Carolyn's Turn_Making Witches of Salem Read online

  She said good-bye to the fake maid, flipped shut her phone, grabbed her Gucci from the back of the barstool, laid a twenty on the counter, and headed for the exit.

  With Michael’s plane set to arrive in twenty minutes, she wanted to greet him at the gate.

  A man sitting near the door to the terminals whispered to the bartender. The patron—stout with balding gray hair—turned to Carolyn. “Excuse me.” He smiled.

  She stopped and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like that singer?” He nodded. “You know, that one who sang on the VTV Awards? The one who—”

  “Excuse me? You mean that…” She held up a finger. “I ain’t no singer,” she said, playing the Oyster Bay housewife. “Don’t even go there with a comparison to that woman who made a fool of herself on television.” She put a hand on her hip.

  “Oh,” he said, straightening his slumped posture. “I didn’t mean to offend—”

  “That ugly thing? You think she’s me? What kind of sick motherfucker are you?”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought…well…my apologies.” He grabbed his beer.

  “For the love of God.” Carolyn pushed open the door. “Fucking lowlifes around here.”

  “I’m sorry, lady,” he said.

  She sashayed into the hallway.

  Through the open partition, she could hear him continue, “I didn’t think that singer was ugly at all.” He carried on with the bartender. “I just thought, this being New York and all, she might be a celebrity or something.”

  The soles of Carolyn’s sneakers squeaked their way toward the flight information console. “Well, you thought wrong,” she mumbled and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  After learning of a slight delay to Michael’s plane, she sat on the floor, leaned up against a Terminal B column and called Peggy, her former NYU roommate.

  “This guy at the bar thought he recognized me,” Carolyn told her.

  “Thought?” Peggy asked.

  “You would have been so proud of me. I had your, as you call it, ‘sassy black woman’s neck roll’ going on as I read him the riot act.”

  Something about Peggy’s tone seemed different. She didn’t applaud Carolyn’s assertion per usual. Instead, she let out a patronizing tsk. Peggy veered the conversation toward concern for Carolyn’s well-being. “I’m telling you, Rudy Galante is a piece of shit, girl.” She cleared her throat. “Why do you think I left and signed with Alistair?”

  Carolyn wanted to forget the business, especially the show, but continued listening to Peggy’s advice while tracing patterns on the floor.

  “Heard he flew out of town shortly after your…your performance,” Peggy said.

  A young girl grasped an outstretched finger of her father’s hand as they walked together down the terminal. The man pulled a suitcase behind them. Carolyn closed her eyes and let out a sigh.

  While Peggy droned on about Rudy’s apparent disappearance, Carolyn’s mind wandered: a flash of light, and she saw herself—as a teenager—huddled front and center on a barren stage. Michael hid under the grand piano. Loud music played from the auditorium speakers—Aerosmith or Janis Joplin. She couldn’t remember…it didn’t matter.

  “Right, Carolyn?” Peggy asked.

  Carolyn sat up, adjusted her glasses and tried to recall the conversation. “Oh, yeah…right.” She sighed.

  “Good. I’m glad you’re still going to do it.”

  It? Do what?

  “Move on. No one’s heard from Rudy,” Peggy said. “Besides, you’re a star! You don’t need him.”

  “I’m a star?”

  After a week of sitting around her apartment—situated in the heart of the Village, more west than east—Carolyn watched a Bette Midler videotape montage she’d recorded for inspiration and waited for Michael to return with breakfast.

  “Why can’t I be like that?” she said to the television set, which played an engaging, confident, and audacious Bette parading about the stage in a wheelchair and dressed in a mermaid outfit. Carolyn nibbled on her fingernail.

  Keys at the door jingled.

  “Hold on.” She put the remote down—“Let me get the dead bolts”—went to the door and unlocked it.

  Michael stood holding a tray of coffee—cups of blue and white, peppered with Greek designs—and a waxed-paper bag. “Are you watching The Rose again?” he asked as a 1979 Bette Midler in a glittering sequined gown raced across the screen, dragging a microphone stand. “You’re torturing yourself.”

