Wicked Girls (10 page)

The tailor of cloths and hides

gazes at me.

I do not know this man

to point a finger at.

Only Ann does that.

“He is upon the beam,”

Ann says, and all look

up to the rafters,

but I see neither person

nor specter there.

Judge Corwin points at the tailor.

“Be this man a witch?”

he asks us Afflicted.

Elizabeth says, “Yes, sir.

He is the one who hurts me.”

But her voice quivers

as she speaks, like a branch

rattled in the wind.

Allowed back in court for the first time,

Abigail looks to Ann,

but Ann stares toward the window.

In a voice unsteady

as a one-legged man Abigail says,

“He is the man. He is very like the man.”

Margaret says, “Yes, he is very like the man.”

The tailor's eyes plead with me.

I shift on the court bench.

“He is not the man,” I say.

Gasps and chatter fly

about the court like roused hornets.

Judge Corwin calls, “Silence.”

Ann's eyes enlarge

and she demands of Nehemiah Abbott,

the tailor, “Be you the man?”

Ann spits and sputters,

writhes and kicks herself

onto the floor.

She cries, “Did you put a mist on my eyes?”

We are dragged outside

and asked again

to look upon the countenance

of Goodman Abbott.

All the girls nod with me this time.

Though Goodman Abbott

be like the specter,

he is not the same man.

They release Nehemiah Abbott

from his chains.

Little Ann folds her arms,

grinds her toe

into the dusty path.

I stroke her head

and she straightens up.

Her eyes hold back water.

“Did I do wrong?” she asks me.

“Of course not,” I say.

“In fact, you did exactly right.”

I lift my head

to be for once

not only a part

of the beloved choir

but its lead soloist,

the whole town listening.

I fold my skirts into Ann's bureau,

my entire wardrobe crammed

into one drawer.

This room smells like a waste bowl.

I light a taper.

I open the bureau

and Mercy's green shawl lies

inside right where my blue

one ought to go. I toss hers to the floor.

“How dare she go against you

like that? Ye are our leader.”

I feel the anger break

through my veins like waves.

“But Mercy was right,” Ann says.

I roll my eyes. I turn round

to shake out my blanket,

and Mercy looms in the doorway.

“How long you been loitering there?”

I ask her.

“Long enough.” She strokes Ann's arm.

“Ann, would you bring us tea?

I set the water to boiling.”

Ann's off like a ship in high gales.

“Now heed me,” Mercy says.

As she speaks I spot a flaw of hers—

her teeth are too big for her mouth.

I pull back my arm and crack

my blanket at her face like a whip.

The shock stuns her.

I laugh at her popped eyes

and her hair stuck up

like some frightened cat's.

I strike her again.

She catches the blanket

and drags me toward her.

I dig in and yank backward,

then release my hold,

and she crashes into the wall.

But I let her go with such strength

I tumble myself down too

and bruise my tailbone

direct on the floor.

Mercy smiles and laughs

like we be sharing a joke,

but I do spit 'pon the ground

rather than smile at her.

“Listen, Margaret,” she says.

“I'll not listen to thee.

Go and fetch, servant girl.”

Mercy slows her voice.

“You best apologize.

You should not treat me as such,

Margaret Walcott. I be offering

you a hand in friendship.”

Now I could nearly laugh.

“You are not my friend.”

“No,” Mercy says,

and she dusts her skirts.

“I suppose I am not.”

I pull open another drawer

and not a bloomer to be found.

“Wilson, do the witches

now steal my wash and stockings?”

My sweet dog taps his tail

upon the boards; his tongue

quivers in the affirmative.

Margaret's laughter stokes

the hallways and shatters the ears,

sounding like a spoon scraping an empty pot.

Her cackles are followed by

a deep moan, and Missus Putnam hollers,

“Mercy, fetch a pail and cloth!

Our guest has fallen to fit!”

I wiggle back into my dirty dress

and haul a bucket toward Ann's room,

but halfway there my knees bend under

and I slip to the floor.

I slither as a beast upon the ground

until Mister Putnam carries me

back to my bed.

“The girl is not well.

She cannot attend to others,”

I hear Mister say

after I have been

tucked into my covers

and relieved of my day.

Wilson snuggles aside me.

I stretch my arms above my head,

rise and tiptoe to my window

to watch the morning bowl of sun

soak the fields with God's first light.

“Mercy?”

Ann knocks upon, then opens,

my door.

She holds her brush in hand.

“I cannot be in that room

with Margaret one moment more.”

Ann hoists up on my bed

and motions for me to sit up

so she can brush out my hair

while standing on the bed above me.

Ann grumps, “Margaret lights tapers

so my room smells

of wax and burn. I hate it!

Why did she have to come?”

I shrug. “I think she was made to.”

Ann throws down her brush.

“I might have to sleep in here with you.”

“That would not please your mother.”

“My mother will have to learn

to do as I wish, or perhaps

I shall call her a witch?”

Ann's voice is more question

than statement.

