Suffer a Witch (24 page)

When the afternoon slipped into the evening, George got up from the living room. He went to the bathroom and took a shower. Martha Carrier came into the kitchen, where Em was hiding. After nodding to Em, Martha Carrier got a glass of cold water from the filter in the refrigerator door. She leaned against the kitchen counter and took a long drink of water before looking at Em.

“I would love some coffee,” Martha said. “Will you make me something yummy? It will be my first 2015 post-hanging meal. John?”

Martha went to the doorway of the living area to ask John Willard. He looked up when she said his name.

“I would love some coffee,” John Willard said. He took the glass of water from Martha Carrier’s hand and drank it down. “And something ridiculously wonderful.”

“Full of calories and carcinogens and fat,” George said.

He came into the kitchen wearing his robe. Martha left to use the bathroom. George hugged Em hard.

“I love you,” George whispered in her ear. Em kissed his cheek. “And I’m starving.”

“Me, too,” John Willard said.

Martha Carrier came from the bathroom, and John went to use it. Mary Eastey joined Em in the kitchen. Martha went into the bedroom to call her boyfriend, Bruce.

“I didn’t know you were the cook,” Mary Eastey said, as Em started pulling food out of the refrigerator.

Em gave her a sly look, and Mary Eastey laughed.

“Okay, I should have figured,” Mary Eastey said. “I just always thought it was George.”

Em shrugged. When the pot of coffee was made, Mary Eastey brought a cup to John Willard and Martha Carrier before getting one herself. They stood in the living room drinking coffee until the call to the open air was too much for them. They went up onto the roof. George joined her in the kitchen.

“Any idea what’s happening?” Em asked.

“With what?” George asked.

“
With you!
” Em retorted. “You spent most of the day in a funk. John Willard and Martha Carrier, too.”

Scowling, George nodded but didn’t respond.

“I’ve known you a long, long time, and I’ve never seen you like that,” Em said. She raised her eyebrows as a way of asking the question again.

“I can just tell you how it felt,” George said. “It felt like the clouds moved in and wouldn’t leave. It felt like Salem Village.”

George poured himself a cup of coffee and set the mug on the counter.

“No,” George said. “It felt like all of the dread and hope and pain and fear and loss and rage was compressed into that final moment — the moment I hanged from that oak tree.”

He poured milk into his coffee.

“Sounds horrible,” Em said. “Do you think it was a spell?”

George was drinking coffee when she asked the question. He thought about it for a moment and finished his cup. He didn’t respond until he’d filled his cup again. Em started making another pot of coffee.

“It feels like a lack of a spell,” George said. “You know, like we’ve been under a spell this whole time, and now we’re not. I was overwhelmed with the monstrosity of what they did — to me, to you, even to themselves. Their ancestors bore the shame of what they did to us.”

“Some still do,” Em said.

“We suffered, sure, but their actions marked the rest of their entire lives,” George said. “They could not out live the horror of what they did. Their children and grandchildren lived with that shame.”

Em nodded.

“I mean, I knew that Nathaniel Hawthorne added the ‘w’ to his name out of shame over what happened,” George said.

“His great-great-grandfather judged us as witches,” Em nodded. “Sent us to the gallows.”

“Exactly,” George said. “Ann Putnam, Jr., never married. As you know, her parents were tortured and killed right after the trials. The other girls were married off just to get rid of them.”

Em nodded.

“We were hanged under the evil cloud of greed and depravity,” George said. “But everyone involved — the entire community! — had to live with the shame, whether they were involved or not.”

“They changed the name of Salem Village to Danvers to avoid association with the trials,” Em said.

“That’s what I mean,” George said. “I knew that, but it never really sunk in. I guess I was too caught up in my own suffering.”

“And this morning?” Em asked. “How did you feel?”

“I felt so sad for all of us,” George said. “It’s like this entire thing happened to each of us — accuser, judge, and accused, not to mention the community as a whole. The evil of the deed continues to linger.”

