Carolyn's Turn_Making Witches of Salem Page 5

  “Michael, I appreciate it and all, but I—”

  “SING! Goddamn it.” He slammed the steering wheel. “You’ve got too much talent to throw it all away.” He changed the station.

  “I can’t!” Even though Michael knew her well, Carolyn recognized when to call it quits.

  They were silent for a moment. Even the radio quieted.

  “He was there, Michael…in the audience at the VTV Awards.”

  A new song played, and Michael shut off the radio with a hard tap to a button.

  “I saw him staring back at me.” She closed her eyes and tears rolled out. “I heard him. I heard Seth Stevenson…his voice.” She turned to Michael. “As if he were there.”

  He took her hand and stroked the back of it with his thumb. “It’s all right. I’m sorry I yelled.”

  “All these years,” she said, “and he’s still left his scar. And he’s not even alive.”

  “I know. I still struggle with it, too.”

  Traffic congested, and they came up on the truck again, this time traveling much slower—its tires moving forward.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to sing?” Michael asked. “I know it helps you…with the pain.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to rest the voice.” She reached in the backseat and grabbed the film script. “Maybe this silly picture is a good distraction after all. There’s no singing in it.”

  “It’s a straight film. This could be your chance to prove yourself as a legitimate actor.”

  “All right, I’m Marigold and you’re”—she thumbed through the pages—“an evil priest. Priest? Named Ichabod.”

  “Ichabod?”

  “I don’t write this shit. I just act it out. C’mon, let’s play.”

  “Carolyn, I’m driving. I can’t read lines.”

  “Don’t worry. Just listen. We’ll improvise, like we always do.”

  Carolyn and Michael entered the foyer of Salem’s Hawthorne Hotel. A sign, with a fleur-de-lis and an eighteenth-century tall ship, hung over their heads.

  A bellhop met them at the entrance, took their luggage, loaded it onto a brass dolly with rubber wheels and maroon padding and rolled the contraption to the elevator bank near the front desk.

  Carolyn gave her name to a woman with a whipped-up hairdo, who resembled Dear Abby.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sohier?” said the advice-columnist look-alike.

  “Ah, no,” Michael said. “She’s Ms. Sohier, and I’m gay.”

  “Oh, let’s see, then.” Dear Abby punched something into the beige box in front of her. “Hmm…I don’t have a reservation for a Mr. Gaye.”

  Carolyn pushed Michael aside and stepped forward. “Look, he’s staying with me. We’re with Cantor Productions.”

  From behind them, a voice rang out. “Carolyn Sohier. I’m so glad you could come.”

  Carolyn turned to see a blonde, large-busted woman wearing a pink T-shirt with “Hollywood” stretched across her breasts. She sported faded jeans that hugged her hips.

  “I’m Julia Hartfield,” she said and from under the pinning of a clipboard’s fastener, she removed a business card that issued her the title of Production Coordinator/Assistant to the Artistic Director.

  Something about the woman unnerved Carolyn, and she crumpled the card and threw it in her purse.

  “Carolyn, it’s so…nice to finally meet you.” Julia never bothered to look up from her notes. “I see you’re now sans representation. How brave. We weren’t sure you were going to make it.”

  “Would never pass up the chance to be in a good witch picture,” Carolyn replied through a grin. Sometimes all it took was a subtle insult to get her inner diva going. Bitch.

  “Yes,” Julia said. “Oh, your call’s been changed to five a.m. tomorrow. A car will pick you up at four forty-five to bring you in for makeup. We’re shooting at the Salem Willows. It’s only about a mile and a half from here.”

  “Yes, we’re quite familiar with the area,” said Michael, with an air of sarcasm. Carolyn sensed he, too, smelled the woman’s stench of superiority.

  Julia walked away without replying and shouted to a crew member who ran up a set of stairs, seemingly to get away from her.

  “What am I getting myself into?” Carolyn asked, watching Julia chase after him.

  “C’mon, I picked up the keys. Let’s go have some fun and see the town.” Michael stepped into the elevator and held the door open.

  Carolyn followed. “Fun? I’ve got to be up at four in the morning.”

