Wicked Girls (2 page)

“Mercy, bring this wool

to the weaver,” Missus orders.

I bundle the yarns

under my cloak.

I feel as though I've been thrown

to an ocean of ice floes,

the weather so flays my skin

and gnaws at my bones.

I hand the weaver's son

the yarns to dye.

“What a pretty cloth

for such a pretty one,” he says.

His eyes tighten upon me

like a corset.

“'Tis not for me,” I say,

and turn to leave.

He catches me by the shoulder,

his hand stained indigo.

“Did one ever tell thee

thou hast bluest eyes?”

“Jonathan!” His father rumbles

right as a reverend.

“Thou art needed to mix the dye.”

Jonathan boy scurries off.

But his father looms down on me,

tries to stare me apart

like I be one of the dock girls

flashing stockings and crinoline.

Without a flinch, I gather my scarf

and push back into the freeze.

Even in deep winter

the town of Salem swells.

The port fills with merchandise,

and pockets droop heavy with pounds.

On the barge, bags of grain

and jugs of cider unload,

for the Salem Village farms

see meager crops.

I am told the slaves used to eat pudding

at Thomas Putnam's table,

but not in a winter this cold.

Few in Reverend Parris's flock

dine far above broth and grain.

I meet the eyes

of a uniformed soldier.

I cannot praise and bow.

The wars up north

echo in my skull

like the sea inside a shell.

A different kind of battle bruises

Salem's shores.

For here neighbor to neighbor,

brother to kin,

old money against the new,

jealous feuds

whistle through the night.

And I have barely a bonnet

to protect my head.

Why, Lord? Why am I here?

Sky's painful bright outside

the parsonage, even without sun.

I scratch the wet topping my hood

and sneeze. “Hole in the roof

been dripping me in meeting.

I fear I caught the cough,” I say to Ann.

“Perhaps tomorrow at our gathering

we'll find you a remedy.” Ann smiles.

She turns her head from me

and stares dumb-like at her new servant girl.

I shake and spit up a cough and a sneeze

what pierce the ears

like a horsewhip cracking.

Folk turn and stare.

I whisper, “Ann, have you a kerchief?

I must be looking all spotted and ugly.”

Ann shakes her head no

and steps back from me.

“You know you always look fair.”

She pulls her cloak tighter

round her shoulders.

My nose be dripping worse than the roof.

I need to wipe it on my glove.

I sniffle.

Break in morning service be at an end

and brethren file toward the meeting door.

“Wait, and we'll go in after the others.”

I hold Ann's arm, but she wiggles free.

“Mother said I must not dawdle

outside meeting.” Ann shrugs

and darts toward church.

When all's gone into the meetinghouse

or be looking that way,

I turn myself back

toward the parsonage.

I swipe back and forth

my nose 'pon my sleeve

till my cuff be wet as my head.

I look up,

and he stares on me.

I want to crawl under my skirt.

His shoulders be broad

as a boat's bow.

I feel cherry-cheeked.

Will he tell I be not a lady?

He walks toward me.

I see now 'tis worse

than I did think.

He is not my elder.

“Isaac Farrar—”

I cough and the tears

brim my eyes.

Oh, I will be always

the girl who uses her sleeve.

“It be not…” “I meant but to…”

I wince at the thought

of his scold or laugh.

Only three feet from my own,

Isaac just smiles.

And not like some snake in low grass,

but a smile like warm,

sweet milk.

I turn away quick

and stumble over my own foot

as I run direct into church.

“Life is not for joy and jolly,

but for toil and test,

an order ordained.”

Reverend rings in our ears.

The men of land and money

lined up front

like a fence of wood stakes.

My father snug among them

what serve on town council

and vote as church members.

After Mother died, Father sold his cargo ship,

built the biggest house in the Village

and wed the sister of Thomas Putnam

to sit on that bench where he does.

Behind my father, the men

of mended trousers

straighten their necks.

I try never to stare

directly at the upright heads

of those what sit behind—

the good sons, all them

not off or lost to war.

My eyes shift 'pon Isaac.

Did he just glance this way?

Nothing best smudge my face.

My hands heat under my gloves.

A drop of water dins my head

and I swallow hard a cough

screaming at the roof of my throat.

I switch fast my gaze

to the row below Isaac,

where sit the Gospel women,

which my father

wishes
me
to be.

Following the wives

of upstanding men

fall the lesser women,

and I sit behind them, us girls

and servants. The slaves and heathens

are not allowed

in church at all.

Her name is a blessing,

not simple and plain like Ann.

Ann with sticky spiderweb hair,

not the gold that willows

down Mercy's back, smooth

and perfect as God's breath.

