Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  “What are you charmed by?” Terrence asked. “Is it the old lady, Viola?”

  “Not sure really what it is. Viola certainly has her charm.” He rested his cup on the top of his bag. “I hate to think of her alone on the island in the winter.” He reeled his line in a bit. “At least in the summer she’s got the hotel to keep her active, not that it’s ever really all that busy.” He snickered. “Plus she’s getting older. I don’t know how much longer she can hang on to the place. She can’t run it to its potential.”

  “Hmm.” Terrence tugged his line as it bobbed. “Hey, guys, how do I know if you’ve got something here?”

  “Is there a pull?” Food asked.

  “A little.”

  “Haul it in.” Food reached over to help Terrence.

  A bass flopped in chaotic circles upon the ice.

  Carolyn screamed and grabbed Michael to run the other way. From a few feet away, they watched. “Eww!”

  Food grabbed the fish and removed the hook from its mouth while Terrence smiled.

  Michael turned his back. “Do you think Viola has any more veggie burgers?”

  “I hope so,” Carolyn said.

  Days passed, and the cast and crew persisted, with no time off for Thanksgiving. The last few pages of the script managed its way to life on celluloid. With contracts ending and the sound team heading to California for a television pilot commencing the following week, Jonathan Dodger drove them all hard. Delighted with the film’s results, he flew in French champagne to commemorate filming the last few pages.

  At the inn, they celebrated with bottle after bottle of popping bubbly. Lavish plumes of reefer smoke choked the back hall. Men with clothes worn too many times, rank from late-night perspiration, wandered in drunken walks. Loud conversations, laughter, and amusement plunged like a Ferris wheel at a carnival, high shrieks and low whoops.

  From the piano bench in the parlor, Michael caught Terrence’s head back in laughter and a Scotch in hand next to Dave and Melanie. Beside him, Carolyn wore half witch costume and half street clothes. Michael fiddled the piano’s keys and Carolyn sang. They warmed up with a Coltrane song.

  Drink-toting crew stumbled across the hall to the parlor. “Wow” and “Shit, man” and “Who the frig’…” and “I didn’t know she could…” Their words dropped in fascination of the songstress’s voice.

  They finished to great applause.

  “This one.” Carolyn tapped the songbook resting on the music rack.

  Michael doubted he could play Karen Carpenter’s “Superstar” with a broken E flat, let alone, not having played it since 1979. Yet it didn’t matter. His playing added little to the performance. Carolyn even sang the melody, when he dropped a note.

  The room silenced in her perfect pitch, their mouths agape and eyes wiped dry when she finished.

  With a post-party buzz, Michael stared out the only window in Hall Quarry. He sat at the cherrywood desk and pulled out his journal—leather bound with a relief fleur-de-lis pattern on its cover.

  In the bed, Terrence snored like a Hoover stuck on high.

  Michael clicked his pen. He hadn’t written in a while. As a kid, he journaled quite a bit—always writing to the man of his dreams for impetus.

  Dear Mr. Journal,

  Hmm…who am I going to write to today? The dashing Bond type or the young, hot Olympic swimmer?

  He turned to Terrence sucking wind and chuckled. “I don’t need to write to men anymore.” He flitted through pages of his book and continued:

  An hour ago, we returned from the wrap party. My head’s still woozy from sweet-dry champagne.

  Terrence and I leave for Seattle tomorrow. (Or is that today?)

  I can’t believe we stayed here through Thanksgiving. For once, we didn’t have to go visit his mother in California and deal with dry turkey and her smoked green beans that taste like she put out her Winston’s in the casserole. I think she understood with him losing his job and all.

  He’s onto something—a European trip. He deserves a nice vacation, time to reflect. Of course, I’ll enjoy the shopping! He’s still thinking it through.

  A ray of light beamed through the window’s frosted pane and broke Michael’s concentration. The sun rose over the ocean and peppered clouds above in shades of orange, purple, and blue. “God, it’s wonderful here.” He clicked the top of his pen.

