to another entrance. She remembered its passageway, having walked it before.

  “Can I help you?” asked the security guard, her voice surprisingly high.

  Carolyn slinked around, back pressed to the backstage entrance. “I-I forgot my backstage pass.”

  “Ah, Carolyn Sohier!” The woman approached, keys jangling. “Why didn’t you say you were coming? Barry was expecting you earlier.”

  “He was?” She cleared her throat. “I mean. He was.” He never mentioned stopping by prior to the concert.

  “The fan club’s been waiting.”

  “Fan club?” There was only the post-concert celebration—

  The guard unlocked the door with a pull from her key ring. “You need an escort?”

  “I’m fine. I-I know the way.”

  “Hurry on now.”

  Carolyn wobbled on her heels as she rushed down the sloping floor toward the stage. “What am I doing?”

  A girl in all black smiled at her as they passed each other. The sound of Barry’s voice, though still muffled, grew closer. Stage right approached.

  When she pushed open the door, another person in black led her around the back of the stage. “Watch out for the cords,” she whispered.

  Somehow, a microphone on a stand appeared.

  “Makeup?” mumbled someone else.

  “Huh?” Carolyn asked but a brush had already made its way to her face. I’m going to do this?

  “At the instrumental break,” whispered someone beside her.

  Carolyn gripped the mike and carried it—stand and all—to the wing’s velvet partition.

  Berniece, wearing backstage black, emerged from the dark, a surprise-packed blast that almost rocked Carolyn off her high heels.

  Barry’s instrumental resonated as the witch summoned her to perform. A reverence fixed in her gaze, also a spiritual sense—her lips never parted, words never spoken.

  Then, Berniece, eyes closed, muttered, “Get ready, world.”

  “What—” A calling dragged Carolyn—an invisible string tethered to her core—out onto the stage. The surprise of finding Berniece, and the witch’s sudden disappearance into the wings, had the singer questioning what she’d witnessed.

  The back of Barry’s head haloed white light, the edges of his hair a translucent gold. His fingers caressed the keys, and he reentered the song.

  Just before the build—Carolyn’s favorite part of “Could It Be Magic”—she closed her eyes, let go of the curtain—now recognizing she’d clutched—took a deep breath, and sang. Quietly at first.

  Unlit, still out of view, no one would’ve recognized the set’s addition.

  Continuing, her voice blended with the backup singers, a harmonic convergence she’d been trained to do—to sing as one voice. Finally, she pushed past the backup singers, and walked down front and center, taking her lead from Barry.

  The tether tugged more.

  The heat of the spotlight greeted her.

  Witnessing Magic

  Michael leapt from his seat. “What the f—!” His exuberance was cut off by the cheer of the crowd, as if they’d taken their cue from him, and they all rose for the surprise guest.

  Carolyn sauntered down to the front of the stage, dragging the microphone stand with her as she serenaded the audience.

  Applause continued.

  “Who is she?” a woman next to Michael whispered to the man who accompanied her.

  Carolyn’s melody resonated throughout the hall.

  Michael’s mouth fell open.

  Barry stood, yet continued to play the piano. “Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Carolyn Sohier!” To Carolyn, he added, “I knew you’d do it, baby.”

  The audience clapped and whispered to one another: “She’s wonderful.”…“Oh my God!”…“Amazing!”

  Carolyn’s perfect pitch floated, like a feather, never landing, and hovered over them.

  The audience gushed exuberance, and her voice picked up intensity, as if fueled by the reception.

  Michael had never heard her sing with such force, at least live. The recording of the song she’d played for him, back at her apartment, sounded only half as good. “Yes!” He fought back tears.

  She wailed into the microphone.

  The backup singers crooned.

  A snitch of Carolyn’s hair fell in loose strands around her face as she performed.

  A tingle crept along Michael’s arms, and in a flash, it took over his entire body. “Holy shit.” He shivered. His hands stung from clapping. When he saw Carolyn’s mascara running, from tears and sweat, he wept.

  The crowd’s roar grew louder. It seemed never ending.

  While continuing to sing, Carolyn returned the microphone to its stand and threw her arms in the air.

  As the song neared completion, she held its final note, and from the balcony to the orchestra to the wings, the audience exploded into deafening applause.

  Barry finished the song with subtle notes played on the piano, but they could hardly be heard.

  Tears rolled down Michael’s face, as he watched his best friend pick up flowers that’d been thrown onto the stage.

  “Thank you. Thank you!” she said with rose petals caught in her hair.

  When things calmed some, Berniece appeared center aisle, flapping her arms to get Michael’s attention.

  “Berniece?” Michael slid out from the row’s confines. “Excuse me.” He fumbled through cheering patrons clamoring for more. “My God. This is like a rock concert.”

  “Michael, come backstage.” Berniece’s hand grabbed his.

  “Bernie, what are you doing here?”

  “Magick…with a K.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s complicated. C’mon, meet the fans.”

  The following day, the New York papers covered the even
t.

  Gilligan, Larry. “Barry Manilow Upstaged by Unknown, Up-Comer Carolyn Sohier.” New York Post 24 Aug 2000: pg. 3. Print.

  Have you heard of Carolyn Sohier? Neither had I until last night.

  I’m sure you know the Magnox jingle. That’s Carolyn. But that annoying ditty with rants about the fabulous features available on their phones gives you no inkling into the talent this girl offers.

  Closer but still not on par: Remember the Ricky Rick hit “You’ve Got Money” that was played incessantly on the airwaves during the early nineties? Carolyn Sohier was the powerhouse behind those backup vocals. No, she wasn’t the curvaceous, buxom blonde who lip-synched in the video alongside shirtless Ricky Rick. Sohier, while stunning in her own right, doesn’t have classic model looks (then again, a lot of good talent doesn’t—think Midler, Tantra, or Streisand). But, man, can Carolyn Sohier sing!

  Last night, this fledgling radio and television vocal artist outshined Barry Manilow at his own venue at Radio City. And he and the audience took pleasure in witnessing the birth of a star.

  Look for her this fall, featured in the new Jack Cantor film Witches of Salem—an offbeat parody of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible in which she’s slated to sing the theme song.

  Mark my words: this is the most fascinating female singer to come along since Barbra Streisand first sang “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

  Holden, Stephanie. “Manilow Sings Mercer but Carolyn Sohier Steals the Show!” New York Times 24 Aug 2000: pg. 10. Print.

  Take a cup of Bette Midler, a scoop of Barbra Streisand, add a smidge of Aretha Franklin and a couple tablespoons of Janis Joplin. Stir. Bake for a few decades, and you have Carolyn Sohier, born last night at Barry Manilow’s concert to raise funds for his new scholarship program…

  Haunted Happenings

  Months after the three-way spell, Rebecca, wearing a dark-green sweatshirt with the word MAINE embroidered in mustard-colored lettering, a pair of Levi’s, and sneakers, hurried down Salem’s uneven-bricked walkways at dusk. The sweatshirt—a purchase from a gift shop in downtown Bar Harbor, before the area, for all intents and purposes, closed for the season—held her jangling keys. After Labor Day, the only tourists who frequented Mount Desert Island were hunters and fishermen; Salem’s season just started.