  She shut and bolted the door. “Michael, I don’t think I can do it. The energy, the charisma…the voice. I mean…God, look at her!”

  Michael handed her a coffee. “You should have worn black.”

  “What?” She took the cup and headed for the kitchen.

  “I was thinking on the way back. You wore the wrong color at the awards show.” He followed after her. “Black wouldn’t have shown the…well, you know.”

  “Michael, I don’t need to hear this right now.” She flipped back the perforated lid.

  “Okay.” He took a sip from his cup and scowled before he swallowed. “Yuck, just like mud. New York coffee is so gross. I don’t know how you guys deal.”

  “You’ve become so West Coast.” She took a sip of her own and frowned. “Yeah, it is pretty bad.”

  “Move in with us,” Michael said, holding up the bag of pastries.

  “Ooh. Where’d that come from?”

  “The bagel shop down the—”

  “No, the moving to Seattle part.” She took the bag and walked back toward the couch. “This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  “We could have so much fun in Seattle. You’d love it. Plus, there’s quite a bustling film scene—”

  She waved the bag over her head. “Surrender! No more entertainment…no more acting, singing—”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “I can’t do it. I need to cool it before I end up in the funny farm.”

  “You’re not going to give up your career. Not after getting this far.” He sat down next to her.

  Carolyn glanced at Michael and then at the TV. She shook her head.

  Bette Midler sang from the television, “Hitler had only one big ball!” The audience roared.

  Michael chuckled. “I love that scene.”

  Carolyn put her feet up on the coffee table. “Josefina would have a fit if I moved in.”

  “No! She loves you.”

  “Yeah, like a bad menstrual cycle.”

  “Stop,” Michael said. “You’ve got to get out of this apartment. Sitting around all day is not good. Why don’t we head to Central Park, go for a walk, grab lunch, or spend money.” He slapped a hand on her knee. “Shopping always cheers me up.”

  “No, I need to get outta here. This city. Sometimes, living in New York is like being a prisoner…or being stuck on an island.”

  “Well, Manhattan is technically an island.”

  Carolyn lowered the volume on a redheaded Bette Midler. “Well, Manhattan is not my definition of an island.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re throwing in the towel on showbiz.”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth. He’d worked too hard to help her get this far. “No, I’m not saying that. All I know is…Rudy’s gone.” She grabbed the bag of pastries from the table. “I’ve got no agent, no manager, no work…no boyfriend.”

  “Carolyn, you’re one of the best singing ladies in the history of showbiz.”

  She chuckled, recognizing the line he used from their favorite movie, The Rose. “Don’t fuck it up,” she said, finishing it for him.

  “Exactly.”

  They watched Bette perform until Michael got up, ejected the tape, and put one in of Carolyn.

  “There,” he said, “now here’s a real performer—not that Bette isn’t but…”

  The reel Rudy used to send to prospective clients played on the TV.

  Carolyn covered her eyes with he
r hand. “Oh, why do you have to put this on?”

  “Because you’re fantastic and you need to know it, Carolyn. Look!” He pointed to a taping of her singing on Broadway. “Amazing. Even the critics loved that performance. They called you the next Judy Garland. Your talent is beyond singing…you can act…you’re beautiful.”

  “You’re trying to butter me up. Motivate me. I can’t dance for shit.”

  “You’re not bad and, yes, somebody’s got to instill confidence in you.”

  “That’s sweet and all…you and Terrence asking me to move in, but…” She turned to him, smiled, and caressed his face. “Let me think about it.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  The tape changed scenes to her performing live in a jazz club uptown called the Maniacal Fringe. The audience stood on their feet. Carolyn belted a Janis Joplin song over the din of applause.

  “I love this one,” Michael said. “I nearly wet myself. I had goose bumps on top of goose bumps. If you stay at my place, we could rehearse on the veranda overlooking the Sound.”

