Conversion

by Katherine Howe

  “What?” I blinked. “No! Jeez.”

  “Do you think we both have to go?” my father asked my mother. “Someone should stay here with Mikey. He’s got a test. And there’s Wheez.”

  This was the way my family usually remembered it had a fifth member, my baby sister, Louisa, who was seven and big on stealth. Sometimes it felt like I went days without seeing her. She could be under my bed for all I knew. I wasn’t even sure if she was home right then.

  From the tension in my brother’s body I knew he was listening very hard. He went to St. Innocent’s, our affiliated boys’ school, where he was in eighth grade, and for the first time I wondered if there was talk about the Mystery Illness among the boys, too.

  “I can go. I guess.” My mother didn’t sound pleased. “If it’s important.”

  My father rested a paternal hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye in that “we’re really communicating” way that he had, which made me pity him in spite of myself.

  “It’s not about drugs, Colliewog?”

  I sighed. “It’s not. I swear. I’ll show you.”

  I herded my parents back to my room, which they both hesitated to enter, each waiting for the other to go through my door first. While they sorted that out, I opened my laptop and booted it up. They stepped around heaps of clothes and made a big show of being careful not to touch any surfaces. My mother avoided looking at my Killers poster in a way that was almost acrobatic. I could hear the forcible restraint of them not commenting on the state of my room.

  Both my parents’ breaths warmed the back of my neck as I brought up the video of the report. A soft footfall while it was loading let me know that Michael had crept in after them, his headphones draped around his neck like a rosary.

  “Nice phone, Mikey,” I muttered to him. I’d been lobbying for a new phone for months.

  “Oh, this?” he said, pretending to be casual. “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t get to have a phone ’til I was in high school, you know,” I remarked as three dark curly heads crowded together around my shoulders.

  “I didn’t get to have a phone ’til I was thirty,” my mom said. “And then I paid for it myself.”

  My father stifled a laugh.

  “Hilarious,” I muttered.

  I hit play on the news clip. Then, without warning, a fourth head materialized at my elbow. So Wheez had been under my bed after all.

  “Hi, Wheez,” I said to her.

  “Hi, Colleen. Don’t worry, I still don’t have a phone.”

  “Oh, God,” my mother said to the video screen. “Kathy Carruthers.”

  “What, Kathy Carruthers?” my father asked.

  “Well, I mean. Just look at her.”

  “Linda, come on.”

  “Sorry.”

  They watched the rest of the video in silence. At one point, Michael whispered, “Five!”

  When it was over, my parents straightened up and looked at each other.

  “Okay,” my mother said. “We’re both going.”

  INTERLUDE

  SALEM VILLAGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  MAY 30, 1706

  Elizabeth Parris, you’re talking about?” Reverend Green asks me. “Samuel Parris’s daughter?”

  “The same,” I confirm. “We were friends, in a way. She was the same age as one of my sisters. The Parrises would sometimes send her out to us to spare her Abby’s haranguing. Betty Parris was always delicate, and Abby had no patience. I liked her. Abby was a beast, but she ran riot with us, too, me and Betty Parris and the other Betty, Betty Hubbard, and Mary Warren and them. Mary was bound out as help for the Procters, but they didn’t work her as hard as the Parrises worked Abby. We were always together, doing chores, at the market square, wasting time in the Jacobses’ back field, sitting at meeting and trying not to yawn, in and out of the parsonage, in and out of Ingersoll’s Ordinary. It was Mary who first explained to me about the—”

  I’m about to say “about the monthlies,” but I catch myself in time. I’m not about to speak of such things to him, though I would rather like to see what Reverend Green looks like when he blushes. But it’s true, I learned about that particular curse from Mary, and not my mother, who never deigned to talk about uncleanness.

  Recalling our band of firebrands to him fills me with longing. Those girls are married now, most of them, and the better part have moved away.

  But then, it was never the same with us, after.

