Carolyn's Turn_Making Witches of Salem Read online

  Donning a hat and sunglasses, Rebecca hoped—now parted from the Korean vehicle she despised—someone might mistake her for a celebrity.

  In front of her lay a grassy field strewn with trucks, trailers, and other filmmaking contraptions—all seeming very Hollywood. A bubble of excitement rose in her belly. I’m part of a real movie.

  Adjacent to a bank of mobile homes, several police officers meandered about the soccer-field-now-parking lot and fronted yellow wooden barriers, providing little protection from a clamoring crowd.

  “Shit, witches,” Rebecca muttered, recognizing some from Loni Hodge’s coven, and recalling the email she’d gotten suggesting the group meet there to disrupt filming.

  Across the street from where Rebecca had parked, she met up with Berniece and Julia, in an air-conditioned RV alongside Dead Horse Beach.

  After signing papers, Julia explained while only the first day of filming, “thanks to the fucking witches” they were “woefully behind schedule.”

  Following direction, Rebecca and Berniece, with their orange-fluorescent vests marked “Crew,” exited the RV to appease the crowds.

  “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.” Rebecca snapped the vest’s plastic belt around her waist. “And this suit isn’t very becoming.”

  Berniece shoved her vest into her back pocket and let it dangle.

  “You’re not going to wear it?”

  Berniece gazed at Rebecca. “You think I can fit into that?”

  Rebecca took out the piece of paper Julia had given her. “Carolyn Sohier…you met her?” She flipped the description of Marigold, Carolyn’s role, over. “I’m supposed to meet with her and give her real-witch details to help improve the character.”

  “Nice gal.”

  Several yards away, Julia tore out of the RV, bouncing down its metal steps and the door shut behind her.

  Berniece snubbed her nose at the blonde.

  “Bernie!” Rebecca said. “Our first day on the set and you’re going to get us fired.”

  “She can’t see me. ’Sides, I don’t like that good-for-nothing bimbo.”

  “Well, rein it in,” Rebecca said. “For a little while, anyway.”

  Commotion along the harbor piqued their interest, and they meandered toward it. Ahead, Jonathan Dodger directed a scene.

  Berniece pointed out Carolyn, wearing a black conical hat—cameraman circling her. “I’m telling you. She’s something special. I got a feeling ’bout her.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’ll be meeting her soon enough.” Rebecca glanced at her watch.

  After an hour, observing take after take, they grew weary. The police kept the protesters in the back of the lot, but their chanting infiltrated, and—according to the crew—rendered the audio useless. The tension grew high.

  Berniece leaned on a wooden horse. “And they fuss ’bout making movies? This is tiring.”

  Behind her, a woman, with a crop of blonde hair piled high, and an overweight teenage boy by her side, approached. “Pardon,” the woman said, “my son here is a big fan of Carolyn Sohier.”

  Sheepishly, the boy looked down at the ground.

  “We listen to her CD over and over!” the mother shouted over the clamoring. “We just think the world of her. I saw her perform in Boston several years back, and I turned Timmy here on to her.” She put her arm on her son’s shoulders. “And ever since, he’s been a fan, too. My girlfriends and I were just floored by her show.” She held her hands out in emphasis.

  Berniece, having moved off the sawhorse, said, “I ain’t never heard her sing. She that good?”

  The boy nodded and smiled timidly. He clutched a CD jewel case, worn and cracked with age. “I was too young to go to the concert.” He beamed. “I think it’s awful what happened to her on the VTV Awards. But this movie will make her an even bigger star. I know it. Don’t you think?”

  Something about him touched Rebecca. “Yes…Yes, it will.” She sensed a need to acquaint him with Carolyn but didn’t know why she felt as such, or even how she’d go about arranging a meeting.

  “I wondered,” the mother went on, “if it would be possible to get her autograph. It would mean so—”

  Stepping in front of Berniece, Julia appeared. “GET BACK!” she shouted to the woman and child.

  Flummoxed, the mother took her son by the hand. “I…I…We were just—”

  “You heard me,” Julia reiterated. “Move it! This is a closed set.”

  With son firmly in hand, the mother darted off. The top of her blonde hair faded into the mob.