  “Four forty-five.”

  “Well, I need time to get ready. I can’t just roll outta bed and get on the set.”

  Michael hit their floor’s button. “Don’t you want to explore Salem?”

  “What time is it?” She huffed. Sometimes he still reminded her of a kid. “All right, maybe we can visit the Witch Dungeon.”

  “No doubt that’s where Julia Hartfield lives,” Michael said.

  The elevator chimed and its doors shut.

  Wiccan Consultants

  As Rebecca followed her roommate down a sidewalk that led to the Hawthorne Hotel, she questioned why she’d let Bernie run with this new plan to be in the movie. “I shouldn’t have let Ms. Greenfield talk me into working overtime,” she mumbled, recalling the reason she’d been unable to contribute as much to their scheme.

  “Hurry, Becky,” Bernie said to Rebecca’s dawdle.

  Extras were one thing. Wiccan consultants…out of our league, Rebecca thought.

  After learning bit parts in the movie were already cast—Berniece’s original internet query had drudged up an older article addressing the need—they then contacted the production company directly. Initially, their messages went ignored. Yet, after an editorial appeared in the Salem Evening News calling for North Shore residents to protest the filming, things changed. When Loni Hodge appeared on Chronicle—a local TV show—explaining how Witches of Salem would ruin Salem, Julia Hartfield returned their call.

  When they entered the Hawthorne, fragrance from an enormous bouquet of red-and-yellow flowers wafted their way, and a shiny brass bank of elevators chimed, lifting cars to higher floors.

  “I don’t know why we couldn’t meet in private,” Berniece said. “She tell me the lobby’d be fine.”

  “May I help you?” asked the lady at the front desk.

  “We’re here for Cantor Productions…looking for Julia Hartfield,” Rebecca said.

  “And you are?”

  Rebecca started to reply, but Bernie beat her to it.

  “Berniece. Berniece Fagar.” She cocked her head Rebecca’s way. “She’s with me.”

  The hotel clerk nodded, lifting penciled-on eyebrows, and picked up the phone.

  While waiting, Rebecca pondered their connection to Loni Hodge—albeit fleeting—and how they weaseled their way into getting an interview. “I don’t know why I’m nervous,” Rebecca said to Bernie, who’d dressed in a blue suit with the buttons cleaving mounds of flesh across her chest. Rebecca reached out and undid a clasp for her.

  Berniece breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Relax,” Rebecca said, more to herself than to her friend.

  The clerk hung up the phone and pointed a knobby-knuckled hand to the middle of the lobby. “You can take a seat over there.”

  Rebecca and Berniece moved to the center of the space and sat on a cushy gold-and-green couch, surrounded by expensive-looking urns and artwork laded with thick brushstrokes.

  Berniece twiddled her thumbs, hands folded on her belly. Behind her, an oversized bouquet of dahlias and red-hot pokers lay atop a large marble table, the elegant backdrop in contrast to the woman’s typical surroundings. Taking in the scene, Rebecca tilted her head.

  A blonde woman clogged thick brown sandals down the stairs. “The mayor now regrets his decision to let us film here,” she said to a kid carrying a clipboard, who nodded beside her. “Dodger’s deadline is already tight.” She stopped on a step, and turned her back
to Rebecca and Berniece. “We can’t be here into October.” She started down again. “From what I’ve heard, this town will be swamped with tourists for a month.” She descended the last few steps, her boobs having barely moved the entire way.

  “I hope that ain’t her, but something tells me—” Berniece said, as the woman caught their eyes, smiled, and came forward.

  “You must be Bernie,” she said, with an outstretched hand. “I’m Julia Hartfield. So glad to finally meet you. And you must be Rebecca.”

  After a few minutes of greetings and gibberish, Bernie went into her story about wanting to see Bewitched being filmed. “And I thought they’d be making it right then and there.” Berniece let out a whiskey laugh that turned heads.

  Rebecca smiled politely and threw out fake platitudes such as, “Oh, Bernie,” and “Wouldn’t we all like to have seen it.” She sensed Julia laughed more at Berniece than about her story.