“And now?”

“Now, I’m just happy to be here, right here, with you,” George kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Em asked.

“For being there for me and asking for nothing in return,” George said. “It was the kindest, most generous thing anyone has done for me.”

George hugged her and kissed her. Standing nose to nose, she felt his arousal. He kissed her lips.

“They went upstairs,” Em said.

“Do you mind if I stay here with you?” George asked.

“Not at all,” Em said. “But I should probably cook.”

“Gives me something to look forward to,” George kissed her again. “I’ll get dressed so you won’t be tempted.”

He gave her a lecherous look, and she grinned.

“Why don’t you call the others, and we’ll celebrate life-after-hanging tonight?” Em asked.

With a nod, he went back into the bedroom. When he returned, he sat down at the kitchen bar and began calling the witches. By the time he’d finished, the meat was marinating, the vegetables were ready for the grill, and the party was well underway. George followed her upstairs.

Em scowled at the paycheck in her hand. This employee had worked almost sixty hours at the Mystic Divine. Her thumb traced the employee’s name: Weni Uni. The paycheck was one of the few artifacts Weni had left behind.

No one remembered him.

The assistant manager who hired him had no memory of the slight man with an Egyptian accent. George thought she had imagined him. Even Shonelle, who’d spent three days training him on how to work the cash register, couldn’t remember what he looked like. Everyone said the exact same thing: “I never remember the short-timers. They come and go in the summer.” Then they gave an exaggerated shrug.

Em was sure it was a spell. She just wasn’t sure who had cast it. Shaking her head, she was just putting the check in her desk drawer when there was a tap on the doorframe of her open door. Em closed the drawer before looking up.

“Yes?” she asked.

A middle-aged man with white hair and a round head was standing in her doorway. He had a blue ballpoint pen tucked over his right ear, and there was a blue ink stain on his right hand. He sported a worn, but clean and pressed suit under a beige overcoat. He was holding a pad of paper in his hand.

“Detective Shane Donnell,” the man said. “You Emogene Peres?”

“And if I am?” Em asked.

“Well, first, I’d want to know why your partner George thinks your name is Martha,” Detective Donnell said.

“He’s an idiot?” Em gave him a broad smile, which made the detective blush.

She got to her feet and waved the detective into her office. She was just closing the door when a younger man pushed his way into the office.

“Alvarez,” the young man said. “Had to park the car.”

He stuck his hand out for Em to shake, which she did. She waved him into the other chair in front of her desk.

“You didn’t ask why we’re here,” Detective Donnell said.

“I assume you’re here to discuss the woman who died in the Common Burial Ground,” Em said. “Is that so?”

“Sort of,” Detective Alvarez said. Detective Donnell gave him the evil eye, and Detective Alvarez said, “Sorry.”

Em raised her eyebrows and shrugged. The young detective chuckled.

“Sir?” Em asked.

“So I did some digging. . .” Detective Donnell said.

He gave her a stern look designed to frighten her. Em smiled at him.

“Vegetable garden?” Em asked. “I envy you. I don’t have any real land here. I have to keep mine on the roof. No digging involved.”

“I did some digging into you,” Detective Donnell said.

“Me?” Em was genuinely surprised. “Whatever would possess you to do that?”

“For starters, your body was at the morgue,” Detective Donnell said.

“My what?” Em asked. She looked down at her chest. Looking up, she shook her head and shrugged. “What was it doing there?”

“It was dead,” Detective Alvarez said with a nod.

Detective Donnell gave him a dark look.

“Security cameras cover every corner of the morgue,” Detective Donnell said. “We have a video of the attendant wheeling your body into the morgue.”

“I take it that my body is no longer there,” Em said.

“No, it’s not,” Detective Donnell said. “We don’t know what happened after that. When the body went missing, we took a photo off the security camera and ran it through facial recognition. You’ll never guess what we came up with.”

“What?” Em asked.