  Terrence says we’re going to do something completely different—a drastic change. I’m not going to be the one to stop him. After all, he’s a grown-up, a vice president former vice president of an international software giant. He can make sound decisions without my nagging—well, maybe just a little goading.

  He’s snoring louder than Josefina cussing over housework. But he’s so fucking hot. All these years and I still want to jump his bones. No, I don’t need a dashing Bond or a hot athlete. I’m content. Besides, with my love handles, I don’t think I would attract the boys like I used to.

  What else?

  Carolyn has changed. She’s got her glow back, but there’s something still not quite right. I worry about her. God, after all these years, you’d think I’d stop feeling the need to protect her.

  Guilt: I should never have fooled around with Seth back in the day.

  He leaned back on the chair. It creaked.

  Rudy’s back in the picture. Great. (Not!) That fucking man. I don’t trust him. Once again he promises a smashing return to her career. He’s shipping her down to Florida to audition for some musical. She thought she was “offer only”—I’m told that’s a term in show biz that means “send them a tape!”—but since the mess-up at Radio City, I guess that’s not working anymore. Carolyn says she’s excited about the opportunity, but I know she’s lying.

  A life with less hype would suit her better.

  While she’s down in Florida, at least she can visit her mom. Maybe the trip will do her good. Maybe I’ll go. Nah! She’s a grown girl…needs to do things on her own. I can’t protect her 24/7.

  Seth…

  Michael lifted the pen from the page. He didn’t want to relive the pain, but writing helped him cope. He sighed and continued.

  I still have nightmares about that night. They’re lessening some. I haven’t had one since…Salem. That time Jay told me about finding the Canadian Club bottle in Peabody. Now that was freaky!

  Bedsprings squeaked, as Terrence flipped onto his side. “That’s a good sign,” Michael murmured—his partner less apt to snore in that position. Michael started a fresh page.

  Here on the island, Carolyn’s performing has really improved. She’s able to sing again without fear. Her confidence on the set has done a complete turnaround. Though I’m doubtful it will save this god-awful picture. I still don’t know what it’s about, and I’ve been on the set for most of the shooting.

  At the party tonight, I played the piano while she sang. I wasn’t as rusty as I thought. Carolyn sang so beautifully—intense and powerful. Everyone just stood there, crying by the final note. I even saw the hunk, the one who lives out at the reverend’s old place, wipe a tear from his eye. (By the way, I think Rebecca has a thing for him.) Carolyn’s performance was…what’s that word…catheter? (Hold on while I get the dictionary…)

  I’m back!

  Cathartic! That’s the word. (Catheter? Must be the booze.)

  Her singing brought a release. Her energy, when she’s “on,” is simply amazing. Truly a gift.

  Honestly, I’m going to miss Summerwind. There’s something about this little island. Terrence likes it, too. It’s so different.

  Okay, there’s a lull in the snoring. I should try to get to sleep before he starts up again.

  Over and Out,

  Michael, fka the former underwear model who needs to lose fifteen pounds to fit back into the thirty-inch waist Levi’s still hanging in his closet back in Seattle

  Back to Normal

  In Viola’s living room, Rebecca sipped a cup of cocoa. Out the window, the film crew scurried about. Ja
y Evans, the location manager, barked muffled orders. He’d arrived on the island to return the production site to appear the way it looked before filming—“per contract.” Food and Derek removed planks from the inn’s basement and boarded up windows—a “normal off-season task,” as Viola’d mentioned, that would have been done months ago.

  After months on Summerwind, with no hint of understanding the creature—or whatever—that Rebecca had seen from the boat when first scouting the island, a cloud fell over the pale-faced witch. Even the hocus-pocus thing with Carolyn…who am I kidding? The doldrums of Salem would soon return. “I’m just a clerk in Toys at Wal-dor,” she mumbled.

  The window reflected Viola’s return from the kitchen. “Taking in the views?” She carried a cup and saucer.

  Rebecca grinned.

