The Hollybrook Witches

"This is good," she said. "You've been so down lately. You need a change."

I hadn't noticed that I was not my usual self. I had been trying to keep an upbeat appearance, but something must have shown. We had a long discussion about the upsides and disadvantages of a job I would never get.

"We could travel to work together," she offered.

"Chestnut Hill is a ways from Medford."

"I've been thinking of moving the office closer to Boston," she replied.

"It will be a longer drive, and we will need more childcare for our twins."

"Or we could move?" she suggested.

"Is that what you want? Move to the suburbs or even the city?" I asked. "I thought you liked living in the country."

For a long time, as her business grew, I wondered if she felt constrained by backward Hollybrook. The industry here is the college and tourism. Did Lucy want the city? She answered my question with a smile.

"I want my husband happy. Country or city doesn't matter as long as we are together. I've come to know what's important. Conventions, what people think, business success, and where you live are unimportant. This happy family of ours is the most important thing."

After that speech, I felt like a complete fraud for what I was planning. I nearly called it off, but I remembered the contents of that travel bag. I knew more than ever that something was going on with Mrs. Edward Goodson, the former Lucy Richards.

At any rate, I had my excuse for a three-day absence. What I needed now was a plane ticket and my wife's itinerary in Miami. The first was easy. Boston to Florida is a prime route. It's busy, but has a wide choice of airlines. My wife's itinerary was another matter.

My mother-in-law is Patricia Richards. The wife of Judge John Richards, a retired justice of the appeals court. He is fifteen years his wife's senior. When we first met, Mrs. Richards looked at me askance. She was born Patricia Fitzsimmons, the youngest daughter of a Boston Lace-Curtain Irish clan she had shocked by marrying the son of a Boston Brahmin family. Patty was seventeen at the time, and John was already an established corporate lawyer. The scandalous marriage delayed John's assent to the bench by several years.

Patty, as she was widely known, was a society matron in Cambridge, where she had chosen to raise her children; my wife and her two older siblings. Beth, after Patty's mother, Elizabeth, and Thomas, after John's father. Lucinda, my Lucy, named after John's mother, was the youngest and the clear favorite of all members of the family.

I understood why Patty was cool to me when Lucy first brought me to meet the family. I was a part-time lecturer at a two-year school. Lucy was an extraordinary beauty and the holder of a Harvard MBA. It was natural that a mother would hope for something more for her beloved daughter.

However, over the years, my relationship with my mother-in-law changed. Gradually, she warmed to me as it became obvious that Lucy and I were immensely happy and that I fully supported my wife's career. The birth of our identical twin daughters, named Pat for her and Sarah for my mom, brought us from the status of just related to friends. Patty became my adviser on all things related to childcare and mothers suffering depression post-birth.

"Women get depressed after giving birth. It's normal to some extent, and only serious in a few cases," Patty advised me.

But as Lucy's blue mood continued, Patty held my hand and pitched in as she could. The first eighteen months following the birth were the worst, but then Lucy started back to work full-time, and there was a miraculous overnight change. I will never forget how Patty helped me get through those times.

Patty's one of those people who organize things. Since she would be taking our daughters while I was away, I drew her into the planning, knowing she would get Lucy's and my schedules. My schedule was easy. I had a friend who was an assistant basketball coach at Boston College. It was that time of year when the teams were often on the road. Larry would be out of town, but he insisted I use his place, which would be vacant.

"I'll leave the key under the back door mat," he told me. "I'm glad you're interviewing for the position. I thought of you when I heard they were looking for someone up on Reconstruction."

Larry and I met at a seminar held at Gettysburg College. An African American, Larry is a Civil War enthusiast, and I was a speaker on the topic of General Longstreet's post-Civil War years. Longstreet was one of the few Southerners who took his post-Civil War oath to the United States seriously, and was generally hated by Southerners for doing so.

"Thanks, Larry. I scheduled my interview for first thing Tuesday morning, but if anyone asks, I'm staying at your place through Thursday."

I had lunch with Patty the week before Lucy's trip. If she suspected some deception on my part, she did not let on.

"I'm so looking forward to having my granddaughters at Cambridge," she told me.

