by Oakes, Tara
I throw a handful of yellow candies toward my throat.
“If it will get you off my back about it then I’ll gladly throw away fifty dollars. But if she starts telling me about how colorful my aura is, I’m outta there.”
~*~
As we move further and further north, visible changes begin to take place. The houses take on a uniformed historical appearance, each colored in hues only seen in old New England.
The royal blues and canary yellows are rich and vibrant yet, at the same time, muted and subdued. The architecture has an air of Quaker nobility to it, and I find myself studying each of the homes in passing.
The well-manicured residential streets are lined with ancient trees, filled with hearty leaves and blossoming buds. The season hasn’t yet reached the overly-warm temperatures that precede summer, so all of the greenery looks vibrant, young, and full of life.
Although our hometown is close to the water and I’m used to the humid consistency that follows it, I somehow feel a different weight to the air around me now. I can smell the salt water of the eastern seaboard and feel the thick breeze as it passes, knowing that it’s carried in by the gentle waves nearby. Waves that have traveled long and far, carrying the invisible gifts from far away lands. I can’t place my finger on exactly how this air is different, I just sit back, close my eyes and breath it in, feeling as if I’m nourishing my lungs, my body with some level of oxygenated sky that it’s been lacking.
I feel the early afternoon sun bathe my skin with its light and soak it in, as if willing my pores to open further to drink in the rich glow. I feel those same rays heat my body with their warmth, and I lazily reach my fingertips to pull at the light gauzy neck scarf to bare more of my skin. I’m urged to somehow free every bit of flesh available, to absorb as much of this penetrating brightness as possible.
I need it, need to collect it, in some way deep down as if I’ll be able to access it again when I need to feel the peace it allows me. A calmness washes over me like lapping water, almost in sync with the gentle currents pushing the water ashore.
My heart begins to pace itself, matching the movements of the imaginary tide. They become joined, each as much of the other as they are of themselves. I can feel the blood coursing through my body from each beat of my heart, thinning almost, matching the sea water that flows so easily with each swell of the Atlantic.
The washing sounds of the waves are interrupted by the cawing of seagulls and land birds swirling. I can feel the swishing air among their feathered wings, giving flight to their fancy. The essence of their nature calls to one another as they dip low in the sky and soar high into the wispy clouds.
I feel the wind on my face now, as if I’m gliding alongside them, basking in the blinding rays of sun that light my way. I am weightless, supported only by the passing air above, beneath, and around me, as I push on faster and faster.
The rippled water below is glittered with jeweled flecks of light, dancing and sparkling, alive with movement. Their riches sing to me, and I need only to hear them. I bring myself closer, almost touching, as if to join their chorus.
I see my reflection in the sapphire blue of its depths. I feel the salt spray my face with coolness, showering me with the wealth the bottomless pool bares. The rushing wind whipping past my ears is the greatest symphony ever told. Each note, each chord, resonating within me as if echoing in the largest cathedral in existence.
The chanting chorus of these songs now meld into one. The words are ancient, yet I know them and sing the long-forgotten tones. I feel a warm tear as it drops, a testament to the timeless beauty of their meaning.
My vulnerability exposes itself, unshielding itself, as I am in the safest of all places. The words protect me, their strength offering to shelter all who seek it. I shroud myself in them, cocooning myself within, becoming one with the words.
~*~
“We’re here!”
I tighten my eyes, not willing to let the words go.
“Wake up, wake up! We’re finally here! Seriously, Leah, how is it that you could sleep after all the coffee, anyway?”
I stretch my neck, my body following with a deep involuntary yawn. My eyes flutter, attempting to open themselves. The car doors open, with each of the girls excitedly jumping out.
The sounding of the trunk opens, very close to my head, and I think it best to move away. I weakly move my feet to clear the car, stretching the rest of my body while standing on the pavement.
