The Loving Husband Series

Chapter 5-2

As he watched her, his expression softened and he relaxed into an easy smile. Taking this as an invitation to come closer, she stepped near him and stood on her toes so she could see into his night-dark eyes, such a contrast to his pale complexion, like a black-white pattern in a painting. He stepped back too quickly, a man-sized jumping bean, and he turned to study the brick arches of the Lyceum as if he had never seen them.

“Yes,” he said finally. “I believe that ghosts from the witch trials haunt Salem. I’ve never been more sure of it.”

He opened his mouth to say more, but he shook his head and walked away at such a fast pace he left Sarah trailing behind. She didn’t mind. She slowed her steps, hoping he’d disappear into the distance so she could slip down Washington Street and find her way home. Alone. She was being foolish about this man. He was too unpredictable. Suddenly, he flipped the switch back to bright and slowed his long strides, waiting for her to catch up.

“There I go again,” he said.

Sarah laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, tinged with low, hollow tones.

“Please,” he said. He extended his arm, a courteous gesture from olden days when being gentlemanly was the norm, and again, despite her concerns, Sarah felt the invisible pull toward him. She slid her arm through his.

“There’s a whole tourism industry in Salem centered around the metaphysical,” James said, continuing their conversation as if they hadn't suffered an awkward moment. “There are tours guided by parapsychologists that are supposed to highlight places in the city haunted by the supernatural—ghosts, werewolves, vampires.” Sarah saw that amused grin again. “Have you ever been to Danvers?” Sarah shook her head. “It used to be known as Salem Village, the epicenter of the witch hunt hysteria. There’s a memorial there for the people executed in 1692.”

“I’d like to see that. One of the reasons I came to Salem was because I was told I have an ancestor who died here during the witch hunts. I wanted to find some information about her.”

James stopped walking. He dropped Sarah’s arm and stepped closer to her. “What was your ancestor’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

He looked disappointed. “Perhaps you’ll discover it through your research.”

He extended his arm again, and again Sarah slid hers through. He slowed his pace, she quickened hers, and they shared a rhythm that matched her fluctuating heartbeat. First too fast, then too slow. It was, come to think of it, a lot like her night with James. First too hot, then too cold. Now it was heating up again. They were already at Salem Common, a nine-acre park used as public land to graze livestock in colonial times. They passed the Salem Visitor’s Center, walked around Washington Square North, and there was the Salem Witch Museum near the imposing cloaked statue of Roger Conant, the man who first settled Salem, among America’s oldest towns, in 1626.

The Salem Witch Museum was housed in a tall brick church-like building with two castle-style protrusions on either side, a Gothic arch in the center coming together at a point like two hands praying. Sarah didn't need to turn around to know James was watching her. He stepped so close she could feel him close to her hair. She kept her eyes fixed on the brick exterior of the museum.

“There are other museums around town you should visit if you want to learn about the witch hunts,” James said. “The Witch Dungeon Museum on Lynde Street has actors performing scenes from the transcripts of the trials. There’s a recreation of the dungeons where the accused witches were jailed—dark, horrid, illness-filled, rat-infested places. Abominations.”

Sarah shuddered. She heard his words, they were simple enough, but she hardly understood him, as if he were speaking Russian suddenly, or Vietnamese. Above, the far-reaching sky was clear, no rain, and she realized that the sudden drops of water on her cheeks must have been from her eyes. The immediate emotion startled her. She brushed the wet away with the back of her hand and shook her head, trying to send the oppressiveness away. Then she felt like an ice storm had dropped and she was trapped and shivering. She crossed her arms over her chest in a poor attempt to keep the chill away. She looked around, from side to side and back again, expecting to see a monster jumping out of the shadows—a leering, laughing, pock-faced monster, grabbing her, locking her into heavy, suffocating chains, and dragging her away. She jumped in real fear. James touched her arm, and she backed away as if he were the monster. She didn't recognize him through her hallucinating eyes.

“Stop it!” she yelled. The shadows crept toward her, step by step, finding strength in the laughter of the wind. “Go away!” She held up her fists, the only weapons she had, meager though they were. She was ready to fight back if they tried to take her.

“Sarah?” James put his hands on her shoulders and he shook her, gently. “Who needs to stop, Sarah? There’s no one here but me.” He brushed a dark curl from her mouth. He put his arms around her, pulled her close, and rested his chin on top of her head. When she didn't stop shaking, he held her tighter, whispering his sweet, strong voice into her ear, touching her skin with his words.

“It’s all right, Sarah. I’m here. No one is going to hurt you.”

She dropped her face into her hands, forcing herself to breathe slower, mindful of her heartbeat, staying in the fright until she could pull herself out of it. She had become good at pulling herself out of frights whenever she awoke from her nightmares.

“Sarah?”

She had yelled at James like he was the monster, but he was not the creature in the shadows. He was there helping her, the concern everywhere in the softness in his eyes. Suddenly she realized how he stood around her, his arms a circle keeping her safe inside and whatever it was that had frightened her out. She pushed herself closer to him, not wanting him to let her go. Then, as suddenly as the fear came on, it disappeared. She saw the chain-wielding monster recede with the shadows into the night, and she felt her lungs open and she could breathe again. James must have sensed that she had settled because he became business-like suddenly, dropping his arms and stepping away.