"Well, you will likely have them a full three days. I'll be dropping them off early Tuesday morning," I told Patty.

"That's no problem. You deserve some time to focus on your career. My daughter spends enough time away. She's flying out Monday afternoon on Delta and returning Friday late morning," Patty replied.

"Not all that hard," she continued. "My daughter scheduled plenty of downtime. Late morning meetings and done by three, and Thursday looks particularly clear,".

"Well, you know she is probably keeping her options open in case some opportunity arises, or something goes amiss."

"That's what I love about my son-in-law. He's always on my daughter's side."

"Whose side should I be on?"

"Well, hopefully, hers and your own."

"I always thought they were the same."

We were eating in a pleasant little coffee and tea-style restaurant in Medford. We had invited my wife to join us, but I had given her very late notice, and she was otherwise occupied.

As casually as I could, I said, "Knowing my wife, it is hard to believe she ever has a light schedule."

I got what I was hoping for. Patty had Lucy's schedule on her phone and sent it to mine so I could look. I glanced quickly and said, "You know, neither of us probably knows enough to judge how busy she will be."

"Perhaps you're right," Patty admitted, and we moved on to discussing my daughters' proposed stay with Patty.

"Will John be helping out?" I asked.

"A little, which is more than he ever helped with his own children," she quipped.

"Oh, stop. My father-in-law is not that bad," I contended.

I liked my father-in-law. He was a deep thinker, and lost in his own head most of the time, but he was a pleasant, unpretentious individual.

"Yes, you're right," Patty admitted. "John helped as much as he was able. Certainly, he was more involved with our children than my parents. That wasn't my father's fault. He worked very hard to pay the bills and spent what time he could with us. My mother was a different story."

I knew the story, or rather stories, of Elizabeth Fitzsimmons. Yes, her husband worked hard at the family real estate firm, but its success was primarily the result of his wife's activities. Fitzey (as she was known) was a remarkable beauty, and she knew and used it. Rumors circulated around her, but nothing that anyone dared say in public. However, the Fitzsimmons firm was notable for the contracts it received from Boston's powerful and connected men.

Patty suddenly turned a little melancholy and surprised me by saying, "When I first met you, I knew that my youngest daughter intended to marry you, and I was afraid."

"Of me, Pat?"

"No, of her," she said with a sad little smile. "She's the spitting image of my mother, and I feared that you wouldn't be able to keep the marriage together. But you proved me wrong, and my daughter exceeded my expectations. She's a wife, mother, and businesswoman to be proud of."

I felt ashamed and nervous after that luncheon. I had gotten what I wanted, but the only way I could see things working out was for my wife to stay on the straight and narrow in Florida.

However, I was not only ignorant of my wife, but of myself, nor could I have conceived of the unnatural force that was at work.

***

The worst week of my life began with a snowstorm. Awakening on Monday, I had snow to clear. I suppose I had every excuse if I were to neglect to clear Esmeralda's driveway and walk. Still, I couldn't find it in my soul to leave the old woman trapped in her labyrinthine house.

Lucy took off well before noon. She had an afternoon flight to Florida, but she had work to do in the office first. I spent my day getting myself and the girls packed for our separate trips. I needed to have them dressed by seven and on the road to Grandma's house. I had my interview at Chestnut Hill scheduled for 8:30 a.m. and my flight out of Logan scheduled at eleven thirty. I figured my pro forma interview would take no more than half an hour. I would have plenty of time to make my plane, even with the heavy airport traffic and long lines at security.

I had the girls in bed early Monday night. I followed them after waiting for my wife's mandatory phone call. She calls every night that she is away. Telling me how much she loves and misses me. I used to believe her without question, but now I had doubt eating at me. The first night she always tells me about her trip. That night, I could hear water splashing in the background.

"Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm at the hotel pool, just relaxing. I have a big day tomorrow. Don't be mad that I've escaped the snow and the cold."

"Not mad," I replied, "only curious."

