The sun hit the horizon with a resounding crack, and Wilmot let go of the ball of light. Her ball of light rose above Ann.
“Be at peace, Ann Hibbins,” Wilmot said.
“Be at peace,” the Salem witches chanted. “Be at peace.”
Ann Hibbins looked around the circle until her eyes fell on Em again. She mouthed “Thank you,” before rising to follow the ball of light. While they watched, her spirit followed the ball to the great divide. A hand reached through the other side for Ann. She lit up with delight and took the hand. The ball of light sealed the divide. They fell silent. George stepped forward. Em grabbed Sarah Good’s hand.
“Please join me in a silent prayer for our sister, Ann Hibbins,” George said. They bowed their heads and spent a few moments in silence. When it seemed like everyone was done, George said, “May she spend eternity at peace. May her soul heal from the injustice put upon her.”
“May she be at peace,” they said in unison.
They clapped and cheered for Ann. Wilmot gave a little bow for her role in the ceremony. With a nod to each other, the witches left the park. George stayed to talk with John. Alice and Em walked back to the store. Alice threaded her hand through Em’s elbow. They were almost to Boylston Street when Sarah Good’s helicopter buzzed overhead on her way back to New York.
“I saw you,” Alice said.
“You saw me what?” Em asked.
“You made that ball of energy, not Wilmot,” Alice said.
“I did not,” Em scowled at Alice.
“I saw you move your finger,” Alice said.
“I had an itch,” Em said.
“I don’t have any idea why you put up with her ‘I’m the strongest witch’ crap,” Alice said.
“Practice,” Em said.
Alice laughed. Em opened the door to the stairwell, and they went up. Alice stopped on the landing to Em’s apartment.
“Are you going to ask me in?” Alice asked.
“Are you eating breakfast?” Em asked.
“I will,” Alice said. “Mostly I wanted to know . . .”
“What?” Em scowled.
“Are you ever going to tell me what you did to Ann Putnam?” Alice asked.
Chapter Seven
“Who?” Em asked.
“Very funny,” Alice said.
Alice brushed past Em as she went into the apartment. Em began pulling food from the refrigerator while Alice poured herself a cup of coffee. Alice drank her coffee in one swallow and poured another.
“Should I make another pot?” Alice asked.
Em looked up from her review of the ingredients on the butcher-block table in front of her.
“Please don’t,” Em smiled.
Alice laughed. Em turned back to the food in front of her.
“Eggs and toast, Emmy,” Alice said. “That’s what I like.”
“I know,” Em said. “I’m just trying to figure out what George is making for breakfast.”
Alice laughed. Em smiled at Alice and set to work at making some oat-blueberry muffins. She gave Alice a mixing bowl and a carton of eggs for her to crack open. They worked in companionable silence. When Alice finished her task, she picked up her coffee cup and watched Em put together the muffins.
“You’re not going to tell me,” Alice said.
“About what?” Em asked.
“You and Tituba did something to that poor little Ann Putnam,” Alice said.
“Who?” Em scowled.
“Tituba, the slave,” Alice said. “I know you bought her because she helped take care of us that first year, as soon as you got her out of the Boston jail.”
“Sweet girl.”
“You’re pretending not to remember the Putnams?” Alice laughed. “Surely you remember the horrible insane girl — who said you made her that way — and her awful mother.”
“I remember them,” Em said.
“Remember them?” Alice gave an angry snort. “That Ann Putnam, Junior, put that noose around my neck as sure as if that little shit was the hangman herself. And her mother . . .”
Em touched Alice’s arm as she moved past her to the coffee pot.
“Bacon?” Em asked. “I can’t remember if we’re eating pigs or worrying about our arteries.”
“You’re really not going to tell me,” Alice said.
“Not today,” Em said as she dumped out the spent coffee grounds.
She gave the empty pot to Alice, who rinsed it out from the tap and filled it with filtered water. Em checked that they had enough coffee beans, replaced the filter, and took the pot from Alice. A moment later, she pressed the button, and the coffee maker responded with the loud whirl of coffee being ground. Em turned her attention to the muffins.
“Then tell me about you and George,” Alice said.
“What about me and George?” Em asked.
As if the question were obvious, Alice laughed. Em nodded with her eyebrows toward the cabinet. Alice took out the silicone cupcake baking cups. Alice put the baking cups in the holes of the cupcake pan, and Em ladled in the dough. Alice gave Em an irritated sigh.
“When did you know you were in love with George?” Alice asked.
“1681,” George’s voice came from the entrance to the kitchen.
Alice put her hand over her mouth and gasped in mock horror. She looked from Em to George.
“What?” Alice said in her fake southern accent.
Laughing, Em shook her head at Alice.
“You knew when you asked the question,” George said with a laugh.
“Well, I’ll be, Reverend Burroughs, whatever are you talking about?” Alice asked with a flutter of her eyes.
George laughed. He picked up the tray of muffin dough and slipped it into the oven just as Bridget and Elizabeth came into the kitchen.
“What did you make us, George?” Bridget asked.
“Oat-blueberry muffins,” Em said. “Eggs, bacon.”