  While Julia threw her head back in false hilarity, Rebecca sneered. I wish I could zap that bitch’s silver fillings with a snippet of electricity. Rebecca burst out laughing.

  Bernie silenced.

  “Well,” Julia said, after a beat, “there’ll be no hocus-pocus on this here set.”

  Her emphasis on “here” pissed Rebecca off. “Are you making fun of the way she—”

  Berniece slapped Rebecca’s thigh. “So, how can we help Witches of Salem become a blockbuster?”

  Julia beamed and held her hands in front of the Hollywood splayed across her chest. Her nipples shot out between two Os.

  Slyly, Rebecca grinned. “It is a little chilly in here, no?”

  Julia furrowed her brow and after a moment said to Berniece, “Well, you’ll get to see a movie being made for real, this time…provided there are no problems.” She leaned in to them both. “As for you helping, you’ve heard about the protest—” Julia stopped, her forced smile disappeared, and she sat back.

  Berniece turned around, as did Rebecca.

  In walked Loni Hodge, the Official Witch of Salem, with her telltale long, midnight-black hair streaked gray. Her breasts sagged—a marked difference from the perky ones practically poking at Rebecca’s back, and she sauntered toward the room’s center table. The room hushed.

  Julia’s cold hand grabbed Rebecca’s wrist, and she knew what this one-dimensional fake feared. Magic! Real magic.

  The room deepened in silence. With outstretched arms, Loni centered herself under a gilded chandelier. The light caught the silver-metal jewelry she wore, and sparkles flared from the gemstones on her rings.

  Rebecca, with a throaty laugh, whispered, “I wouldn’t be surprised if fire and brimstone start shooting from Loni’s fingertips.” She hoped it would give Julia a fright.

  Loni closed her eyes, shook her head, turned around and, with a flourish to her cloak, walked out the front door.

  What the hell is she doing, anyway? Rebecca thought.

  A doorman nodded to Loni as she left, and the din of the room resumed.

  “Did she just cast a spell?” Julia asked, grinning timidly.

  She is afraid of magic, Rebecca thought. “Maybe a little one.” She turned to Berniece and with an all-knowing look said, “At least she didn’t have that voodoo doll with her this time.”

  Julia whimpered, but Berniece, with shoulders collapsed, tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips.

  Rebecca kicked her.

  “Oh, yeah!” Berniece finally said, adding a bit more zeal. She winked at Rebecca. “You should see when Loni’s really pissed, like the time someone accidently stole a potion from her store, and we prevented a curse from spilling all over town.”

  Rebecca dug a heel into Berniece’s toe. Let’s leave my proclivities out of this. “Don’t worry,” Rebecca said with a hand wave to Julia. “We’ve got your back. The last time we did this”—she cleared her throat—“we smoothed everything over real nice. Loni responds to reason.”

  “We’re more powerful than her, anyway,” Berniece added. “Don’t you concern your pretty little head. We’ll take care of you.”

  Julia—looking as if she had tired from her eyes bouncing back and forth between the duo—tapped her hands to her thighs. “Great.” She shot up from the red Queen Anne chair. “As Cantor Production’s Wiccan consultants, we’re counting on your close-knit affiliations in the coven to ensure we’re operating in the best interest of…of Salem’s witch community.”

  “In-deedy.” Bernie attempted to get up.

  “Wonderful. We’ll see you on the set tomorrow.” Julia left and went back up the stairs.

  The pair high-fived each other.

  “Becky, this is our opportunity to shine.” Berniece fumbled with the couch’s cushions.

  Rebecca rose and gave her a hand. “This could be my ticket out of Wal-dor, and your chance out of Red Vanilla.”

  Fussing with her jacket, Berniece said, “Ain’t nothing wrong with Red Vanilla.” She moved in the opposite direction Rebecca intended to go.

  “Where are we—”

  Berniece cut her off. “I want to show you something.”

  They strolled down a hallway nestled behind the elevators.

  “Down here,” Berniece said, “they have ’Lizabeth Montgomery pictures, when she filmed here back in the seventies.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes. They filmed right here in this hotel.”