She knew she should shut this conversation down, but she couldn’t help but be amused by the sincere detective.

“The body was yours,” Detective Donnell said.

“It was?” Em looked down at her body and back at his. “Where was I when my body had this little adventure in your morgue?”

“We talked to Rabbi Isaac Peres,” Detective Donnell said, rather than answer her question.

“My grandson?” Em asked.

“Yeah, like you have a grandchild,” Detective Alvarez said. “You’re like forty years old. You think we’re stupid?”

“Um. . .” Em looked from Detective Donnell to Detective Alvarez. “I realize that I have no idea what we’re talking about.”

She leaned forward across her desk.

“Do I need a lawyer?” Em asked.

“At the same time Martha or Michael — or whatever you want to call him — was dying, your body was in the morgue,” Detective Donnell said.

“Or a body that looked like mine on your cameras,” Em said. She gave them a partial smile. “Did you get a clear picture of my dearly departed doppelganger?”

Em knew that even her dead body would short out the video cameras. Whatever picture they had of her would be grainy at best. Detective Donnell gave her a sour look.

“So, you have a body that disappeared, and you decided it was mine because. . .” Em said

“We ran it through facial recognition,” Detective Donnell said. “Your driver’s license came up.”

“God, that poor family,” Em said.

“What family?” Detective Donnell asked.

“The family of the person who was killed,” Em said. “You know, the body you lost.”

“I didn’t lose a thing,” Detective Alvarez said.

Detective Donnell looked at his partner.

“I never lose nothing,” Detective Alvarez said.

Detective Donnell rolled his eyes.

“Well, I don’t,” Detective Alvarez said.

“I believe you,” Em said.

Detective Donnell and Detective Alvarez shared a look. Em gave them their privacy by focusing on tidying her desk. Detective Donnell cleared his throat, and Em looked up.

“So I did some digging,” Detective Donnell said.

“To bury the body?” Em asked with a smile.

Detective Donnell gave her an appreciative grin before turning back to his page.

“When did you purchase this building?” Detective Donnell asked.

“We rent it from a corporation,” Em said. “Uh. . . Salem 20. Why?”

“This building was built by an ‘Emogene Peres,’” Detective Donnell said.

“Okay,” Em said with a shrug. “I share a name with the woman who built this building. Is that against the law?”

“I spoke with Rabbi Peres,” Detective Donnell said again.

“And?” Em asked.

“He’s not a very good liar,” Detective Donnell said.

“He’s a Rabbi,” Em said. “From a long line of rabbis. Is he supposed to be a good liar?”

Detective Donnell looked down at the page open in his notepad and sighed.

“You’re not an easy woman,” Detective Donnell said.

“Am I supposed to be?” Em asked. “You came into my business and are asking me silly questions about. . . well, I don’t know what. Why don’t you get to the point so I can get back to work and you can get on with your day?”

The detectives stared at her.

“I won’t lie to you,” Em said. “I’m incapable of it. Ask me what you will.”

“What are you? A gospel woman?” Detective Alvarez snorted. “You know, like. . .”

He looked at Detective Donnell, and the older detective gave a rueful shake of his head. Em blushed. She stood up from her desk.

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” Em said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get on with my day.”

“We’re not done,” Detective Alvarez said.

“Yes,” Em said with a smile. “But I am. If you need anything else from me, my lawyer will be more than happy to help. You can call him to make an appointment. For now. . .”

Em’s door opened, and George stepped inside.

“I heard you were looking for me,” he said. He looked from Detective Donnell to Detective Alvarez. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

George’s physical presence added to the intensity of the moment.

“Gentlemen?” George repeated.

He stepped back to indicate that they should leave Em’s office. Detective Alvarez glanced at Detective Donnell, who nodded. The younger detective left the office. When George looked at Em, she shrugged. Detective Donnell stayed rooted into his seat.

“Detective?” George asked.

Detective Donnell looked at George.

