The Witch House of Persimmon Point

by Suzanne Palmieri

  “I suppose.… Father? Have you ever thought of retiring?”

  Father Callahan gave a little snort of a laugh and a half-chewed piece of beet fell back onto his plate. “No, ma’am! I will die on the altar, just see if I don’t.”

  Anne pushed her food around. She wasn’t fond of mushrooms. She sipped her wine. It was now or never.

  “And what would happen if the diocese found out that you raped little boys?”

  Father Callahan dropped his fork. “What—what did you say?”

  “Surely you heard me, Father.”

  Father Callahan was sweating. He stood up, and his chair fell backward onto the floor. The sound was louder than it ought to have been. He couldn’t think. He felt vomit rising into his throat and ran to the sink. He heaved, but nothing came out. He heard his heartbeat in his ears. Something was wrong. So much more wrong than just this simple girl with her simple threats.

  “Anne … help … call help…” he gasped, grabbing at his throat.

  The firemen came. They were there fast. It was good there was a firehouse so close by.

  Father Callahan was dead three days later. First there was the vomiting, then the diarrhea, then the splotches that turned into bleeding sores all over his skin.

  The doctors thought it was surely some type of virus brought on by the incision Anne had to make in his throat to remove the mushroom he’d choked on. Her quick thinking saved him, but nothing could save him from the infection he must have picked up at the hospital. Anne’s status began to shift in Haven Port that day. I truly am becoming Nan, she thought. Nan overcame her heathen ways, and everyone loved her. Now I’m going to do it, too. Smiling, she rubbed her belly while reading a new book on poison herbology.

  32

  Anne in the Kitchen with a Smile

  1960–1970

  With William as the new pastor, it was safe for Anne to go to mass. She entered the church after mass had begun already and somehow let the side entrance door slam behind her, so everyone turned around to look at her. Anne was sure she heard a collective gasp, and then Father William coughed and all attention went back to the altar. Anne had forgotten how much she loved this place. The thick smell of incense, the dim light, the profoundly moving statues … artifacts. How Anne loved artifacts. Everything came right back to her. Stand up, sit down, Amen. She did not take communion. She really needed to make a confession first; for all she knew, the communion wafer might set her on fire.

  After mass she walked out the front doors of the church into the bright sun. And her sweet William, now handsome Father William, was at the foot of the steep stone steps, his robes floating in the breeze. William’s hair shined dark black, and his profile mesmerized Anne for a moment. It occurred to her that she missed him very much, more than she had realized. In her reverie she bumped into an old woman and almost pushed her down the stairs by accident; the old lady cried out in surprise, and a nearby boy caught her and helped her regain her balance—but it was too late for Anne. Everyone was staring at her now. There she was, centered at the top of the steps, and as she walked down, the people parted like the red sea, all murmuring and full of speculation. William found her with his eyes. Those light eyes so like her own, only more blue than green. He was smiling at her. She walked toward him, and he met her at the base of the steps. “Anne.” He took her hands.

  “Want to come over and play?” she asked.

  William laughed an easy laugh. A relaxed and relieved laugh. “You bet!”

  Anne went home to make Sunday dinner for William. It would become their weekly habit. Things were coming back together. Everything was going to be fine after all.

  * * *

  “You look handsome in that collar.”

  “I will help you. With the baby.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Anything you need.”

  “I won’t tell you about her father.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “I need you. I’m afraid to love this baby. I’m afraid to lose her. I’m afraid I’ll be cold like Nan, or crazy like Lucy.”

  “Or clever like Anne,” he said, smiling. “Besides, you have me.” He knew he would finally have a family. It was like winning a prize: he seemed to have been able to achieve the impossible. He was a priest, and now he would be a “non husband” and a “non father.” It was perfect; he would have her now. She would be his, forever.

