Her Dear & Loving Husband

by Meredith Allard

  “She’s leaving for her date with Wendell,” Jennifer said.

  “That can’t be right. Wendell is a student aide.”

  “Exactly.”

  Sarah put her hand over her mouth to stop her laughter. “That isn’t funny.”

  “I’m surprised none of the students have asked you out, Ms. Alexander.”

  “Please.” Sarah used her hand as a stop sign like a police officer directing traffic. “No one is allowed to ask me out right now. Not for at least a year. I’ve decided. I can’t think about another relationship right now.”

  “Even if you find someone great?”

  Sarah flipped the switch on the Elmo and saw the logo of Salem State College, a blue sketch of the Friendship, on the white screen on the wall. “Not anyone,” Sarah said. “Not now.”

  The smile slipped from Jennifer’s face. “That’s too bad,” she said. She adjusted the lens on the projector so the logo was clearer. “So I heard you met James the other night. He teaches English here, did you know that? And he’s cute too.”

  “Cute and scary. Maybe not scary. Intense might be a better word.”

  “Did he really frighten you?”

  Sarah paused, watching the logo on the screen as she con-sidered. “I wasn’t sure if I was more frightened for myself or concerned for him. He seemed more upset than intimidating. He certainly is handsome.” She paused because she wasn’t sure if she wanted to share her next thought. But Jennifer was already her best friend in Salem, so she decided to trust her.

  “I think he looks like the man in my dreams. I’ve never seen the man’s face—it’s always in the shadows—but when James first came out of his house I couldn’t see his face either. I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Something about being in Witch City, I guess.”

  Jennifer watched Sarah with the same detective-like con-centration her mother had. Then she turned her attention to the desks scattered haphazardly around the room, straightening them into five neat rows.

  Sarah stared at the floor, consumed by thoughts of the other night. Her encounter with James stirred too many emotions at once: fear, concern, sympathy, attraction, but mainly disappoint-ment in herself for finding him alluring at all.

  “He was just confused,” she said.

  How else could she explain his sudden attachment to her? And as for her just as sudden attachment to him? It was not hard to see where her attraction came from. He was a beautiful-looking man, James Wentworth, and though he looked physically strong, there was some vulnerability there too. How else could he have shown his soul to a stranger? Even after he realized she was not who he thought she was, his soul was still out there, visible, and she felt it reach out and touch her with the aura of its warmth. She could feel it touching her even then.

  When Jennifer finished pushing the desks around, she sat on a chair and gave Sarah her full attention. Sarah felt like she was supposed to say something, as if Jennifer wanted something from her. “He mistook me for someone else,” Sarah said. “Elizabeth, he called her. When he realized he made a mistake he apolo-gized.”

  “Did he tell you who Elizabeth was?”

  Before Sarah could answer, he was there, James, standing outside the door, watching her through the window. His dark eyes were curious, wondering, though less intimidating under his wire-rimmed eyeglasses. She could feel his gaze piercing her as if he were trying to see through her, understand everything about her from the day she was born, through all her years on earth, until that very moment in the library. It was that same sense of being drawn toward him she felt in front of his house. If they hadn’t been standing under the bright fluorescent lights in the library she might have been wary of him again.

  He opened the door and walked into the room. “Hello, Sarah,” he said. “Forgive me, I know we haven’t been formally introduced. After the other night, I suppose it’s hardly necessary.”

  Jennifer curtseyed to James, one foot behind the other, a caricature of courtesy. “Sarah Alexander, this is James Went-worth, Professor of English at our illustrious institution. Doctor Wentworth, this is Sarah Alexander, your new liaison for Humanities I studies.” She winked at him. “That includes you.”

  “Yes, Jennifer, I know. That’s why I came by. I need help locating some sources about John Keats, and I was hoping you could help me, Sarah.”

  “Of course,” Sarah said. “Tell me what you need.”

  “That’s right,” said Jennifer. “Tell Sarah what you need. Or I can help you if Sarah doesn’t want to. You weren’t very nice to her the other night.”

  “I don’t mind,” Sarah said. And she didn’t. Standing next to him, realizing how tall he was, noticing again how strong he seemed, she thought he was easier to be around in the light of the library than in front of his house in the dark and the rain. Jennifer nodded, smiling to herself as if she were in on her own conspiracy.

  “I think Sarah has forgiven you for your transgression the other night. Isn’t that right, Sarah?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “It was all just a misunderstanding.”

  “It was,” James said, “but I frightened you and I’m sorry.”

  “Sarah is leaving for the night, Professor. Why don’t you walk her home?”

  Sarah liked the thought of being escorted by a handsome professor, a scholar of literature no less, but the memory of the other night flashed behind her eyes. She wondered which James would walk her home, the courteous, thoughtful one standing before her or the confused one who made her nervous. She looked at Jennifer, unsure what to say.

  “It’s okay,” Jennifer said. “He doesn’t bite.”

  James pushed his glasses back on his nose. “No,” he said, “I don’t bite.”

