“She deserved it, Matt. Good for you,” Connie said as he nodded his head and searched his pockets. “Want a Seconal?”
I shook my head.
My mother returned and didn’t say a word to me. It was like it never happened. A few minutes later Molly brought the tea, coffee, and milkshake. She didn’t say a word either.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” I meant it too.
“We all have our days,” Molly replied without looking at me.
My mother’s breakfast was a disaster. Way too much sugar, not enough cinnamon, and saturated in butter. She ate it without a complaint. Connie (short for connoisseur) ate his morning meal in giant gulps and slurps. I began feeling sick to my stomach and went to the bathroom. Not to throw up but to get as far away from my dear cousin as I could without leaving my mother abandoned.
After breakfast my mother got directions to the only standing structure left in Salem with a direct link to the witchcraft trials. In a display of great originality and imagination, the building is called “The Witch House.” Which would be dumb enough except for the fact that no witch ever lived there.
The Witch House had been the home of Judge Jonathan Corwin, who resided there from 1675 until his death in 1718. Judge Corwin had the distinct honor of sending nineteen innocent people accused of practicing witchcraft to the gallows. He also condemned the lucky Giles Corey to “death by pressing.” This involved Mr. Corey being placed under a board which was weighted down with heavy stones added one at a time. It took the poor soul two whole days to die.
After accomplishing the heroic feat of ridding Salem of its witches, the Honorable Judge Corwin was appointed to the Massachusetts Supreme Court. We were granted the distinct privilege of visiting the home of this paragon of justice and virtue.
The house was made of a sinister-looking gray-black wood and stood three stories tall. There were only three windows on the entire side of the house that faced the street. They were abnormally small like teeth and eyes. They unsettled me. I didn’t want to go inside but my mother had her arm inside mine and I was reluctant to break away from her. Connie was doing a bad impression of the Wicked Witch of the West, cackling “Heh-heh-heh, my pretty” as we entered through the gift shop.
The house was dark inside, the small windows didn’t allow much light. The floorboards creaked and the air was thick with the scent of old wood, mildew, and wet paper. Karol, our tour guide, wore a black seventeenth-century getup with breeches, stockings, garters, and a Pilgrim hat. His Polish-accented English completed the period costume. Karol showed us a glass case that displayed an amulet containing skull moss (actual moss that grew on a dead human skull) that was used to ward off witchcraft. The amulet did not belong to the Corwin family but was found in the basement of a demolished church. Also in the case was a small, white cloth doll, crudely made in the image of a little girl. There were two stitched X’s where its eyes should have been and it wore no specific articles of clothing. No genitalia were represented, thank god, but it was obscene just the same. Karol said it was a poppet and was used by witches to cast spells. It, too, had come from somewhere other than this house.
I was sure that some evil energy drove me to this place, leading me into the presence of dark forces. Was I to be forever damned, cursed, and doomed? I was dizzy and couldn’t think straight. Karol began leading us up a narrow set of stairs and I felt the walls closing in. I knew this trip was a stupid fucking idea. Vomit churned in my gut, my mouth salivating, my heart pounding. I needed to get out or I was going to puke and pass out. I pulled on my mother’s arm and everything went black.
Next thing I remember is sitting on a patch of grass outside the Witch House. Connie was standing above me with his head cocked at a weird angle. “Are you back, Dorothy?” He thought he was very funny.
Karol was next to Connie, his big black hat in his hands, a cigarette in his mouth. My mother kneeled down and gave me sips of water from a black Salem, Mass mug. I told her I wanted to get in the car and drive the hell away from there.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted to see Lou.
thirty-seven
I stood at his doorway wearing the clothes he gave me. I thought he would get a kick out of that. I knocked. Nothing. I tried knocking three more times. On the fourth there was still no answer and I started to worry. In my pocket was his key and the foot of the poor blue rabbit. Now that I think about it, it must have been Rachel’s key. I let myself into the apartment.
The living room was empty. There was never a lot of stuff in the place before but now there was none: Lou had moved out. And I know it wasn’t him who packed up the joint and hauled everything out. There was no way he would have done such a thorough job. Besides being empty, the place was also spotless. And that just wasn’t in his nature.
Even the kitchen was empty. The cupboards, the drawers, the refrigerator: nothing. The bathroom too. I was sure that something had to have been left behind somewhere. It just seemed too strange that not even the smallest trace of the man remained.
In the bedroom my suspicions were proven correct. On the wall between the two windows were about twenty lines of
