Wicked Girls (13 page)

Margaret slumps on the bed,

her unhappy lips pursed like my mother's.

“I miss Isaac,” she whines.

“I miss Mercy,” I say.

I pick at the wool on the spindle,

remove the sharp iron from the spinning wheel,

and hold it up in the afternoon light.

“What are ye doing?” Margaret asks me.

“Would smart to have the spindle

plunged into your chest,” I say.

“Aye. One could murder with a spindle.”

I bite the wool so the spindle

dissects from the wheel.

Margaret lies down on the bed,

hides her head under the pillow.

I creep toward her, sit silently beside her

and aim the spindle's point at her bony back,

just to see if I can.

What a bad soldier she'd make—

the Indians would be upon her

and she'd never know. I pat her back.

“There, there,” I say. “I have an idea.”

Margaret flips round; her eyes ignite.

“You've a plan to sneak and see Isaac!”

“No,” I say. “Let's visit Mercy.”

Margaret sticks out her tongue.

She hollers after me,

but I be set on my path to Mercy's.

“Come, Wilson,” I call,

and know Mercy will let me in.

I unlatch the gate

and rush to meet him,

but he whoas me stop

just like a horse.

“Be anyone at home?”

Isaac's eyes dart round the yard

and toward the house.

“No, Mister and Missus be in town.

And Mercy, at the Constable's,” I say.

Isaac's eyes grow darker

and more intense when I mention

that serving girl's name.

“Mercy be gone?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper it against

his broad chest.

“We be alone.”

“Why have ye not been speaking

to me?” I begin.

But Isaac covers my mouth

with his hand.

He creeps hesitant steps

to the house like he be a watchman,

but once we be inside he grabs

me by the waist.

“Where do you sleep,

Margaret Walcott?

Where rest ye your head?”

I be unsure 'tis proper

or a lady thing to show him,

but no servant or parent

or even little cousin

be round to see that I usher

my Isaac straight into the room

Ann and me do share.

When he closes the door

with a click, I start and sweat

beneath my chin.

“Margaret.” Isaac sweeps

the hair off my cheek

and kisses me where it did lie.

I jitter and suppose it be a sin to do so.

Isaac's finger covers my lips

and his other hand reach down

under my skirt. I don't halt him.

He tickles my thigh and another rush

of blood jingles through my spine.

“Be this not for the night of

our marriage?” I say.

I try and shake away from him,

but he do hold me fast,

almost as in a trap.

I whisper again in his ear,

“Be this not a sin?”

“Sins need be discovered

or confessed, dear Margaret.”

His voice sounds direct

as does the arrow what kills the doe.

I stare on him and begin at trembling.

He softens to a smile and rubs

his hand against my cheek.

He holds my chin up to his eyes.

“Do you not feel the nature between us?”

I look down on my boots and nod.

“Do you not care for me,

Margaret Walcott?” he asks.

I gaze quickly upward

and nod my head right eager.

“Then show me justly you do,” he says.

'Tis late in the night

I wake in waters like a child.

Ann snores breezy

while I change my blankets.

In the morn I lie

still in my bedclothes.

“I cannot go to meeting today,”

I say.

Aunt Ann touches my forehead.

“You feel not hot,” she says.

“I did vomit 'pon myself

while I slept.”

Aunt backs away from the bed.

“Well, then you best remain here.”

“Ann.” I grab my cousin's arm

after her mother leaves.

“Do tell Isaac to come and visit me.”

Ann nods and eyes me oddly.

“Do this.” My voice be stern.

She shakes loose of my grip. “Fine.”

I wait all afternoon pacing

the floor, peering out the window.

I listen for the pat of his boots,

but Isaac comes not.

I nearly scream at her,

“Did ye forget to tell Isaac

I was not well?”

Ann snipes back, “Aye, I told him.”

“And what did he say? Tell me all.”

I soften my sound and pat the bed.

I plead with Ann to sit down.

Ann crosses her arms,

but she lights on the edge of my bed.

“Isaac did nod and then talked to Mercy.”

First I got no voice to talk,

then it comes out yelling at Ann,

“About what!?”

“I know not.” Ann stands and nearly

takes leave of the room.

I fall to my knees. “Please, I am sorry.

Tell me what they did say?” I bite my lip.

“They spoke of riding and what a fine day

it be. I but stood there. It be rather dull.”

The tears river down my neck.

Ann says, “Margaret, you be flushed.

Shall I call Mother?”

“No,” I say. I turn my head away.

“Leave me. Just leave me be alone.”

Hot, stuffed in skirts

and screaming “Witch!”

some of us girls point fingers

from positions of sunlight,

others of us hide

under a parasol of leaves.

Sirens all, we choir a cacophony

of caws together.

None in the Village dare step

on the shadows we forge,

lest their name

be next proclaimed.

For as evening approaches

and heat subsides

our elders shrivel and shrink,

and we girls

grow spine tall.

I have seen him,

not in countenance

but in the blackest part

of night, in the stolen

part of my heart.

He wears the skin of man,

but his soul belongs to the Devil.

I hear his name, Alden,

as a curse.

He stands in the Village courtroom,

but I cannot tell where.

I clasp Susannah's hand,

which sweats like a horse's back.

“Soon we will be in Salem's Townhouse

facing the new court. After testimony

in the Village today we shall look

in on that new room, you and I,” I say to her.

