Sepia
Carolyn couldn’t sleep. Alone at the inn’s kitchen table, she sipped mint tea and wrote a note to her mother on a postcard. The picture on it depicted a larger-than-life lobster driving a cartoon convertible along a Maine highway—an “exaggeration-type card,” according to the Bar Harbor shopkeeper, who referred to himself as a deltiologist and avid collector.
Carolyn licked the stamp, placed it inside the pre-printed box on the back of the card, read her message over one more time, and rose to put it in the lobby’s post. She turned the card over and then laughed at the absurdity of the picture—the lobster clanking its claws. “Mom’ll think it’s cute.”
Katie, the post lady, would return from the main tomorrow. After a few weeks on the set, Carolyn had adjusted to the island’s routine. She found comfort in the simplicity. The postal clerk came only on Mondays and Thursdays in the off-season. Summerwind’s respite from the bustling activity of the city relaxed her—made her feel, oddly, at home.
As she put the card in the box in the foyer, a scuffle rose from the stairs, and the treads squeaked.
Viola traipsed down, wearing pink slippers and a white flannel nightgown. “Carolyn, you’re up.” She held the handrail. “Glad I’m not the only one awake on the island.”
Carolyn didn’t expect her to be staying at the inn when she had a perfectly good, fully functioning house across the way. “What are you doing sleeping here at the inn again? Did they kick you out of your house?”
Viola waved her hand as she approached the final step. “It’s not a big deal.” Sam, Viola’s Jack Russell mix, pattered down the stairs behind her. “They needed to finish up a shoot in the house. ‘A shoot.’ Listen to me. Talking like I know the business.”
Carolyn neared the matron of the island. “I’ll bet you’ll be happy to have this place back to yourself and everyone out of your hair.”
Viola didn’t answer, pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door, went in with Sam, and held it open for Carolyn.
“I happened to be up, wrote my mom, and figured I’d make tea.”
“Bad dream?” Viola asked as she scuffled across the tiled floor.
“How’d you guess?”
“Me, too,” the old woman replied while her dog waited by the door with his tail thumping anxiously against the mat.
“Must be women’s intuition.” Carolyn busied herself at the counter and prepared raspberry tea, Viola’s favorite, while Viola opened the back door to let Sam out and waited for him to come back in. When the dog entered with a rasp of his chains and shook off the mist from his coat, the women sat at the butcher-block table.
Viola stirred her tea. “So what are your nightmares?”
“You first.”
Viola took a sip and returned her cup to the saucer. “It was a very crowded day on Summerwind.” She returned the cup and saucer to the table. “Back then, this place did a whopping business. She was the cutest damn thing, that Rebecca.”
“Rebecca?”
“Becky. My daughter.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Carolyn confused the child as Rebecca the witch.
“God, at only three and a half years old, she could charm the whistle off a traffic cop.” Viola snickered.
“I saw the pictures upstairs at the house.” Carolyn imagined the sepia tone of the photographs come to life as Viola continued. A princely man wore high-hipped swim trunks. He posed with arms to his chest while a little girl built a sand castle behind him. A dog, strikingly like Sam, panted beside the child. Swimmers frolicked in the water.
Viola nodded. “The beaches were swarming with bathers that day. As they had been all summer. It was a hot August afternoon. But my heart raced, per usual, when John Arthur Dorr came onto the beach—chumming with his friends from Boston.”
“Is this your dream?”
“Well, I’m getting to it. It’s part real and part of my recurring dream.”
“I see.” Carolyn poured herself more tea.
“While John’s friends were eyeing the tourists and other beautiful girls, John kept his sight on me.” She put her hands to her heart. “I was so flabbergasted—amazed that a boy as handsome as John Arthur Dorr would be making eyes at skinny, flat-chested, and knock-kneed me.”
“So your daughter wasn’t John Arthur’s child?” Carolyn worried she’d overstepped her bounds and traced her finger along the china.
