Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  She leaned her head on his shoulders. “I changed my mind. I want to be more gutsy, vulnerable, and raw.”

  “Speaking of raw, I also did him…Seth…behind the bleachers.”

  Carolyn pulled away. “Are you serious?”

  “Hot.” Michael smiled.

  “Enough of that.” She motioned with her head to the television set. “This is my favorite part.” And they sat in rapture, watching the film.

  When the final credits rolled and the theme song played, they both wiped tears from their eyes. “It’s still a good movie,” Michael said.

  Emotional, Carolyn’s voice wavered. “Someday, my dad will come back. He’ll watch me perform and be so happy that I’m talented like him.”

  “Carolyn, your father, no offense, is dead.”

  She listened to the end of the song “Evergreen” playing from the television’s uni-speaker while previews for the horror movie, coming next, played on a split screen. “I know that. I know his body’s dead…but…” She didn’t know what she meant, just felt it. “I guess I’m talking metaphorically.” She’d used the word in a recent paper on Hemingway. “My dad could be alive in the afterworld and trying, in a nice way, to come back to see me.”

  “I’d be wicked freaked out if I saw a ghost, especially someone close to me, like my dead grandmother, coming to visit me.”

  Beyond the Grim Reaper took over the screen, and Carolyn pulled at Michael’s sweatshirt. “Do you believe in spirits?”

  “Well…I’m not so sure.” Michael hugged her. “You know what I do believe in? I believe in Seth Stevenson’s manhood, and I want to get some more of it.”

  Carolyn slapped him playfully. “Oh, Michael.” The movie opened with a graveyard at night and ominous background music. “Can we watch something else? I don’t like scary movies.”

  “Oh, I love them. And this is one of Seth Stevenson’s favorite movies.”

  “I’ve never even seen The Wizard of Oz because the flying monkeys freak me out.”

  “All right. I think General Hospital is on soon.” Michael rose and changed the channel. “Besides, Scotty Baldwin is kind of hot anyway.”

  At her mother’s condo, Carolyn turned to the end of the scrapbook. An obituary of her father—Jim Sohier, Hippie-Musician, Dead at 30—lay folded. Behind it, a picture of Carolyn and Michael clung to the back page.

  “Ugh, my hair. And Michael’s!” She snickered. In the photo, taken in a booth at the mall, her split ends competed for top billing alongside Michael’s curly permanent. “I’ve got to show him this one.” She pulled the picture from its taped backing. Behind it, written in black marker, were the words Carolyn + Seth. She could see where she’d scribbled out Michael’s name and wrote hers over it.

  She shut the book, returned it to its box in the closet, set up the fan, and went to bed.

  Rebecca and Derek

  On Summerwind, Rebecca spent the cold winter days sneaking up to the widow’s watch to read from the Book of Shadows—despite promising Berniece she wouldn’t do so. When Viola went out to walk the dog, took a nap, or studied for her online courses, Rebecca learned spells.

  On an island no bigger than downtown Salem, she grew restless. Derek, the thug who lived with the redhead nicknamed Food, and whom she spied on during production, piqued her interest.

  During filming, the brute repulsed her; while sexy, his big ego and his masturbatory escapades seemed childish. But over a long, lonely winter, she found herself becoming more and more attracted to him. “Not only is he hot, he genuinely cares about Viola,” she’d told Berniece during one of their many phone conversations.

  “Maybe your mind is just in the gutter,” Berniece responded, “and your hormones are off the charts.”

  Rebecca shrugged her off.

  One clear but cold Thursday, with Viola at a class in Bar Harbor, Rebecca climbed the stairs to the widow’s watch. Once again, the door was open. “Drafty old house.” When she got to the top of the stairs, she froze.

  A figure stood by the window.

  The black-winged…no. “Derek?”

  The former Big Dig construction worker spun around. The telescope he looked through nearly toppled.

  “What are you doing?” Rebecca moved toward him. “Up here…alone.” Outside, she saw Katie—the postal clerk she sometimes rode to the mainland with—delivering mail.

