Summerwind Magick: Making Witches of Salem

by Rick Bettencourt

  Carolyn grew nervous. “Me? Where?”

  “The Maniacal.”

  Carolyn looked at the wall clock. “It’s closing soon.”

  “Exactly.” She pulled a sweater from her bag. “You can wear what you’ve got on. You look fine, as always. Momma Peggy needs a little freshening up.”

  Carolyn looked down at her knees. “My jeans are wet.”

  Peggy stopped on her way to the bathroom. “Yeah. Well, change those, but keep the leather jacket. It’s a good look for you.”

  “Oh my God! The two of you.” Bruno stepped back, as if to get a better look at them. “What is this, 1988? I haven’t seen you since Reagan was in office. What do I owe this honor to?” He rested an elbow on the bar.

  Peggy snapped a finger and pointed to Carolyn. “This girl’s singing.” She went to the sound booth.

  “We’re closing,” Bruno said. “There’s no one here.”

  “That’s okay.” Peggy switched buttons on the electronic panel. “Ah, here we go.”

  A few minutes later, Carolyn stood behind the microphone and wished she were thin enough to hide behind it.

  Bruno and Peggy sat together, sipping cocktails at a table in the rear.

  “We’re not here,” Peggy yelled out with her back to the stage, crossed her legs, and tore into conversation with Bruno.

  The song began—something from A Star is Born that Peggy selected.

  Carolyn sang the opening verse.

  Peggy froze.

  “I can sing,” Carolyn muttered.

  Peggy returned to chatting with Bruno—her head and hands moving about. She gently touched the side of Bruno’s face, as if to remind him not to look at the stage.

  Carolyn sang louder.

  The song overcame her. She recognized the warmth, loved the way it buzzed throughout her body, and sang more.

  Bruno glanced her way.

  She took the microphone from the stand and, still singing, stepped down from the stage and went to their table. Eschewing any self-judgment or fear, she sang to them. She took Peggy by the chin to make her look at her.

  Peggy smiled. “I knew it. You sound beautiful.” She clasped her hands in front of her face.

  The song morphed into its rock beat.

  Bruno stood and clapped in time with the rhythm, and Peggy joined him.

  Carolyn returned to the stage, her friends cheering her along the way. Feeling confident, she spun around and crooned the song’s finale. It felt right. It felt good.

  A clamor from the bar’s entrance occurred. Carolyn sputtered and a group of twenty-somethings bounced down the steps. “Who’s playing? She’s aweso—”

  Carolyn’s throat closed up.

  “I’m sorry. I meant to lock the door,” Bruno said, after escorting out the group that’d entered.

  “That’s okay.” Carolyn clicked off the microphone. “Do you need help cleaning up?”

  A Therapist’s Patience

  “You can call me Josh,” said Carolyn’s therapist, sitting cross-legged and diagonal from her in his Upper-Eastside office overlooking an early spring in Central Park. “You don’t have to stick with the formalities of Dr. Silverstein if you don’t want to.” A large mahogany bookcase stood beside him next to a window draped in red velvet curtains. He closed his appointment book and gazed with steel-gray eyes at Carolyn. “I know you’re concerned about your repressed memories. You don’t have to be. We’ll keep things safe.”

  The office hummed with softened tranquility. A grandfather clock ticked its way closer to three fifteen. White noise whirred from a sound conditioner to mask the psychoanalyst’s sessions. One whiff told Carolyn the eucalyptus oils were warming in a tray behind her. She lay down.

  “I’m going to count backward from ten. When I reach one, you’ll be under hypnosis.” He tugged at the sleeve of his brown sweater and crossed his hand on his lap. “Ten…Nine…”

  The clocked ticked louder.

  “Eight…”

  Carolyn closed her eyes.

  “Seven. You’ll remember the events we uncover today, and you’ll feel safe and sound from having done so. Six. You’re walking down a beautiful staircase.”

  “I think I’m under,” Carolyn muttered. They’d done this before.

  “Five, four…We’re approaching the bottom of the staircase. Three, two, and one.”

