Conversion

by Katherine Howe

  “That’s weird,” we said. “Dr. Strayed sounded so confident.”

  “Well, that’s what happens when the school nurse consults a specialist without even checking with the board of trustees. But there’s another reason I’m certain that it’s not PANDAS.”

  “What’s that?” we asked.

  Dr. Gupta smiled down at her daughter and took her hand. “My Anjali has never had a strep infection.”

  “Never?”

  “No, never.”

  “But if that’s true . . . then what is it?” one of us asked in a small voice.

  Anjali coughed. We looked at her sharply. She smiled a reassuring smile at us.

  “I’m consulting with some colleagues to figure it out. But the most important thing is for you girls not to worry.”

  Anjali coughed again.

  “Could it be something in the environment?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. That’s an outside possibility. We just don’t know.”

  Anjali leaned forward and hacked.

  “Are you all right, my dear? Do you need some water?” Dr. Gupta said, patting her daughter’s back.

  Anjali kept hacking, a deep and rattling sound, like her lungs were full of mucus. She shook her head and sat up.

  “No, thanks. I’m okay.”

  “We need to get you up and walking around,” her mother mused. Then she continued, “I will tell you girls this much. It’s certainly not PANDAS. And although I don’t want you to be afraid, I do want you to be careful. Take good care of yourselves and your health. Talk to your parents if you feel anything the least bit out of the ordinary.”

  Anjali let out a deep hacking cough, along with an agonizing groan. Her face contorted with the effort of it. We recoiled, Emma jumping off her bed and flattening herself against the wall.

  “There, sweetheart,” Dr. Gupta said, producing a small plastic bin and holding it under Anjali’s chin. She pounded her daughter’s back while the horrible hacking and gasping continued.

  “Anjali?” I asked.

  She shook her head, the sound flowing out of her as she strained, in pain, gasping for breath between coughs.

  “Just relax,” her mother soothed. “Let it come. Don’t try to fight it.”

  “What should we do? Can we do something?” I was afraid I was panicking, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  “It’ll be over in a moment,” Dr. Gupta said.

  Anjali started convulsing. Waves of spasm bent her forward and back, each forward bend marked by a cough so loud, it was almost a bark. The hacks got closer together, and Anjali’s hands gripped the rails on either side of her hospital bed. She leaned forward and with a groan so loud it was almost a scream, spat something wet into the plastic bin her mother was holding.

  “There, there. All over,” her mother soothed, stroking her hair.

  Anjali wiped her lip with a wrist and looked at us with frightened eyes. When she reached for the cup of water at her bedside, her hand was shaking.

  Dr. Gupta frowned into the bin, then held it out for us to see.

  “Does that look like PANDAS to you?” she asked. “You don’t have to go to Oxford to see that’s not what it is.”

  We leaned forward, equal parts baffled, worried, curious, and afraid.

  Inside the dish was what looked like a ball, maybe an inch in diameter, made of fine metallic threads, with sharp points at the end of each thread. It almost looked like . . .

  “Pins,” breathed Emma.

  We left Anjali lying on her side, pale, her arms wrapped around a large teddy bear with comforting teddy bear eyes, and with promises to come see her at home as soon as she was out. Her mother saw us to the door of her hospital room.

  “Try not to worry,” Dr. Gupta said. “Anjali is going to be fine. When we’re ready to talk about it with more certainty, I’ll let you girls know. And if your parents have any questions, they can call me.”

  We thanked her and walked silently down the empty corridors of Our Lady of the Inquisitor Medical and Ambulatory Care Center, our footfalls echoing on the linoleum tiles. We crossed through the sliding glass doors, their whoosh sounding unnaturally loud in the absence of any other noise.

  We crunched across the parking lot, climbing wordlessly into Deena’s car, sorting out our bulky winter coats, buckling ourselves in. Deena put the keys in the ignition, but didn’t turn them.

