Suddenly, memories of her good friend Penelope Stinson flashed before her; how, when Bridget’s husband had passed away the year before, this loyal friend had brought her food, laughter, and company to help soften the loneliness of an empty house. Now, surrounded by so much misery, she missed her former confidant more than she could have thought possible.
“‘Tis a visitor for you, Goody Bishop,” the jailer declared, adding magnanimously, “She seems a harmless lot. I will let her pass.”
Penelope Stinson stood five-feet-seven inches tall, adorned with an imposing chest. Her ill-fitting clothes draped her body and her hair was in the usual state of disarray, but as she moved towards Bridget, the accused attempted a smile, stretching her shaky fingers out through the wrought iron cell bars.
“Keep all hands to yourselves!” the jailer bellowed from across the room.
“Penelope, it does my heart good to see you.”
“Bridget,” Penelope started, “there is something I must tell you before you go further in this trial.” Bending in towards the iron cell bars, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I left some things in the walls of your house last spring when you had work done there.”
“What…what kind of things?”
“Well, I wanted to bring your house good lucke. It were only for good lucke, I swear it.” Bridget waited, trembling.
“Remember those little puppet dolls I made two years ago? Do you remember them?”
Bridget thought a moment. “Yes, I do remember. They were so simple. I knew you could do better.”
“Those were speciale dolls, they were. They could bring you good lucke, I think.” Penelope was close to tears. “I never meant anything more of it. I swear it.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“I fear for you. The builders who labored at your house last spring say they will speak against you. They will tell of these dolls, how you made a pact with…with…Satan.” A tiny sob eked out her throat.
For several seconds, Bridget stared at her friend. Dazed, she suddenly wondered why she hadn’t even noticed the bars in front of her before, how filthy, how corroded they looked. And when she fainted, her dress wiped up some of the sludge she had tried so desperately to avoid.
The next day proved far worse. As she was being led into the meetinghouse by the ‘official transporters,’ swelling with self-importance and disdain for the accused, the afflicted girls ratcheted up their laments. Hathorne began the proceeding by addressing a small, cackling group of local women nearby. “Let the accused Bridget Bishop be examined for the ‘Devil’s Mark’. Conduct her into the other room, undress her, and perform your thorough search.”
Scared and humiliated, Bridget couldn’t get her legs to move. The clerks had to hoist her up over their shoulders like a wheat sack and carry her behind the hawk-like women, eager to explore every inch of her body. Off in a side room, she could feel their heavy breathing on her skin as their prying fingers turned her around, poking, probing. When they focused on her private parts, she flinched, determined to stop them, but her thin, protective hands were cast aside, then pinned down as two other women got on their hands and knees to look up at her most intimate spot of all.
“Looks like there aren’t a mark on this one, to be sure. But she’s the Devil, she is,” one of them proclaimed. Then, while Bridget wept, they handed her back her clothes so she could return to jail for that night and every other night for two weeks.
That winter, angry winds had whipped around structures, blowing snow everywhere—under saggy doors, into window crevices, and finally, depositing huge drifts that sloped against buildings. By spring, the full weight of the packed winter blanket had saturated through many of the wooden planks, leaving them rotted and shrunken with rusty nails protruding at least an eighth of an inch. If people listened hard enough they swore they could hear more than the usual creaks and groans that April and May.
Then the unthinkable occurred. Witnesses would claim later that on the final examination day, just as Bridget glanced up at the meetinghouse, there was a loud crash and one of the wooden planks fell, splitting in two. There was no recognition of the previous harsh winter, nor the fact that two of the nails had worked themselves out. This was simply the sign from the Devil they had been searching for.