“I believe I am the one you came to speak to,” George said. “Would you like to come with me?”

“In a moment,” Detective Donnell said. “I need to speak with Ms. Peres.”

“Em?” George asked.

Em nodded. George gave Detective Donnell another strong look, which the detective missed by focusing on his pad of paper. George left the door wide open before leading Detective Alvarez away from Em’s office. Em listened to George and Detective Alvarez chat in the hallway.

“You’re going to want to close the door,” Detective Donnell said.

“Why would I want to do that?” Em asked.

“Because I know who you are,” Detective Donnell said.

“Who am I?” Em asked.

“Martha Rich Corey,” Detective Donnell said.

“From Salem Farms?” Em asked with a grin. “Tried as a witch and hanged on Gallows Hill on September 22. We’re having a sale for the anniversary of her hanging. We have sales once a month in the summer to celebrate each of the hangings. And Giles Corey’s death by pressing, of course.”

Em grinned. The detective gave her an even look.

“You can’t be serious,” Em said.

“You don’t deny it,” Detective Donnell said. “Your man is Reverend George Burroughs, isn’t he?”

“His name is George Burroughs,” Em said with practiced ease. “You do know that the good Reverend had a lot of children, all of whom lived here in the Boston area.”

“But you don’t deny it,” Detective Donnell said.

“I’m beginning to believe you’ve lost your mental faculties,” Em said. “What do you want?”

The detective looked Em full in the face. His eyes seemed to draw in her features.

“You don’t look like your pictures,” he said.

“My driver’s license?” Em asked.

“No, the drawings of you,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Em said. “I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Detective Donnell nodded.

“Maybe if you walk me through it?” Em asked.

“When I spoke with George, he said that he knew what death looked like from his experience at war and in the winters here,” Detective Donnell said. “I got curious and wondered what war George Burroughs had been involved in.”

“Okay,” Em shrugged.

“He’s fought in almost every war as far back as the Indian wars,” Detective Donnell said.

“You mean that someone named George Burroughs fought in every war,” Em said. “If I had to hazard a guess, there are probably more than one George Burroughs who has fought in wars throughout history. It’s a very common name.”

“This George Burroughs,” Detective Donnell said. “The man who was standing in your office just a moment ago.”

“And you know this. . .” Em scowled. “How?”

The detective gave a vague nod.

“Are you feeling all right?” Em asked. “Is there someone I should call?”

Shaking her head, Em looked at the man. Every fifty years or so, someone put the pieces together and confronted her about being Martha Corey. Half of the time, they had to pack up and head to the island. The other half of the time, Em was able to convince the person that they were imagining things. She had a sense that the detective was leading up to something. She let him talk.

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t come here to talk to me about George and wars or Martha Corey or anything else,” Em said. “Please, speak plainly to me — what is it that I can do for you, Detective Donnell?”

He looked at her and squinted.

“Detective?” Em asked.

“I can prove that you are the person who built this building,” Detective Donnell said.

“Okay,” Em said.

“I can prove that you and George and the rest of your friends are immortal!” Detective Donnell said with growing fervor.

“And?” Em asked. “Is there a law against any of this?”

“No, but. . .”

“There is a law against slander, Detective,” Em said.

The detective’s face flushed with frustration. He shook his head.

“Out with it!” Em ordered.

“Do you know who Lydia Dustin is?” the detective asked. “
Remember
— for you, I’d guess it would be
remember
. Do you
remember
Lydia Dustin?”

The image of the Boston Jail flashed before her eyes. Lydia Dustin had arrived at the Boston Jail on the same day as George. Prison life was hard on Lydia. The constant torture and abuse broke her will to live. She was deeply humiliated by the spectators. She’d barely survived to Em’s hanging day. The next year, Lydia was released, but she was unable to pay her board for the time she was in prison. Em had been on her way to pay Lydia and her granddaughter Sarah’s fees when she learned that Lydia had died. She covered her sorrow at the memory with a confused look.