  “It’s eighty-nine…no, ninety-one,” Carolyn mumbled. Her mind filled with images from that time.

  “Let’s head down to the Maniacal Fringe tonight,” Peggy said, wearing high heels, a black Jo-Jo halter, and a tightly cropped hairstyle—all the rage in the nineties. “I hear there’s a new guy there tonight looking to sign folks. Maybe we’ll get discovered.”

  The friends made their way to the club, where the recent NYU grads met Rudy Galante and became his clients. They were a team for years, until Peggy later dumped him for a better agent.

  At first, the glut of commercials and radio spots Carolyn got from Rudy excited her. Money rolled in, more than she could make typing at law firms. Shortly thereafter, she rented the apartment on East Ninth.

  Yet after many years of crooning about the quality of dish soap, standing on top of new cars and singing about their V6 engines, or playing the part of an evil stepmother riding an oversized corn flake in a bowl of milk, she found the work uninspiring.

  Unbeknownst to Rudy, in the fall of 1991, an ad for a backup singer in the Backstage caught Carolyn’s attention. She and Peggy tried out for it. Carolyn nailed the audition and went on the road with Anita Baker. After several months of standing behind the diva on an international tour, Carolyn was spotted by the up-and-coming hip-hop artist Ricky Rick, who decided to use her for his debut album.

  Carolyn retold the story to Michael on a payphone in the hallway of a rehearsal space—an abandoned car dealership, off a highway in Detroit. “We finished recording yesterday. Today, I’m back with Anita.” She held out the phone. “Can you hear her? They’re shooting a video down the hall.”

  From an old showroom, Anita’s vocals boomed.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to be featured with Ricky Rick,” Michael said when she put the receiver back to her ear. “He’s fucking hot! The billboard ads, with him modeling Steven Trudeau’s underwear, are all over New York. I’m envious!”

  Carolyn twisted the metal phone cord around her arm. “Are you jealous of his underwear gig? Or because I got to meet him first?” She laughed.

  “Both! Plus his body. God, I wish I could look like that.”

  “Well, he’s very nice. We only did three takes, but I’m pretty sure they’ll use my first. They seemed to like that best. Not a bad payday, either, for only two to three hours of work. Rudy finally came around and worked in a residual scale, if it gets there.” Usually, Rudy was mad when she got work on her own, but when he saw the money, his attitude quickly changed.

  “Well, not that he helped you land it in the first place. I’m so happy for you. Anita Baker and now Ricky Rick! Things are looking up for you, sweet cheeks.”

  The thunder of drums filled the air, nearing the end of Anita’s song. “The road is both fun and exhausting. Our last show is next Sunday, and then I’m back in New York for a month.”

  “Are you going to tour with him?”

  “Ricky Rick?” The idea had crossed her mind, but the singer never asked. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure I fit in.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hip-hop? Me?”

  “It’s trendy,” Michael said.

  “Plus, I had to sing my ass off in that song. I don’t think I can do that live, in front of an audience, night after night.” She looked down the hallway. “Don’t repeat this, but he’s not a very good singer. That’s why he needed strong pipes to back him. He sounds more like he’s talking than singing.”

  “That’s the style.”

  “I guess.” She bit a nail. “It’s not really my scene, but the song’s beat is great. Anyway, enough about me. So, h
ow are you?”

  “Fantastic. I met a guy.”

  “Another one?” Michael had dated half the Village.

  “His name is Terrence. He’s originally from San Fran. And let me tell you, this one’s a keeper.”

  “Of course he is. That’s what you said about Augustus.”

  “Augus-ten,” he corrected. “Besides, he was a freak. Terrence is for real. He’s very sweet, in a nerdy kind of way, and rich.”

  “Rich? Since when have you been after money? Last time I checked, your grandfather left you pretty well-off.” The estate Michael had inherited made him an instant millionaire.

  “Well, obviously it’s not about the money. That’s just an added bonus.”

  “I see.” Carolyn worried about his relationships. She didn’t want to see him get hurt.

  “He’s the co-founder of GammaSoft in Washington State—some big computer firm in Seattle. He was in New York for a technical conference. He set me up with this…electronic mail or something. He says it’ll be the next big thing, and that he and I can stay connected through it.”