  “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.” He put his hands in his jeans pockets.

  “Does Viola know you’re here?”

  “Um.” He pulled a hand out and scratched his ear. “Well, I dropped off a grocery order for her.” He turned to the windows.

  Below them, the cute, perky mail lady closed up her bag.

  “You like her?” Rebecca asked.

  “Katie? No, why?”

  “You were spying on her. Isn’t that voyeurism?” Like I’m one to talk.

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Look, I just…I just dropped off Viola’s order and she left a note asking me to look at the door up here, when I had a chance. It keeps opening.”

  Rebecca turned to it. “Yes, it does.”

  “I think it just”—he swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed—“needs a screw.”

  Something about the man turned her on. “Does it really?” She sauntered forward.

  “I-I have to put it in. I haven’t”—another swallow—“done it yet.”

  “It’s needed some help for quite some time.”

  “You know?”

  She nodded and smiled slyly.

  He combed a hand through his dark hair.

  God, he’s sexy. Rebecca put a hand on his chest.

  Derek stuttered, “What-what are you—”

  She kissed him. His lips were warm. Eagerly, she moved her hands down his firm torso, around his back, and squeezed his butt.

  “Miss Rebecca,” he mumbled into her neck, biting it tenderly.

  She undid his belt. She longed to be touched, took his hand, and placed it on her breast. She moaned.

  “Oh, God.” He kissed her.

  She unzipped his pants.

  “Slow down. I…I have a hair trigger—” His jaw clenched.

  Rebecca stepped back. “Are you…okay?”

  He bit his lower lip and looked down.

  The witch smirked. “You didn’t just…? Did you?”

  “Umm.” Derek’s face reddened. “A little.”

  To save the man further embarrassment, she took her eye away from the wet spot she glimpsed in his jeans. That’s not a little. Exciting the man roused her. “I think I might be able to help you.” The stopwatch she saw him fiddle with a couple of months back came to mind. She put a finger to her mouth and welcomed the challenge of filling her winter days teaching the boy tolerance.

  Back on the Maniacal Fringe

  With Carolyn’s luggage in tow, she stood beside Rudy on an automated people mover at LaGuardia International Airport.

  “I can’t believe you just walked out without saying a word.” Rudy mopped a hand across his mouth.

  “Rudy, I told them I was sorry.”

  “You did? When?” His eyes were bloodshot.

  “I left a note and said I fell ill.” Carolyn expected him to have confronted her about her escape right after it happened—certain he would have been the first they’d call. “Besides, you know I’m not into commercials anymore. I don’t…I don’t need them.”

  “Oh, really?”

  She didn’t often throw around her accolades, but a burst of righteousness came over her. “I did a feature film, Rud.”

  A hurried passenger slid past them, and Carolyn stepped in line behind Rudy.

  “Oh? Is that right?” Facing her, he smelled of alcohol. His eye twitched. “You’re a fucking star, is that right?”

  The conveyor rumbled forward.

  The type of stardom they both agreed upon when she first signed with him had yet to happen and Witches, with all its production problems, hardly seemed the vehicle to bring her closer to
landing recognition as a household name.

  Rudy took out his PDA from his suit coat. “If acting is no longer your thing”—he punched the device with a stylus—“perhaps singing is.”

  She cleared her throat. “Sing?”

  “What? Now we no longer do that, either?”

  She swallowed. The man set off her nerves bad.

  “I’ve got something for you with a band from Berlin on Monday.” He closed the PDA’s cover and returned it to his pocket. “They’re called the Gingerbreads. I think you’ll like them. It’s a god-awful name, but we’ll change that. Leather Queen,” he said, scraping his hands across an imaginary billboard.

  Later that night, talking to Michael on the phone, Carolyn searched through her couch cushions and discovered her long-lost remote control. “I can’t believe he’s back onto the Leather Queen thing again.” She clicked on the television.

  “I guess throwing up on stage didn’t deter him,” Michael said.

