Witch Woman
by
Jeanette Baker
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2011 by Jeanette Baker. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Thank You.
Chapter 1
Salem, Massachusetts, 1974
Annie McBride leaned over the kitchen sink and glanced out the window of her cozy Cape Cod saltbox. An odd, celery glow divided the dawn sky into streaky layers of green and gray. She shivered and rubbed her arms against the October cold. To save fuel costs, she'd closed off most of the upstairs rooms but the hallway heater took its time warming the kitchen, the parlor and the dining room. The fireplace in her bedroom and a down comforter on the bed kept her warm at night but, try as she might, Annie couldn't sleep past five, not since she'd laid Thomas in the ground three weeks before.
It wasn't fair, she thought, steeling herself against the pain, so familiar now that she feared it would never leave her. Fifty-six was still young. Men didn't die in their fifties anymore, not men who kept themselves fit and lean, men who didn't smoke or drink or worry much more than they should about bills or politics or job security. Cared-for men lived well into their seventies and eighties. But, even though the odds were with him, Thomas hadn't.
Every morning, Annie kept her routine the same. She woke, showered and wrapped herself in the fleece robe Thomas had given her last year, for no reason other than he knew she loved anything soft. Then she picked up the paper from the front stoop to check the weather report before dressing in the appropriate clothing, usually warm corduroy slacks and a Pendleton sweater if it was chilly. Next, she set up the coffee drip. Thomas loved dripped coffee. She would call him down to the table to read the paper while she cooked breakfast, oatmeal or Farina if the morning was a cold one, sometimes pancakes, rarely eggs. They would eat together in comfortable silence. She read the horoscope and Dear Abby. He read the front page and the business section before he kissed her cheek and went on his way to repair power lines for the electric company where he'd worked for nearly thirty-five years.
This was where it all fell apart. Annie could breeze through the dressing and cooking part of her morning. She could even pretend that her husband was still upstairs, just taking a bit longer while she set the table, poured coffee and ladled out the hot cereal. But as the minutes ticked by and no familiar step sounded on the stairs, no lilting whistle broke the sinister silence, she couldn't keep up the pretense. Thomas was dead, felled by the heart disease no one knew he had.
The funeral had been well-attended. Offerings from sympathetic friends and neighbors still filled her freezer. The headstone, delivered and erected over Thomas's grave, proclaimed him beloved husband. Thank you notes had been written and mailed, bank accounts changed, insurance companies notified, death certificates sent out, clothing donated to charity. Everything had been attended to down to the last perfunctory detail and, now, there was nothing left to do. She was completely alone with herself, the empty day, the eventual darkness and, lately, the confusing, repetitive dreams that stopped too short of understanding.
It would get better, she promised herself. People adjusted. Women often ended up outliving their husbands. Women usually had children, a nagging internal voice reminded her. Why didn't she have children? The question confused her. She had no legitimate answer. It wasn't that she hadn't wanted them. They just never came. The subject wasn't discussed. Their lives had been full enough with just the two of them. No holes, no unfulfilled longings, no need for immortality cried out for babies. Neither of them thought children were particularly necessary, and both were aware that the responsibility would be greater than any they wished to explore.
If only she'd known what her lack of foresight would mean. The purpose of children was now quite obvious where it never had been before. Children and life were synonymous. Without children, there was no purpose in continuing. What reason did she, Annie McBride, have for living? No one on the entire planet cared if she came home at night. She could be dead for days before anyone found her. Because Thomas was gone, she was no longer important to anyone. For the first time she understood the Eastern Indian custom of suttee where the wife of a dead maharaja climbed on top of the burning pyre right along with him.
Absently, Annie rearranged the peridote on the window ledge so that the meager rays of light from the window picked out the lime green color of the stone. Interesting how the sky looked smeared with the same unusual hue. At first, the streaks had come with the light from the east, over the ocean. But, as the pattern widened and dawn gave way to the feeble gray of an autumn morning, the sickening green appeared to settle due south over the cemetery.
Something stirred in Annie's chest, compelling her to move away, to shift her comfort level. At first she resisted. The room was finally a reasonable temperature. She wanted to sit in her heated kitchen, pour another cup of coffee, read the newspaper, especially the Lifestyle section with their human interest stories, and involve herself in someone else's tragedy, those abandoned children in Argentina, for instance, or Biafra with their swollen bellies and the flies around their eyes. If they could bear their reality, certainly she could handle hers. After that she wanted to fill her spindle with five-centimeter Shetland white wool, sit by the fire and pull the tangled pieces into long, silky threads.
She got as far as opening the cupboard, taking out her coffee mug, pouring in the coffee and adding cream. But the restless feeling was too strong. Sighing, she set her mug in the sink, pulled on her boots and chose one of her warm coats from the closet. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she struggled into her gloves, stuffed her hair into her knitted hat, picked up a trash bag and small broom from the mudroom and set out for the cemetery.