  “That’s how you do it.” Julia jotted onto her clipboard. “You have to be forceful.” She walked off.

  “They were fans of Carolyn’s,” Rebecca said.

  “Yeah, right.” A hint of fat showed under Julia’s T-shirt, cinched by the back strap of her bra, and Rebecca smirked.

  Berniece stepped forward. “You don’t have to be such a—”

  Rebecca hooked Berniece’s shoulder.

  “Bitch,” Berniece finished, but Julia had disappeared into the encroaching protesters.

  A woman screamed.

  Berniece and Rebecca turned.

  “Cry like you mean it!” said Jonathan Dodger to Carolyn.

  Carolyn threw her witch hat to the ground. “I did! I am.” She grimaced and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

  “Bullshit!” the director yelled. “You’re an actress. Act!”

  Rebecca and Berniece moved closer and stopped inches from a monitor next to the set.

  Carolyn took her witch hat back from a prop girl. “Thank you,” Carolyn said, and then looked at Jonathan. “It just doesn’t make sense to, literally, cry at the drop of a hat, is all I’m saying. Is this a comedy or a thriller? The concept is quite silly. I can’t find the motiva—”

  “Enough!” Jonathan got up from his black chair—Dodger stitched in white thread across its back.

  Carolyn winced at his approach and stepped back.

  As he took his New York Yankees cap off and threw the hat to the ground, Berniece tripped over a cord and fumbled onto the set.

  “Bernie!” Rebecca held out a hand, but her friend ignored her help.

  Jonathan backed off and took in Berniece. “And who the hell are you?”

  She brushed her sleeves and stood tall. “I’m Berniece Fagar, your witch consultant slash guru.” She put a hand on her hip and paced the cordoned area. “I got an awful vibe ’round here.” She pivoted and pointed a finger to Dodger. “You violating the law of threefold.”

  Jonathan Dodger stood unfazed. “The law of threefold.”

  “Karma’s a bitch.” She wriggled her nose—with a little help from her hand—like in Bewitched.

  Chuckling, Rebecca practically heard the magical sound effect she knew played in her friend’s head.

  Dodger lifted a hand loosely, palm up. “Actors, witches…you’re all a pain in the ass.” He spun around. “For the love of God, it’s a fucking hat.” He reached down and picked up his Yankees’ cap. “You’d think I’m asking these people to turn water into wine.”

  Alone in Carolyn’s trailer, Rebecca settled at a small table and waited for the actress. Three hours later, dusk grew near.

  Out the window, Rebecca watched what looked like small railroad tracks being placed onto the grass, and a camera being fitted to a dolly.

  When Carolyn finally entered, Rebecca rose and started forward, but stopped when Carolyn sat down on the floor, by the bathroom, and began to cry.

  Unsure what to do, Rebecca waited and edged back. She doesn’t know I’m here.

  In between sobs, Carolyn wiped her nose and rocked.

  Finally, Rebecca moved into the light filtering in through the window by the sink. “Um, Ms. Sohier?”

  Carolyn flinched and cleared her throat. “Oh, I didn’t realize…” She started to get up.

  “No, no, don’t bother.”

  “I didn’t know you were here already.”

  R
ebecca went to her, knelt and offered a clean tissue from the sleeve of her sweater. “I’m Rebecca Farney, your…your advisor.” What else should she call herself?

  Carolyn forced a smile. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just a little emotional. Acting does that to me.”

  “Then I don’t think you need any inspiration from me,” Rebecca said. “I thought you were great. I saw you from the monitors.”

  Shouts from protesters, while muffled inside the trailer, intensified.

  Rebecca smiled. “I could never act like you. They want us to be extras in some crowd scenes. I don’t think I can even do that.”

  Carolyn wiped her eyes. “Oh, you’ll be great.”

  “I’m not an actress. We’re just doing this because of the witch thing.”

  “We?” Carolyn asked and wiped her nose with the tissue.

  “Me and my friend. We’re real witches…or at least want to be.”

  “Oh.” A bit of concern flitted across Carolyn’s face.

  “Don’t worry. We’re good witches.” Rebecca laughed nervously.

  Carolyn hugged her knees. “Well, at least I have some positive energy with me.”