  “Anyhow,” I say. “We were friends. But Abby Williams had the strongest will of us all.”

  “I don’t know this Abby Williams,” the Reverend says. “I’ve heard the name, is all. But the girl herself, I don’t know. Did she marry?”

  “No. She’s gone. I don’t know where. The Parrises had taken her in for service from some kin at the Eastward, who couldn’t afford to keep her, and after everything was over, she vanished.”

  He frowns. “So this Elizabeth Parris. She was frightened of her father.”

  “Oh, but she was. We all were. He could freeze us with a look.”

  “Why would that be, with a man of God?”

  The Reverend seems perturbed that a shepherd would instill fear in the weakest members of his flock. A minister can be beloved on occasion, can be loathed as often as not, but isn’t often feared.

  “Lots of reasons,” I say. “When he first started in the village, he’d built a group around him who put a lot of stock in his word, my parents first among them. My mother hosted him very often in our home. But by January things had changed. He’d grown angry, I don’t know what about. That winter he’d given over his sermons to warning against Satan and temptations into sin. How even good people can be turned to witches by his wicked promises. Every Sunday that winter without fail, four hours in the morning on the wages of sin for weak and prideful people who don’t love God enough, then four hours more in the afternoon shaking his fist at the Devil hiding among us, cursing his myriad faces, saying that only Christ knows how many devils there are. And who they are.”

  “So it was his preaching that made you afraid?”

  “It made us all afraid. We were none of us ever good enough. We never loved Jesus enough. We looked into our souls and saw them for the pits of tar they were. But it weren’t only his preaching.”

  Reverend Green frowns, creases forming around his handsome mouth. I feel a stirring within myself, something I oughtn’t feel.

  “What was it, then?” he asks, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

  I swallow. The Reverend’s eyes are soft on mine.

  “Reverend Parris was a learned man. A gentleman, my mother said,” I say.

  “That’s true.”

  “He’d been educated at the college. And for a time, he’d had a plantation, on the Barbadoes. He could talk business with my father and make my father feel wise.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you wouldn’t think he’d be the sort of man . . .” I stop. I’m worried about speaking out of turn.

  “What sort of man?” the Reverend asks, lowering his voice to a whisper.

  “The sort of man who . . . well . . .”

  He rests a hand gently on the back of mine, and I thrill at the touch.

  “A . . . bodily sort of man,” I falter.

  “What does that mean, a bodily sort of man?”

  “It means that if his words didn’t persuade, he’d use other means.”

  A brief expression of distaste crosses the Reverend’s face.

  “And Elizabeth Parris?”

  “Betty was his daughter, so she learned soon enough how to be. She made herself delicate, kept herself small and obedient. She made it so she never needed any persuading. And so, when she fell ill, it seemed a natural thing to me.”

  “But I don’t understand. I thought you said she was pretending.”


  I pause, staring out the window. I put myself back in the loft that icy morning, with Betty bawling into Tittibe’s neck, her arms twined around the slave’s waist, the stamping of her father’s feet up the loft ladder. Abby’s hands on her hips, laughing. In my memory I’m standing at the foot of the trundle bed, and I have a decision to make, a decision that I don’t entirely understand. I’ve visited that morning more times than I can count, have pored over what Betty did, what I said, what Abby said, what Tittibe said. What happened next.

  I don’t know how to answer Reverend Green.

  “Ann?” he prods me.

  “I thought she was,” I say. “At first.”

  Chapter 7

  DANVERS, MASSACHUSETTS

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2012

  St. Joan’s had disappeared behind a cloud of words. When we got to school the following day, the Channel 7 news van had been joined by two other local affiliates and one from Boston. The reporters stood, forming a gantlet, each bathed in a separate white spotlight. We had to elbow over each other to reach the front door of the school, shouldering past waving microphones and glaring lights. Girls were pointing out TJ Wadsworth to each other, hopping and waving and grinning into the cameras.