I stand in front of large, imposing building, the brick façade and key lime window awnings impressive in their own right. Large wooden window boxes full of colorful blooms and rich greens are abundantly overflowing their soil. Golden letters emboss the fabric of the awning protruding out over the main door, anchored on either side by iron lamps.
HAWTHORNE HOTEL
Although I may have packed light, my companions have not. They struggle with the bulky luggage, and I can see they need my assistance. I’m not any larger than either of them, but have proven time and time again that my strength is greater. They let me pass between them, removing the last three bags from the trunk.
I can guess by the weight of them which ones belong to Courtney. I shake my head jokingly. She must have enough clothing in there to clothe a small army. Or Kim Kardashian. One or the other, I suppose.
“You two go check in, I’ll park the car,” Courtney directs us as she reenters the driver’s seat of the low-lying car. I hear the clicking of the extendable metal handles as Nina wastes no time in moving along to the next phase of our journey. The hotel lobby.
The heavily moulded walls welcome us as we enter. Quaint patterns cover surfaces and carpet alike, complementing and, some might say, clashing at the same time. A large oiled circular wooden table sits adorned with a multitude of florals arranged atop. Directly above, a circular halo of light projects both light and shadows onto the textured walls.
I can see why the girls picked this hotel for our lodgings. It’s magnificent and grand. It doesn’t fight to look new like most of its competition. Instead, it celebrates its age and history.
I’ve lost pace with Nina as I’m admiring the expansive rooms of the lobby, and hasten my steps to catch up. I reach her at the large reception desk as she’s beginning our introduction.
“Reed, please. Nina Reed. We have two rooms reserved.”
She multitasks her greeting while removing her wallet from the cross body purse she wears.
The spectacle-wearing woman before us smiles warmly. “Welcome, Miss Reed. Of course. Let me bring those up here and we’ll get you all settled in. Her fingers type, nails clicking on the keyboard before her, as she sets out to officially check us in.
Knowing I’m not desperately needed for the rest of the transaction, I wander over to the built-in bookshelves flanking a large and regally adorned mirror. The shelves are full of books of all sizes and shapes. The thickness of some dwarf others, as their brightly-colored jackets spell out their titles.
I trace my finger along the spines of them, feeling the box-like texture pass beneath as I move along the row. A rather large book in black with cream lettering sits under my fingertip as it comes to a stop. I tilt my head sideways to read the words embossed on the spine. The Crucible.
“You can borrow them during your stay, if you’d like.”
I turn to the voice beside me. A young waiter, at least I think he’s a waiter, speaks to me.
“They’re for the guests. Most people just flip through them while their waiting for someone in the lobby, but we’ve actually got a pretty good selection. I’ve read most of them. Which one have you got there?” he asks.
My eyes dart back to the book in question.
“The Crucible… by Arthur Miller.”
His eyes follow mine, as he takes a step closer to verify. “That’s a good one.”
I smile as I tip the book back into its place, and scrunch my nose up. “Nah. I read it in high school. I didn’t like it. It was too… I don’t kn
ow-- too sad.”
The boy nods his head in agreement. “I can see that.”
He eyes me as I step away from the shelving.
“I’m Tom. Tom Porter.” He extends his hand to mine. I take it and give a polite shake. I see his eyes widen for the slightest of seconds.
“My name’s Leah. I’m staying here with some friends,” I introduce myself.
He pauses as he registers my words. “Leah? That’s a pretty name. Is it short for anything?”
Oh no, please don’t tell me he’s going to start hitting on me now.
I take my hand back, and give another inch or so between us. “Yup. Family name. But, I like Leah better.”
Tom nods slowly. “Well, I’m here all the time so if there’s anything you need, you make sure to ask for Tom.” He points to his gold-plated nametag for emphasis.
I clear my throat. “Thanks, but my friend over there has everything planned out to the minute. I’m sure we’ve got it covered.”