  We sat there, Deena and me in front, Emma in back. Our breath started to collect on the inside of the windows, blurring the outside world until it was just us three inside the car, alone with our thoughts.

  “Y’all, what’s going on?” Deena asked at length. “I mean, what the fuck is going on?”

  I was startled. Deena hardly ever swears.

  “I don’t know,” I said, gazing steadily at the moisture beading on the inside of the windshield.

  Emma didn’t say anything. In the rearview mirror I could see her staring out the side window, her knuckle in her mouth. The one with the wart on it.

  Deena shook her head, started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot to drive first Emma, then me, back home.

  As she put on her turn signal even though it was later than we thought and the street was completely empty, I felt my phone vibrating inside my pocket. A text message. I pulled my phone out and scrolled through my inbox until I found the new one.

  Happy VDay! Was at bball tourney. Call me?

  Spence. It was only after I read the text that I began, silently, to cry.

  INTERLUDE

  SALEM VILLAGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  MAY 30, 1706

  After that,” I say, “things started to happen. They started to happen quickly.”

  Reverend Green is staring at me, aghast.

  “Ann,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “How could you stand by? How could you let Betty Parris blame the slave like that?”

  I get to my feet and pace in the Reverend’s study. I can almost hear the screams in my ears, as though they still vibrated in the rafters of the parsonage. It’s a wonder we didn’t tear the parsonage down after it was all over. The meetinghouse is barely standing as it is. Can the soul of a building be stained, the way the soul of a woman can be? It’s ungodly to think so, but yes, I would say it could.

  “But it weren’t only Tittibe we blamed,” I say. “The gentlemen didn’t believe a slave like her, an Indian woman, would have the will to become a witch on her own. They thought there must be English witches among us, who’d led her into evil. That night Abby named Sarah Good, which were easy enough. She’d been absent from meeting for so long, none of us could remember the last time she were there. She was shabby, and she kept her daughter dirty. They stank, the Goods, they had no place to live, and went from farm to farm begging for room and board. She’d ask for alms from anyone, even those struggling themselves. Goodwives would close the shutter if they heard her coming. Reverend Parris was ready to believe she carried the Devil in her heart.”

  Reverend Green grows sad in his eyes. “And yet, consider how Jesus would’ve treated the likes of Sarah Good,” he remarks. “He’d have fed her without thought, and washed her feet with his own hands. The true Christian doesn’t hesitate to make himself humble.”

  “That might be true,” I say, frowning. “But Jesus didn’t have eight children in the house and an uncommon cold winter to contend with.”

  My confessor doesn’t look too kindly on my position. But it’s easy to point fingers from a position of comfort, and nothing he or Jesus says will change that.

  “When Abby accused Sarah Good, everyone reacted like they’d just been waiting for someone to say it. And the other that we named was Sarah Osburn. She’d been absent from meeting, too. And she was talked about.”

  “And why would she be the subject of gossip in the village?”

  I give him
a wry smile.

  “Why, for her husband,” I say.

  “What of him?”

  “He was quite a bit younger than she. And he’d worked for her. It was said there’d been an understanding between them before they bothered to sanctify it.”

  “I see,” Reverend Green says, a finger alongside his temple.

  “My father joined some other gentlemen in swearing out a complaint,” I continue, “and within a week the three witches were called before the magistrates to be questioned. All us girls were there, sitting together in the front of the meetinghouse. Everyone in the village turned up to feast on the spectacle. And throughout the hubbub, wherever Abby Williams, Betty Hubbard, Mary Warren, Betty Parris, and I walked, the villagers would step aside. I’d never felt like that before.”

  “Like what, Ann?”

  “Like . . . someone.”