“Whereupon said Bridget Bishop is determined guilty of Witchcraft, and therefore sentenced to Death as the Law directs and execution shall be done accordingly. In the name of King William and Queen Mary of England, said accused shall fryday next, the tenth day of this month of June, be conducted to the place of Execution to be hanged by the neck…”
On June 10th, the last morning of Bridget’s life, the sky shifted from pale to cobalt blue. Cumulus clouds floated above as the prisoner was slowly carted up towards Gallows Hill, her dirty hands and feet bound, her hair falling in unwashed strings. Along Prison Lane to Essex Street, then Essex Street through the village and out to Boston Road, Bridget endured the jeers and taunts of crazed townspeople, hungry for a spectacle. She didn’t even notice Penelope standing nearby weeping openly, her hands pressed together in silent prayer, nor did she realize that one of the shrieking attendees was the main accuser, Abigail Williams herself.
As Bridget took the last few steps towards a large oak tree, Abigail felt an unfamiliar stab of conscience. Suddenly, she flashed back to when she and Betty Parris had so innocently played the New England ‘egg-white-in-the-glass game’. There was the floating egg white resembling a coffin and Betty’s terrified look. Then there was the following day, with Betty’s non-stop ‘sleeping’, which, Abigail surmised, had more to do with exhaustion from the trauma of the game than truly being bewitched. Now, gathered here, there was no turning back, or was there? She opened her mouth to protest the hanging, but no sound came out. She wasn’t ready for her power to end.
So she closed her lips, biting down on one side until it almost bled, and after Bridget’s head was covered with a simple cloth bag, and the ladder she had climbed up on was shoved aside by a clerk, leaving her legs swinging desperately one last time before her neck broke, Abigail quickly looked down at the ground, still mute.
But Penelope’s voice crackled through the silence. “You shall not die in vain, Goody Bishop, you shall not die in vain!”
People turned around to stare, murmuring in agreement, unsure of what to do next.
Abigail panicked. She could not afford to let things get out of hand. She flung her arms up in the air and cried out, “Praise the Lord, I am spared. Praise the Lord!” Soon other people were shouting, “Praise the Lord, Praise the Lord,” until the entire crowd was swept up, like a Greek chorus. As they moved en masse down the hill, Penelope realized Bridget Bishop had already been forgotten; soon they would all be attending a new trial and execution.
But Bridget’s friend could not forget, and as the months passed and life in Salem continued, upended, the sight of the self-righteous Hathorne parading through town day after day kept the festering strong inside her head. When the witch trials were over and the townspeople had conceded that it had all been an error of tremendous magnitude, after eighteen other hangings, overflowing jails, and destroyed families, she might have forgiven him on some level if he had shown one ounce of remorse. But even on his deathbed, some claimed he had not only been unwilling to accept any responsibility for his part in the trials, he died proud of it.
Penelope did not share that luxury. Her life had stalled, filled with the slow, steady agony of losing a dear friend and several neighbors. Writing bitterly in her daily journal, she seethed at the thought of life resuming around her as if it had all been for naught, so when the time came time for her own deathbed, she gathered just enough strength to beckon her husband to her side and whisper, “I am putting a curse on Hathorne and all his descendants…”
“No, Penelope, no! Have you not learned anything from the trials? Forget your special powers, you mustn’t talk about such things!” He tenderly covered her mouth with the palm of
his hand.
Penelope gently, yet firmly removed his hand and uttered with remarkable clarity, “I curse him…and his children…and his grandchildren…and his great-great-grandchildren. From here on in, I curse them all.” Her drooping eyelids fluttered twice, seconds before she died.
**
Aunt Natalie’s kitchen was silent, save for the second hand clicking around her 1950’s wall clock. Tick…tick…tick…tick it pulsed as Deborah sat at the table, numb.
“Honey, I know this is really difficult for you, but I think you’ve got to talk to Margaret Stinson from my quilt group. Maybe she has a solution. Are you listening to me?” Aunt Natalie reached out to stroke her niece’s hand.
Deborah sat back and shook her head. “This is unreal! I mean, this kind of thing just doesn’t happen in modern times. There are no such things as witches…are there?”
“Well, according to Margaret there are. In fact, unbeknownst to me, she has been part of a coven organization called Wicca for years. They claim they are benign, but I understand they do connect witchcraft with folk medicines and perform certain ceremonies.