  “Michael, he lives in Seattle. That’s three thousand miles away. How do you expect to have a relationship with someone who’s on the other side of the country?”

  “I know. I miss him already and he just left this morning.”

  “Michael, you’re in New York. Long-distance relationships are very difficult. And you just met him. I don’t think you should do it.” She worried he got too close too fast.

  “You’re right. That’s why we’re not.”

  “Good, because that doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s what we both said. So…” He paused, then blurted out, “That’s why I’m moving in with him.”

  “What? Moving in! Michael, are you friggin’ crazy? I thought you said you’d use this electronic thing to keep in touch.”

  “We will while we coordinate things for my move out at the end of the month. Carolyn, I really like him.”

  “Oh my God. Michael, you need your head examined! What does Bruno think? You can’t leave him high and dry on the sublet.”

  “I’ll pay him. As you said, my grandfather left me well-off. Besides, this modeling thing ain’t for me. You know what I ate last week?” He didn’t let her respond. “SlimFast and rice cakes! All week, every day. I needed to lose three pounds for the Lexor shoot. I’m dying for a hot fudge sundae or even just an apple. There are signposts wider than me. The other day, I had to put a belt on my thirty-inch Levi’s just to keep them from sliding down.”

  “Yikes.”

  “One good thing, a thin waist makes my penis look bigger. I’m all cock.”

  “Michael,” she hushed, “I don’t want to hear about your penis.”

  A stagehand tapped a pen to his clipboard and entered the former “Service Department,” where Carolyn stood. He held up his hand. “Five minutes.”

  She covered the phone. “I’ll be right there.”

  “And awake.” Dr. Silverstein clapped.

  Carolyn opened her eyes. “We’re done?”

  “We are.”

  She sat up. “That was a weird one.”

  “Why so?”

  Carolyn grabbed the Rubik’s Cube from the table. It distracted her while they talked. “That was back when I’d first met Rudy, got the gigs with Anita and Ricky Rick, and Michael met Terrence. Completely trauma free.” The doctor wanted her to explore further, but she hesitated. “That was a good time in my life. I almost got a Grammy.”

  Dr. Silverstein wrote down a note. “Hmm. So as you say, ‘Michael is all cock’?”

  “It’s not like that. He’s just very sexual. He always has been…not with me. Good God, he’s gay.”

  “Well, your memories seem to recall that point vividly.”

  Vividly? Carolyn raked her fingers through her hair and grabbed a clump in the process. “That’s not the point of why I remembered all that. It was just…just the beginning of my show business success. Back when I could sing well.”

  After several minutes of discussing Michael’s penis—Carolyn swore the doctor thought Michael had molested her or that she had some hidden attraction to him—the session neared ending. “Look, I’m not into Michael’s cock. Enough is enough. That’s just the way he talks.” She took a moment and decided to tell him her plan. “I’m going to Maine for the summer. Michael and Terrence just bought Summerwind. And, no, I’m not going there for his private parts.”

  “They bought the whole island?” He looked over the rim of his glasses, resembling those of Gregory Peck in the role of Atticus Finch. The doctor knew of Summerwind and the men’s wealth from the sessions.

  “Well, practically.” Carolyn matched one whole side of the cube. She held it up. “Ah, look. All green. It’s a go.”

  He smiled with a tight lip. “So you’re telling me you won’t be following through with our weekly sessions?” He closed his book and crossed his legs. “We’ve been making quite a bit of progress since you’ve come back.”

  “I just need to get away for a while.”

  He cleared his throat. “Carolyn, I find it interesting that as we begin to broach certain subjects, like your past, for instance, you run away.”

  “That’s not true,” Carolyn rushed. She returned the Rubik’s Cube to the table—taking the success while she had it.

  “Remember, we’ve talked about your escapism fantasies before.”

  Oh, great. Here we go again. She grabbed the Koosh ball.

  “I recall you mentioning how Rudy used to hit you and how it triggered memories of your high school tragedy—everyone laughing at you when you forgot your lines during, what was it, The Wiz.”