The hotel was the Brickell, frequented by business travelers. Still, it had excellent amenities, including what appeared from their site to be a romantic rooftop pool with a bar. "Well, don't stay up too late if you have a big day tomorrow," I said, remembering her mother's opinion about her light schedule. "And I have a big day too. So I'd better be off to bed."

"You're right. I shouldn't keep you," she said. "I just called to say I arrived safe and I love you."

I knew she expected an I love you back, but for a moment, I hesitated before I said, "I love you."

I could tell she caught the hesitation because she paused before she said, "Good night and good luck tomorrow, my love," and hung up. Those last words were spoken softly, and I thought perhaps I caught a tremor in her voice.

Setting my alarm for 6:00 a.m., I tossed and turned a bit in bed before I fell asleep. The dream came again, and I was on the narrow path in the woods. I realized I had a small lantern in my hand. It was made of some metal that was very light in weight and deeply tarnished. The face of the lantern was barely open, letting out just the narrowest beam of light to guide my feet. I reached the meadow and closed the lantern to avoid giving away my position. I realized I was waiting for the girl to appear. She did. She came from the left, running, and threw herself into my arms, begging me to hide her.

"The others are dead. Edward, help me!"

I felt the pain of loss and deep sorrow.

I put my arm around the girl, and we crossed the meadow. I could hear voices in the woods behind us and to the left. We reached a little bridge that crossed a small stream. On the other side of the stream was a small stone building sheltered by a ring of great oaks. I reached the door and pushed it open with my shoulder. I had the girl in one hand and the lantern in the other. I let the girl go, and she stepped into the building. I opened the lantern, and the dim light lit one large room.

The room had little in the way of furnishings, but a large weaver's loom stood to one side. Piles of material were stacked against the outer wall. The back wall was a massive fireplace big enough to walk right into. Where had I seen it before? The floor and walls were crudely wrought timber. The windows were narrow slits barred against the night. I closed the door and threw the bolt hard into place.

I took the candle from the lantern and touched it to a small pile of kindling in one corner of the great fireplace. The fire flamed, and I placed a small log on it. With the fire lit, I turned to the girl. She had removed her cloak, and her black hair shimmered in the firelight. Her green eyes blazed with her own inner flame. No one could doubt that she was a witch.

As I thought this, there came a pounding on the door. She leaped into my arms as if some unseen force propelled her.

My alarm went off, and I woke. I was damp with sweat, and my heart was racing. I told myself it was just a dream, but it seemed to be more and more real each time. It wasn't just seeing it in my mind. I could feel it in my soul. His grief, his fear, and overarching all else, something more. Something that overwhelmed the senses.

I forced the dream from my mind and made myself think of the present reality.

I got myself ready. I didn't overdress for my interview. I added a sport jacket and tie to the white shirt and khaki pants I usually taught in. I planned to redress in Florida into beachwear, a sun hat, and dark glasses. The kind of outfit my wife had never seen this New England boy in. Hopefully, this would give me enough disguise to watch her from a distance.

My mother-in-law was up and ready for the kids. I had fed them cereal for breakfast, but Patty had hot cinnamon buns waiting for them. I warned Patty against feeding them too much sugar, but I knew the words were lost on a grandma determined to spoil her granddaughters.

I took off for Chestnut Hill after drinking the coffee Patty pushed on me. I had plenty of time, and took a ride around campus. It was the act of a small fish entering a big pond. Boston College is often confused with Boston University, a far larger school in the city of Boston. The college is just outside the city and is a Jesuit-founded school affiliated with the Catholic Church. Nonetheless, it was far larger and more prestigious than little Hollybrook Community. So, I took a wistful look at it before heading to the administration building for my interview.

I had anticipated a brief interview with an overworked junior staff member, but I was led to a well-appointed conference room where a panel of three awaited me. There were two well-dressed, young Black women and an older man of clearly Asian descent, although he introduced himself as Peter Sergeant. He was an administrator from Human Resources and an assistant vice . . . something or other by title. One woman, Martha Corey, was a professor of History; a tall, thin woman with a warm smile whose clothes and African American hairstyle suited her. The other female was an associate professor of African Diaspora Studies (a new way of putting it, I thought) named Alice Parker. She was much shorter, with a helmet of straight, black hair and a straightforward manner.