Viola crossed her legs. “No, honey. Let’s just say I got myself in a little trouble during my Radcliffe days.” She leaned her arm against the table. “Oh, I got good grades, president of the drama club, organized many parties…which, on occasion, got a little out of hand, if you know what I mean.”
“Viola, the party girl.” Carolyn couldn’t imagine the demure woman in front of her being so gregarious.
“Well, I had fun. But having a child out of wedlock was bad enough back then, let alone it happening at Radcliffe.” Viola uncrossed her legs and scooted her chair in. “I left just as I started to show. 1942…W-W-Two.” Viola’s voice choked.
Carolyn grabbed Viola’s hand.
“So I came back here to Summerwind to live with my folks. Summerwind’s an amazing place. People have always looked the other way. Despite it being a small island, for the most part, people don’t really care about your personal business. They keep to themselves and that’s how I like it. They’re kind and all, but don’t judge—at least not on the island. The mainland is something else. That’s one of the many things nice about Summerwind.”
Carolyn thought of the woman from the grocery store who called Viola a witch.
Viola pulled the plate of gingersnaps closer and took one. “I always had a crush on John Arthur Dorr,” she said, chewing the cookie, “but he was so much more mature than me. He was ten years older. Well, nowadays that doesn’t seem much, but back then… On the island, no one really gave a rat’s ass. God, I already had a baby out of wedlock, what more could I do wrong? But John Arthur was so tender, so kind. He didn’t care about my wrongdoings, per se.” She nibbled her cookie.
Carolyn took a gingersnap. “He sounds like an amazing man.” How could people on the mainland find Viola evil?
Viola smiled. “Oh, he was, Carolyn. Indeed.” She rubbed her hands together. “He was funny, too. He had a limp, one leg just a tad shorter than the other. He’d call himself Limp-along Cassidy. That’s why they wouldn’t let him in the service.”
“What happened to him?”
“He contracted polio as a child. He was a gentleman, regardless of what they said about him on the main.”
Carolyn inched closer. “What do you mean?” He looked so handsome and innocent in the pictures.
“John Arthur’s family was rich and had been summering in Bar Harbor for decades. They’d come up every summer from Salem.” Viola glanced over her shoulder. “You see, he had an unfounded reputation for being a bit of an evildoer. But he wasn’t evil. He just had special powers is all.”
Carolyn swallowed. Maybe there was some truth to the mainland rumors.
“He practiced Wicca. He’d picked it up from his aunt. He stayed with her while in college. She lived in Salem. It really wasn’t bad or anything. I don’t want to scare you none.”
Carolyn found the fact that they were making a witch movie on the island too coincidental. “Viola…what—”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Well, it’s not that. It’s just…don’t you find it odd that we’re making a movie about witches in your house?”
Viola shrugged. “I’ve always believed in synchronicity, things happening for a reason.” She took the porcelain carafe and offered Carolyn another cup of tea.
“Sure, a little warm-up,” Carolyn said, pushing her cup toward the pot. Did Dodger know this? Was Viola’s past somehow part of the ill-defined storyline?
“What about you, honey? What’s troubling you?” Viola asked, pouring the tea as the pot rattled against Carolyn’s cup.
“Oh, nothing.” In
comparison to this news about Viola’s Wiccan ties, Carolyn’s concerns about whether or not to quit show business seemed trite.
“C’mon now…you can’t fool ol’ Widow Dorr.” Viola put the pot down.
“Okay, since we’re sharing.” What the hell. “Well, I thought I licked it. I thought I beat it.”
“Beat what, dear?”
“This nagging feeling inside me that… Oh, never mind.” Carolyn shut down.
“Carolyn, you can tell me. I’m a good listener.”
Carolyn found comfort in the woman’s warm gaze and continued, “That I’m not doing the right thing with my life. I mean, I’ve worked hard, since I was a little girl, even, to get where I’m at today. I wanted it to happen so bad. But now it’s not fun anymore. It’s work.”
Viola nodded.
“Stardom, fame, fortune…but now it’s all spinning out of control, you know? The studio and Rudy, my manager, wanting to make me into a Madonna. And I don’t know if I want that.”