  “You have a lot!” Rebecca said and leaned against the bathroom door beside Carolyn. “I can tell.”

  The performer’s striking features—brown eyes, sharp nose, strong jawline, and flawless skin—were revealed despite the witch costume. “You can, huh?” Carolyn smiled sparkling white teeth.

  “Yup, even Bernie said so.”

  “Oh, Bernie. I know Berniece.” Carolyn pulled off her black wig, revealing a lion’s mane of thick brown hair.

  “She told me she met you at the shop.”

  They sat for a time, listening to the torrent of protesters nearing. Rebecca recalled the email distribution calling for more to join after working hours.

  Carolyn eyed the window. “All this fuss.” She shook her head. “He’s making a mockery of their…your…religion. I feel ashamed to be a part of it.” She paused. “Do you believe in spirits?”

  Not sure of Carolyn’s intent, Rebecca fidgeted, unsnapping the belt to the vest she still wore. “Of course I believe. Don’t you?”

  Silence fell for a few seconds, until Carolyn broke it. “I don’t know.” She faced Rebecca. “When I was a kid, I used to believe.”

  “Why has that changed?”

  Carolyn shrugged. “I’m not sure.” A smile came to her face. “I used to dream that my father—he was a bordering-on-famous guitarist who died of a drug overdose in the sixties—I’d dream that he would come back to see me.”

  “Oh?”

  “He died when I was three.” Carolyn wiped a spot from her wardrobe. “I don’t really remember him, me being so young and all. I used to sing myself to sleep looking at a picture of him on my nightstand.” She chuckled. “I hoped he’d appear in my dreams.”

  “He didn’t?”

  Carolyn shook her head. “No…never.”

  Rebecca rested her chin on her knees. “Well, maybe he just wasn’t ready.” She had to offer some comfort.

  Carolyn gave her a quizzical look and leaned back against the wall.

  “Sometimes, spirits are shy. Or they’re working on other stuff and aren’t ready to visit. Others need help connecting and find guidance through mediums and healers.” Rebecca cleared her throat, not knowing where it all came from, but she continued. “You need to welcome them. Did you ever ask him to appear?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I ever out-and-out asked him.” Carolyn stared at the trailer’s door, as if lost in thought.

  “Maybe he didn’t know.” Rebecca breathed audibly. “Wishing to some nebulous being versus asking a specific entity are two entirely different things.” She’d read it in one of the books at Bernie’s store.

  An hour later, and still on the floor, the girls continued their conversation—from spirits to fortune-telling and, finally, to Carolyn’s profession.

  “Wow, you really do get into your characters,” Rebecca said, in response to Carolyn sharing details about a role she’d played Off-Broadway.

  “When right, the character just possesses me.”

  “The mask method? That’s what you call it?”

  “One of many techniques I’ve learned.” Carolyn played with the hem of her dress, her hoop earring resting on her jaw. “Yet, after all those years of acting lessons, I still find winging it the best.”

  “A woman and her son, fans of yours, were hanging around—”

  “What did you say?”

  “Two fans of yours were outside a couple hours ago.”

  “Fans?” Carolyn’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, fans. You do have them, you know.”

  Carolyn smiled, shaking her head. “Go on.”

  “Well, they wanted to get an autograph. I wanted to let them on the set but that bitch Julia, with tits so perky you could hang Christmas ornaments off them, kicked them out.”

  They laughed.

  Outside, a light flashed on, its rays coming through the window and onto the kitchen table. The blinds cast horizontal slices across Carolyn’s face.

  Rebecca noted the elegance in Carolyn’s appearance. “They’re still filming?”

  “It’s going to be a long night,” Carolyn said, when the trailer’s door burst open.

  The women jumped. Rebecca’s elbow smacked the wall.

  Jonathan Dodger bounded in. He pointed to Rebecca. “Outta here!” He looked to Carolyn. “I need a word with you…alone.”

  Rebecca rose, stared at Carolyn, and shook her head.

  Carolyn took Rebecca’s hand, got up, and turned to Jonathan. “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her.” She pursed her lips. “She’s my witch consultant. You’re paying her.”

  Jonathan’s eyes darted between them.

  Spite festered inside Rebecca, and jokingly she flicked her fingers at the man, hoping to scare him into thinking she imparted magic.