“Yeah, but my family’s name is Hawthorne with a “w” anyway. We’re not even related to this Hathorne character!” Deborah snapped.
“Not true, I’m afraid. Apparently Nathaniel Hawthorne purposely changed the spelling of his name because he was so horrified at being related to the infamous magistrate. Why do you think he wrote books like The Scarlet Letter, all about the narrow-mindedness and viciousness of the Puritans? Obviously, he decided to expose that society for all it was worth, you know?”
“And what about Bridget Bishop? Is that all true about her? How did Margaret know all about the curse?”
“Margaret showed me Penelope’s actual diary—the hanging, everything. It’s all there.”
When the doorbell rang, Deborah nearly fell off her seat.
“Ah…I meant to tell you, dear.” Her aunt emitted a slight cough. “It’s Margaret. She’s here because she wants to try to make things right for you.”
Deborah jumped up, knocking her chair over. “I don’t want to see her! Not now! What if she puts a curse on me? Please don’t let her in. Please, Aunt Natalie!” She frantically tried to stop the older woman before she could head downstairs.
But Aunt Natalie had already started her descent, calling out behind her, “Take it easy, it’ll be OK.”
Deborah could hear the front door being opened and shut, then a friendly banter between two women growing louder as they slowly made their way back up towards the kitchen.
When Margaret saw Deborah’s face, she pleaded, “Please don’t be afraid. I’m here to try to help you. I had no idea anything like this would happen to you, of all people.” She tried to reach out to pat the newlywed on her shoulder.
“How do I know you won’t make it worse?” Deborah demanded.
“You’ll just have to trust me, I’m afraid.” The quilter settled down at the kitchen table and placed a small, patchwork satchel on top of it.
“I’ve brought two things that might help you, but you’re going to have to transcend belief and do as I say. Are you willing?” Deborah looked up at her aunt as if to say do-I-have-any-choice? She nodded slowly.
From her bag, Margaret extracted two objects. The first was a book entitled, The Myths and Legends of Quilts, and the other, a simple puppet doll.
Deborah recoiled, rising in horror. Margaret stretched out her right hand. “Wait, don’t panic. All this is necessary to help you. Believe me, I didn’t want this to happen, I swear I didn’t. But it’s my family’s curse as well, and if you want to be helped, you’ve got to trust me. Please, please sit down so we can begin.”
Opening the book up to a dog-eared page, she began reading out loud. “According to legend, there are certain quilt patterns that carry significance far beyond their beauty. For example, the Drunkard’s Path is a lovely pattern in general, but one must be careful. It has been noted in various folklore that if a young couple gets a Drunkard’s Path quilt for their wedding, the man may very possibly turn to drink, and even abuse, thus bringing ruination and possible death to the family.”
Margaret glanced at Deborah’s white face, gulped, and continued. “The only cure for a Drunkard’s Path curse is to take out all the quilting stitches, one by one, until every last stitch is gone. This signifies the undoing of evil and thus, the curse will disappear. However, all the removal of stitches must occur while the husband is sleeping. If he wakes up while the process is going on, the cure will end, and the curse shall live on.”
The quilter carefully laid out the puppet doll facing up on the kitchen table, but as she turned it over, Deborah could see two antique pins sticking out of its back. She began to tremble.
“You see, Deborah,” Margaret continued, her hand outstretched towards the girl, “my coven believes that good can also come from witchcraft, and just as Penelope was convinced she was helping Bridget so long ago by placing those dolls in her house for good luck, I, too, am trying to bring good luck to you.”
“Well, those puppet dolls didn’t help Bridget too much, did they?” Deborah grumbled.
“I really believe that if the people of Salem hadn’t been so panicked about witches, the dolls would have probably helped Bridget. Well, anyway, we’ll never really know, will we?” Margaret, although used to people’s skepticism, turned impatient. She switched over to a prayer. “Help this woman remove her family’s curse, and let her have her husband back. Bring goodness into her life again.” As she removed the pins from the doll’s back and stuck them into its heart, she mumbled some unintelligible words that Deborah didn’t even want to recognize.