Viola knit her brow. “Are you playing the mother of Christ in another picture? You’d be really good—”
“Oh, no, no. Madonna. She’s a very popular singer, started out in the eighties. But she’s not my style, not at all. The problem is…my style is old.”
Viola sat silent for a moment. “Out here, we’re a bit isolated. I don’t get a lot of the radio stations that they get on the mainland. Well, I think you should stick to your guns, girl. You’re the type that will. I know it.” Viola waved her hand. “Old is new.”
“I try to stick to it. But I’m afraid if I do, there won’t be any career.”
“The Hollywood life, glamour and all, maybe that’s not you. You seem more artsy.”
Carolyn enjoyed Viola’s company and felt compelled to share. “Now performing is just so rote, so much a part of me, I don’t know life without it. And when I perform sometimes, I get so…so keyed up inside. I panic. It’s like I’m a little schoolgirl again, back in the third grade Christmas pageant trying to fill my dad’s shoes. Or in high school—”
Sam put his paws on Carolyn’s leg, and she scratched his ears.
“Sam, you shouldn’t be begging.” Viola clicked her fingers under the table, and Sam went over to her side, where he took a cookie from her.
Out the window, a couple of crew members opened a shed and gathered equipment, getting a jump on production.
“Tell me about your father,” Viola said.
Carolyn sighed. “Well…I didn’t really know him.” She looked at Viola. “Do you know Jim Sohier?” She paused at Viola’s blank stare. “What am I thinking? If you don’t know who Madonna is, you probably wouldn’t have known my father.”
“He was famous?”
“For being a rock ’n’ roll hippie back in the sixties. He died of an overdose when I was three.” She shook her head. “I never really knew him. I try real hard to remember, but…”
Viola rested her chin on her hands.
“He played guitar and sang backup for a lot of different bands. He wasn’t overly popular, but a certain crowd of people followed him—the Haight-Ashbury type in San Francisco. He hung out and played with Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and the Grateful Dead.”
Viola listened.
Carolyn fidgeted with her napkin. “Unlike me, my father received recognition for his talent.”
“How so?”
“Well, except for a commercial here or there, backup for a couple of big names, and now, having had an accident on stage, no one really knows who I am.”
“Why’s that so important? Being recognized, that is.” Viola slurped tea.
Carolyn chuckled. “You sound like my therapist. He says my quest for stardom is really a way to connect to my dad, to get to know him.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s bullshit.”
“Hmm.”
“As soon as he died, my mom moved us out to the Boston suburbs near my aunt to live a normal life.” She shook her head and gazed at the wall. “Part of me wants to prove I can be a success—of that type, you know? The kind he was never able to achieve.”
“That’s laudable.”
“No, I’m not really sure. What about you, Viola?” Afraid she’d shared too much, Carolyn wanted to change the subject. “What about your daughter…Becky?”
Viola sighed. “She drowned…that day on the beach.”
“Oh, God, Viola, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“She went missing for days, the worst week of my life. Not that it got much better when we found her.” Viola toyed with a napkin. “Her body washed up onto Bar Harbor the following week.”
Carolyn put a hand to her mouth.
“John Arthur, the sweetie, helped me through the whole ordeal. I don’t think I could have made it had it not been for him.”
“Oh, God.”
“I went into a depression right afterward. They wanted to admit me to the loony bin, but then the fire…”
Carolyn let her hand drop to her lap. “The fire of ’47?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“I have.”
“You probably heard the rumors, too. Well, they’re not true. I don’t know who or how that fire started, but it burnt for nearly a month. Mrs. Gilbert—who lived over by Dolliver’s dump on Crooked Road, near Hulls Cove—reported the first sign of smoke.” Viola looked out the window. “She saw it rising from the cranberry bog, over by the Summerwind Bridge.” She pointed behind her.
“There was a bridge? To Summerwind before?”
“It burned down, but they accused John Arthur of wrongdoing. Say he helped me cast a spell to rid the island of the vacationers because the bathers attracted sharks.” She laughed.