She squints at me. “Will Miss Ann come too?”

“No.” My words are short.

“You and I.” I let go her hand

and wipe my own upon my skirt.

I motion over Constable Putnam,

my voice raspy and pleading,

warm, so it tingles against his cheek.

“See you John Alden? Tell me,

where does he stand?”

Constable swallows, squeezes my hand

as he aids me onto the bench

and whispers, “He sits to the left

of the door. His cloak is gray

and he just now scratches his ear.”

I cry out “Alden!”

The magistrates position

all of us girls in a circle

outside the courtroom.

The sun beats fierce

as a firebrand upon our backs.

Ten men are ferried out

inside our ring

and Magistrate Corwin asks,

“Name ye John Alden.

Point to us who he be.”

I step forward.

“There stands Alden.”

The tall man shrivels.

I net him like a prize fish.

“He sells powder

to the Indians and French

and lies down with Indian squaws

and has Indian papooses.”

Alden draws his sword on me,

and the officers wrangle it

out of his grasp.

He is bound

hands and then feet,

shoved into the cart

with the other witches.

He will be examined

by the court now,

and they'll decide

if they try him

as the witch he be.

I flash on my father's face.

If only Father could know

that I have jailed the man

who sold weapons to the Indians

who slaughtered our family.

Susannah knocks on the frame

of my window. She tries to lift her leg

over the sill and hurdle into my bedroom,

but she can't heave herself up onto the ledge.

Margaret shakes her head.

“Tell her go to the front door,” she says.

I point Susannah to the front and open the door.

“What a magnificent palace ye

do abide within!” she gushes.

Her voice echoes up the halls.

“Shhhh! Mother sleeps. Best not to wake her,”

I say, and pull Susannah into my bedroom.

Margaret crosses her arms

and scrunches her nose. “What be that smell?”

We all look down.

Susannah lifts her boot.

Dog waste plastered upon it.

Margaret covers her mouth and nose

with her hand and demands,

“What do you want, anyway?”

“Miss Ann, I brought ye these.”

Susannah shoves at me a basket of strawberries,

plump enough to burst.

Margaret scowls at Susannah.

“Ye are far from home and no trial today?”

I take the basket. “Thanks.

But Margaret is right.

Thou best return to thy master's.”

After Susannah leaves, Margaret cackles,

“That girl is a fool. A smelly, dirty fool.”

I offer Margaret a berry.

“No. I'll not eat anything she did pluck.

It be unclean.”

I sniff the berries.

Perhaps they do smell a bit too ripe.

I dump the lot out my window.

Margaret smiles at me.

“Good riddance.”

Look I different?

I can't wash my hands

to be clean enough.

To eat the bread they set

on the table curls my stomach

now that my body tells a lie.

I sit straight back in my chair

as a virgin, but fall 'pon the bed

a girl unwed.

How could he lie me down?

Under my petticoats

my skin bubbles

as a hot broth.

One of them we first accused,

Goody Osborne, were known

to be a witch

for bearing child out of wedlock.

I sinned sure as she.

I dress careful in front of Ann.

Would Isaac stand the stocks with me,

should we be found out?

Why visits he not?

I want to go to him,

but if I do then surely all will know

exactly what sins of flesh we done.

For once skin be fused,

shows it not the print?

I shake. They think 'tis the witches

torment me.

If I grow not the Devil's child

within me, Lord,

I promise ne'er to move

in the ways of the sheets again.

With Mother away at her sister's

I unlatch the door

and sneak Mercy inside.

Wilson slides to her ankles,

and she kisses him.

I never wished to be a dog before.

“Where be the little ones?”

She peers around the foyer.

Mercy sports a new frock

of blue and gold

that fits her like an apple

wears its peel. Her hair

pulls off her face

as curtains draw back.

“With the neighbors,” I stutter.

Margaret emerges from the bedroom.

“You look thin as a stick bug,”

Mercy says to her.

“She refuses supper,” I say.

Margaret punches my arm.

Mercy opens the cloth

covering her basket.

“Come eat muffins

from the Constable's wife,” she says,

and kicks off her boots.

Mercy lies down on the divan

just as Mother does.

“Pray, Margaret, fetch us some water,” Mercy says.

Margaret shakes her snout at Mercy's muffins.

She plants herself on the ground.

She stares at Mercy and says,

“Pray, Ann, fetch us some water.”

I move to find us cups and a pitcher.

“Neck and heels,” Margaret says.

One cup dangles from my left pinkie,

the other two from each thumb,

and the pitcher weighs down

my right side. Neither Margaret

nor Mercy rise to help me.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Margaret rolls her eyes.

I pour Mercy her water and she says,

“John Alden was tied neck and heels

until the blood gushed from his nose

and he did confess he was a witch.”

“They stretched his heels behind him

and bound them to his neck?” I ask.

“Yea, so he looked like the crescent

moon,” Margaret says.

I see Goodman Alden's blood.

I scream.

“Ann.” Mercy's voice is an axe.

“Quit ye that. Ye sound like Susannah.”

“Yea, Ann, else ye shall be as Susannah to us.”

Margaret purses her lips

just like my mother does at me.

Mercy shakes her head at Margaret.

“Best not to threaten Ann.”

I expect Margaret to rip out two fists

of Mercy's hair, but she just looks down

at her belly.

Silence holds the room so tight

no one dares even breathe.