Her head ached slightly, a dull, manageable pain tapping at both temples. Gritting her teeth, Annie strode down the path where she had planted her daffodil bulbs, only three weeks and one day before Thomas dropped dead, and struck out for Essex Street and the harbor road. She passed the tourist haunts, Nathaniel Hawthorne's House of the Seven Gables, Higginson Book Co. and the absurd Witch Museum without a second glance.
Laurie Cabot, Salem's Wicca high priestess, sat behind the glass in her shop window, passing a shuttle through her loom. Annie nodded and would have passed without stopping but Laurie waved her to the door.
Reluctantly, Annie poked her head inside the shop. "I'm on my way to clean off Thomas's plot."
Laurie pushed back her long, silver-streaked dark hair and left her loom to stand beside Annie. It was near the solstice and she looked the part of the stereotypical witch
in her black robes and unbound hair. Her nails were painted blood-red with cartoonish spiders etched on the thumbs. Under different circumstances, Annie would have laughed. Laurie, so correct and gracious, and so very bossy, had a vulgar streak.
The witch's green eyes widened. "Look at the sky," she said, glancing up. "Have you ever seen such a color?"
"Never," answered Annie.
"What do you think it means?"
"More than likely, nothing."
Laurie frowned. "It's almost as if—" she stopped. "Are you all right, Annie? Would you like a cup of tea?"
Annie shook her head. "Not now. Maybe on the way back."
"I think—" Laurie hesitated.
"You think?" Annie prompted her.
Laurie shook her head. "Be careful, Annie. Think before you act."
Nodding, she moved away, mentally chastising herself for taking the Wharf Street path leading past the Witch Shoppe. Crossing the bridge leading to the harbor, she barely noticed the empty boats bobbing in their slips.
The day was numbingly cold and, except for the strange green coloring the sky, depressingly gray. Annie dipped her chin inside her scarf and trudged on. Now that Thomas was gone she would have to learn to drive. Fifty wasn't too old. She should have mustered the courage years before when he offered to teach her. Now, the task would go to a stranger at one of those driving schools. She would learn right along with the sixteen-year-olds. Annie would tell them she was born in nineteen twenty-four and that it wasn't unusual, all those years ago when she turned sixteen, for a woman not to have a driving license.
Something buzzed around her right ear. She slapped it away. It moved to her left ear. She rubbed her gloved hand over the side of her head. The sound intensified, this time in both ears. What was happening? Was she going insane? Closing her eyes, she leaned against the street sign shaped like a curvy witch on a broomstick, the kind the Wicca of Salem despised. The buzzing sound was now a wild keening. Pressure built inside her head. Her eyes rolled back and pain exploded in her forehead. Through the roar of sound, words, camouflaged by time and echo, bounced off her ears.
Panting, Annie opened her eyes and squinted at the green cloud staining the sky. A hand closed over her arm. She jerked away.
"Easy, ma'am," said a strange voice. "Are you all right? You look like you're ill."
She wet her lips and shook her head. "The sky," she managed. "Have you ever seen such an odd color?"
The man glanced up and then back at Annie. "I don't know what it is you're seeing, but it looks just fine to me. You need a doctor."
He had to be kidding. Above their heads the air was a dreadful slime-green, so bright and hideous it reminded her of a color television gone bad. She opened her mouth to argue and then decided against it. The urge to move forward was much more than a mere compulsion. She could think of nothing else. "Thank you," she said. "I'll be fine in a minute."
"Can I offer you a lift home?"
Annie lifted her chin. He looked perfectly respectable, but didn't they all? "Certainly not," she said firmly. "Please, be on your way and allow me to be on mine."
"If that's the way you want it." Politely, he tipped his hat and crossed the street.
The pain in her head receded. The voices died away. She strained to hear, suspicious now of the silence surrounding her. All was quiet. Annie kept walking, down Washington Square past the common, across Congress and right on Charter Street toward the cemetery, The Old Burying Point. All around her the colors of a New England fall glowed scarlet, orange, gold and bronze. Beneath her feet dry leaves crackled and the smoky, spiced scent of change whirled around her head. Her eyes watered from the cold and the acrid scent of burning leaves. She crossed the manicured lawn and entered Salem's oldest and proudest graveyard, established in sixteen thirty-seven. Thomas had been a McBride, a direct descendent of one of the town's founding fathers and was therefore entitled to internment in this hallowed ground. Only a few families qualified. When Annie's time came, she would not lay beside him. She was not entitled, for more reasons than one.
Before the nineteenth century, when a portion of Salem Harbor was filled in, the cemetery overlooked the waterfront. Now, mature oak trees hung over the stones, their gigantic branches hovering in leafy embraces as if to protect the ancient memorials, many of them thin, covered in lichen, their script blurred and illegible due to weather and time. Fiery, red-leafed maples lined the beaten pathways between the stones.