“No, Ann, you must never do that,”

I say, and fold her into a seated position.

I give her back the brush

and begin her hand stroking my hair.

But perhaps, you call Margaret
…

I shake the idea away.

Aunt Ann squeezes my hand.

“A goodwife does always

as her husband does bid her.

To honor him be never a sin.”

But what of the betrothed? I want to ask.

Instead I stammer, “What of Mercy?”

“Mercy shall never be a goodwife,

because she is too low

to marry into a proper name.

Her slim beauty will be scoured away

unlike your fair silken own.”

Aunt lowers her voice to whispering

and purses her lips like she suffers

from a bitter yam.

“If she be seen at all, 'twill be

as one of tawdry repute.”

The tears crash down my cheeks.

How then could Isaac…?

Aunt stares on me till I say,

“I miss Isaac.”

“I shall have Thomas ask

Isaac and his father to supper.

What else, child?”

“Ann sees so many
witches
,”

I blurt faster than I did wish.

“I be meaning, I feel as I cannot say

all the specters I see.

I know not the names.”

Aunt Ann smiles larger than her land.

“I can help thee. Just speak with me,

dear Margaret, and I will provide thee

names for the specters you know not.”

She cradles me to her breast.

“Oh, I am so glad you are come.”

Mister Putnam straightens his back.

Goodman Farrar, Isaac's father,

a small man with a fair face

and the manners of a minister's wife,

sits aside Mister Putnam.

He nods at Missus Putnam.

“Thank ye for the fine meal.”

Missus cooked not a crumb on the table.

“Thou art quite welcome, dear sir,” she says.

The baby wails from the nursery.

All mugs beg filling.

And the plates ought be cleared.

I rise to tend the child.

Isaac and his father stand when I do

as though I am the lady

I was born to be.

Margaret clenches her fork.

Ann follows me, and Missus

nearly slaps her back to seating.

“Let Mercy attend to matters alone.”

Only Wilson be permitted to trail me now.

I tramp down the hall

and lean over the baby's cradle.

“Shhhh,” I say until his storming settles.

I clear the plates, refresh the mugs

and set to wash the pots.

“Mercy,” Isaac says from a foot behind me.

“Thomas asks that you sit

and take cider and tea with the family.”

Even though he just supped,

Isaac looks at me as though

he has not eaten in weeks

and would lick

my palms to taste me,

I smell to him so sweet.

Wilson begins a growl,

but I muzzle his snout.

How lovely would it be to witness

Margaret the Mean, the bloomer thief, churn

because of my doings for once?

I flick my curls behind my shoulder

and bloom my eyes as petals

at Margaret's beau.

I drop the cloth in my hands.

Isaac bends to pick it up,

and I stoop too.

Isaac breathes upon my neck.

“Ye are—” he begins.

“Your father calls you!”

Margaret's voice severs our air.

But Isaac does not cut his stare from me.

Margaret quivers in her speech.

“I shall stay and help Mercy.”

I scrub the pan to rid it

of grease and burn.

Margaret clamps my arm.

“Do not speak to him,” she threatens.

“I did not,” I say.

I wipe my hands, turn from her

and swirl into my place

aside Mister Putnam.

Isaac's eyes fasten on me

tighter than the collar at my neck.

Margaret ruptures in fit.

“Goody Hobbs pinches me!”

Isaac greens. He shakes his head.

His father, who has offered

not an impolite word the night long,

says, “We shall be off,”

and leaves without finishing his tea,

without a “thank you” or “good evening.”

“But Deliverance Hobbs

admitted to being a witch!”

Margaret's fists pound the floor

until her hands bleed.

Tears wash her face.

Though Margaret's speech turns gibberish,

I distinctly hear her say, “Isaac,”

but I repeat this not

for I know she does not mean

to name him witch.

Papers stack the courtroom.

Signatures Isaac gathers

enough to empty an ink pot,

all saying the accused

be not the Devil's kin.

The Village divides

like a gash sawed through

the center of the church.

Reverend Parris and us girls

and those believing

in the witches we name

and them what don't.

My Isaac stands square

on the other side of the church

from me.

I try and straddle

the hole between us

but it be growing wide.

Mother says,

“Remain in thy room

at lesson today.”

Mother says, “See that Margaret

has the covers she requires for her bed.”

Mother says, “My head doth ache.

And my stomach has unrest.

Fetch me a cloth.” Mother says,

“Ann, pick not at thy skirt.

Hold thy shoulders straight.”

Mother demands, “The next to be

accused will be one who watched

me as a child, John Willard.

One who was too ready with his whip.”

Mother says, “That Mercy speaks

too often for a servant.”

Mercy feels not well,

and still Mother loads Mercy's basket

with mending and all the needlework

Margaret ought do, and when I lift

one finger to aid or accompany Mercy,

Mother says, “Do see what thy cousin

is about.”

“But my cousin—” I say.

“Defy me never,” Mother says.

And I decide

'tis time Mother

learns to speak kinder

to Mercy and me.