  I’m pressed on a hard bench between Abby and Betty Hubbard, with Betty Parris and Mary Warren and a few others who’ve started to suffer fits akin to ours. The noise inside the meetinghouse is terrific, a roar of voices and bodies surging against each other, and though it’s the first of March, and still bitterly cold outside, the crowd is so thick that the air inside feels heavy and close. The windows in the meetinghouse, none too big to begin with, are fogged with moisture from our breath, and the lamps are smoking. I can feel my hair sticking to my neck. I wonder when was the last time Abby washed, for next to me she smells like dirty hair.

  On the dais near the pulpit several periwigged gentlemen perch behind a long library table, white linen neckerchiefs crisp against black buttoned coats, the most distinguished of them being Judge Hathorne lording over the very center. He’s a wrinkled eminence with hawk’s eyes and a long nose under shaggy brows. He’s in conversation with the others while Mr. Cheever perches off to the side behind a sheaf of blank paper, clutching a quill with an air of officiousness that makes me dislike him for reasons I can’t name.

  Betty Hubbard’s holding my hand tight, and Abby’s so excited that her knees are trembling under her dress, her feet thumping the floor like a rabbit. Betty Parris sits staring straight ahead, still, like a thing amazed. She’s barely talking even now. Mary Warren holds Betty Parris’s hand in her lap, petting it.

  A commotion approaches outside and the crowd at the back rushes the doors, flinging them open with a slam. From behind a screen of adults’ limbs I see Reverend Parris and another man I don’t know leading Tittibe Indian roughly by her elbow. Her hands are bound before her with rope that’s biting into her skin, and her eyes are rimmed with red.

  “Make way!” a man’s voice booms over the chaos. “Stand back! Make way!”

  At length a path parts in the mob, only enough space for Tittibe to be dragged sideways up to the bar that’s been hastily erected at the front of the room. Tittibe’s hands are fastened there, and she stands shaking before the assembly. Her lips tremble. Her eyes hunt over her shoulder in the crowd, and when they land on Betty Parris, they turn beseeching.

  “Now then!” Judge Hathorne bellows, rapping on the table to command everyone’s attention. The crowd simmers down, and Betty Hubbard’s grip around my hand tightens.

  Tittibe tears her eyes away from us and faces the panel of men who will decide whether the accusations against her merit a trial.

  Judge Hathorne exchanges a few private words with the gentleman on his right, whose name I think is Saltonstall. Then he nods to Mr. Cheever, who picks up his pen.

  “Tituba,” he says, “we’ll begin. You know who I am, and you know why you’ve been brought here today. These children suffer gravely, and are under an evil hand. We’re here to root that evil out. You desire to help us with this holy task, do you not?”

  Tittibe sobs, “Yes! I come to root the evil out.”

  “Good. Now then. What evil spirit have you familiarity with?”

  She licks her lips and says, “None.”

  The judge leans forward, pointing a long finger at us. We quiver as all eyes in the assembly fall upon our shoulders.

  “Then why do you hurt these children?”

  “I do not hurt them, sir. I do not.”

  “Who is it hurts them, then?”

  “I know not! It could be the Devil for aught I know, Mr. Hathorne. It must surely be he.”

  “I see. The Devil, you say.”

  The gentlemen on the dais all nod sagely. Mr. Cheever scribbles at a furious clip, stopping often to dip his quill anew.

  “And did you ever see the Devil when he came to hurt them?”

  “See him?”

  “Yes. He comes to the house and hurts the children, you just said so. Has he come to you as well? Do you see the Devil when he comes to hurt the children?”

  Tittibe shifts on her feet as though she would run away, but the ropes at her wrist hold her fast. “I . . .” She hesitates.

  “Did the Devil come to you, Tituba?” Mr. Hathorne prompts her.

  The miserable woman sees what the magistrate wishes for her to say, and accedes. “Aye. The Devil came to me and bid me serve him, as you say.”

  “He did. Good. Now tell us. Who have you seen with the Devil?”

  Tittibe looks around herself crazily, and blurts, “Four women sometimes come with the Devil when he hurt the children.”

  “And who were they?”

