Tituba of Salem Village by Ann Petry Page B

across the island. This wind blows all the time. So that you feel just right—not hot, not cold—just warm enough. You don’t go wrapped in shawls and coats and capes. You just wear your dress and your turban to keep the sun from the top of your head. When it rains, it rains hard and then the people stay inside.”
    When they stayed inside, they told stories, long intricate stories. The stories got better the oftener they were told. There were people who told just one story, and everybody knew this, and would ask that person to tell his story about the monkey in the garden. The story improved with each telling.
    They told these stories in the rainy season in the island. This was the snowy season in Salem Village and a very good time to tell a story. So Tituba started a story about the guppy man and the monkey, how the guppy man discovered that the monkey could talk to the dead. The monkey would call the guppy man in the middle of the night. “Guppy,” she said, “Gupp-e-e-e-e-e-e. He would walk all around outside Guppy’s house.” She repeated the cry over and over, a monotonous rhythmical sound, “Gupp-e-e-e-e-e-e.”
    Then she stopped right in the middle of what she was saying because Abigail was staring hard at Betsey. Though Betsey was sitting at the table, she looked as if she were asleep, but her eyes were open. Her unwinking gaze was fixed on a pewter bowl that was filled with water. It had been left on the table. She was staring at it, not moving. She was breathing through her mouth, making a loud, sighing sound.
    “Betsey,” Tituba said.
    Betsey muttered something unintelligible. “Betsey,” she said again, firmly but gently.
    Abigail shrieked, “Betsey!” and grabbed the child by the arm, shaking her.
    Betsey screamed and burst into tears. Abigail said, “What was the matter with you? What were you doing?”
    Tituba cradled Betsey in her arms. “Hush, now,” she said. “You’re all right. You’re all right.” She was such a thin little child, small for her years, delicately boned.
    Abigail said, “What was the matter with her? What was she doing?”
    Tituba shook her head, indicating that Abigail was to be silent. “She wasn’t doing anything. She kept looking at that little bowl of water too long and she—well, she fell asleep.”
    “Her eyes were open. She wasn’t really asleep. She was making a funny noise. People don’t make noises like that when they’re asleep. They snore like Uncle Parris”—and she made a loud snoring sound, almost a trumpeting, as she inhaled and then exhaled.
    Betsey smiled, just a ghost of a smile. Tituba hugged her close as a reward.
    Someone banged on the back door. Abigail opened it just a crack, the way they all did. No one ever opened it wide so the person could walk right in. They never knew whether it might be a tramp woman like Goody Good, with a half-snarled demand for food, saying she was freezing or starving, or an Indian. It might be a harmless Bible Indian, and then again, people had foolishly opened the door wide and found an Indian brave in full regalia—his face daubed with paint, his feathered headdress quivering, his nostrils flared, his eyes contemptuous—tomahawk in hand——
    “Oh,” Abigail said, and opened the door wide. “’Tis Anne Putnam, Jr., and the Putnams’ bound girl—Mercy. Come in quick, so the heat won’t all be lost outside.”
    They took off their shawls and their heavy woolen cloaks and their mittens. Anne warmed her hands before the fire. Mercy looked around the keeping room, eyeing the fire, the dark red curtains at the windows, the freshly sanded floor.
    Mercy said, “I see you got a big fire going. Parson must have plenty of firewood.” She put a basket down on the trestle table. “Mistress Putnam sent broth for Mistress Parris, and new baked bread, and hopes she’ll soon be better.” She looked at Tituba and then at Betsey who was sitting on Tituba’s lap, Tituba’s arms around her. “Is she sick,