  “And Josefina does make a mean meatloaf,” Carolyn said.

  “Mean is right.” He grimaced. “Now are you going to get out of that nightgown or what?”

  “Why, Michael…” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Since when have you ever asked a girl to slip out of her nightie?”

  “I’ve been here…how long? And I haven’t seen you in anything else. It’s gonna start crawling any minute.”

  “All right, I’ll jump in the shower.” She put her coffee cup on the end table. “Just give me a minute.”

  “And while you’re at it,” Michael studied her calf, “you might want to shave. You could grate a tub of cheddar off those legs.”

  “Geez, nothing like a gay man for honesty.” She took a biscotti from the bag.

  He took one, too. “We could go to the museum. I heard there’s a—”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Carolyn said through bits of the cookie. “Let’s go on a road trip.”

  “Okay, anything to get out of this apartment. Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Someplace quiet, someplace rural. Away from the city.”

  “The country. Hmm, let’s see,” Michael said. “There’s always Upstate or the Catskills.”

  They looked at each other. “Nah!”

  She recalled him as a teenager. He’d been there with her every step of the way. Back in Massachusetts—as kids—they’d watch movies on TV together for hours.

  “How about Cape Cod?” he asked. “P-town’s always a blast.”

  “For you! I’ll just get hit on by lesbians.”

  “But the guys love you. You could sing at the Crown and Anchor again. They thought you were a smash last time.”

  “They thought I was a transvestite.”

  With a flourish of his hand, Michael said, “Just wear a little less foundation. They think every tall Miss Thing with makeup is a drag queen.”

  “No Cape and NO singing.”

  “We could always…just get lost,” Michael said. “Remember driving around as teenagers with no cares, no worries?”

  She moved to the bathroom. “We could even take my car.”

  Michael got up from the couch. “Your car? Since when did you get a car?”

  “Two months ago.” She turned on the shower. “Remember that commercial I did last fall for Chrysler? Rudy worked it in as part of my compensation.”

  “Really?” he said, through the partially closed door, and with a raise in volume added, “Rather nice of him, for a change.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s more of a nuisance. It costs me nearly five hundred a month to garage the damn thing…and I never use it.”

  “God forbid you spend money.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re lucky he’s gone.”

  “Who? Rudy?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Peggy heard he skipped town, left the agency. No one’s heard from him. He’s probably in the Keys, toasting his coconuts.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Michael asked, over the sound of the shower spray.

  “I’m gonna wash, shampoo, attend to the leg forest, and then get my fat ass out of the shower.”

  “No. Not like—”

  The phone rang.

  “CAN YOU GET THAT? It’s probably Peggy with the scoop on Rudy. Tell her we’re heading out, and I’ll call her on my cell in the car.”

  “Does Peggy even know you have a car? And where are we going?”

  After showering, Carolyn stepped out of the bathroom—body wrapped in one towel and her hair in another. “Who was on the phone?”

  Michael stood with a notepad in hand. “Ah, Carolyn.” He tapped the pen to the pad. “Did you know you’re making a movie in Salem next week?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He looked over at the phone. “That was Cantor Productions. They couldn’t get a hold of Rudy. Apparently, his number’s not working. You have an eight a.m. call on Wednesday.”

  Carolyn stood slack-jawed. The towel on her head came undone and fell to the floor.

  Two hours later, and three levels down from the street, they sat in Carolyn’s parked car, a blue sedan with slanted headlights. She clutched the Witches of Salem script she’d barely studied.

  “Eight miles!” Michael said, sitting in the driver’s seat and staring at the analog odometer. He turned to Carolyn. “Eight miles?”

  “I told you. I never use it. Now fire her up,” Carolyn said, snapping in her seat belt.

  Michael turned the key, and the engine jumped to life.

  “I can’t believe Rudy got me this part.” She thumbed through the red-lined pages. “The last he told me, months ago, it’d fallen through. Knowing him, he just said it to keep me focused on the VTV Awards. I didn’t want to do this in the first place.”