I reach for my luggage handle and begin to step away, when Tom’s voice stops me. “Here,” he hands me one of the smaller books from the shelf behind us. “This is a really great book to just flip through if you get bored. It’s about the original families of Salem. My girlfriend’s family is actually in there.”
Girlfriend? I feel so stupid. Here I am thinking the poor kid’s hitting on me, and he’s just trying to be nice. I take the book from him hoping to somehow make up for being rude.
“Uh, thanks. Sounds interesting. I’ll thumb through it.”
He smiles, glad to be of service. I still feel badly, though, as if I’ve somehow offended him before.
“Actually, Tom, maybe you could help me. My friends and I are supposed to go down to Salem Beer Works tonight. What time do you think would be best before the crowds?”
He lights up, “This time of year’s not really tourist season, so I think anytime after happy hour would be good.”
I move to leave again, when he bolts up. “Eight! Eight would probably be best.”
His volume took me off guard a bit. I think he realizes it and smiles sheepishly.
“Thanks again, Tom. I’ll remember. Eight o’clock.”
~*~
Courtney and Nina had booked a double room for themselves and thankfully gotten me a single. We’re on the same floor but different sides of the hallway. The elevator took us up to the third floor and deposited us out into the lush carpeting where we strolled our bulky luggage along to the brass-plated numbers that match our assignments.
We’d agreed to meet in the lobby at seven for dinner, and that happily gives me enough time to check in at the coffee shop and make sure it hasn’t burnt down to the ground yet. I told them I’d be calling in every hour on the hour, but that’s just to keep them on their toes.
I enter my modestly-sized room and pile my bags into a corner, promising to unpack before I shower and change. I circle around, taking stock of my home for the next five days. The bed is large and looks comfortable. I place my palm on it and press to make sure.
Ah! Memory foam!
I plop down on it to test it further and sink into its softness. It’s still early enough where the sunlight fills the room enough to avoid lamps. I have two large windows overlooking the street below. I raise myself from the luxury of the bed and stride toward them, unlocking the finger latches and pushing to lift the glass panels.
The warm breeze flutters in, billowing the sheer window panels, I close my eyes and take a deep breath of the air. When I open them, I cast my gaze out to settle on a beautiful seagull that has temporarily settled on the outside of my windowsill.
Images and familiar feelings immediately engulf me and I gasp while lifting my hands to cover my mouth as I remember.
I remember the sun, the water, the wind… the dream.
The dream I had in the car, of flying and chanting. The very first dream I’ve ever had that wasn’t the nightmare that plagues me.
The seagull matches its gaze with me. The darkness of his pupils builds and grows. He calls out a squawk, lifts his wings and leaves me behind. I rush to the window and press myself up against the screen, watching as he becomes smaller, disappearing into the distance.
CHAPTER THREE
At four in the afternoon, I know Court’s taking a nap from the drive, recovering from the wear the road has taken on her. We’ve set a meet time for the downstairs lobby, and have plenty of time for her to catch a decent rest while I can kill some time before jumping in the shower to get ready for tonight.
With some time to fill, I wander around my new room inspecting the few tiny treasures strategically placed. The tall, cut glass vase, the golden-colored framed pictures of historic scenes from the noteworthy city that surrounds us. I step closer to one such picture and study it. On close inspection, it’s a life-like maritime painting of a small fishing boat caught up in a swell, with the captain holding tight to the wheel as they face head-on into danger.
I inspect the fine lines around the sailor’s face, the strokes that give subtle details. The hardened eyes staring forth beyond the canvas, to what must be behind the small fraction of the wave that’s pictured. He doesn’t look scared, he doesn’t show fear. This fictitious boater looks determined to confront whatever it is he’s about to face, and his expression conveys that he knows he’ll beat it.
I blink, finding my eyes have become dry from becoming entranced with the artwork. I know that man wasn’t a real person, but the moment captured must ring true for some of the sailors who have left this port over the years. It’s a testament to their enduring legacy of facing the unknown and moving forth regardless.