“Sharks? In Maine?”
“Yes, not a very common sight, but 1947 proved to be a hot one.” Viola sat silent for a bit. “Every time I have that dream…I know it’s a dream…and I try to change the course, try to save her, but it never happens.”
“A shark got…”
Viola nodded. “A tarot card reader down in Boston once told me that when that dream pattern changes—once I save her—I’ll be free. The dream’ll never happen again, and I’ll rid myself of the guilt.”
Carolyn wasn’t sure how much to broach, but after a wave of silence, she said, “Guilt. You shouldn’t feel guilty, Viola. It’s not your fault.”
Viola wiped a tear.
“Well, I hope one day,” Carolyn said, “you do change that dream’s pattern. And you save your daughter from the water. In fact, I know you will.”
“That’s very kind, but it’s been over fifty years and I still have that dream. I think I’m going to die with it in me.” Viola tapped the table with her ring finger. “Must be my lot in life.”
Carolyn crossed her legs.
“Now,” Viola slapped her hands on her thighs and rose from the table, “I need to get started on breakfast. We’ve got a hungry crew. The girls from the main will be here any minute to help out and get to the rooms. Want to give me a hand with the muffins?”
“Sure.” Carolyn gathered the teacups and took them to the sink.
Viola opened a drawer of the island counter. “I like you, Carolyn. I like your spunk…your drive.”
“Thank you, Viola. I like you, too. So are we doing blueberry or cranberry?”
“Both.”
Life with Less Hype
Frozen in sheets of ice, cat-o-nine tails whistled in the wind. Their sheaths ripped away in bitter blasts of air.
Michael followed the lanky redhead Food down a path. Terrence and Carolyn meandered behind. Dressed in winter parkas, the four trekked across the northern section of Summerwind Island to ice fish.
“It’s a little early for her to freeze.” Food pointed to the Pool—a brackish pond that the University of Maine at Orono stocked decades back, as he described, for studying pond life by the ocean. The thin man removed a red five-gallon pail from the hole. With a large metal spoon, he cleared away the
frozen chunks of slush. Food’s acned complexion reddened in the cold.
“There must be several inches of ice,” Terrence said.
“Freezes over pretty solid. Don’t usually happen till late December or January, but this season’s particularly cold. The Pool’s shallow. Can’t ever remember it freezing over before Thanksgiving.”
“How’d you cut through the ice?” Carolyn peered into the hole.
“With a power auger. It’s like a chainsaw—cuts through in minutes. Scares the fish away, though, which is why I did it yesterday. It’s a great spot. I’ve caught myself many a meal here.” Food demonstrated lowering his line.
The group looked down at their fishing gear, still wrapped together like new toys. In synchronicity, they unfurled them and lowered their lines below the ice.
Food reached into his sack, brought out a thermos. “I think we need a little pick-me-up.” He poured everyone a cup of steaming coffee. “Terrence?”
“Got ’em.” Terrence fumbled through his pockets and brandished a flask.
Michael winked. “You’ve come prepared.”
Sitting on their overturned buckets, the group huddled with their warm beverages and gazed down into the hole.
“You like wintering up here?” asked Carolyn.
Food shrugged. “Sometimes. The good is…it’s peaceful. Get a lot of reading done.”
“And the bad?” asked Michael.
“It’s peaceful, and you get a lot of reading done.” Food chuckled, and the group joined him. He held out his mug toward Terrence and nodded for more booze. “You sure you guys don’t want any?” He turned to Michael and Carolyn, as Terrence poured.
“No.” Michael looked at Carolyn. “We’re good.”
“More for us.” Terrence upended the flask.
Food tugged at his line. “Yeah, the winters can be brutal but, as the saying goes, it makes you appreciate the summers all that much more.”
The wind howled, whipping at their jackets.
“Why do you keep coming back?” Carolyn asked.
Food paused. “I don’t know, really. Every year, I say it’ll be my last, but the next one comes along and, like a snake under the charm of its piper, I come back.”
Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem Page 16