When Margaret finally let herself out, Deborah was left in a quandary. On the one hand, by following the quilter’s instructions there might be a possible end to this madness; on the other hand, the newlywed feared Margaret was all show and couldn’t be completely trusted. But she did trust Aunt Natalie, and based on that, she decided to forge ahead.
Purchasing a seam ripper, tiny scissors, and a tiny flashlight, she headed home to find David, drunk in the living room, his face red, his lips in a snarl. “Where the hell have you been? I came home for a nap, and when I woke up, there washnowifearound!”
“If you must know, I went out to a movie to try to relax. Here, let me…let me fix you something to eat.”
Grunting, he sank back into the down-filled couch pillows as Deborah anxiously fingered the tiny scissors, seam ripper, and flashlight in her pocket.
Night after night she picked at the quilt as he lay sleeping. She was no seamstress, but she had used a seam ripper before and each time she painstakingly extracted a thread, she would shove it into a small zip-lock baggie, to be discarded in the trash the following morning. David, dead to the world, never seemed to notice the threads slowly disappearing from the coverlet, but as his temper tantrums increased, she soon found herself praying this ‘cure’ was not just a big waste of time.
And then it happened.
David’s slap reminded her of a minor actress getting smacked around in a Grade B movie, all filmed in slow motion. It wasn’t really happening to her, it was simply that unknown actress married to some sort of demon, not David, the gentle man who would never cross that boundary. For a split second she thought she saw a flash of horror cross his face before he sank down on the couch, giving her hope. Maybe it was a curse.
The next day, David called her from work. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Deborah. I can’t stop drinking and I’m consumed by horrible thoughts,” he moaned.
“I know sweetheart, believe me I know. It will all work out, I promise you…” she soothed, smiling with relief.
His tone abruptly changed. “I don’t know when I’m coming home. Don’t wait up.” Click.
Deborah was exhilarated. If he could admit it to her, he couldn’t be totally lost and she even considered telling him about the curse, but then she remembered. Concealment was the key. But that ni
ght, just before drifting off to sleep, she inched closer to him than she had in months.
Still, her sixth sense warned her she was not completely out of the woods. Even with most of the threads gone, she would watch her husband sitting across from her at dinnertime, distant, brooding. Plying him with nonstop wine, she figured the sooner he went to sleep, the less chance there was of him hitting her again.
It seemed to work. He got so drunk he almost didn’t make it to the bedroom. Trying to balance himself, he held onto the walls of the hallway as he stumbled into their bedroom, fell onto his side of the bed, and instantly passed out.
As his snores rattled, she worked feverishly on the quilt top, spurred on by a new hope. With barely any threads to hold it together, the quilt kept shifting, but she pressed on until the last stitch was removed. When David stirred in his sleep, she quickly turned off the flashlight, excited, waiting in the dark to see what would happen next.
He began to cough—odd, half-choking sounds that made her want to reach out and stroke his back, but she paused, unsure of his reaction. His spasm had woken him, and as he staggered into their bathroom in the dark, she could hear him vomiting behind the closed door. Please, dear God. Please, dear God. Please, dear God, she mouthed.
Like a flash, the overhead light was switched on, and David was lumbering towards her, yelling, “You bitch! You bitch!”
This can’t be! It can’t! The cure should have removed the curse. What’s happening? her brain screamed.
“How come you gave me so much wine? Now you’ve made me sick, you bitch! You’re no good for me. I’m going to kill you!”
She clutched the quilt tightly in her hands and bringing it up over her head, waited for him to strike. Under the quilt, above her head, she could hear his labored breathing, and she could only imagine his arm raised, ready to attack.
Then she saw it. A tiny bit of the knotted end of a thread was still embedded on the backside of the quilt. She must have missed it before. Frantically, she grabbed it by the knob and with a quick tug, yanked it out.
Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads Page 4
