Chapter 21 The Blue Trees #2
each inscribed with a name, birth and death dates, and the manner of execution.
Cyndi separates from me as soon as we enter, heading toward one stone with the air of somebody on a sacred mission, so I leave her to it and wander.
Almost all of the condemned went by rope; only one, an unfortunate fellow named Giles Corey, was “pressed”—crushed to death between millstones.
I grimace. Hard way to die, friend, I think, pausing to extend my condolences.
Around me, tourists lick ice cream and vape and take photos of the inscriptions, sometimes uttering soft noises of horror or pity.
I’m surprisingly moved by this little park, its palpable sadness so at odds with the peace of its sun and shadow, its old trees.
I return to Cyndi, whose eyes are closed and lips moving.
“This must be your ancestress,” I say, when she’s done.
“Margaret Scott,” she says, patting the stone in front of her. She’s set my daisies on it next to a semicircle of burnt tea
lights and a withered rose.
“How much do you know about her?” I ask.
“I know everything,” Cyndi says. “She came to me and told me.”
Sweet Jesus, I think, but I have to know. “Please, tell,” I say, leading Cyndi to a normal wooden bench by the park’s entrance.
We sit. “How lucky, to have a literal visiting Muse. And one you’re related to. How did it happen?”
“I was at work,” Cyndi says, “preparing a brief, and I went to the break room and there was Margaret. Standing by the mini
fridge in her cloak and bonnet. I knew her instantly. She looked just like my gram.”
“That is . . . ” I say, fishing for the right word. Insane. “Astonishing. Were you frightened?”
Cyndi shakes her head. “Maybe I should have been, but I wasn’t. She said, Verily, child, thou must write my story. So I did. I gave notice that afternoon.”
“True dedication. Was that a difficult decision?”
“Oh, no. I mean, I missed my colleagues. And I felt bad about handing off some of my cases. But it was . . .” She squints
into the trees.
“A calling?” I suggest.
“Yes,” she breathes.
“Every career writer feels that way, my dear,” I say. “Otherwise we’d all be doing something else, something more pleasant, like digging ditches.” Or law. “What is your process?” I give her a tender look. “Do you mind my playing twenty questions? I’m just—bewitched.”
Cyndi groans at my pun and gives me a little push. First physical contact she’s initiated. “I wouldn’t say it’s a process, exactly. That sounds so grand, more for actual writers like you.”
“Don’t put yourself down,” I say sternly. “Remember what I said? If you’re writing, you’re a writer.” She nods. “So Margaret—dictates
to you, is that what it’s like?”
“Kind of. Margaret told me her story all at once, so I wrote it down and now I’m filling in the blanks. Like . . . writer
Mad Libs?”
“Writer Mad Libs, that’s very good. It sounds like you’re a plotter, then, rather than a pantser?”
Cyndi wrinkles her pert little nose. “What does that mean?”
“Sorry. Shop talk. Plotters have an outline,” I explain. “Pantsers create the story as they go.”
“Oh! No, I work with an outline. Margaret gave it to me. And all those years of law school, I’m trained that way, I guess.”
She looks worried. “Is that bad?”
I lower my voice and lean in. “Don’t quote me, but I one hundred percent approve. It’s so much better to use an outline. You waste so much less time.” This is completely true. “And how are you actually writing—using
Scrivener? Word? A quill pen?”
Cyndi laughs. “Margaret would love it if I used a quill pen! I should have thought of that. But no, just regular Bics and
legal pads.”
“You write longhand?”
“I do. Is that wrong?”
“Not at all. It’s infinitely preferable.” This is also true. “A lot of writers are returning to writing that way. It’s a more
direct creative conduit—at least for those of us who were raised to the pen. The indelible connection between mind and hand.”
I take Cyndi’s petite paw with its bitten nails and turn it over so the vulnerable palm faces up, noticing as I do a semicolon
tattooed on her wrist.
“That is serious commitment to punctuation,” I say, smiling. Cyndi looks down at our conjoined hands, cheeks flushing again. I lift her inked wrist to my mouth and press the lightest kiss upon it.
“Forgive me,” I say, “is it all right I did that? I should have asked.”
“No, it’s fine,” she whispers.
I gaze at her like a shy boy in a Norman Rockwell painting, but I release her hand. Something tells me to be extra careful
with this one. She looks yearningly at me as I stand.
“I must away, milady,” I say, extending my arm. “Would you see me to my car?”
We retrace our steps through Salem, past tourists buying witch paraphernalia, having tarot readings, getting pierced. It’s
a beautiful mellow September day, bees humming in the wastebaskets, the sun the bright white of an unshaded bulb. The season
is turning, in more ways than one. Maybe I can put Simone behind me. Maybe Cyndi can help. She’s seemingly pliable and sweeter
than syrup. Also, she’s certifiable. But who cares, as long as our romance is fruitful? What writer is not a little nuts?
When we reach the Blue Trees, I say, “Such a fruitful sojourn. Thank you. And still I have so many questions. May I see you
again, my dear? Maybe when I come back through town, in about a week?”
She beams up at me. “That would be lovely.”
“And perhaps I could see your place? It was Margaret’s house, yes?”
“I wish,” she says. “The original house was bulldozed long ago. But the land is the same.”
“Either way,” I say, “it’s where the magic happens.” I open my arms. “More anon, okay?”
As we hug, I realize there is one way Cyndi is like Simone: She’s short enough that I could rest my chin on her head.
But I don’t. It feels like a sacrilege. Instead I absently cup her skull beneath her honey-colored hair, learning the shape of it, gazing through the Blue Trees and wondering what the world has done to her, why she had this sudden break with reality.
Not that it really matters, but still. It is a curiosity.
Simone was wounded, too, I know. That story about her father, and now she is adrift.
There are so many lonely women, so many ways in which they’ve been hurt. It could break your heart.
Then I do see Simone, flitting among the trees like a wraith or a fairy. Or a witch.
Simone? I glimpse the bright blond of her braid between two blue trunks; I even think I see light glinting off the fountain pen she
keeps tucked in it. It’s you! I scan the street for her yellow Jeep, see a flash of sneakered sole—she always wears sneakers—and then she is gone. Or has
ducked behind a tree. Or maybe, I think as I detach Cyndi’s face from my previously pristine blue shirt, maybe Simone was
not there at all. Maybe I wanted to see her badly enough that I dreamed her up.