The Shape of Mercy

by Susan Meissner

  Abigail inhaled deeply. “Well, yes, sort of like ghosts, only those whose shapes were seen about the village terrorizing innocent people, those people were still alive, many of them sitting in prison in chains at the time.”

  “No one else saw these shapes, though?”

  “Apparently only the bewitched could see the shapes. No one else.”

  I was beginning to understand. “So no one could refute them.”

  “No. No one could. And it went on for months. By the time spectral evidence was finally banned in late November, Mercy was already …” Abigail’s voice trailed off.

  Silence filled the air around our table and uneasiness enveloped me.

  I knew what was coming in the pages of the diary. Not the exact details, but I knew how the story would end. Abigail didn’t have to finish.

  I knew assumptions were going to be made about the girl I spent my afternoons with. Accusations were coming. Mercy would be asked to choose. There was no easy way. Confess or face execution. There would be a trial. A conviction.

  A hangman’s noose.

  I pushed my plate away.

  Eighteen

  15 March 1692

  Papa brings home news every day. Goody Corey was taken to the Putnam house to determine if she is indeed the one torturing Ann Putnam. It is said when Goody Corey walked into the Putnam house, Ann fell to fits and horrible writhing and screamed that Goody Corey suckled an evil yellow bird between her fingers.

  And then Ann screamed she saw a man roasting on a spit in the fireplace. Mercy Lewis, who is a servant at the Putnam house, said she saw it too. And she also fell into fits.

  And now Goody Nurse is accused! Goody Nurse is wise and good. We should all laugh to think Goody Nurse is in league with the Devil. But nay, Abigail Williams screams Goody Nurse torments her and she is believed. Is not Goody Nurse also tormented by such horrible accusations? How can so many good women in the Village be witches?

  John Peter comes to get eggs, and we do not talk of what is happening in the Village. But since nothing else is happening, we barely speak.

  Today he asked if I was writing stories.

  I told him I have no heart for happy stories when all around me is madness.

  He held my gaze before he turned to go back to his own cottage. For a moment I thought he might reach out to touch my face. There was no straw in my hair this time.

  I don’t know how I know he almost did this. His hand, the one not holding the basket of eggs, stayed close to his body. But I believe he almost did.

  21 March 1692

  A warrant has been issued for Goody Corey’s arrest. She was examined today, but I did not attend. Papa, I think, has begun to see these unseemly meetings distress me. He told me Goody Corey maintained her innocence and the girls who accuse her displayed their awful evidence. They claimed to see a man whispering evil words in Goody Corey’s ear. They moaned in agony.

  I do not know what to think. Goody Corey has always been kind to me and Papa.

  I am fast running out of ink. Papa does not speak of going to Boston. I will have to find some walnut shells to crush.

  28 March 1692

  Elizabeth Proctor has been accused of witchcraft. So has the child Dorcas Goode. The Village may as well accuse Lily, my milk cow, of bewitching young girls.

  Papa is coughing again. Tonight he did not eat.

  That weekend, I brought the schematic design for the art complex my father wanted my help with back to the dorm. Clarissa, who had no interest in the project the weekend we were at my house, had asked to see it. I think she was really interested in spending another weekend at my parents’ home in hopes of seeing Cole again.

  My rich, single cousin.

  When she asked to see them, I told her I could probably bring the drawings back to the dorm. She gave me a funny look. I’d had many restless nights dreaming of yellow birds and screaming girls, but even though my thoughts were scattered, I knew what she was really after. Another beach party at Malibu. More face time with Cole. Another silver-domed meal served to her on the patio.

  But Clarissa would have been disappointed had she come. Cole wasn’t home. There were no beach parties. And Eleanor had the weekend off; we went out to eat. No silver-domed meals on the patio.

  But Dad did let me take the drawings back to Santa Barbara. I think he liked that I wanted to show them to Clarissa.

  When I got back late that Sunday afternoon, I spread the drawings out on our dorm room floor. Clarissa knelt over them and asked me if I had seen Cole and Raul while I was home. I wondered if she really cared at all about what she was looking at.

  “No,” I said.

  She paused for a moment and then pointed to the drawings. “So what exactly is this? I thought you said it was an art gallery.”

  “It’s a group of buildings, really. Like a family of galleries all in one place, connected thematically and centered on a garden in the middle of the complex. But it’s not just art that will be on display. There will be a viewing library of rare books, and a museum of antique musical instruments, and a gallery of rare china and furniture.”

  “Well, okay. But I don’t see what makes it different than other museums. Didn’t you say it was unique?”

  “The difference is the artifacts in this complex will be used, not just displayed. There will be readings of the rare books, concerts with the instruments, and meals served with the antique china and furniture. This building here will resemble a manor house or mini-palace. Everything will be displayed as if its in current use, because in some respects, it will be. The garden in the middle of all the buildings will be a replica of one of King Ludwig’s gardens, with all the same plants and flowers.”

  I pointed to a separate wing off the replica of the manor house. “And here are classrooms for lectures on art history, music, literature, design, textiles, pretty much anything from the last three centuries that contributed in an artistic way to cultural expression.”