All the men stop

whatever they are about

whenever she goes past.

“Mercy, let me help you

carry the other bucket,”

I say, and sidle next to her on the path.

We walk along in silence.

I want to ask her how she slept,

what it was like when she lived in Maine,

did she have a horse,

did she see any Indians,

does she like me?

But instead I ask,

“Is Mother well this morning?”

Mercy doesn't even turn to look at me.

“Yea, she seems quite herself.”

Mercy sets down her bucket,

rubs her hands together.

“I can carry both buckets if you like,” I say.

She shrugs and smooths her bonnet.

I walk a step behind her

all the way home,

just so I can watch

the way she swings her arms.

Two weeks in this new place,

and night comes restless

with wind that claws

over the roof

like trapped cat paws.

When I close my eyes to sleep

I see my mother.

She holds my father's scalp.

Mouths of my sisters and brothers

gash open in scream.

Yet I hear no cry, no yell, nothing.

Under the bed, I pressed

my hands against my ears.

Bare Indian feet pounded

the floor, blood splattered

like a bucket of paint

hurled against the wall.

Blood raindrops fell

thick as mud, slow as dew.

As before, I cannot budge.

My legs dead wood.

I cannot lift my finger,

cannot blink an eye.

I do not think I breathe.

Like twisted wind

I hear the heavy breath

of the man who slays my mother.

I clasp my hands and pray

that this is just night sleep

and come morrow

I will be with my family.

But I wake in servant's quarters

under a thin quilt warmed by low fire,

rise to another day of fetching

for Missus Putnam and her babies.

Still I welcome the dawn.

Little Ann circles, buzzes

in my ear like a barnyard fly.

I should almost like to shoo her

off my shoulder, but she fixes on me

with those chestnut eyes

like I were her queen.

“Let me put the baby to nap.”

Ann relieves my arms.

Master Putnam shakes open the door,

a gust of wind shoots snow

behind his head like a fountain.

He staggers to his chair.

I untie his boots, yank free

his gloves and rub his red hands

to salve his numb and cold.

His eyes, like a flaming torch,

search over my body,

and I want to be anywhere

but bent at his feet.

Will this new man I serve

be the same as the last?

Wilson barks and shakes madly

his fur so that I am blanketed in white.

Master Putnam withdraws his hands,

“Go and fetch thee some dry clothes.”

My heart ceases panic

as I turn the corner to my room.

“Why are you covered in snow?”

Ann startles me, then gallops to my side.

I point at the dog.

“Well, you had better change

to dry skirts,” Ann says.

“Thank you, Ann.

I had not thought of that.”

Ann blushes. She tags behind me

with a strange eagerness to help me

be rid of my soggy clothes.

I prevent her entering my room.

“Do you not have your gathering

and visit the Minister's girls today?

Should you not like to find

your cloak and gloves,

and then I will say you are at the stables?”

Ann sprouts up on her toes.

“Oh, yes! I shall find them.”

I close my door, but a whine

and a scratch, and the door is wide again.

“Well then, dear Wilson, my prince,

in with thee.”

“I refuse playing at Scotch-hoppers.”

I roll my eyes at little Betty.

“I did not sneak away

to play them baby games.”

Abigail punches her younger cousin

in the side. “That be a game

for warm weather.”

Ann paces the floor.

Her eyes fire.

“We could play Queen

and her subjects!”

“Fine. I be the Queen,” I say.

“I command ye all

to sit under the table

and speak not at all.”

The three little girls scurry

beneath the table like rabbits

scared into a hole.

I kick up my feet

and fluff my long black hair

in the hand glass. If only

my nose were not so red.

“What now?” Betty asks

after several minutes of quiet.

“You lose!” Abigail laughs.

“Silence!” I hold up my hand.

“You both lose. Stand in the corner.”

The girls' eyes edge with tears.

Ann crawls from under the table.

“This is dull. Let's play at something new.”

“This game be fine.” I smile at her.

“We can tell fortunes.” Ann dangles

my favorite before me.

Betty shakes her head.

“But that be a sin.”

Ann whispers, “Not if none

does catch us.”

I frown as they gather

a glass of water and four eggs.

“Do we form a circle?” Abigail asks

as though she's never done this.

I sneeze and my nose does drip.

I lift an arm to swipe it dry

and Isaac Farrar

with his wide shoulders and buttery smile

jumps into my thoughts.

My stomach squirms—

what a
fool
I acted,

rubbing my nose on my sleeve

in front of him!

I shake my head.

“What then do we do?” Abigail asks.

“Oh,
you
are a
fool
,” I say,

and grab the bowl of eggs.