Page 3 of Damnation
I conjure the most convincing smile I am able, nodding at my sweet girl.
“Of course. Why don’t you ask Mrs. Osborne if you can help her stock the shelves?” I say as I gesture to Sarah Osborne’s shop.
Sarah and her husband have some of the most fruitful land in the village, and she truly has a special touch with her jarred spices and crops. Dorothy smiles at me, nodding as she releases my hand and runs inside.
Sarah and I are not quite friends, but more so friendly. Friendlier than any others in this village, I’d say. Neither of us quite fit with the others, and that’s okay with us. We believe one day things will change, for we are both gifted in ways others are not. My mother had passed down to me recipes and remedies that heal. From a belly ache to poison, I create various tonics and tinctures that Sarah sells from time to time in her shop,discreetly, of course. The practice of such is not looked upon with fondness, so we both ensure that our business is conducted as privately as possible. The only other member in town who knows of my work is likely Tituba, the Parris’s servant. She too practices rituals and remedies from her homeland, though she dabbles too close to the line of darkness for my liking.
I stand off to the side from Sarah’s shop, and I see her peek through the doorway, offering me a compassionate greeting before stepping back inside. I nod to her as the church doors swing all the way open, and the townsfolk begin this way into town. My stomach turns unpleasantly as I attempt to swallow my pride and focus on why I’m here. Even if I can walk away with a piece of rye or a pence or two, it shall leave us in a better position than when we rose this morning.
From the moment our eyes meet, Sarah Abbey and Sarah Gadge sneer with disdain, turning their heads to the side. I’ll never understand why so many choose to name their children the same. Most people in our small village bear the names Sarah, Thomas, or John. Originality is certainly lacking in our land, there is no doubt of that.
I’ve never gotten off well with either of them. Both have denied me in my harshest of times, only delivering cruelty and hatred. For such self-proclaimed holy women, you really ought not know it.
Dozens of others pass by, only sparing me an unsatisfied look or grimace, as if I wish to be here, as if I wish to be the pathetic beggar woman with a husband who hates her so. I feel a tear slip down my cheek, refusing the banishment I beg of it before it settles into the corner of my mouth. The cut left from my husband’s hand stings, and I look down at my feet in an attempt to conceal the pain and the emotion.
When I lift my head again, my vision is blurry, but I do my best to temper myself when I lock eyes with him.
A man I’ve known for so long, yet speak with rarely.
One who always lingers but never stays.
A married man with many children.
The same man I often dream about most nights, though I know far better than to.
Thomas Putnam.
He’s one of the wealthiest men in the village, the most respected, no doubt. It would tarnish his reputation just to be near me. So, why is he walking towards me with purpose?
My heart beats in my chest heavily, my hands going cold with fright, or maybe excitement. I’m too unwell to tell the difference. His long legs consume the distance between us as many begin casting wary glances towards him. He pays them no mind, though, his deep brown eyes never falling from my own gaze.
When we are just a pace apart, he pauses, nodding his head in greeting.
“Good morrow,” he greets.
I attempt to speak, but my words fail me for longer than I’m able to bear. Finally, I collect my voice and return his greeting.
“Good morrow, Mr. Putnam.”
“It’s Thomas, won’t you call me that?” he asks, his eyes never falling from my own for even a moment.
My mouth opens to respond before sound finally leaves it once more.
“Thomas.”
I worry that, to his ears, his name from my lips sounds as desired as it feels on mine. It must, because his body tightens and his chest heaves with a heavy breath before he clears his throat.
“I did not see you in church this morning. Are you well?”
I attempt to smile, to assure him I’m fine, but I wince the instant I attempt so. My mouth stings, and it seems to attract his attention.
His eyes focus on it with great detail before a darkness clouds his face. I watch in curiosity as his jaw tightens several times before he speaks.
“Did you and Mr. Good have a disagreement?”
I wish, maybe then I could continue to convince myself that I deserved his anger. Instead, I am merely a casualty of his wrath. For so long, I deluded myself to the idea that he would get better, that the last time would be the last time. I’ve grown wiser, unfortunately, and such fantastical notions have soon left as my age has grown. It is not out of the ordinary for a husband to “guide” his wife physically, but the manner in which my own does…I wouldn’t wish it upon the worst of enemies.
“In so little words,” I respond, a sad smile touching my face as I do.