  “Yes, The Wiz.” She nodded. She only told him half-truths. Some things were just too personal. She’d been a smashing success in The Wiz at Peabody High School. It helped get her into NYU. Unfortunately, the Rudy bashings had been true. “Look, I told you. New York is my trauma. I’ve been away from Maine for a few months, and I still can’t sing right. Maybe if I go back…”

  “What does Rudy think about you leaving?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “And he hasn’t been abusive, has he?”

  “Not to me…just himself.” That much was true.

  “Cocaine?”

  “And alcohol.” She yanked at a strand of the Koosh.

  Dr. Silverstein looked at the clock and then jotted down a note. “Before we leave, any dreams about your father?”

  She huffed. “No.”

  Michael + Seth

  In Seattle, Terrence pulled the nose of the Mercedes through the opened iron gate.

  “Don’t forget the mail,” Michael said from the passenger seat.

  “I know.” Terrence shifted the car into park with slight annoyance. “I need to get the damn rear out of the street.” When getting the car, they hadn’t anticipated the V-12 wouldn’t fit in the drive in front of the property’s entrance. Terrence opened the car door, and a bell chimed. He walked the short way to the mailbox, retrieved the contents and returned to the car, closing the door with a thud. He placed the mail on Michael’s lap and pulled through the gate.

  Michael riffled through the posts. “Car insurance, AmEx statement…” The gate clicked to a close behind them. He pulled out a thick brown envelope. “This must be for the real estate closing.” He looked up the hill to their behemoth of a house. “It’ll be nice to get rid of this place.”

  “It’s time.” His partner nodded, eyes trained to winding curves.

  “Oh, look.” Michael held up a small envelope. “A letter from Carolyn.”

  “She still in New York?”

  “Um-hmm.” Michael opened it and removed the notecard from inside. A picture fell out. “Oh my God. I…I haven’t seen this in years.” The photo of the two taken from a booth at the North Shore Shopping Center in 1979 had him shaking his head in disbelief. “Look at us.” He held it out for Terrence to see.

  Terrence chuckled. “You had
a perm?”

  “It was the style. Stop.” He tapped Terrence’s leg and then read Carolyn’s notecard—informing him she’d found the picture in an old scrapbook when visiting her mother.

  When they arrived at the house, Michael excused himself to the study where he located a box, amid a sea of others packed for moving. “I know it’s in here somewhere.” He dug through the volumes of spiral-bound notebooks—years of journaling. “Ah, here it is. 1979.” The cover was spotted with rust from other notebooks having been piled on top of it. He flipped through and, sure enough, taped to a side of a page marked “November 21, 1979” lay the other photo. The friends had cut up the strip of pictures, each saving one—the other given to the school newspaper for an article.

  With the house being sold and most of the furniture removed, Michael took to the window, and sat on the built-in credenza, and read:

  Dear Mr. Journal,

  Hi there, sexy, Mr. Journal.

  His life’s chronicles were often written to an amorphous being. He smirked in remembering he still did the same.

  I can’t help imagining that you look like a grown-up Seth Stevenson: gorgeous blue eyes, soft silky brown hair, a nice patch of soft hair on your chest…and sexy in your jeans. Or maybe you now wear a suit and look dashingly debonair.

  All right, enough…I need to calm down and get to the true intention of my journal: documenting my little life now that I’ve moved from California to Massachusetts.

  Carolyn and I just got back from the movies. And what did we see again? The Rose, of course, for about the millionth time. She loves that movie. Well, I do, too, but she’s, like, obsessed with it.

  “Hello, Mom. It’s me, Rose…” We lip-synch practically all the lines.

  “Heya, motherfuckers!”

  Carolyn still cries at the end even though she knows Bette Midler…well, the character she plays…is going to die without her parents ever coming to see her sing.

  I think the movie reminds Carolyn of her father in some weird way. In real life, he knew Janis Joplin—played guitar for her a couple of times—and because the movie is loosely based on Janis’s life, I swear Carolyn thinks she’s going to find her father portrayed as one of the extras or something.