  Clarissa’s eyes swept across the drawings. “Cultural expression of the aristocracy, you mean?”

  I looked down at the drawings. “Not necessarily.”

  “I don’t see anything here that reflects the working class,” Clarissa said simply. “Unless you plan to have maids in black dresses and white aprons serving those fancy meals on the antique china.”

  I hadn’t thought much about what the complex wasn’t about, only what it was. And even then, I hadn’t spent any time pondering its limitations. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with showcasing fine art,” I mumbled.

  “Nothing wrong with it all,” Clarissa said, getting to her feet. “You should just know what you’ve got there. That’s the culture of the upper class. Will the blue-collar crowd even be able to afford the admission?”

  I felt my face grow warm. I couldn’t find the words to tell Clarissa that the complex wouldn’t be open to the public except during membership drives. Nor that membership would exceed several thousands of dollars a year per person.

  “You think it’s a bad idea,” I said instead.

  “No. It’s a great way for the fortunate to spend their money and celebrate all they’ve been able to enjoy over the years.” Clarissa dusted off her knees.

  “You’re kidding, right? You think this idea sucks.”

  Clarissa threw me a look and laughed. It was laced with a sarcastic edge. “If I showed you a drawing for a museum that celebrated the cultural history of the migrant farm worker, would you say that idea sucks?”

  “Of course not.”

  I answered before I knew what she was trying to convey to me, what kind of equation I had drawn. When it dawned on me a second later, I grimaced.

  “So why assume I think this project sucks?” she continued.

  I said nothing.

  “I can appreciate your little experiment, Lauren, but it doesn’t seem to be doing you any good.”

  “My little experiment?”

  “Living here in the dorm with me. Your token com
moner.”

  I gasped. “I’ve never thought that about you.”

  “You just did. And really, it doesn’t bother me that much, so don’t get all depressed about it.”

  “But I didn’t …” I couldn’t finish. When I didn’t continue, Clarissa did.

  “I was kind of ticked at you our freshman year. I knew you could live anywhere, go to any school. But after a while, I kind of admired you. It seemed like you were really trying to understand what it’s like to make your own way in life. But you’re no different now than you were a year ago when I met you.”

  Clarissa was standing over me. I rose to my feet, annoyed. “What do you mean?”

  “You make all the same assumptions about people.”

  “What assumptions?” I felt a muscle in my neck twitch.

  She paused for a moment. “You know what? Let’s just drop it.” She reached for the coffee shop apron hanging on her bedpost. She had to be at work in fifteen minutes.

  But I didn’t want to drop it. “What assumptions?”

  Clarissa slipped the black apron over her head. “I think we should just let it go.”

  She grabbed a pair of earrings from her nightstand and her wrist-watch. There was no way I was letting her leave thinking what she was thinking.

  Even though I wasn’t quite sure what she was thinking.

  I knew it had something to do with me coming off like a rich snob, an image I loathed. And she couldn’t even see that she was acting like a jealous middle classer who only pretended she didn’t envy the rich.

  “Clarissa, do you remember how you fawned over my house last weekend? How you gushed over having our housekeeper serve you a meal on the patio?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me you don’t think you have a really nice house? That you don’t like having your meal brought to you on your patio?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t like those things?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “You think because I’m not rich like you, I shouldn’t like a really nice house and a really nice meal?”

  She wasn’t getting it at all. “Clarissa, you practically started hyperventilating when I said I had four male cousins.”

  Clarissa laughed. “Hyperventilating?”

  “We were in my driveway and you said you couldn’t believe I lived in a house like that and you wished I had brothers. When I told you I had four male cousins, you got all pumped.”

  Clarissa slipped on a long, dangling earring and shrugged. “So?”

  “So, you assume things, too! You assume marriage to a rich guy would be better than marrying a guy who doesn’t have money.”

  My roommate whipped her head around to face me. “Marriage? Who said anything about marriage?”

  “I … You … I saw the way you were around Cole! You wanted to sit with him in the car on the way to the beach party. You wanted to see him this weekend. That’s why you said you wanted to see these plans. You …”

  “You think I want to marry Cole? A guy I barely know? For his money?” She laughed ruefully and grabbed her car keys. She only had one dangling earring on; the other she still held in her hand. It was as if she couldn’t wait to get away from me.

  Clarissa thrust open the door to the main hallway. “Thanks, Lauren. You’ve just proven my point.”

  I took a step toward her. “What point?”

  But I knew already.

  “You haven’t learned a thing since you’ve been here.” She stepped into the hall. “You still think you’re better than everyone else.”

  She shut the door hard behind her.

  I looked at our closed door for a moment, unable to decide what to do next. Unable to process what Clarissa had said. I looked down at my bare feet, at my toes crinkling the edges of King Ludwig’s garden.

  I was standing on the paper tribute to nobility.

  Nineteen

  3 April 1692

  Winter seems to be loosening its white hold on us. Today I worked the garden. I love planting the seeds for summer’s harvest. I love imagining all the wonders that take place below ground where no eye but God’s can see. I wrote a story about the corn seeds and pea seeds meeting each other across the buried rows and producing yellow peas and green kernels.

