“Then it must be tonight,” Mary said.
“What must be tonight?” I asked.
Mary tilted her head at me. “Why, a visit to the Proctors’ tavern.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Aye, I would.” She laughed, and I heard the excitement in her voice and knew she would do it. She would walk the miles to
Ipswich Road in that red bodice just to catch Robert Proctor’s eye, even knowing that her master would cane her for sure if
she was caught, even knowing that Proctors’ Ordinary was a haven for outsiders. He was licensed to sell only to travelers
on the Ipswich Road, and not the village, and no one we knew ever went there.
She was so fearless. I admired her for it; I longed for some of her courage and cleverness now.
“What will the sergeant say when he finds you’re gone?” I asked.
“He won’t know,” Mary said. “I’ve told him I’ve gone to Papa’s house today.”
“What if he sends for you?”
“He won’t. Mistress Putnam’s had a falling-out with my stepmother. They’re not speaking just now. She told me good riddance
when I asked for permission to visit.” Mary folded the bodice over her arm and motioned us over to the table. “Now let us
see my fortune before I go.”
We all went over; I was the slowest to go. My stomach knotted—I thought I would see that bowl of water after all, and I did
not want to look into it. I was nervous enough already—I did not want to give my vague foreboding a chance to blossom. I was
relieved when I got close enough to see there was no bowl. Just a pair of shears and a sieve strung on a piece of string.
Carefully Mary laid the bodice on the bench and picked up the shears. “Now, who shall hold the other end?” she asked. Her
hazel gaze moved over us, and I wished this would all be done. All I needed was a minute with Mary alone, just long enough
to ask for her help.
“Oh, I shall hold it,” Abigail said. She came forward and reached for the shears, and Mary jerked them back from her grasp
and shook her head slowly, a small smile on her face.
“I don’t think so.” She looked at me. “Charity, I think. Charity shall hold the other side. For this, I want someone with
experience.”
Again I heard the implication in her voice. I’d never before done anything like this divination, and so it wasn’t that experience
she meant. I looked at the others, and I saw that most of them understood that too.
I could not keep the heat from flooding my cheeks. I reached for the shears, taking one handle. After Mary told Abigail to
tie the sieve so it was hanging suspended between the points of the shears, I leaned close and whispered against her ear,
“I must talk to you.”
She threw me a quick glance, a little frown, and then she Megan Chance mouthed,
Why?
I shook my head slightly to show I meant it to be a secret.
“Quiet!” Abigail said to the boy still drumming before the fire. His noise stopped. He cowered as if he expected her blow,
but she had forgotten him already. “’Tis ready,” she said to Mary. She stepped back from the sieve.
“Charity, you hold your side as you can, and I’ll do the same. If the sieve moves toward you, the answer will be no. If it
moves to me, then yes! Now the question.” Mary took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke again, it was with a
strong steady voice. “Will my love notice me tonight?”
She opened her eyes. The room went still; no one shifted; there was not a single hushed sound. I felt us all leaning toward
the sieve, the force of our states crowded the air. At first it was like that, just smoke, harmless tension, and then the
air changed. I felt it moving closer, growing heavier, until it seemed so heavy I could not fill my lungs with it. I knew
this feel—I was suddenly afraid. But this time no spirit appeared to me. Instead, though there was not a breeze or a movement
in the room, not even a breath, the sieve began slowly to swing. First toward me, then toward Mary again; then it hovered
in the middle. I kept my side of the shears still, I swear I did—I have no idea what propelled it—but I watched in disbelief
as that sieve moved slowly toward me.
Little Betsey Parris gasped; she had been so quiet that I had forgotten she was there. When I looked at her, she was staring
at the sieve, and her little bowed lips were trembling as if she’d just seen the Devil himself. I knew she felt the air too;
I knew she understood, as I did, what a dangerous game this was—
Mary jerked the shears from my hand and threw them on the floor. They skidded to a stop near the settle, dragging the sieve
behind until it caught on an uneven board and stayed there, the string stretching taut between the open scissors and the sieve.
It looked a Y there on the floor, until I saw the shadow it made. A shadow like a cross. We all stared at it for a moment,
silent. Then Mary said, “I hate this game. ’Tis nonsense.”