The cemetery was empty. Annie looked up. The strange green cloud had disappeared. The sky was now a leaden gray. A cold fog rolled in off the sea. Her bones ached from the chill. She welcomed the feeling, evidence that she still lived. Gripping her bag in one hand, her whisk broom in the other she approached Thomas's grave. He'd chosen the stone himself, long ago. Thomas thought ahead. It was a pale, sober gray, minus the gleam of metallic flecks. She'd kept the lettering simple: Thomas McBride, beloved husband, 1918-1974. Rest in Peace.
Without sunlight bringing color to the landscape, Annie's eyesight was poor. Was there something on the wooden bench next to the grave? It moved. An animal, perhaps? It was too large to be a squirrel. Maybe it was a dog or a raccoon. She moved closer and the creature turned, face and body squarely within Annie's line of vision.
She gasped, broom and trash bag dropping from nerveless fingers, disregarded, forgotten. It was a child, a little girl, no more than two years old, completely naked and obviously alone.
Annie blinked several times, unable, at first, to accept the undeniable evidence of her eyes. The child's hair was dark red and tangled. Her pale skin was blue from the cold and the eyes that met Annie's were the strangest she'd ever seen. One was brown, the other blue. They made each side of her face look like two different people. But it wasn't their color that horrified Annie. It was their blankness.
Annie unbuttoned her coat. Making crooning noises, she scooped up the little girl, cradled her against her chest and rebuttoned the coat, leaving the collar free to accommodate the small head. The broom and bag could wait until later. Annie left the cemetery, keeping to the empty side streets. Maintaining a swift jog-walk, she made it home without running into anyone.
With the child's body buttoned close to her own, Annie headed straight for the refrigerator. Thankfully she'd thought to buy a fresh carton of milk. She filled a small saucepan and stirred in a bit of sugar. While waiting for the milk to warm, she sliced a banana and added two graham crackers to a plate. Then she poured the warm milk into a plastic cup, sat down at the table and held it to the little girl's lips. "Here you are, sweetheart," she said. "Drink a bit of milk for Annie."
The toddler drank greedily. The blue color disappeared from her lips. Annie unbuttoned her coat, enough to free the little girl's arms, and offered her a graham cracker. The child devoured it in three bites and held out her hand. Annie dropped a banana slice into the small, dirty palm. At first the little girl hesitated, bringing it to her mouth, letting the fruit sit on her tongue, chewing and swallowing slowly. Then, once again she held out her hand. Annie slipped her another banana slice. This time it went down without delay. Alternating the milk, crackers and fruit, Annie coaxed her into finishing off the snack.
Keeping the child inside her coat, Annie moved to the sink, turned on the tap, adjusted the temperature and added a bit of liquid soap. Bubbles frothed to the surface. When the basin was half full, she turned off the spray. Speaking gently, she unbuttoned her coat, releasing the small, bare limbs. "This will warm you straight away," she said. "There's nothing like a bubble bath. You'll feel nice and clean. I'll wrap you in an old shirt and then you'll have a long nap. That sounds good, doesn't it, little one?"
The child stared blankly. Annie lowered her into the warm water. For a brief instant, she felt a stiffening of the toddler's legs, but it was over immediately. Carefully, maintaining a soothing flow of conversation, Annie sponged her clean.
Although she was inexperienced when it came to children, Annie knew instinctively that there w
as something very different about this one. She was small, muscular and lean, with very little baby fat. There were calluses on her heels and the balls of her toes, the kind that children get when they run barefoot in the summer. That wasn't unusual in itself, but she had them on her palms and fingertips as well. What kind of activity would give a child her age calluses on the tips of her fingers? Annie couldn't imagine.
Deciding to postpone washing the child's hair, she wrapped her in a towel and carried her upstairs where she found a soft sweater to pull over her head and a pair of socks for the little pink feet. She frowned. Did two-year-olds wear underpants or diapers? The question was moot. She had nothing that would fit such a small bottom.
Annie left the little girl sitting in the middle of the bed while she laid logs in the fireplace, turned on the pilot and threw in a match. The flame caught immediately. Then she gathered the toddler into her arms, sat down in the rocker and began to sing. Slowly, the human voice, the heat and the rhythmic movement worked their magic. The child's lids closed and the dark half-moons of her lashes fell against her cheeks.
Annie held the little girl in her lap for a full twenty minutes listening for the deep breathing that signaled sleep. Who, she wondered, would leave a baby in a cemetery, alone and naked on a beastly cold October day? Someone who didn't deserve to have her. She pushed the thought away. The police would have to be notified. But, not today. Poor little love. She needed a good rest and, later, a hot meal. Tomorrow, first thing, Annie promised herself, she would call the authorities.
Carefully, so as not to wake her, she carried the child to the bed. Placing her in the middle of the mattress, she pulled the blankets over her and tugged the curtains closed against the daylight. The flames from the hearth fire threw a curve of light against the opposite wall, picking up the sparkle from the slab of onyx Annie kept on the nightstand. It was strangely comforting. Then she pulled the rocking chair close to the bed, tucked a comforter around her legs and watched the little girl sleep. Eventually, weariness claimed her. She leaned back in the chair and for the first time since Thomas died, slept soundly.
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