At that moment, the old woman entered the room again, seemingly coming back to her senses. She looked at them both, and said, “I’m sorry, but I really do need to close up now –”
Caitlin hurried over to her, grabbing her arm. “Where did Hawthorne live?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nathaniel Hawthorne,” she said excitedly. “It says he once lived in Salem.”
“Young lady, we know exactly where he lived. Thanks to our historic trust, his house was preserved. In fact, it still stands here, to this day. Perfectly intact.”
Caitlin and Caleb looked at each other.
They both knew where they had to go to next.
TEN
The sun was setting as Caitlin and Caleb approached Hawthorne’s house. The simple, red house was set back about 50 feet from the sidewalk, with its walkway and bushes, looked like any other small, suburban house. With its dark red paint and shutters, it had an antique simplicity about it. It was modest.
Still, one could tell it was different. It exuded history.
They both stood there, looking at it, and a silence fell over them.
“I thought it would be bigger,” Caitlin said.
Caleb stood there, furrowing his brows.
“What’s wrong?”
“I remember this house,” Caleb said. “I’m not sure from when. But I seem to remember it being somewhere else.”
Caitlin looked at him, at his perfectly sculpted features, and marveled at how much he remembered. She wondered what it was like to remember so much. Hundreds of years—thousands. He was carrying around things, experiences, that she could never even dream of. She wondered if it was a blessing or a curse, and she wondered if she would even want that for herself.
She took a few steps forward, to the iron fence enclosing the property, and as she tried the latch, she was surprised to find it locked. She looked at the sign: 9AM to 5PM Weekdays.
She checked her watch: 5:30. Closed.
“Now what?” she asked.
Caleb looked furtively around, and she did, too. There was no one in sight on the suburban street. She got what he was thinking. He looked at her, and she nodded.
He reached over the metal latch and in one smooth motion, ripped it off its hinges. He looked around again, saw no one coming, and opened the fence and motioned for her to hurry through. He closed the gate behind them as best he could, gently laid the metal latch down in the grass, then hurried after her down the walkway.
Caitlin reached the front door, and turned the knob. Locked.
Caleb stepped up, reached for the knob, and prepared to break it.
“Wait,” Caitlin said.
Caleb stopped.
“Can I try this one?” she asked, and broke into a mischievous smile.
She wanted to see if she had that kind of strength. She felt it, coursing through her veins, but didn’t know its limitations, or when or where it would come.
He smiled at her and stepped aside. “Be my guest.”
She tried the knob, and it didn’t give. She tried harder, and still nothing. She felt frustrated, and embarrassed.
She was about to let it go, when Caleb said, “Concentrate. You’re turning it like a human. Go deeper. Turn it from a different place in yourself. Let your body turn it for you.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She placed her hand gently on the knob and tried to focus, following his instructions.
She turned it again, and this time was surprised to hear a snapping noise. She looked up and saw that she had broken the knob. The door was ajar.
She looked over at Caleb, and he smiled back.
“Very good,” he said and gestured for her to enter. “Ladies first.”
The house was cozy, with low ceilings and six over six windowpanes. The outside light was fading fast, and they hadn’t much time to search, unless they wanted to start turning on lights. They walked quickly through, floorboards creaking, trying to take it all in as fast as they could.
“What are we looking for exactly?” she asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “But I agree that we’re in the right place.”
At the end of the hall, there was a large exhibit devoted to Hawthorne’s life. She stopped and read aloud: “Nathaniel Hawthorne was more than just another author who wrote about Salem. He lived in Salem. Most of his stories are set in Salem. Most of the buildings he described in Salem are integral to his stories, and many of them still stand here today.
“More importantly, Hawthorne had a direct personal connection to some of the events and characters in his work. His most famous work, for example, The Scarlet Letter, tells the story of a woman, Hester Prynne, who is imprisoned and scorned by her peers for her adulterous behavior. Hawthorne had a more direct connection to these events than one would think. His real grandfather, John Hawthorne, was one of the principal judges in the Salem witch trials. John Hawthorne was responsible for accusing, judging, and putting the witches to death. It was a heavy Salem ancestry that Hawthorne had to bear.”
Caitlin and Caleb started at each other, each becoming more intrigued. Clearly, there was a strong connection here, and they both felt that they were onto something. But they still didn’t quite know what. There was still a missing link.
They continued through the house, examining various objects, searching for something, anything. But as they finished searching the first floor, they came up empty.
They both stopped before a narrow, wooden staircase. It was blocked by a velvet rope, on which hung a sign: “Private: upstairs for staff only.”
Caleb gave Caitlin a look.
“We’ve come this far,” he said.
He reached over and unclasped the rope.
Excited, she went first, her footsteps echoing on the hard, wooden staircase. The house creaked and groaned as they went, as if protesting its new visitors.
The second floor of the house had even lower ceilings, barely high enough for Caleb to stand in. It was now almost dark, and there was just enough light to see by. They stood in a beautiful and cozy room, with wide plank wooden floorboards, six over six windowpanes, and tastefully decorated with period furniture. At its center was a brick fireplace with black stain around its edges, clearly worn from years of use.
Greeting them at the top of the staircase was yet another exhibit, this one devoted to Elizabeth Paine.
Caitlin read aloud: “Hester Prynn, Hawthorne’s most famous character, the woman at the center of The Scarlet Letter, the woman who was persecuted for refusing to reveal the true identity of her child’s father, was, many scholars say, based on a real life Salem resident: Elizabeth Paine. No scholar has ever been able to identify the lineage of Elizabeth’s child, as she refused to reveal to any of the townsfolk who the father really was. Legend has it that he was a mysterious man, come over on a ship from Europe, and that their romance was a forbidden one.