The Shape of Mercy (18 page)

Abigail inclined her head. “I have made no plans to publish the diary.”

I was trying to guess what my dad would want me to say next when she asked me what I would do.

“Pardon?” I said.

“What would you do with it?”

“I … uh … My father says it should be published.”

Abigail’s eyebrows arched slightly. “He does, does he?”

“Yes.”

“And what does your father know about the diary?” I saw a flash of doubt in her eyes.

“Only the little I’ve told him. That it’s a first-person account—a very well-written first-person account—of the Salem witch trials. Is there another book like it?”

Abigail laughed gently and inclined her head. “No. I don’t think there is.”

“Well, then. That’s reason enough to consider getting it published.”

She tipped her head. “Indeed.” But I got the feeling she didn’t really agree with me.

“Is there some reason you wouldn’t want it published?” I asked. “I mean, everything about Mercy’s conviction and execution are matters of public record, aren’t they? It’s not like you’d be exposing some deep, dark family secret that’s been buried for centuries.”

Again the little laugh. Not quite a laugh, really, but there’s no other word for it. “Very true.”

I didn’t know what else to say at that point. Several seconds of silence passed.

“Is there a reason you’d like to know what my plans are, Lauren?” she finally asked.

I hesitated. Isn’t there a reason for everything? “Yes.”

“You want credit for your work.”

“Do you think I don’t deserve it?”

She immediately shook her head. “Not at all. You’re doing a wonderful job. You deserve as much credit as can be given to you.”

“Thank you.”

Another long pause.

“If the diary is ever published, your name will be on it as editor, Lauren. Certainly not mine. Does that answer your question?”

I nodded wordlessly.

She stood. “Well, then. I’ll make us some tea.”

And she left the room.

It wasn’t until she was gone that I realized how worried she had been that I would quit.

As if I couldn’t be replaced.

Rebecca Nurse’s other sister, Mary Easty, is accused of witchcraft. I know Mary Easty. She surely is no witch. I cannot envision her torturing anyone. She is one of nine new souls who have been accused. Nine more people. Papa went to her examination. He said Mary proclaimed her innocence with such grace and dignity that the magistrates turned to the accusers and asked if they had named the right woman. They assured Mr. Hathorne with shrill cries and much moaning that Goody Easty was the woman who tormented them, among so many others.

Papa is not so much angry now as fearful. He told me I shall no longer attend any of the examinations. He did not give reasons, but I think he wishes me to appear too terrified to attend. He may also fear I shall raise my voice to the madness and find myself in chains. He told me it is dangerous to kick against the will of the people without something in your hand to prove your argument. But what is there to hold? What proof have the accusers? Anyone can say they see someone’s shape when no one else can see it. Who can argue with them? But that is not holding anything in your hand. That is suggestion and raw acceptance.

I wonder what would happen if someone collapsed to the ground, writhed in pain, and accused Ann Putnam or Betty Parris of bewitching them. What would the magistrates say then? I should not desire anyone to do this, but I do. Though it would not solve anything.

I am nearly out of ink. And I am out of vinegar.

I’ve reminded Papa twice that I could use a little vinegar from Ingersoll’s Ordinary to make more ink but whenever he goes to the Village, talk of witches and examinations and specters consume him and he forgets.

I asked John Peter if he would trade some eggs for vinegar, but he would not take the eggs as payment. He would not take payment at all. He gave it to me.

The most dreadful thing has happened.

Rev. George Burroughs has been accused of witchcraft. I can scarce believe it. Rev. Burroughs left Salem Village parish for Maine years ago. He does not even live here.

Ann Putnam has claimed Rev. Burroughs’s dead wives appeared to her and spoke to her, and his shape stood right there among them. She said their blood cried out for vengeance, that Rev. Burroughs had murdered them. Ann was in a room full of people when she had this vision and all who saw her were astonished. Ann said George Burroughs’s specter then turned into a cat.

Papa is furious.

He told me Ann’s father and Rev. Burroughs were at odds with each other when Rev. Burroughs was the
minister here and that they disagreed over something having to do with money.

I have never seen Papa so angry. It set him to coughing, and he has not stopped though I brewed him a draft of ginger, tea, and honey.

Papa said Rev. Burroughs will have no idea whatsoever why men are coming for him to escort him back to Salem.

I wonder if Papa will say anything in his friend’s defense. I want him to and yet I don’t. He holds nothing in his hands except contempt.

And contempt is not enough to sway the will of people who assume too much and have no wish to do otherwise.

I
had no idea if Clarissa would want to come home with me that weekend, especially if she knew that not only would Cole and Raul be there, but Cole had practically asked her to come. She wasn’t at the dorm when I arrived back on campus from Abigail’s that Thursday. Not that I really thought she would be. I did homework until eleven thirty, and when I could no longer keep my eyes open, I went to bed.

I didn’t hear Clarissa come in.

On Friday morning when my alarm went off, Clarissa was in her bed across from mine, wrapped like a burrito in a jumble of loosely woven blankets. One leg stuck out, hovering in midair, half on the bed and half off. Her toenails were painted a deep shade of purple, and a sizable toe ring was snagged on a loop of one of her blankets. She didn’t have class until ten on Fridays, and I wasn’t going to wake her just to ask a question.