  “. . . standing in front of ground zero for the Mystery Illness, and it looks like . . .”

  “. . . where some of the North Shore’s most pampered daughters have . . .”

  “. . . are asking if the HPV vaccine could possibly . . .”

  “. . . side effect of an age of oversexualized childhood, when girls are . . .”

  I paused, frowning, before shoving my way inside.

  Nobody had seen Clara or the Other Jennifer or Elizabeth since it happened, and because they weren’t back in school, rumors were flying low and thick. One rumor claimed that all three were in the hospital, hooked up to tubes and beeping machines. Another one countered that they were totally fine and would be back in school tomorrow. One tried to claim that Clara had been shipped to some top-secret clinic at Brigham and Women’s in Boston. Last night I’d even seen a tweet suggesting that Elizabeth was dead, but it was quickly deleted.

  By the time I sat down in advisory, it was like a full day had gone by. The rumors were so intense that it felt like a physical experience, walking through them down the hall. Even Deena looked exhausted.

  We nodded our hellos, Emma and Anjali each drifting into the classroom under her own draggy steam, Fabiana coming in with a cursory glare at me that made my jaw tense. Jennifer Crawford looked so tired that she hadn’t even bothered to update her hair color.

  A squeak of feedback, the upper school dean said, “Mary, Queen of Knowledge, pray for us,” over the PA system, and the day began.

  “Okay, ladies, let’s get to it,” said Father Molloy, shutting the door behind him.

  Even Father Molloy had purplish shadows under his eyes.

  “Your parents should’ve received a letter yesterday,” he began.

  Inside my bag, my phone vibrated. I felt it buzzing all the way up the strap until my seat back was vibrating, too. I shifted my eyes left and right. Anjali already had her phone out under her desk, continuing her nonstop digital romance with Jason. Slowly, I inched my hand from my lap to my bag.

  “And I hope you’re all able to attend our community meeting tonight. With at least one parent each, but if it’s at all possible for both of them to come, that would be ideal.”

  A hand shot up. Father Molloy turned his head to call on whoever it was, and I closed my hand around the vibrating phone.

  “Yes?”

  “Can siblings come? My mom wants to know.”

  “Absolutely. We’re going for total transparency here. Siblings welcome. What else?”

  Another hand went up, and I slid the phone into my lap. It blinked with a text message from an unknown number.

  “The newscast said there were five students now. Is that true?”

  “I’m not surprised you guys are curious, but unfortunately, I’m just not allowed to talk about it. Which is a shame, because I think secrets can make people more scared than they should be. But that’s the school’s policy. I may not agree with it, but I have to abide by it. That’s all I can say. You guys probably know more on this score than I do, anyway. More questions?”

  I clicked on the incoming message.

  It was a snapshot of an unfamiliar hand holding a copy of The Crucible. No text or subject or anything.

  “What the hell?” I said aloud.

  “Colleen? You have a question?” Father Molloy asked.

  I shoved the phone up my sleeve and said, “Yes. Is it true that they think everyone’s just having an allergic reaction to a vaccine? It sounded like that’s what the reporters are saying.”

  Father Molloy sniffed with annoyance at the mention of the reporters.

  “I’ve heard that rumor, too,” he said. “I’m not sure. But I know we should have more answers by tonight, for whatever that’s worth.”

  I nodded. When Father Molloy moved on to answer something Fabiana was asking, I slid the phone out again and unlocked the screen.

  There the cover of the play sat, making no sense at all.

  Keeping my eyes on the front of the classroom, I texted back.

  Mikey is this your new number? I’m gonna need that back when you’re done.

  But there was no answer.

  A hall’s length of rumor yawned between advisory and first period, and Emma and I shoved through it with our arms linked, as if our doubled number made us safer. But it didn’t.

  Did you hear the Other Jennifer’s hair fell out? Clara’s dad is suing the school. Elizabeth can’t even walk, can you believe it? I’m so glad my mom didn’t think I should get the HPV vaccine. What, did you get it? You did? Ohmigod, you did?