  Viola took to a Queen Anne chair below an oil painting—a thick, ornate frame with a dark-green matte depicted a dog birding pheasant. “I must say, I’ll miss the excitement here.” She gestured to the room and her surroundings. “But, I’ll be happy to have her back.”

  Rebecca meandered over, with a funk hovering like the Sunday before returning to school after a long break. Wal-dor. Toys. The hellhole.

  An old photograph album lay open on the table in front of the grandmotherly woman. The fireplace crackled and infused the room with a pine scent. She sighed.

  Viola swallowed her tea. “Come.” Her cup and saucer clinked to the table.

  Rebecca dropped onto the couch, after resting her mug on a coaster.

  Sam lapped water from a nearby bowl.

  “You see that man there?” Leaning in, Viola pointed to a black-and-white picture with the words Cadillac Mountain inscribed at the bottom. “That’s my grandfather, Charles Atwood. He’s the man responsible for most of Summerwind.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Oh.”

  “And that little guy next to him…that’s my father, Richard.” The woman had a way with ousting gloom. Even her aroma, a puff of lavender and mint, brought a smile to Rebecca’s face. Viola glowed with charm.

  “Your grandfather built all this?” Rebecca thumbed the edges of browned-from-age pages.

  “He was a big banker from Boston, bought most of the island in the late eighteen hundreds and some of Mount Desert Island, too. He later gave most of it away.”

  Rebecca tilted her head. “How so?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “A land donation started the park. He was such an outdoorsman and a philanthropist.”

  “Your grandfather started Acadia National Park?”

  “Well, not just my grandfather. A group of rich Maine folk got together to give the land. George Dorr, the man primarily responsible for creating the park, was related to John Arthur, my husband.” She flipped a page of the photo album. “That’s how I got to know John Arthur. He’d be up visiting.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  “His family summered here. They did.” Viola watched as Sam trudged up the stairs and then returned to Rebecca. “George’s family was from Salem.”

  Rebecca raised an eyebrow.

  “My family became good friends with the Dorrs. George had a beautiful home just over the bay—with the first swimming pool in the area. And he swam right up to November, despite the temperature. Every day, he’d be out there. The pool would fill with the tide. It was quite spectacular.”

  “When did all this happen?” Rebecca nestled back into the couch’s cushion.

  “Let’s see, we donated several acres on the mainland in the early part of the century to what was then known as the Sieur de Monts National Monument. It later became Acadia National Park. I believe that was…1929.”

  “Long time ago.”

  “You could say.”

  Rebecca inched forward and paged through more pictures.

  Viola pointed to a photo of a hip-booted man wading through a bog. “My grandfather designated about a third of the entire island to be protected from future development.” She thumbed toward the back of the album—a piece of parchment stuck out. She held it up. “This is the Atwood Land Trust, which is most of that area back there behind the cranberry bog.” She pointed behind her.

  Rebecca sipped more hot chocolate.

  Viola folded the paper back up and put it on the table. “My grandfather used to say Willis Carrier, the man who created air conditioning, was responsible for the downfall of Summerwind Island.” The croak in her voice, the sweater she wore, the spots speckled on the loose skin of her hand, were all things Rebecca would miss.

  Rebecca smiled. “Why was air conditioning the downfall of the island?” She didn’t want the conversation to end.

  “The rich folk, once they got AC south of here, didn’t feel the need to travel north in the summer as much.” Viola sank back into the Queen Anne chair and shook her head. “I remember him taking me for a hike in the back woods here.” She thumbed behind her. “We’d go blueberry picking. And sometimes he’d wade out into the bog and scrape up some fresh cranberries for my mother to make muffins. He later retired, left the world of banking behind him. He loved the outdoors and Maine so.”

  “I don’t blame him. I like it here, too.” Rebecca placed her mug down and smoothed out her skirt. “Too bad it’s not like it used to be.” She sensed Viola longed for the old days—surrounding herself with relics from the past, antiques and such. “You know, during its heyday. It must’ve been even more splendid.”