  He furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you doing?” He came to her and grabbed her hand. “You’re not casting spells, are you?”

  “My goodness, no,” Rebecca said. “I had a hand cramp.”

  He released her.

  “Dodger, she is a real witch,” Carolyn said. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

  Defeated, he sighed. “Fine, our conversation can wait.” He went to the door. “The crane’s ready. We’re moving Marigold’s Tree to the evening.”

  Carolyn raked a hand through her hair. “But the whole scene revolves around sunlight.”

  “I don’t care. Improvise. On the set, now!” He left and slammed the door.

  “Asshole,” Rebecca said.

  Early the following morning, Rebecca, half-asleep, received a call from Julia. A more urgent matter needed Rebecca’s attention, rather than being on the set.

  “A car will pick you up in ten minutes,” the production coordinator said. “You and the scout will be scoping out a new film location. We’d like you to get a sense of the area, a witch’s perspective.” She hung up.

  Approaching the Maine border, Rebecca sat in the passenger seat of a late-model Mercedes-Benz. Beside her, the studio’s location manager, Jay Evans, drove the expensive sedan.

  “Thanks for coming with me.” His blue eyes shot her way, followed by a devilish grin that made his attractive, unshaven face all the more alluring.

  She couldn’t possibly go for this guy—normality wasn’t her thing. His striking good looks were too suave for her. She usually dated a rougher type. Hmm. No wedding ring. “No problem. Honestly, I don’t know why Julia wants me scouting locations with you here. I’d rather be back in Salem with all the…action.”

  “Well, that’s just it. There’s too much action.”

  Rebecca turned to him. “Huh?”

  “You know. The protest.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She got it—Julia and the director’s Plan B, to shoot more remote locations. “I just don’t know what I have to do with any of this. It’s
almost like they want me off the set.”

  He reached for his water and accidently hit her knee. “Excuse me.” Her stomach buzzed as he took a sip. “You’ve got that witchy sixth sense,” he said, “that us creative types are drawn to.” He winked and returned his bottle to the center console.

  Rebecca took her own bottle from a cup holder on the door.

  Jay punched the gas pedal, and the car accelerated to over one hundred. “We need to make sure any locations we shoot have the right feng shui, or whatever you people call it here on this coast.” The car slowed to ninety.

  “When in Salem, go witches,” Rebecca said, but he didn’t acknowledge her, for which she felt grateful. Why do I say stupid things?

  “Summerwind shot nicely, when we visited it last spring. It has potential, good character. It might serve as fallback for Salem scenes…if we can get there before winter.”

  “This Summerwind place…what’s it like?” Rebecca sipped water.

  “Well, for one, we’ll need a boat to get to it.”

  According to an old man with windswept hair along Bar Harbor’s docks, the Summerwind Island ferry stopped its daily runs after Labor Day. “Hitching a ride with the postal carrier or hiring one of the locals,” he muttered between a few missing teeth, “be yo’r only choice.”

  Rebecca and Jay were lucky to time the mail boat’s midweek run to the islands. The carrier, Katie, drove them to Little Cranberry Island first, where she spent all of fifteen minutes, returned, and powered up the vessel for Summerwind. “I’ll drop you off there, and pick you up in a couple of hours.” The motor’s buzz filled the air.

  Summerwind Island, a remote landmass two miles southeast of Bar Harbor, looked ominous. A gray cloud hung overhead. On a hill, shutters on a gray-stained house flapped in the wind. To the left of that structure—and equally dilapidated—sat the Summerwind Inn. Weather-beaten cedar shingles hung loose from its siding, and the wraparound porch had missing posts in haphazard locations.

  Rebecca gave Jay back his binoculars. “This ought to be interesting. It’ll probably work well for the film.” What did she know? She wanted to sound smart.

  “God is in the details,” he said, and lifted his camera, with its heavy-looking telescopic lens. Cachesh, cachesh, cachesh. It snapped off photos. “I’ve been taking pictures all my life. I know what matters. Sometimes, the most subtle thing—to really emphasize the script—will make a huge difference to a film. What would Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil be if it’d been shot on a set instead of Savannah? Or Close Encounters without Devils Tower?”