  * * *

  William loved being a priest. It didn’t bother him that he lived in the same house, serving on the same altar where he had been abused as a child. In a way, it helped heal him. He had power in a place where he had once been so powerless. And he loved hearing confessions, becoming an amateur historian for his parish and Haven Port, presiding over both the beginning and ending of lives, the general feeling of responsibility he had for humanity, especially for those who attended his church or sent their children to his school.

  And then there was Anne. When he finished seminary, the church had approached him to do work abroad. But when he declined, they were gracious enough to offer him a place back at Our Lady of Sorrows when Father Callahan died. And more than anything, he wanted to go back to his home, to his school—to the community he loved, back to Anne.

  He knew she had been through rough times while he was gone. Her mother … that horrible tragedy at the mental hospital … all those poor souls, dead, and at Lucy’s mad hands. Anne needed him. The ghosts couldn’t be her only companions forever. The only question was, how would he get her to trust him again?

  But it turned out he didn’t have to do anything; she came to him. He was only just back, and there she was, in the back of the church. She looked as if she had just gotten out of bed: her hair was standing straight up in the back and full of snarls; she wore an odd, ill-fitting dress; and she was tripping over a pair of untied black boots. She was just about the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His heart had a home again.

  He began to visit her. He came to dinner.

  He blessed the Witch House, tried to rid it of the madness. They prayed together. (He didn’t think she was paying much attention, but every little thing counted.)

  He knew she still consorted with the ghosts, who he had decided were either demons or Anne’s own psychosis. And that bothered him, but she would not budge on the subject. They were her family.

  And then there was the house. The house only tolerated William, he sensed it. But even through its tolerance, when inside, he always felt as if he was walking against the wind.

  * * *

  Pictures of Anne. Oh, look at Anne there, in the sunny kitchen that she painted turquoise while she carried Opal. Just look at her! Bathed in the sunlight, her hair carelessly piled in a bun, her white nightgown, another of Nan’s, wide at the neck, exposing her slender shoulder. See the blond cherubic baby sitting in the wooden highchair and playing peek-a-boo with a clean white dish towel.

  Look at them! There they are in the garden, weeding and watering. The baby is laughing and pointing to the rainbows that the water spray makes in the sunlight. See Anne teach her all of the things Nan taught her. She is sharing garden magic. First to an infant tied to her chest in a brightly colored makeshift sling, then to a toddler who continues to pull up new spring shoots, and then to a bored child who would like to be doing other things. See Anne’s garden grow. See Opal grow.

  See them there! There she is in the rocking chair in the living room, rocking her baby to sleep, nursing her, singing to her with a lovely voice. The baby is half asleep, touching her mother’s cheek with one chubby hand. The ghosts are with her, Ava helps rock the chair, Gwyneth lounges on the sofa, softly singing with Anne. There is so much peace here, so much love. Anne is happy.

  There’s Anne again, she is playing the piano with the baby in the Moses basket, and then with the toddler sitting next to her, banging on the keys to drown out her mother’s music. Anne is laughing at her willfulness, her desire to be the best at everything so early on. And now, the chil
d alone, her hair in perfect ringlets, sitting at the piano with her teacher, the metronome swinging. Hear how perfectly she plays, see the serious look on her perfect round face. Anne doesn’t play much anymore.…

  See Anne, downtown with the baby in the carriage. Everyone thinks she is such a pretty baby, and she is. Her blond curls, her china blue eyes! What a picture. And Anne! “How lovely Anne looks,” they would say. “Perfectly lovely, just like her mother.” Anne loved the validity that Opal gave her. It was a gift, the icing on the cake. The normalness was a constant, pleasing surprise for her.

  There she is with William, and the baby is all smiles. Who took that photo? They are in the garden in late summer; it looks like the tomatoes have taken over the whole patch! And there are baskets and baskets of raspberries in front of them. This is the day Anne makes her first batch of raspberry jam. Look at William, he is looking at Anne, and she is smiling, the chubby, pretty baby has mashed raspberries in her tight fist. William’s eyes are full of devotion; he looks at her like a man who never needed anything else but to be right there, frozen in time.