  Pop Ditties by the Sea

  In an early afternoon break—one of many in a slow-moving first day of filming—Carolyn, in her character’s black wig and velvet cape, sat on a rock wall, and gazed out at the ocean. A finger found its way to her mouth as it often did in thought—a nibble to her fingernail and a thumb scratch to her cuticle.

  A cool breeze blew. She closed her eyes and took it in. If the smell of the ocean had a color, it would be turquoise. The air, the crisp touch of autumn, the clang of boats in the harbor and the Salem Willows Park, which she hadn’t been to in years, all provided good memories. Despite her mixed feelings about being home, so much time had passed since she and Michael lived there. Some good must remain.

  Since leaving the area for NYU in the eighties, she had only been back to Massachusetts once—a few years ago, for her aunt Esther’s funeral. With Carolyn’s mother now retired in Florida, she had no family, or reason to return.

  She turned around as Michael approached, holding a box of popcorn. He wore a navy sweater, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. His bushy hair needed trimming, and the fifteen-plus years since Carolyn had last seen him walk this very spot added heft around his tummy. Lines marked his jowls, framing dark Italian features. If he ever went back to modeling, he’d make a good fatherly type.

  Carolyn stretched, her back arcing to the bay, legs dangling over the stone wall. The set, with trailers and cameras, was on her left. A large crane with a camera on top of it swept down. Carolyn lost count of the number of times it attempted to lower. As Michael drew near, it jammed again.

  He held out the popcorn box to Carolyn. “I grew tired of the food from the studio’s canteen. I haven’t had this in years!” He sat down beside her. “Remember we used to come here?”

  “I do.” She took a handful from the box. “Remember I used to play superstar on the amphitheater?” She cocked her head in the vicinity of the stage.

  “Of course.” Michael fed popcorn to chickadees that appeared by his feet. “I spent most of the morning chatting with the crew at the food truck. What did you do?”

  “Ah, twenty takes,” she said and held up her index finger, “and only one small scene. At this rate, we’ll be here for years.”

  Michael ate some popcorn while two large seagulls swooped low. The small birds scattered.

  “Oh, poor things.” Carolyn pointed to the birds.

  Michael threw some more to the ground. “The seagulls got to eat, too.”

  “Yeah, but the little ones barely got a bite.”

  Michael looked over at the harbor. “Rumor has it, you know, that Do
dger wanted someone else for your role.”

  Carolyn nodded. “I know. I’d heard. Last Rudy told me, they’d cast a buxom blonde from the couch.”

  “Rudy must have had quite the pull to get you the contract.”

  The small black-capped birds came back, and Carolyn threw some popcorn to them. “I think this will be it.”

  Michael dropped his eyebrows. “No more popcorn?”

  “No, Michael. Movies. Maybe even showbiz.”

  The food in his open hand took to the breeze and skipped along the grass. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.” A couple of squirrels chased after the kernels. “I think I’ve had enough of the business. I’ll finish the film, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a normal life.” She crossed her arms. “To not have to be in the spotlight in order to be a success and make a living. To not be on display.”

  They watched a fishing boat pull out from the docks. A crew member ran toward the pier, no doubt to ask them to stop so as not to ruin the shoot.

  Carolyn brushed remnants of popcorn from her witch outfit. “I don’t want it, Michael. I don’t think I ever really did.”

  “What do you mean, you never did? You’ve been through a lot.” Michael closed the lid to the box. “Is this the same Carolyn Sohier who used to practice signing autographs with me at, what? Twelve?”

  “Michael, I’m over thirty.” She stood up and brushed the back of her cape. “I embarrassed myself on national television and have been seeing a shrink for about a hundred years.” She turned her back to him and tightened the velvet belt around her waist to keep her costume from flowing in the breeze.

  “You can’t quit…not now. You’re so close! You’ve worked so hard for so long at this.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you really want your greatest achievement to be having sung backup on a Ricky Rick hip-hop song?”

  Carolyn faced him. “Nothing wrong with that. That song made me a lot of money—paid off my NYU student loans.”

  “And made Rudy some decent cash, too.”

  She paused. “Seagulls got to eat, too.”