  “Most out-of-work actors would piss their pants for a part like this,” Michael said. “Even if only a small one.”

  Carolyn stared at him.

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “Michael, I can’t…I mean, I don’t know if I can do this.” She threw her hands up. “I don’t even want it.”

  “It’s a decent part.” Michael revved the engine and jumped back a bit as if surprised by the car’s power. “You’re crazy. This has been what you’ve been waiting for. Why aren’t you excited?”

  “It’s a Jonathan Dodger picture. He hates me. He despises Rudy.” She fixed a pair of sunglasses to the brim of her baseball cap.

  “Who cares? Make the best of it.” Michael adjusted the rearview mirror. “And it’s in Salem. It’s our old stomping ground. You and I met and grew up around there. This is destined. Our pasts are calling us.”

  Carolyn looked over at him. “Great. The Ghost of Friggin’ Christmas Past.”

  “Oh, stop it.” He put the car in drive. “Don’t you just love that new-car smell?” He looked at her.

  “Michael, it’s a Chrysler 300M. Isn’t it beneath you? It’s not a—”

  “I’m going to ignore that.”

  She put her hand up. “Sorry.”

  “Carolyn, this movie is a good career move for you. Maybe Rudy was right for once. It’s just what you need.”

  The wheels squeaked on the garage floor as Michael drove the car up the ramp and out onto the street. When they pulled out onto Sixth, Michael’s phone rang.

  “It’s Terrence,” Carolyn said, looking at the display on his cell phone in the center console, and handed it to him.

  Michael flipped it open. “Hey, sexy. Guess where we’re going?”

  Carolyn put on the sunglasses. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  Michael looked at her. “You’ll be fine.” And then into the cell said, “We’re going home…going to Boston. Can you believe it? Carolyn’s in a witch movie up there.”

  She sighed.

  Michael beeped his horn at a stopped cab. “C’mon!”

  “You certainly fit right in
to New York,” Carolyn said.

  “We’ll be staying at the Hawthorne Hotel in Salem.” Michael beeped again. “And I’m driving.”

  Carolyn leaned closer to the phone. “Terrence, wish me luck.”

  Smelling Sausage

  On Salem’s Common, Rebecca and Berniece held candles. They wore black college graduation gowns, borrowed from a friend at Salem State. The gatherers they accompanied walked a tight circle.

  A crisp, clear fall sky shone above, and a sliver of waxen moon hung overhead. Most dressed in midnight-purple robes, the faces of the worshippers aglow in orange glimmer from the candles they held. Silver-plated vessels caught dripping tapers.

  Rebecca pulled at the hood of her sweatshirt—one she’d stolen from the men’s department at work—worn under her robe. “I can’t believe you’ve got on those socks and sneakers,” she whispered to Berniece, whose lime-green stockings, in red tennis shoes, stuck out among the crowd.

  “Shush about ’em. I told you I ran out of quarters for the Laundromat. And my black ones stink to high heaven.”

  “Shh.” A lanky man on the opposite side of the circle scowled.

  “Great, Berniece. Now look what you’ve done…gotten us in trouble.”

  “Me? You’re the one who’s askin’ about my lime-greens.” Berniece’s thick Southern accent rose over the crowd.

  More worshippers barked their irritation.

  Loni Hodge, the self-described Official Witch of Salem, with her flow of jet-black hair—slivered by a streak of gray along the left of her mane—appeared in the center of the gathering.

  Rebecca admired how Loni had so quietly transpired—as if by magic. The circle, seemingly its own entity, stopped moving.

  Rebecca and Berniece fumbled, copied the others and turned inward, as the group moved closer to Loni.

  “Greetings,” Loni said, and while her velvet gown rode in the cool breeze, she thanked the attendees for coming. “This is our largest gathering to date.” The clanking of her bracelets filled pauses as she acknowledged the involvement of several key members by name.

  After a moment of silence, for those in spirit, she went on. “The response to our protest has been overwhelming. I’m grateful for the community’s engagement.”