  Sarah knew, in her rational mind, that she shouldn’t go anywhere with him after his erratic behavior, but, year or no year since her divorce, she felt drawn to him. She was curious about him more than anything, and this walk could allow her to begin to piece together the puzzle that was James Wentworth.

  “All right,” Sarah said.

  James smiled. There was something about his smile Sarah loved instantly, as if it were her own smile, and she felt her own joy at seeing it. As they left campus they saw a black and white Salem Police car drive down Lafayette Street. On the doors it said Salem Police, The Witch City, Massachusetts, 1626, and in the center was a silhouette of a witch on a broomstick.

  “I can’t believe the witch is still the symbol for Salem,” Sarah said. “Even The Salem News has a witch as its logo.”

  James let out a frustrated sigh. “Witches have become great commercial fodder here. Salem has become something of a gathering place for mystics, and some believe it’s touched by the metaphysical and inhabited by supernatural beings.” He smiled, a flash of amusement across his lips.

  “My landlady insists Salem is haunted by ghosts,” Sarah said. “She almost scared me out of living here, and I don’t even believe in ghosts.”

  “Salem may change your mind.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  From Lafayette Street they turned down Derby, then right on Washington Street until they were in the green expanse of Lappin Park. James pointed to a bronze statue sitting center in a paved opening surrounded by well-manicured lawns. “Have you seen that?” he asked.

  They walked closer until Sarah saw a statue of Elizabeth Montgomery, who played the good witch Samantha on the tele-vision show Bewitched. The scene showed the show’s logo, Sam-antha on a broomstick in front of a crescent moon. Sarah walked close enough to touch the smooth bronze.

  “I should have brought my camera. I didn’t know I was going sightseeing tonight.”

  “We can come back another night,” James said. “What else would you like to see?”

  Sarah felt herself blush hot along her jaw. He was already thinking about taking her walking another night, and she was em-barrassed at how happy she was to hear it. She chided herself, repeating every reason she had about why she needed to be alone righ
t now. It was too soon after her divorce. She didn’t choose the right men—her marriage was proof enough of that. And this man, James, was beautiful, intelligent, a professor of her favorite subject (studying John Keats, her favorite poet, no less), and yet, as they walked in the cool Salem night, comforted by the sea breeze, he stood a distance away, as if he loved her company but didn’t care much for anything else about her.

  She saw him watching her, that curious expression again, so she pulled herself from her reverie and considered what else she wanted to see around town. They were close to her house at Lappin Park—she lived a few blocks down Washington Street, near Essex Street and the Salem Inn—but she wasn’t ready to go home.

  “I’ve been wanting to see the Salem Witch Museum,” she said.

  James stared at the half-moon in the sky. “The Salem Witch Museum,” he said, as if he had never heard the name before. He stepped closer to her, inspecting her again the way he had in front of his house. She began to think she made a mistake walking home with him after all. She looked around, but there were plenty of people out that autumn night, dining at the restaurants and bars that populated the town. He must have realized he was making her nervous, she thought, because he took a step back, giving her space.

  “They close at five,” he said, “but I’d be happy to show you where it is.”

  They continued down Church Street, passing the Lyceum Bar and Grill with its brick walls and whitewashed Romanesque arches hanging over the windows, the white-potted topiaries in front. He stopped so she could get a better look.

  “There are many people like your landlady who believe ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem,” he said. “Some believe that Bridget Bishop, one of the first women executed in 1692, haunts this very building.”

  Sarah stepped close to the brick wall and touched her hands to the rough exterior. A couple leaving the Lyceum smiled at her as they walked by, and she felt silly, as if they thought she was trying to sense any ghosts in the building. When she felt a spark of static—the same energy she felt when she touched her landlady—she pulled her hands away. She turned to James and he seemed somber, as he had in front of his house. She tried to lighten the mood.

  “Do you believe ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem?” she asked.

  She meant to be light, friendly, even a little flirty with the handsome, blond, strong-looking professor. Her resolution to wait had slipped away into the static electricity in her hands. Even though she had said to Jennifer, less than an hour before, that she didn’t want any man asking her out right now. Even though she had reasons not to flirt with any man. But suddenly here was James and all she could think about was how he was looking at her, as if he wanted to know her, or as if he already knew her, she couldn’t tell. She had to admit, though she didn’t want to, that she enjoyed his attention. She enjoyed sightseeing around Salem with him. Something, somewhere deep inside that was not logical, felt as if there were an invisible line reeling from him to her and back again, catching her and holding her to him. It wasn’t a frightening sensation. This was a light, fluttery line, like silk thread.

  As he watched her, his expression softened and he relaxed into an easy smile. Taking this as an invitation to come closer, she stepped near him and stood on her toes so she could see into his night-dark eyes, such a contrast to his pale complexion, like a black-white pattern in a painting. He stepped back too quickly, a man-sized jumping bean, and he turned to study the brick arches of the Lyceum as if he had never seen them.

  “Yes,” he said finally, “I believe that ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem. I’ve never been more sure of it.”

  He opened his mouth to say more, but he shook his head and walked away at such a fast pace he left Sarah trailing behind. She didn’t mind. She slowed her steps, hoping he’d disappear into the distance so she could slip down Washington Street and find her way home. Alone. She was being too foolish about this man, she decided. He was too unpredictable. Suddenly, he flipped the switch back to bright and slowed his long strides, waiting for her to catch up.