“Fabulous!” Elizabeth said.
Elizabeth made a cup of coffee for herself and Bridget before they continued on into the living room. Sam and John came in. When the men started talking about their beloved Red Sox, Em shooed them out of her kitchen. Mary Ayer came in with her cell phone glued to her ear. She waved to Em and Alice before heading into the office for privacy. Em set to work on the eggs and bacon.
“So . . .” Alice said in a low tone. “It’s true?”
“What’s true?” Em asked.
“You and George?” Alice asked.
Em’s eyes drifted toward the doorway George had gone through. She gave a slight nod.
“Henry had been ill for a long time,” Em said in a low tone. “George came to see if we needed anything.”
“Mm-hm,” Alice said.
“He wanted to bring me to Christ,” Em said. “We just studied the bible and talked. I was interested in religion, so he brought me everything he could find.”
“No woman can resist the Burroughs charm,” Alice said.
“It wasn’t like that,” Em said. “He was married to Hannah.”
Alice winked.
“He was,” Em said with quiet emphasis. “He never strayed on his wives.”
“I know,” Alice said. “Slutty behavior after death. I think that’s true for all of us.”
Em smiled.
“Except you,” Alice said.
“Not my thing,” Em shrugged.
The egg timer rang to indicate that the muffins were done. Em gave Alice the spatula and went to check the muffins. George came in before she could get there. He opened the oven to check them.
“A few more minutes,” he said. Em went to turn on the timer. “Did she tell you?”
Alice shook her head.
“I fell for Em,” George said. “Hard.”
“But you were so much younger!” Alice said.
“The heart doesn’t care,” George said. “Henry was ill. My Hannah had just died.”
Alice gaped at him.
“What?” Em
asked.
“He’s Benoni’s father,” Alice said.
“My son?” Em asked at the same time George said, “What?”
Em recovered first.
“What pot are you stirring, Alice?” Em shook her head at Alice.
George looked stunned. He turned to Em, who was focused on putting the scrambled eggs onto the serving plate. She gave him the plate of eggs and gestured for him to bring it out to the dining room. He asked the question with his eyes. She answered with a veiled smile.
“He doesn’t know,” Alice said in a low voice.
“Know what?” Em asked.
Alice laughed and shook her head.
“Listen,” Em said. Her tone was so serious that Alice stopped laughing and turned to look at her. Em’s accent slipped into her native 1600s’ English. “Henry was very ill. Thomas was a toddler. My family and friends were in England. I belonged in England. I was loved in England. I was stuck in awful Salem, in this horrible colony. I was so alone, so very alone. George was the first person who’d spoken even two kind words to me in . . . a very long time. His mother had raised him in Roxbury on her own, so he understood what I was going through. We were friends. He saved me and introduced me to Christianity, brought me to the church. I was so overwhelmed, just outdone by this New World and the frontier . . .”
“The Indians,” Alice interrupted.
“Those horrible Indian raids,” Em said. “I was terrified. Every day. Terrified. Not that I blamed the Indians. But for me, it was . . . awful. I wished every day that I could go home, just to see England again. George came along . . . He’d survived many Indian raids. He’d been to battle and overcome the horrors.”
“And was still kind,” Alice said.
“Solicitous,” Em said.
Em shrugged. She took the muffins out of the oven and gave Alice a plate of bacon.
“Every woman in Salem Village loved George Burroughs,” Alice said. “He was so kind and incredibly handsome. He paid attention to us.”
“Listened,” Em said.
“Except those awful Putnams,” Alice said.
“I guess they had the last laugh,” Em said.
“I always knew he loved you,” Alice said. Em looked up at her. “I think everyone knew. Even Sarah.”
Em swallowed hard at the idea that George’s second wife knew that he loved Em. Alice nodded her certainty and brought the bacon into the dining room. Mary Ayer came out of the office. Lost in her own thoughts, Mary Ayer poured herself a cup of coffee on her way through the kitchen. George swooped back to the kitchen for a reassuring kiss and the butter. When he was gone, Em spent a worried moment washing her hands and wondering if Giles was right.
By loving George, had she gotten everyone killed?
She swallowed hard and stared at the large painting of the English countryside. Shaking her head at herself, she took down a serving plate and transferred the muffins onto the plate. Alice returned.
“Why didn’t you tell him about Benoni?” Alice asked.
“What’s to tell?” Em asked.
“You let everyone think you’d had some dalliance with . . . someone exotic and . . .” Alice said. “History records you as having a ‘questionable’ sexual past.”
Em set the plate of muffins in Alice’s hands to shut her up.
“Then, who was Benoni’s father?” Alice asked.
Em gave such a sad shrug that Alice kissed her cheek. Em poured the last of the coffee into a serving thermos and started the coffee maker again. She’d just pressed “Start” when they called for her. Rearranging her face from worried to smiling, she went into the dining room for breakfast with the family.
“Em promised to tell us what she did to the Putnams,” Alice said when she entered the room.
Em laughed and took her place at the table.
The hurt and confusion in George’s eyes when he’d said, “What?” had torn a hole in Em’s conscience. She saw those dark eyes staring at her across a chasm of sorrow.