As I sat down, I was relaxed. The format had initially put me off, but I assumed from the panel's composition (incorrectly, it soon turned out) that the school was engaging in some diversity hiring. Perhaps they were interviewing me from some misguided view of racial balance. I was quickly disabused of this relaxed view that the interview didn't really count. They simply knew too much about me.

Peter, the bureaucrat, quickly and very efficiently verified my qualifications and gave me an extensive formal application form that he wanted back no later than the following week.

"But really, as soon as possible," he informed me.

The minute the administrator stopped talking, the academic women opened up. They wanted to talk about my only published work, a biography of James Longstreet's career post-Civil War.

"Why Longstreet?" the tall professor demanded.

"I admire him. He was a man of his word," I replied without hesitation.

"He was a Confederate general!" the tall woman persisted.

"But you'll find no statue to him in the South, and few memorials of any kind. When he swore his allegiance to the United States post-war, he never broke his oath. Name another CSA general with his record of post-war service to this country."

The short woman smiled, and then she attacked. "Your former students say you don't believe Reconstruction was a failure," she accused.

"Former students?" I asked.

"Yes, I had several in my classes this year and last," my short inquisitor said with a smile. "They were quick to inform me I was wrong to call Reconstruction a failure when it was barely implemented before it was called off."

Hollybrook is a small two-year school, but we send a larger percentage of our graduates on to four-year schools than most. I had forgotten all those recommendation letters I had written for Boston College over the years. It's gratifying for a teacher to learn that yes, his students were listening.

I couldn't help but smile, and both women smiled back. The interview turned pleasant after that but rather personal.

"You have two young daughters, I'm told," Alice began. "Would a position here interfere with your childcare?"

"What Alice means," Martha interjected, "is, since you are so close to your daughters and provide so much of their daily care, would a position here interfere with that?"

They didn't allow me to answer but began suggesting ways around the problem. I could move, of course.

"Or you could put Sarah and Patricia in day school here and arrange your class schedules around your parenting needs."

"I'm sure his wife would help as well," Peter said, stepping in.

The two women frowned at him as if his suggestion was unhelpful.

I had figured the interview for half an hour, but it was past ten o'clock with no end in sight, and my plane was scheduled to depart at eleven thirty. I was saved by Peter.

"This has been very productive," he said, "but we have other interviews, and my staff has texted me that a person is already waiting."

"Oh, that's fine, I understand," I said, trying not to show relief.

But before I could get up, the women insisted I be scheduled for a second interview.

"You will come back?" the shorter woman asked seductively.

"I was just going to set that up," Peter informed us.

The two women insisted on walking me out, and as I reached the door, Alice took me firmly by the arm and said, "Now, you will give our regards to Esse and tell her we hope to see more of her."

I nodded my head in acknowledgment of her request and my understanding of how she obtained her insider knowledge of my personal life. Still, a little bell of warning sounded in my brain.

I was well behind schedule, but I needn't have worried. Miraculously, there was no traffic delay between Chestnut Hill and Logan Airport. I was there and boarding my plane in forty minutes. No traffic, a parking space right at the garage entrance, and no crowd at security? It was as if a secret hand had waved all obstacles from my path.

On the plane, I had time to try and make sense of the interview. They knew Esmeralda. That was the only thing that made sense. She must have told them of me. It was how they knew my daughters' names and how close I was to them. It seemed a personal connection, and possibly, I was under actual consideration for that job. It was a good feeling, although I had no expectation of being hired.

It was a three-and-a-half-hour flight, and I fell asleep an hour into it, still puzzled over the interview.

And then the dream came back.

***

The plane arrived early, and I was at the hotel a little after 4:00 p.m. I checked in but didn't go to my room. There was a sizable coffee bar centrally located in the hotel's lobby. I took a seat on the far side, well away from the entrance and elevators.

A little before five, my wife arrived. She wore a short, pleated, black skirt and a tight, white blouse. She had a maroon jacket slung over her arm, and she carried her expensive leather briefcase. I had seen her in that getup before. It was her sexy businesswoman outfit, professional, but showing off her legs and ample chest.