  “There I go again,” he said.

  Sarah laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, tinged with low, hollow tones.

  “Please,” he said. He extended his arm, a courteous gesture from olden days when gentility was the norm, and again, despite her concerns, Sarah felt the invisible pull toward him. She slid her arm through his.

  “There’s a whole tourism industry in Salem centered around the metaphysical,” he said, continuing their conversation as if they hadn't suffered an awkward moment. “There are tours guided by parapsychologists that are supposed to highlight places in the city haunted by the supernatural—ghosts, werewolves, vampires.” Sarah saw that amused smile again, though it dis-appeared quickly. “Have you ever been to Danvers?” Sarah shook her head. “It used to be known as Salem Village, the epicenter of the witch hunt hysteria. There’s a memorial there for the people executed in 1692.”

  “I’d like to see that. One of the reasons I came was because I was told I have an ancestor who died here during the witch trials. I wanted to find some information about her.”

  James stopped walking. He dropped Sarah’s arm and step-ped closer to her. “What was your ancestor’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He looked disappointed. “Perhaps you’ll discover it through your research.”

  He extended his arm again, and again Sarah slid hers through. He slowed his pace, she quickened hers, and they shared a rhythm that matched her fluctuating heartbeat. First too fast, then too slow. It was, come to think of it, a lot like her night with James. First too hot, then too cold. Now it was heating up again. They were already at Salem Common, a nine-acre park used as public land to graze livestock in colonial times. They passed the Salem Visitor’s Center, walked around Washington Square North, and there was the Salem Witch Museum, along with the imposing cloaked statue of Roger Conant, the man who first settled Salem, among America’s oldest towns, in 1626.

  The Salem Witch Museum was housed in a tall brick church with two castle-like protrusions on either side, a Gothic arch in the center of the building coming together at a point like two hands praying. Sarah didn't need to turn around to know James was watching her. He stepped so close she could feel him close to her hair. She kept her eyes fixed on the brick exterior of the museum.

  “There are other museums around town you should visit if you want to learn about the witch hunts,” he said. “The Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street has actors performing scenes from the transcripts of the trials. There’s a recreation of the dungeons where the accused witches were jailed—dark, horrid, illness-filled, rat-infested places. Abominations.”

  Sarah shuddered. She heard his words, they were simple enough, but she hardly understood him, as if he were speaking Russian suddenly, or Vietnamese. Above, the far-reaching sky was clear, no rain, and she realized that the sudden drops of water on her cheeks must have been from her eyes. The imme-diate emotion startled her. She didn't understand what brought it on. She brushed the wet away with the back of her hand and shook her head, trying to send the oppressiveness away. Then she felt like an ice storm had dropped and she was trapped and shivering. She crossed her arms over her chest in a poor attempt to keep the chill away. She looked around, from side to side and back again, expecting to see a monster jumping out of the shadows—a leering, laughing, pock-faced monster, grabbing her, locking her into heavy, suffocating chains, and dragging her away. She jumped in real fear. James touched her arm, and she backed away as if he were the monster. She didn't recognize him through her hallucinating eyes.

  “Stop it!” she yelled. The shadows crept toward her, step by step, finding strength in the laughter of the wind. “Go away!” She held up her fists, the only weapons she had, meager though they were. She was ready to fight back if they tried to take her.

  “Sarah?” James put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, gently. “Who needs to stop, Sarah? There’s no one here bu
t me.” He brushed a dark curl from her mouth. He put his arms around her, pulled her close, and rested his chin on top of her head. When she didn't stop shaking, he held her tighter, whis-pering his sweet, strong voice into her ear, touching her skin with his words.

  “It’s all right, Sarah. I’m here. No one is going to hurt you.”

  She dropped her face into her hands, forcing herself to breathe slower, mindful of her heartbeat, staying in the fright until she could pull herself out of it. She had become good at pulling herself out of frights whenever she awoke from her nightmares.

  “Sarah?”

  She had yelled at James like he was the monster, but he was not the creature in the shadows. He was there helping her, the concern everywhere in the softness in his eyes. Suddenly she realized how he stood around her, his arms a circle keeping her safe inside and whatever it was that had frightened her out. She pushed herself closer to him, not wanting him to let her go. Then, as suddenly as the fear came on, it disappeared. She saw the chain-wielding monster recede with the shadows into the night, and she felt her lungs open and she could breathe again. James must have sensed that she had settled because he became business-like suddenly, dropping his arms and stepping away.

  “Let me take you home,” he said. He put a strong hand on the small of her back, guiding her down Washington Square.

  They walked silently for some time, and after about a mile Sarah’s muddled mind began to clear. She always felt like she was losing touch with reality when she had those incoherent moments, which were occurring more frequently since moving to Salem. As they walked toward Essex Street, she couldn't make up her mind about him. On the one hand he was so considerate, on the other hand prone to dark moods. She was more confused about him than she was when she left the library. And she had thought she would understand him better from this time alone.