  Writing the story relieved my mind for a few moments of the happenings in the Village. It seems Mary Warren has been healed of her strange afflictions. She said her fits have ended and the prayers of the Village have made her well.

  But none of the other girls claim to be healed.

  Papa thinks Mary can no longer play this awful game and has decided to end her part in it.

  A very small part of me thinks she is brave.

  The rest of me thinks you cannot hold in high esteem someone who stops doing evil. It is like rewarding the thief who stops stealing. What about all the people he stole from before he stopped?

  Papa is tutoring a young man today. The man’s spelling is atrocious. He spells his own name wrong. Sad, really. Most of the girls in the Village can’t spell their own names. Most care not. That is sad as well.

  8 April 1692

  John Peter came for the eggs today and brought news from the Village. Warrants have been issued for the arrests of Rebecca Nurse’s sister, Sarah Cloyse, and for Elizabeth Proctor. They are being taken to Salem Town for their examinations. I do not know why. There will no doubt be a larger crowd there.

  I’ve heard Sarah Cloyse is thought a witch simply because she defended her sister.

  Prudence stares at me whenever I walk near her. I saw her talking with John Peter after the midweek lecture. He looked as though he wished to be somewhere else, but Prudence kept talking He caught my eye, and then Prudence did, and I had to look away. His eyes spoke interest. Hers, spite.

  She fancies John Peter. Who can blame her?

  I wonder if she knows John Peter comes to my cottage for eggs when he could—and should—send one of his sisters.

  I think perhaps she does.

  But I don’t want him to stop coming. I don’t want one of his sisters to come.

  I must stop for now. Papa needs something warm to drink to settle his cough.

  10 April 1692

  Sarah Cloyse, who is in chains and in jail, has been appearing all over the Village, torturing people. The shape of Sarah Cloyse is here, then there, and her shape is always biting, pinching, and tormenting.

  Do you suppose it is possible to imagine something into existence? When I write my stories, I write them as though they are true. I know they are not, but there are no words that say these words are but a story. What if I wrote a story and then became convinced it was true? What if I truly believed I had grown yellow peas and green kernels? What if I were somehow able to convince other people I had grown yellow peas and green kernels?

  I wonder if perhaps the afflicted girls set aflame a terrible fire that has so fascinated the Village that everyone who wants to believe it true need only close their eyes. All they have to do is imagine the corn is green and the peas are yellow and it is so. This would make the girls not evil, but rather something else. Tricked. Perhaps by evil itself and they do not even know it.

  11 April 1692

  I did not go to Salem Town for Sarah Cloyse’s examination. Papa did. He did not say much when he arrived back at the cottage. It was the same spectacle as before. Accusations. Denials. Screaming girls.

  Clarissa barely spoke to me in the days that followed our argument. She didn’t appear to be mad at me, nor did she seem hurt. It was more like she had given up on me. Given up on finding common ground on which to base our friendship.

  I stayed up the night we argued, finishing Robinson Crusoe. I wanted to apologize.

  When I finished the book at eleven, she still wasn’t home. I knew she got off at nine thirty, and I began imagining that she was staying out with friends to avoid coming back to our room. The longer she stayed away, the worse I felt.

  I made a pot of cinnamon stre
usel decaf and sat down with a mug and my fathers ancient copy of Robinson Crusoe. I had slipped Raul’s e-mail address inside the cover after he gave it to me, and I took out the scrap of paper as I sipped the coffee.

  It perplexed me that Raul wanted to know what I thought of the book. Was he genuinely interested in my opinion? Was he flirting with me? Was he teasing me?

  I had taken the scrap of paper out and looked at it many times over the previous two weeks, thinking about what it would be like to initiate a conversation with him. There was something about Raul that set me off kilter, more than just my mistaking him for one of the caterers and his playful attitude about it.

  I hadn’t told Clarissa about that little event before our argument, and I certainly wasn’t going to tell her after it either. It would’ve only confirmed that she was right and I was wrong. That I made elitist assumptions about people.

  I hadn’t been mesmerized by a guy in ages. I couldn’t remember the last time I had daydreamed about a man. And it made no sense to me that I was daydreaming about Raul.

  I didn’t care much for how he reacted to my mistake the day I met him.

  I didn’t care much for his fancy shirts and fancy plane.

  I didn’t care much for Robinson Crusoe, probably because Abigail didn’t.

  And I didn’t like how thinking about Raul made me feel—vulnerable and exposed.

  I was fairly certain he wasn’t particularly attracted to me. He liked my hair down, and he liked to tease me. He was kind to me. But then, he was kind to everyone.

  He did like books, though. He had that on my cousins.

  And as I sat there drinking coffee, waiting for Clarissa and thinking about Raul, it occurred to me that he probably would be quite attracted to Mercy Hayworth. She was a book lover, as well as kind, reasonable, smart, and compassionate. At that moment I began to picture John Peter looking like Raul. Whatever image I had conjured in my head for John Peter fell away and Raul’s likeness was nailed in its place.