  “Michael!” she spat. “You make it sound like I got sick on stage to sabotage it all.”

  Silence fell.

  “Michael?”

  “Oh, sorry. I just…never mind.”

  She changed the channel. “I don’t know what it is, but ever since getting back from Maine, I’ve been a wreck.”

  “Well, I’ve got something to lift your spirits. We’re flying into Maine next week to finalize things with Viola.”

  “Huh?” She straightened.

  “Meet us up at Summerwind for the weekend. Viola would love to see you again.”

  “What? What are you talking about? Finalize things. Finalize what?”

  “Oh, I haven’t told you?” As evident in his tone, Michael toyed with her.

  She hated when he played this game. “Michael! Of course you haven’t. You know I don’t like when you act all nonchalant. Give me the scoop.” She muted the television.

  “Okay…I didn’t want to say anything till I knew things were more definite but…”

  “Yes, yes…”

  He cleared his throat. “We’re buying Summerwind.”

  She dropped the remote. “What? You’re kidding.”

  “Terrence has talked it over with Viola. She’s finding it hard to maintain the place. She knew Terrence and I liked the inn, so she thought it over and made us an offer to take it.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Of course I’m serious.”

  “Are you going to live there?”

  “Eventually, yes. That’s the plan.”

  She shot up. “Oh my God! That’s huge news.”

  The television came into focus with Sally Field playing Norma Rae.

  “Um. Not to change the subject, but you’ll never guess what’s on TV.” She kneeled on the sofa.

  “Witches of Salem?” he asked.

  “Yeah, right. If that even makes it straight-to-video, it’ll be a wonder. No, Norma Rae is on.”

  “Oh.”

  They both were silent for a bit. “You still holding out on that movie for Bette Midler’s sake?”

  “Michael, you know how I feel about it. Bette should have won that Oscar!” She changed the channel.

  Michael chuckled. “I think it’s time you face the facts. Sally Field won Best Actress, not Bette.”

  The little game they played about the actresses warmed Carolyn. “Still, Bette should have won. Even you said you agreed.”

  “Well, any gay man is going to pick Bette Midler over Sally Field. That’s just a God-given fact, but there comes a time when you have to let it go.”

  “The Academy Awards, 1980…that was a long time ago.” She looked down and then grabbed her blouse, covering up her cleavage.

  “It was, Carolyn. It was a long time ago…”

  “Oh, I found something of us in my old scrapbook at my mom’s. I’ll send it to you.” She waved a hand, whisking away the past. “Anyway, that’s great about Summerwind.”

  “Can you join us next week?” he asked.

  She rose and went toward the window. “I’d love to, Michael…”

  “I’m sensing a but.”

  “Rudy. He has me booked with a new band, since the last one left me.”

  The Maniacal Fringe—a jazz club on the corner of Christopher and Seventh—was known for its talent and powerful martinis. Customers chose an array of cocktails—the Maniacal Cosmo their signature—from a hardback menu lying on each table.

  No more than a dozen people occupied the basement establishment when Carolyn arrived. Customers scattered about in distant clumps, making the club look even emptier. Rudy hunched over a café table at his usual spot in front of the stage.

  Carolyn joined him.

  A small half-moon proscenium stood six inches off the ground. The very spot Rudy discovered her.

  He gulped the remains of his Smoky Martini—gin, a splash of Scotch, and a lemon peel garnish. He motioned for Bruno, the owner and bartender, to get him another.

  “Carolyn, dear,” Bruno said, “can I get you anything?”

  “Hey, sweetie.” She kissed Bruno’s outstretched cheek, the two having gone back years. “Just a bottled water, please.” Carolyn pulled in a black wooden chair and scooted closer to her manager.

  “Can’t you ever get anything with a bit more punch?” Rudy’s slur indicated he’d had more than just having had one drink.

  “What’s your problem, Rudy? Besides having another one too many.” Something clicked, and she no longer feared his wrath.

  “My problem? Nothing…what would ever make you think I have a problem?” He exhaled loudly through his nose.