  Clawing our way out of the rumor stream, Emma and I collapsed in our chairs in AP US.

  “I can’t believe the day just started,” I moaned.

  “I know.”

  “You going to the meeting tonight?”

  She nodded. “Of course. I’m curious. My mom doesn’t think we should go, though. She’d rather we all just stay home. She thinks the rumors just make everything worse.”

  “Mine thought it was about drugs,” I said, and Emma laughed.

  “Mike and Linda are adorable.”

  “Aren’t they?”

  We sighed in companionable silence, staring at the ceiling.

  Ms. Slater elbowed through the door and strode to the front of the classroom, her arms full of ominous-looking papers.

  “Hi, gang,” she said.

  Emma frowned, glanced at me, and frowned deeper.

  “Hi, Ms. Slater,” a few of us chorused.

  I frowned back at Emma, shrugged, and mouthed What?

  She shook her head and waved me off. Weird. Just when I felt like we were getting back to normal, Emma would do something that I didn’t understand.

  “So. How’s everyone doing?” Ms. Slater asked, leaning on the lectern with her elbows.

  Silence as we collectively shrugged.

  “Ms. Carruthers? How’re you doing?”

  Leigh sank a little lower in her chair, hunching her shoulders. “Okay, I guess,” she said.

  “Your mom’s not very opinionated, is she?” Ms. Slater asked.

  “Um. What do you mean?” Leigh feigned ignorance in a way that I found particularly grating.

  “I don’t mean a thing,” Ms. Slater said, turning her attention to the papers in her hand, riffling her fingers through them. “Not a goddamn thing.”

  I smiled before I could help myself, and brought my sweater sleeve up to hide it.

  “You all seem pretty wiped, if you want to know the truth,” Ms. Slater said. She started to move among our desks, slapping down a paper before each of us.


  “All the more reason to shake things up. What lies before you now, and which you are not to touch until I say the word, is a pop quiz.”

  Universal groans of “Oh, God” and “Oh, come on!” rose to the dark oak rafters of our former convent classroom. A few bolder voices even said things like “Mr. Mitchell never gave pop quizzes. College doesn’t have pop quizzes!”

  “Oho!” Ms. Slater grinned her gap-toothed grin and crossed her arms. “Who are you who are so wise in the ways of college? Have you been?”

  Begrudging silence.

  “Didn’t think so. First of all, I’m not Mr. Mitchell.”

  A few of us muttered that we knew that, and frankly we wished he’d come back already.

  “And second of all, even college occasionally has pop quizzes. And third of all,” she said, smiling broadly, “this one’s a cinch. If you’re caught up on the reading, it’s an easy A.”

  This time we glanced at each other under our eyelashes. The promise of an easy A was intoxicating. Those of us who were deferred from early decision at our preferred colleges were in the habit of calculating our GPAs down to tenths of a point from week to week. Behind a dozen sets of tastefully lined girls’ eyes, wheels turned as grade point averages were quickly tallied anew. Eyelashes blinked as tantalizing numbers were arrived at. Wolfish teeth peeked from fruit-glossed mouths as small smiles flickered into being on the faces of AP US History. Many of those smiles were slowly aimed at our substitute teacher.

  She eyed us each in turn.

  “The honeymoon period had to end sometime,” she remarked, reading the calculation in our faces. “I just hope, for your sakes, that you did the reading.”

  Mine was not one of the smiling faces. My wheels had turned and emitted a dry grinding squeal. A sweat spread across my palms, and one of my thumbs twitched. The reading. What had we been assigned for reading? I shut my eyes, reviewing the previous week. I’d had a short response paper for AP English. I’d had a calculus problem set, which I’d finally gotten through when Deena helped me. I’d had . . . God, I couldn’t remember. I usually used advisory to review my history stuff. Was I caught up on the reading?