  Here they are making cookies. Anne is caught in a silent laugh. There is flour everywhere … then there are cookies being cut and baked. Serious Opal has her tongue between her teeth at the corner of her mouth in deep concentration as she mangles the dough. And then the decorating: sprinkles and icing and licks of many mixing spoons and bites of crumbled cookies.

  There is the Christmas tree. It looked the same every year. They would go and cut it down together, back in the pine forest, and for every one they cut, Anne insisted they plant another. “You have to give some back,” she would say. The ornaments would glisten in the firelight, colored blown glass, painted silver spheres, little trinkets that Opal would make at school. And the star. A store-bought star. Expensive. William bought it for them the year Opal was born. “A star for a star!” he said every year as he held her up to put it on the tree. And even if she put it on crooked, they would let it stay that way, because it was hers.

  And there is Opal in the Christmas pageant! Father William always cast her as Mary. No one in the parish even got mad anymore. It was just expected. She is so beautiful with the scarf around her head, kneeling in prayer in front of the baby Jesus, one of her very own favorite dollies. See how the fake snowflakes made from powdered soap fall all around her head, and a light is shining on her from above, making her glow just like an angel.

  There is the picture of Opal and her mother on the morning of her first communion. Anne looks stunning, so does Opal. Anne is standing in the front yard at the gate. She is wearing one of Lucy’s too-big green silk dresses. It is a bit old-fashioned, but Anne fixed it with a pretty jeweled belt and turned it into something remarkable. She never felt so lovely. Her hair, still holding the wave it picked up while she was pregnant, is pulled over to one side and floats down over one shoulder. She is holding Opal’s hand. Opal is looking coyly into the camera. She knows she is lovely and this is her day, but she is also proud of her mother, who has planned a nice party and who looks so beautiful. Anne has even taken the time to clean the garden soil out from under her fingernails.

  Opal has a wreath of baby’s breath in her hair, which is down and curling perfectly, just brushing her shoulders. Her dress is white satin. She looks like a miniature bride, with overlays of lace on the skirt, a wide satin band with a huge bow in the back, a beaded bodice, and a lace collar. Anne had it made especially for her. She has lacy ankle socks and a pair of wonderful new shoes. Little white patent leather shoes with a buckle that kept them on tight, because they had a little heel.

  Opal begged and screamed for that little heel. Anne tried to hold firm, tried … for once … to hold her ground. She contended that Opal was too little to wear heels, no matter how low. But the girl cried and banged and begged for the shoes for days. Every other word was about those shoes, and finally, Anne gave in. She just didn’t want to hear about them anymore.

  They were the picture of normalcy that day … the two of them smiling into the camera, obviously smitten with themselves and each other. They had their whole lives ahead of them.

  33

  William on the Porch with the Truth

  As much as he loved Anne, it was his love for Opal that won out. From the moment she came shooting out of Anne into his hands, as if she couldn’t stand to be inside for one more second, William was taken. She looked at him with her big blue eyes and made a cooing sound, his little dove.

  He loved her for who she was, for how she loved him, and for how she changed his Anne. This was the Anne he always knew existed. He was so proud of her. She was pretty, competent, organized, and logical. She lost a little bit of the wildness that had always intrigued him, and she had also lost a bit of her dry sense of humor. But raising babies is a busy business, if you want to do it right, and Anne didn’t have a lot of time for joking around or running wild in the meadow.

  He didn’t mind the gossip. Of course there were people in in his church who assumed the child was his. Why wouldn’t they? He was a little flattered, but he knew it was a good thing, that the math didn’t work, and she didn’t look a lick like him, or there would be issues with the bishop. But he liked to pretend she belonged to him, so the talk helped validate his dreams.