I find the art history student in me relishing the subtle details the artist has hidden within the painting. The golden rays of daylight beginning to become stamped out by shades of grey, building into deep ominous clouds. But yet, the sun manages to resist it, to creep out in lone patches here and there as if fighting the imposition.
Our country isn’t an old one, compared to the places where ancient kingdoms and palaces once stood across the world, but this place is old for us. This picture reminds me of the things I’ve planned to see, the history I plan to discover aside from the midnight candle tours and psychic readings that the girls plan to throw in the mix.
I move along the perimeter of the room, shaking my head at the thought of such silly behavior that I have no doubt I’ll be dragged to.
The next object that catches my attention is a small engraved picture frame on the bedside table. It’s letters reveal the name of The Massachusetts Bay Company.
Hmm… I’ve heard of the Massachusetts Bay Colony before, but never a company. My interest is mildly peaked and, hopefully, I’ll find a way to learn more about this company. Maybe I can find a book in the lobby about it.
My wandering thoughts settle on the book that I had in fact already taken from the lending collection downstairs. I glance over at the digital clock within the display of the cable box on the far side of the room and quickly calculate how much time I have left to squander.
Once satisfied that I won’t be cutting it too closely, I shuffle through the pile of items deposited on the bureau for the leather bound book. With the reading material in hand I walk to the large padded Queen Anne chair in the corner, stepping out of my sandals along the way.
The luxurious padded carpet is plush underfoot, so I stretch my toes to wriggle in the softness. Once settled into the old floral chair, I swing my heels up to rest under my bottom and wiggle into the cushion to get comfortable.
The book is old but not antique. I can tell it’s been left untouched for quite some time, with the spine being tight and stiff as I open the cover. The pages have yellowed over time, testament to the book’s age. I scan down the text on one of the first few pages to find the publishing information. Copyrighted in 1939.
The prologue is interesting enough but I’m not prepared for an in-depth read right now, so I skim along to a listing of some of the earliest families
of the area. The Allens, Archers, Balchs, Corwins, Hales, Harwoods, the names spill out over the pages giving an accounting of their arrival, descendants, and prominence.
Many of these families were influential and powerful for their time. Big fish in a little pond, I guess. I stop abruptly on a surname that catches my attention.
Hathorne.
A sudden unease takes over, a cold chill tickling at my spine.
Hathorne.
Why is that so familiar? We’re staying at the Hawthorne Hotel, that’s close enough in name, so maybe that’s it.
No, that’s not it. I close my eyes tight and rack my memory urging the details to unfold.
Ninth grade English class comes slowly into frame. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Salem Massachusetts. The Crucible. Hathorne, Hawthorne. The Salem Witch trials. Judge John Hathorne.
A violent nausea inexplicably takes hold and I find myself racing to the bathroom to purge myself of the unease. My stomach contracts violently, spilling itself into the commode.
Beyond the echoed heaving and gasping sounds my body makes I hear the name replaying in my mind over and over. Hathorne. Hathorne.
The lesson now becomes clear in my mind as I recount my American Literature teacher telling the tale of how Nathaniel Hawthorne had changed his family name from Hathorne because of the shamed history that came with it.
He was directly descended from the one of the judges, Judge John Hathorne who condemned so many people to death for witchcraft. Although a mixture of historical and literary importance, the information seemed of no more consequence than a name to be memorized for testing.
Seeing that surname on the listing of migrants to this place makes it real. And if that’s real… it means other things are real, too. Not just plays to be read and movies to be watched… but real families with real people who died real deaths.
I swallow hard, unsure as to why this is affecting me so. Many moments pass as I collect myself, mildly ashamed at such a physical reaction to something that has no true bearing on me. I’m thankful once more for my privacy, and escaping the humiliation of my outburst, grateful it was not witnessed by either of the girls across the hall.