  The singer on stage, a tall, thin man with horn-rimmed glasses, finished his version of a Frank Sinatra song and exited with a clop along the two-step.

  Bruno came to their side, carrying drinks. He placed Rudy’s down and then poured Carolyn’s water over a glass of ice. “Just how the lady likes it.”

  “Thank you, Bruno.” She watched the man walk away.

  “No talent tonight.” Rudy sipped his drink.

  Carolyn put a hand on Rudy’s. “It’s not all that bad.” She could read his mind; he worried about their success. He only went to Maniacal Fringe to scout for new talent when income seemed bleak. “Look, I just finished a picture, and I made you a decent chunk of change from Witches.” Despite him being mean, she felt sorry for him. “I’m not going to leave you high and dry.”

  “I know, honey.” He took a deep breath. “I know you’re not. Sweetie.” His use of terms of endearment caused her concern. She resented how he toyed with her emotions. He knew the only reason she hung on to him was not for the career but for some fleeting emotional support. Their on-again-off-again romance made it difficult to separate business from pleasure.

  “You’re so damn enticing.” His gray eyes creased at the corners. “Your voice is so mesmerizing. Have I told you, you look radiant?”

  She knew better than to fall for his trap. The smirk she hitched on her face said it all.

  He fiddled with the toothpick in his martini. “I’m sorry I left you that night at the VTV Awards.”

  She leaned back into her chair and reached for her water.

  “When I called you at Winter Island,” he said, “you told me you were doing better.”

  Carolyn knit her brow. “Winter Island? You mean Summerwind.”

  “Whatever. You said you were back in the groove. Even Jonathan Dodger said you were unbelievable. He told me you sang a couple of Coltrane songs and a Karen Carpenter one at the wrap party that knocked the socks off the entire cast and crew.” He stirred his drink. “I know you’ve got it in you.”

  Carolyn looked down. “I felt comfortable there. But ever since I’ve left…I don’t know.” She traced a line through the perspiration on her glass. “It’s like the magic’s gone.” Magic?

  A woman in a short black dress ascended the stage, and a track played from the bar’s audio system.

  Carolyn watched Rudy eyeing the performer, like a shark
sniffing bait. He studied the girl with such intensity that when she caught his eye, she fumbled a lyric. Tuesday evenings didn’t have the best turnouts. He scribbled something on a notepad, dog-eared at the corners. When the singer hit a rough note, he excused himself to the bathroom.

  The song ended. The small audience applause bore low energy.

  Carolyn clapped enthusiastically in support.

  On Rudy’s return from the restroom, he bent down and whispered in Carolyn’s ear. “Gotta run, love. Got an important call I got to take back at the office.”

  She knew it was a lie—probably a cocaine run. She watched him go up the stairs that led to Seventh.

  Bruno deposited in Rudy’s empty chair. “Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite?”

  She smiled. “Favorite? Me?” She splayed an open palm over her heart. “Favorite what? Fag hag?” The term wouldn’t insult the gay man, for he flung it around more than Michael.

  “Well yes, every gay man’s got one. But you’re also my favorite singer.”

  Carolyn reached across and cupped his cheek. “Aw, thank you. I’m honored. Gay men and I seem to have a pact.”

  He folded his arms across his strapping chest. “Is Rudy dicking you around?”

  “Well, if you put it that way.”

  “I’ll beat up the motherfucker. You just say the word.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” She drank her water.

  “Don’t let him get to you, honey. He ain’t worth it.” He wiped the table with the damp cloth he held.

  “I don’t know why I do.”

  “I know. I know. Well, it’s almost closing time.” He left the rag on the table and went to the stage, grabbed the mike, and thanked the departing audience for coming.

  Carolyn helped clear tables. She had little desire to return to her empty apartment.

  Behind the bar, she opened a small dishwasher and from it slid wine glasses into a rack above her.

  “You really didn’t have to stay and help out like this,” said Bruno.

  “It’s no problem.” Carolyn closed the washer.

  “So where is Michael these days? Still with the millionaire?”