“The sieve never works,” Betty assured her. “We should have used the bowl of water.”
Little Betsey shook her head. “I don’t like the water. It makes me more afraid.”
“No one cares what you think,” Abigail said.
“Perhaps we should try something else,” Mercy put in. “We could ask questions with the Bible—”
“About true love?” Mary scoffed. “I think not. This is silly, anyway. How could it be true? How could he not notice me in
that bodice?”
Betty nodded. “Perhaps it was only saying that he would not notice you without it. We phrased the question all wrong. Ask
again.”
Mary’s voice was thoughtful and a little hesitant when she said,“No, I think not tonight.” She stared at the sieve for a moment,
and I wondered what she was thinking, what schemes were turning in her head. She grabbed up the bodice from the bench. “There’s
only one real way to find out.”
Quickly she undid the laces of the plain brown bodice she wore and pulled it off, letting it fall in a heap to the floor.
She stood in her skirt and her shift, fingering the rich red fabric of Susannah’s bodice; then, with almost reverent fingers,
she drew it on.
It was too large for her—Susannah had a more womanly shape—but not so much that it was noticeable once the laces were tightened
and the virago sleeves were tied into the armholes, the wings in place over her shoulders. Betty and Mercy helped her put
it on. I stood back; I’d had enough of touching it. When they were finished, I had to admit that Mary had been right about
it. It did make her eyes seem browner and darker, and the red brought color into her skin. She fairly sparkled in it—now I
understood why the village women never wore anything but muted colors, why they left such rich and vibrant fabrics to those
who had not made their covenant with God. “The pride of apparel was evidence of a proud heart”—I had heard the admonition
many times. Now I understood why. Mary looked worldly and seductive, made for sin. She was what the women in the village had
warned us against since we were old enough to talk.
“Why, it looks beautiful on you,” Betty said.
Mary smiled. She smoothed it with flat palms, as if she could not get enough of touching the fabric, and her smile was dreamy
and fascinating. “Two slashes,” she said, turning her arm to see the way her chemise showed through the cuts. “’Tis perfect.”
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mary?” I asked her. “Remember, it won’t be just Robert Proctor seeing you there. What will
everyone think?”
Mary frowned. “I don’t plan to spend my life wasting away here—what do I care for what they will say?”
“Still, I—”
“What a prig you are, Charity. As if you’ve a right to be. Why, the whole village knows what you were doing with Samuel Trask.”
“Mary—”
“What was she doing with Sammy?” Mercy looked at me with her avaricious eyes, as if she could swallow me whole. “What? So
it’s true, then? Is it true?”
“Don’t be a widgeon,” I replied hotly. I stared at Mary and begged her silently not to say anything more. “Tell them, Mary.
’Twas only that I fancied myself in love with him. Tell them.”
Our gazes met for a moment—it seemed an eternity—and then she sighed and said in a stiff voice, “I was only teasing.”
I heard only insincerity, but it seemed the others didn’t notice. They said nothing more. I breathed a sigh of relief that
lasted only until Mary said, “Well, I’d best be gone. If I don’t get to the Proctors’ before Robert leaves, I may have to
keep this bodice a few more days—maybe even a week, until he comes back.”
“You can’t,” I said in a panic.
Betty laughed. “Poor Charity’s in a fit, Mary. You shouldn’t tease so. You go off. I’m for home. ’Tis nearly time for dinner.”
“Aye. You don’t want to miss that,” Mercy teased.
Betty flushed, crossing her arms over her heavy breasts as if she could disguise them. “If I don’t get back to cook it, the
doctor will whip me for sure.”
“Very well,” Mary said. “Here I go. Wish me luck.”
She was leaving already. She was leaving without my having a chance to talk to her, and I could not go another day without
her advice, without her help. I lurched forward and grabbed her arm, and she looked at me in startled surprise. “No, you can’t
go already. I…Remember, I—”
“Oh, yes, you need to talk to me. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Talk to her about what?” Mercy asked. “Why can’t we all hear?”
“’Tis nothing,” I said. “I need her advice about…about a…a skirt. She’s the only one who’s seen it.”