  Everything in their lives was going well. Anne was growing more respected each day. There was even a mysterious someone leaving her money and food on a monthly basis, so he didn’t have to worry about her income. And the baby? Opal was growing up strong and beautiful. William visited them almost every night and even stayed over some Sundays as well as on Christmas Eve.

  But then, Opal—always precocious—began to talk. And when she began to talk, his whole world began to unravel.

  Opal was interested in the most unchildlike things, like dead animals on the side of the road.

  Anne wouldn’t believe it … or maybe she did … that was what bothered him the most. He couldn’t figure it out.

  “Did you tell Mommy about your bad thoughts?” William finally asked one day when Anne was out. It was just him and Opal eating egg salad sandwiches out on the front porch.

  “I tell Mommy all the time. I tell her and I tell her. She says my thoughts are one hundred percent normal.”

  Opal was quiet. She looked at her sandwich. The sun was shining down onto her sweet head. It made the gold shimmer in her hair.

  “What is it, Opal?”

  “Sometimes I hear voices that scare me.” She began to cry.

  William couldn’t stand seeing her cry.

  “It’s okay, honey. Finish your sandwich. I will talk to Mommy.”

  Opal threw her arm around him. “Oh, thank you, Father! Thank you!”

  William laughed. He had egg salad in his hair.

  * * *

  He didn’t talk to Anne right away. He needed to think about the whole thing. He began to believe that Anne was keeping her past from Opal as a personal keepsake, holding onto her past, not letting Opal, or William, for that matter, in on a secret that kept a little bit of who she used to be intact. William could not understand why she would do that. He soothed Opal as much as he could, with words, pure unadulterated affection, and gifts, but it didn’t help. She was growing ever more distant, aloof, mean, and afraid. The demons that had plagued Anne had obviously been passed down to Opal and were now attacking her very spirit. Or (and it wasn’t the first time he’d pondered it), she may be like the mysterious father Anne wouldn’t talk about. This situation needed rectifying.

  Right before Opal was to make her first communion, he felt he had an argument that Anne would respond to.

  “She is seeing things, Anne. And I’m not sure if the things she sees and hears are there or not, but it scares her.”

  “Suddenly you are so sure you know everything about us? About me? About voices and demons and … ghosts? You didn’t believe me.”

  “I always believed you, Anne.” William was staying calm. “I always believed you believed it. Which made
it real to you.”

  “But you never told anyone. You never stood up for me. Never.”

  This statement hit William hard. He wondered if she was still talking about the ghosts, or if it was Jude. He wanted to hold her, shake her, kiss her, cry. Instead he just sighed.

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it? If they are real or not? Maybe it is some genetic thing? Maybe a toxin in this—this house? You were born here, right? And so was she. In the same room, for God’s sake! You belong to the house, and the house belongs to the two of you. Both of you, you and Opal, could be suffering from some sort of malformation of your brains, or poison. Or, simply psychosis!”

  Anne stared at him in furious disbelief. Mad that he was saying such a thing and angry with herself for not figuring it all out on her own. Of course it was psychosis. Opal belonged to Jude.

  William was still talking. “… so you owe it to her to come clean. Remember, this may be something we can fix. Opal is your child. She is alive. She needs you. By ignoring her issues … the same ones you have suffered with … you treat her like, well…” He paused. “Like others treated you.”

  “How dare you!” Anne seethed. She picked up a crystal ashtray. Anne chucked it at his head; he ducked.

  “I knew this Anne was still inside you. I can’t say I’ve missed her,” said William.

  “Shut up, Will, just shut up.”

  William tried a different approach. One that would hopefully keep her from harming him. This Anne could be lethal.

  “Just try, try to be honest with her. Just love her, Anne—you can’t fully love her unless you let her in, let her into you. Tell her your story. It belongs to both of you. Let her in.”

  Anne hated when he was right. She thought about consulting with Gwyneth, and then, given their current conversation, just felt insane.

  “Oh, fine. I will see what I can do.”