I toyed with the idea of leaving her a note inviting her to come
home with me, but then decided to just visit her at the coffee shop later that day. I didn’t want her to think I was still trying to make myself feel better. My asking her to come wasn’t a peace offering so I could ease my conscience, though I knew that’s what she would think. I had told the boys I would ask her to come. It was that simple.

I attended my four classes that day, dropped by the dorm to unload my book bag, and then headed to the coffee shop.

The place was a sea of students, books, and open laptops. And it was noisy. Conversations flew about the room, and every few minutes there was the loud pounding of metal on wood as saturated espresso grounds were emptied by hurrying hands. Clarissa was behind the counter, filling cups and calling out names.

“Tall dark roast with steamed milk for Tyrel!” she yelled.

The man named Tyrel reached for the drink she put on the counter. “Thanks, Clarissa.”

“So when are we going to Morocco, Tyrel?” Clarissa asked as she sprayed a plume of whipped cream onto someone else’s mocha.

“Can’t this week. Midterms.” Tyrel winked at her and began to walk away.

“You better not keep me waiting too long, Tyrel. I might have to go with someone else.” She placed the mocha on the counter. “Super tall raspberry mocha for Claire!”

Then she saw me.

“Lauren. Hey.”

“Hi, Clarissa.”

“You ordered something?”

“No. Just wanted to see if you wanted to come home with me this weekend. Cole and Raul will be there, and Cole asked if you were coming. Would you like to?”

She didn’t look up from the espresso machine. “I’m working this weekend.”

“Well, um, you could come down after you get off, if you want. It’s not that long a drive.”

“I’ve got a double shift. I’m working Saturday afternoon at the bookstore and Saturday evening here. Sunday afternoon and evening too. Gotta pay the bills.”

She grabbed the stainless steel receptacle of spent espresso grounds and whacked it on the side of a wood-framed trash bin.

“Oh. Okay.”

“But thanks for thinking of me.”

“Clarissa …”

“Don’t say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever it is you were going to say.”

I sighed and said it anyway. “You’re not trying to punish me, are you?”

She laughed heartily. “I don’t have to. You do a fine job all by yourself. It’s okay to be who you already are, Lars. In fact, I bet most therapists recommend it.”

I stared at her. “Yeah, but it’s not okay to be who people say you are when you know deep down you’re someone else.” I wanted to add,
And I’m not going to act like I’m better than everyone else just because you think that’s what I believe.

Clarissa looked up at me and blinked. Then she turned to the clutter of people waiting for their afternoon jolt of caffeine and cream. “Skinny white chocolate latte for Denise!”

She turned back to me. “I’m not quite sure where you’re going with that thought, but hey, you don’t owe me any explanations. Sorry I can’t come. Tell Cole I’m sorry I can’t come.”

“All right,” I said, even though I
did
want to explain to her what I meant.

“Hey,” she said, as if I had already turned to leave. I hadn’t. “I’ve got a prof who’s interested in that diary you’re working on.”

“The diary?” I felt a tiny spark of devotion to the diary ignite inside me, a jolt of protective hesitation.

“Yeah. He’s writing a book on the effects of stigma on culture and economics. He was lecturing today on the historical significance of the Salem witch trials and the role stigmatization played. I stayed after class and told him you were transcribing a diary from one of the women who stood trial. He got all excited. He wants to talk to you. Tall vanilla nonfat for Pete!”

“He wants to talk to me? What about?”

“About the diary, of course. What else?” She dumped two shots of espresso into a cup and pumped a tiny stream of hazelnut syrup into it.

“Well, when?”

“I dunno. After midterms, probably. He wants your cell phone number. Can I give it to him?” She spooned steamed milk into the cup.

“Um. I don’t know. I guess so. I might need to talk to Abigail first.”

Clarissa rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t own you or that girl who got hanged, whatever her name is. You don’t have to ask Abigail’s permission.”

“I know, but …”

“So I can give it to him?”

“Give what?” Surely not the diary.

“Your cell phone number, Einstein.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” But I didn’t want to talk to some professor about Mercy. She was still alive to me. It was October now, but I was with her in April. Abigail had already told me the hangings ended in the fall of 1692. I still had several months to spend with Mercy. She wasn’t yet a statistic of stigma and hysteria. She was a young writer in love.

“Great. Tall hazelnut latte for Lauren!”

I looked at Clarissa, wide-eyed.

“You look positively panicked, Lars. Lighten up. He just wants to talk to you.”

She pushed the cup toward me and then turned to the next order.

Perhaps it was a good thing Clarissa didn’t come home with me. I didn’t see Cole or Raul at all on Saturday, though I knew they were just a few miles away at my aunt and uncles in Beverly Hills. I hadn’t e-mailed Raul back to let him know Clarissa wasn’t coming. I guessed because I hadn’t, Cole assumed she wasn’t. And apparently neither one of them wanted to see me. Fine with me.

I spent the morning putting my last editorial touches on the proposal. I added a paragraph at the end about how the complex could become a truly multicultural venue by offering memberships via scholarships to median-and low-income individuals with interest in fine arts. Such an altruistic gesture would endear the complex to the community and inspire others to develop an appreciation for the arts.