Even though it had been a long day. Even though she’d laughed with John, Sam, and Mary on their way to work. Even though Bridget and Elizabeth had begged her to come for a spa day. Even though the day had been full of customers and employees and questions and problems and laughter.
Even though she hadn’t seen him since this morning, George’s dark eyes burned like an ember in her psyche.
She cursed herself for not dealing with this a hundred years or so before.
She knew he was furious because he’d taken special care to avoid her all day. When the store closed around ten, she made her way upstairs. She was standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, when he came in.
“You were waiting in your office,” Em said.
“Of course,” George said.
“I . . .” Em started at the same time George said, “I . . .”
Em looked down, and away, from him. He turned his back to her.
“You . . .” George started at the same time Em said, “You’re . . .”
He walked out of the kitchen. She could tell by the sound that he’d plopped down on the couch. Not sure if she should follow him, she lingered in the kitchen. Finally, sick of her own nerves, she clicked on the electric kettle and went out into their living space.
“What?” she asked.
“What?” His voice rose. His eyebrows rose with insult.
“Right,” she said. “You’re clearly angry with me. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on?” he mumbled, almost to himself. He shook his head and looked up at her. “Are you truly this dense?”
“Dense?” Em asked. “What are you talking about?”
George patted the cushion beside him. Em scowled.
“I promise not to have a fit,” George said.
She hesitated. George had a terrible temper. Abusive only to her eardrums, he could storm around screaming for an hour before he was ready for any kind of a conversation.
“Really,” George said.
She sat down next to him. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes.
“Do you love me, Em?” George asked finally.
Em tucked her foot up under her and turned to him. He stared straight ahead.
“Do you love me, Em?” George asked again. “Even a little bit?”
“I do,” Em said. She smiled at him. “More than a little bit.”
He slowly turned to look at her. She nodded.
“Everyone loves George,” he said.
“Everyone does love George,” Em said.
“So you . . .”
“No.” Em’s hands surrounded his face. She looked deep into his dark eyes. For the second time today, her voice slipped into her ancient accent. “I believe we’re two halves to a whole.”
“But Giles and Isaac and . . .” George shook his head.
“You know this.” Em’s voice was low. “You said it first in 1681, when we were in Salem Village.”
His head went up in a slight nod. She leaned forward and kissed his lips.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” George said in an accent similar to hers yet completely foreign to the modern man.
“Tell you what?” Em asked. She pulled back to look at him.
“About Benoni,” George said.
Em groaned.
“You’re angry over something Alice made up?” Em asked.
“I’m angry that you . . .” George started. “Something Alice made up?”
Em nodded.
“Who was Benoni’s father?” George asked.
Em looked away from him.
“You know, I’ve thought about it all day,” George said. “Benoni had just started his apprenticeship the spring before we were hanged.”
Em nodded.
“He was ten,” George said.
“Eleven,” Em nodded.
“Henry died in 1684,” George said.
“I guess so,” Em said.
“Benoni was mulatto,” George said in a low voi
ce.
“That’s what the neighbors said,” Em said. “They also thought I was a witch.”
“I never thought he was . . . dark,” George said.
She waved her hand over his head. His long, grey hair and kindly, wrinkled face gave way to long jet-black hair, a bushy black beard which covered the deep facial scars dug by war, and darker, suntanned skin. George looked like the dark Celtic warrior he’d been in Salem Village. George’s eyes flicked to the mirror on the wall. For a moment, he looked at himself; then he looked at her.
“Your skin is darker than mine,” Em said. “But together, we’re not as light as some.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” he asked finally.
“I don’t have anything to say,” Em said. “Henry was very ill. Thomas was a baby. I got pregnant. That’s what I know.”
For a moment, George watched her.
“Was the baby Henry’s? Probably not, but maybe. Yours? Possibly, but we were together only twice. Or . . .” Em looked away from him. “In 1681, I couldn’t have conceived of the science we know now. Eggs. Sperm. Moment of conception. Little tests you buy at the store. All of that.”
Em shrugged.
“I fell pregnant. And Henry was still ill, and Thomas was still a toddler.”
“Something else happened,” George said. “After I left?”
“You were in Salem Village.” Em made a slight nod.
“Indians?” George asked.
Em nodded. George looked at her for a moment and then nodded.
“Henry was ill,” Em repeated. “Thomas was a baby.”
“Why didn’t I know?” George asked.
“Your Hannah had just died,” Em said. “You were confused by Henry and Thomas. You had three babies who desperately needed their father and a bickering congregation and all that ridiculousness about your payment.”
“They wouldn’t pay me,” George nodded. “I had to take out loans and . . . We were broke. The pressure was . . .”
“Tremendous,” Em said. “I wanted to be a place of peace and joy for you. I wanted to be the place where you felt your burdens lifted, if only for an hour. I needed my own burdens lifted. I looked forward with tremendous joy to your visits, even if we only drank tea and talked about Christ.”
“I did as well,” George smiled. “My time with you has always been the highlight of my life — then and now.”
Suffer a Witch Page 8