  Viola traced a shaky finger along some photos. “Well, as they say, ‘You can’t step into the same river twice.’ In the island’s glory days”—her voice warbled, and she cleared her throat with a loud rumble—“about 1890 to about the late twenties, from what I’m told, there were actually two other hotels built on the island. They both perished in the fire. But also at the height, a couple hundred cottages were built and some really grand homes.”

  “Like this one?” Rebecca asked.

  “I guess you could say that.” Viola looked about. “A lot of wealthy New Englanders and New Yorkers found Maine a great respite from the summer heat and built large, airy Victorian masterpieces as vacation dwellings. There were hundreds of them in Bar Harbor. The few left on Summerwind still have some of the original heirs who hire out people to maintain them throughout the winter so they can come back and summer here, like the Nesbitts and old Reverend Parris.”

  “Oh, that must be so cool to stay here during the winter, living in one of the old mansions. I’ve seen them out on my walks. They must’ve been built when the bridge was still here.”

  Viola nodded. “The bridge and a lot of glory went up in flames. ’47 turned out to be a bad year. You know, some say the island’s charmed.”

  Rebecca’s shoulders dropped, and her head lifted. “How so?” Her hands itched.

  “Once you come here, you always come back. And some, like me, never leave. People stay until it’s their time.”

  “Time for what?”

  Viola threw out her hand. “It’s all hearsay…witchy stuff.”

  Rebecca perked.

  “There have been a few to come and go from time to time, like my son for instance. He left in 1961 and has never been back.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  “My son, Henry, he’s a professor out in California, at Stanford.”

  “Really?”

  They leafed through more of the photo album.

  Rebecca pulled out a picture of a little girl on the beach. “Who’s Becky?” She pointed to the inscription.

  Viola’s smile wavered. “Why? Does she look familiar?”

  “Familiar? It’s from the forties. Becky 1947, it says.” Rebecca popped the picture back in its photo corners.

  Viola sat back and pulled at the lapels of her sweater. “Becky’s my one and only daughter.”

  “Hmm. She has my name.” Rebecca crossed her legs and edged closer to Viola. “Where is she now?”

  Viola sighed. “She drowned,” she pointed to the book, “just a few weeks after that picture
was taken.”

  “Oh, Viola, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s been a long time.” Viola wiped away a tear and turned her face away.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

  Viola positioned her back to Rebecca. “Nonsense. You’d think after fifty years I’d let it go.”

  “Well, losing a child, that isn’t something that you let go of.”

  Viola turned around and picked at a tissue in her hand.

  “I’m sure she’s still with you in some way.”

  Viola groaned as she rose. “Rebecca? I have a question to ask you.”

  “What’s that?” Rebecca watched the woman meander toward the picture window and went to join her.

  Outside, a large bird landed on a tree.

  “It’s a hawk.” Viola pointed to a pair of binoculars on a table. “Go on.”

  Rebecca took them and looked out at the bird for a time, until it flew away. “Beautiful.” She followed it, and then the lenses focused on Derek nailing up plyboard over the inn’s windows. “Gorgeous.”

  “Indeed. Birds of prey are elegant in flight. We get eagles, too.”

  Derek shouted something to Food and shook his head when his roommate ignored him.

  “Rebecca,” Viola said, “how would you like to stay behind with me on the island?”

  What? Rebecca lowered the binoculars.

  “I could certainly use some help around here…let alone the company.”

  “Me? You want me to stay?”

  In the Islesford, Rebecca stood by the window for better cell phone reception.

  Berniece packed a suitcase, open on the bed, and placed their Book of Shadows on top.

  “Hi, Ms. Greenfield? It’s Rebecca Farney.” She looked outside and imagined her witchy boss, high atop the front of the store’s customer-service desk, wearing her smock—marked with requisite earth-toned rainbow and name badge. “That job you’re holding for me in Toys.” Rebecca cleared her throat. “You can shove it!” She hung up and turned to Berniece. “Done with that chapter.”