“Let me take you home,” he said. He put a strong hand on the small of her back, guiding her down Washington Square.

They walked silently for some time, and after about a mile Sarah’s muddled mind began to clear. She always felt like she was losing touch with reality when she had those incoherent moments, which were occurring more frequently since moving to Salem. As they walked toward Essex Street, she couldn't make up her mind about James. On the one hand he was so considerate, but on the other he was prone to dark moods. She was more confused about him than she was when she left the library. And she thought she would understand him better from this time alone.

Finally, he asked, “So how do you like living in Salem?”

It took Sarah a moment to find her voice. “I’m getting used to it. It’s so different than Los Angeles where everything is going a hundred miles an hour, the people, the cars, the lifestyle. Even Boston, where I’m from, is busier. It’s an adjustment, small town life where it’s quiet and slow. You can hear the birds sing here.”

“Do you like to listen to the birds sing?”

“I do. Sometimes in the morning I make myself some tea and sit on the porch and listen to their songs. I’ve tried to whistle along, but they squawk and fly away. Wait…” Something Jennifer had said was tapping just outside her thoughts. She reached out to touch James’ arm. He didn't pull away. “When you saw me the other night you called me Elizabeth.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Jennifer asked me if I knew who Elizabeth was.” When James stared ahead, not at all forthcoming, she asked, “Who was she?”

“My wife.”

“You’re married.”

Sarah struggled to keep her voice steady. There it was, that thing she sensed all along that must be wrong with him. Of course he didn’t mean anything by his attention. He was being polite. She was new to Salem and he was showing her around. How could I be so foolish, she wondered? How could I mistake simple courtesy for attraction? She wanted to run away and hide behind the plentiful trees, taking her hot pink cheeks with her.

“Elizabeth died. It was a long time ago.”

In the softness of his tone, in his stilted words, Sarah could hear his truth. Maybe that was why he was caring one moment and aloof the next. It would explain a lot, his love for his dead wife. But if he still loves Elizabeth, Sarah thought, then there’s no room in his heart for me. Her first instinct had been right all along. She had no business being interested in any man right now.

He was going to say something, but by then they were at her house.

“This is me,” she said.

She looked up at James’ face and saw the longing in his eyes. With any other man, that look would have meant he wanted to kiss her. But James didn't kiss her. He stood there, looking into her house through the open door, then looking at her as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t remember the words. Finally, he asked, “Would you like me to come in? I can stay awhile, just to make sure you’re all right.”

“I’m fine. It happens sometimes.”

“What happens, Sarah?”

“Nothing. Really, I’m fine.”

Though he didn't look like he wanted to leave, he nodded, said good night, and walked away. She stood outside her door, watching as he continued alone down the dark-night road. As handsome as he was, or as drawn to him as she felt, she did not know what to make of him. Once she was inside she drew a hot bath and lingered in the frothy bubbles. When she went to sleep she hoped for a happy dream. Please God, she thought as she settled her head on the pillow, tonight I need a happy dream.

I am at a wedding. It is a wedding from long ago, centuries past, a simple affair with family and a few close friends. This wedding looks nothing like the elaborate celebrations of today with the white taffeta dresses, multi-layered cakes, and lavishly decorated halls. At this ceremony the Pilgrim-looking guests are smiling, joyful even. Suddenly, I realize, as my heart thuds a Baroque tune in my chest, that this must be my wedding. Everyone is beaming at me. My wedding outfit is simple, brown-colored silk, but I feel beautiful. Someone, the groom’s father, is wealthy and has paid for the feast, which everyone is anxiously awaiting. They shan’t be disappointed, the father of the groom says. From an imported punchbowl we shall drink spiced hard cider. We shall eat fish chowder, stewed oysters, parsley-flavored mussels, roasted game birds, red pickled eggs, succotash stew, bearberry jelly, and rye bread. There is maple syrup candy, nutmeats, and Indian pudding too, he says, with dried plums and West Indian molasses. He smiles at me with the greatest warmth.

“The Indian pudding is always the best part of the meal, Daughter,” he says. “You cannot end a meal without Indian pudding.”

I also have my bride cake, a rich spice cake saturated in brandy and filled with dried fruits and nuts. I think people are happy we are getting married, but they are looking at the table with longing and I can tell by their distracted eyes that they are consumed with gluttonous thoughts of the food.

Finally, I see him, the man I am marrying. He is handsome as always, his fair hair spilling out beneath his hat, and though he is faceless I know he is smiling, happy this day has come. We are married with the beginning wispy traces of winter in the air, after the harvest months when our family and friends from the farms in the village can attend. The magistrate recites the wedding vows, and we say our part. I am wearing the ring my new husband has given me, and he is wearing mine. Rings are not a popular tradition at this time, and many where we live believe adorning oneself in any way is vain and sinful. Still, my new father-in-law has bought the thin bands for us because he wants all to see that his son and I are connected to one another forever.

“The round bands represent eternity,” my new father-in-law says, “and your love will span eternity.” His eyes are brimming with joy for his son and me. I think my new father-in-law is not only rich but also kind. I can see where my husband’s generosity comes from.

“I shall never leave you ever,” I say to my husband. He promises me the same.

I look at him and know he is dear and loving. I know that he would do anything for me, this day and always. I am blessed.