  The island woman raises her voice and cries, “Goody Osburn and Sarah Good and I don’t know who the other were! Sarah Good and Sarah Osburn would have me hurt the children, but I wouldn’t do it. And also there was a tall man of Boston that I did see, he come with them, too, and I did see them all together with the Devil.”

  “A tall man? And when did you see them, Tituba?”

  “I saw them last night at Boston.”

  “Let me understand this properly. They said you should hurt the children? And did you?”

  “No!” she cries. “There’s four women and one man. They hurt the children and then lay all upon me, and they tell me if I will not hurt the children, they’ll hurt me.”

  The assembly gasps at this revelation, and next to me Abby Williams trembles so much that I’m afraid she might fall from our pew.

  “But did you not hurt them also?” Mr. Hathorne says, chastising her.

  Tittibe’s eyes are wild in her head. “Yes,” she sputters. “Yes, but I’ll hurt them no more.”

  “Aren’t you sorry for hurting them?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m very sorry.”

  “Then why did you agree to do it? Why obey the four women and the tall man from Boston?”

  “They say I must hurt children or they’ll do worse to me,” Tittibe chokes through sobs.

  “Have you seen a man come to you and command you to serve him?”

  “Yes,” Tittibe gasps, because she’s been serving a man all her life. She’s been serving a man since she was a girl in the Barbadoes, and she’ll serve a man ’til she falls down dead.

  “What service did the man require from you?”

  “He said I must hurt the children, though I liked not to do it. Last night an appearance come to me and said I should kill the children, and if I wouldn’t go on hurting the children, they’d do worse to me.” Her voice breaks, and the crowd is growing rowdy.

  The judge leans forward with keen interest. “What is this appearance you’ve seen?” he asks. “Describe it for us. Is it like a man?”

  “Sometimes,” the island woman says, “it is like a hog, and sometimes like a great dog, the appearance is. I did see it four times altogether.”

  “And what did it say to you?”

  “The black dog said, ‘Serve me,’ but I said I’m afraid. He said if I did not, he would do worse to me.”

  “And what did you say to it after that?”

  “I didn’t like to hurt the children anymore, so I said, ‘I will serve you no lo
nger.’ Then all of a sudden he looks like a man and threatens to hurt me. When he was like a man, he had a yellow bird he kept with him, and he told me he had more pretty things that he would give me if I would serve him.”

  The gentlemen all nod and confer, for this is just the sort of silver-tongued lie the Devil might tell to entice a poor woman into trading him her soul.

  “And what were these pretty things the man promised you?”

  “I know not—he didn’t show me them.”

  “What else have you seen?”

  She speaks quickly, without thinking, and I wonder about the realms that unfold in the woman’s mind, if we ever bothered to ask. “I saw two cats, a red cat and a black cat.”

  “What did these cats say to you?”

  “They said, ‘Serve me.’”

  Judge Hathorne leans back in his turkey-work chair and stares at Tittibe for a long moment while the packed crowd gossips amongst themselves.

  “Cats!” Betty Hubbard whispers. “And they spoke to her! Whose spirit might they be, do you think?”

  “Goody Good and Goody Osburn, no doubt,” Abby spits. “Them witches vex me all the time. They come to me in the night and pinch me ’til I bleed.”

  The judge raps on the table and bellows, “Did you not pinch Elizabeth Hubbard this morning?”

  Betty Hubbard collapses against me, moaning. “I was pinched, it was Tittibe that pinched me, I knew it!”

  Panicking, Tittibe Indian protests, “The man brought her to me and made me pinch her!”

  “Why did you go to Thomas Putnam’s last night and hurt this child?”

  He’s pointing at Betty Hubbard, who’s still bunking with me at our house. And it’s true, last night she woke up in a fit of screaming. I feel it. We’ve begun to believe. We’ve been performing so well, we’re fooling ourselves. We’ve been pulled into our own play.

  “They pull and haul me and make me go!”