Mary looked at me oddly. “A skirt? Really, Charity, I haven’t time to waste.”
I held her gaze and spoke as quietly and intently as I could. “You owe me this. Without me, you’d have nothing to impress
your Robert with tonight.”
Mary hesitated. “Very well, then. Come along.”
“Come along?”
“If you want to talk to me, come with me to Ipswich Road.”
“I can’t. It’s so far.”
“You said you sneaked out anyway. If your father doesn’t know you’ve gone, how will he know how long?”
I thought of Jude and wondered how long she could keep silent. How long would it be before they checked the bedroom or she
confessed that she’d seen me run out? After dinner? Before? No doubt they knew already that I was gone. I had to go back.
But I needed to talk to Mary now. I could not afford to think of how angry my father would be, or how he would punish me.
Instead, I thought of the delusion I’d seen in his eyes.
Your aunt is not an actress.
“Very well,” I said to Mary.
The others went home; for a moment, I worried that Mary Warren would walk with us. After all, she was a maidservant in the
Proctors’ house, and ’twas where she would be returning. But she had another errand to do first, and so Mary and I started
out to Ipswich Road.
“Oh, Charity, I cannot believe it!” Mary said. “I am sure that Robert will notice me at last.”
“The red becomes you,” I told her.
“Aye, it does.”
“Just don’t soil it.”
Mary made a face. “Ah, poor Charity. Will your aunt punish you much for this, do you think?”
My aunt.
I was so relieved that she’d mentioned Susannah. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I won’t soil it, Charity, I promise. I would hardly ruin my chances to ever borrow it again.”
“No, no, that doesn’t matter. It’s…Mary…I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do about her.”
Mary smiled. “Don’t worry. Together we should be able to think of what to tell her. If she finds you with the bodice—”
“Listen to me,” I hissed. “That’s not what I’m talking about at all. She’s an actress. It’s as you said. Everything you said…is
true.”
“So you told me. Why, it’s scandalous, don’t you think? What will those old gossips think when your father throws her out?”
She fingered the edge of the bodice longingly. “’Twould almost be a pity—”
“I don’t think he’s going to throw her out.”
There was a little frown between Mary’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I told him that she was an actress, and he doesn’t believe it. You…You should have seen his face, Mary. I could tell…He won’t
listen to a word against her. She’s deluded him somehow, I know it. ’Tis what the Devil does. He can tempt even the best of
us—”
“Are you sure she’s so wicked, Charity? She seems too…well, beautiful. ’Tis obvious God has favored her.”
“She’s an
actress,
” I said. “Can you doubt her debauchery? And it’s as Master Parris is always telling us: The Devil wears many pleasing faces.”
Mary hesitated. “Aye, but…but…Perhaps it’s not what it seems, Charity. She does not seem bad. Would it hurt to…I mean, think
of the stories she has to tell. An actress, here in Salem Village! How interesting it would be to hear about the world instead
of this little mud-filled village.”
I should have turned around then. We weren’t far, only just past the village. ’Twould have been an easy matter for me to leave
Mary to herself and go home. It was clear she didn’t understand. We thought so differently—I should have remembered that.
But I did not want to go back home and face my father’s wrath. I would have taken punishment gladly had I achieved what I
meant to, but now the thought of bearing a daylong sermon in addition to my disappointment…I could not bear it. The thought
of looking at Susannah in the face and knowing that she had beaten me…I could not do that, either. So I kept walking with
Mary; I listened to her speculation that my aunt must know a great deal about satisfying a man—“Perhaps you should ask her
about that, Charity”—and watched as the storm clouds rolled in and thought,
Perhaps it will rain and I’ll get soaking wet and die of a fever.
It seemed a better fate than the one that wended ahead of me now.
But the weather held, and Mary was shivering with excitement by the time we reached the ordinary. It was just off the Ipswich
Road, and there were horses hitched out front and two carts. I recognized none of them, but I would have been surprised if
I had. ’Twould only be strangers here, and worse than that—strangers from Salem Town and Ipswich. Both Mary’s stepfather and
her uncle would have been horrified to find her here, and as for my father?…well, that was a matter best not thought about.