The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

  Tracey quickly rose from her chair, gathering her purse and the diaper bag. She raised the brakes on the stroller and eased it away from the line of computers. She glanced over her shoulder at the children’s section, where Caleb still sat on the floor, quietly reading among the stacks. She walked back toward the counter where two librarians stood.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she drew closer.

  One of the librarians looked up at her. The woman’s plump face brightened with an expectant smile.

  “Do you carry old copies of the Camden Gazette here?” Tracey asked.

  “Why yes, we do! Are you looking for something in particular, ma’am? A specific article?”

  “Yes, this article appeared in the 1970s. It was the . . . the August 22nd . . . no 23rd, 1970, edition.”

  “Oh,” the librarian said, pushing her rollaway chair back from the counter, “then that would be in our microfiche collection.” She turned slightly to click a few keys on her desktop computer. She stared at the screen. “I’ll have to find that in our archives and show you to one of our microfiche readers. Have you ever used one of those before?”

  Tracey nodded. “Though not since college.”

  The librarian grinned. “I’m sure you won’t have any problems. Give me a minute, and I’ll give you a refresher.”

  Twenty minutes later, Tracey, the librarian, and the children took the elevator to the basement, to the archival section of the library.

  “Here you go,” the librarian said as the elevator doors opened. They stepped into a large room where a few tables were arranged in the center and a row of microfiche readers were arranged along the wall. The librarian dropped a stack of boxes filled with microfiches onto a small plastic desk. In addition to pulling the August 23 article, she also looked up others, upon Tracey’s request. After a quick search, she pulled several related to Delilah’s murder trial. She gave Tracey a brief tutorial on the microfiche reader.

  “Let me know if you need anything else. Okay, ma’am?”

  Tracey nodded. “Thank you so much,” she whispered as the librarian walked away. She removed the lid of the box on top, revealing a plastic canister.

  “You’re going to read all of that?” Caleb asked, watching his mother unspool the microfiche as he hopped into a wooden chair next to her desk. It wobbled slightly, then steadied itself.

  “Not the whole thing, Cabe. Just one or two stories.”

  “Oh,” he said before flipping open one of his books. As if accepting her answer, he returned his attention to his dinosaurs. Meanwhile, Tracey shrugged into the sweater she had brought with her, feeling cold all of a sudden. She wasn’t sure if it was a chill going up her spine at the prospect of what she would discover in these articles or whether it really was cooler in this part of the building.

  While the top floor of the library had been all soaring glass ceilings, stainless steel, and modern couches and sofas, the rooms down here were older and shoddier, with heavy oak bookshelves, orange plastic chairs, and small glass-block windows. Even the lighting was darker. She felt as if they had descended into a poorly lit cave.

  Tracey finished loading the microfiche and sat in her chair. She turned the knob on the reader and watched a series of articles and ads flash by, a haze of gray and yellow. Only a few caught her attention: one article showing the photo of a woman screaming and kneeling beside a dead man under the headline “4 Bums Killed at Kent U Following a Riot,” another announcing Elvis Presley’s death. Finally, she reached the August 23rd issue. Under the banner headline NEGRO CAMDEN WOMAN FOUND GUILTY OF MURDER OF WHITE HUSBAND, she saw a picture that halted her breath.

  It was of a young black woman sitting behind a table in what looked to be a crowded courtroom. Two white men bracketed her. One wore those old-fashioned Buddy Holly glasses and had his long hair parted on the side. The other was bald and wore a thick striped tie. The woman’s hair was pulled back from her face, and her head was slightly bowed. Her expression was withdrawn. Tears were in her eyes.

  “Delilah?” Tracey whispered, wanting to reach out to touch the face on the screen. Instead, she read the article, then all of the six others related to the trial. From those bits and pieces and loose strings of narrative, she was able to compose an overall story of what had happened to Delilah.

  Delilah Buford had been found guilty of second-degree murder of her husband because the prosecutors couldn’t prove premeditation, though Delilah’s lawyers argued it should have been involuntary manslaughter, considering that she had accidentally pushed him down the stairs. But they couldn’t prove for sure it had been an accident since Delilah admitted she’d woken up after being knocked unconscious, only to find her husband dead at the bottom of the stairs. She’d had no recollection of how he had gotten there but had assumed, based on the evidence, that she had pushed him.

  Her lawyers had argued that she must have been trying to escape her angry husband when the accident happened. He had been known to abuse her regularly. Delilah’s friend—an Agnes Macy of Charleston, South Carolina, whom Delilah had once worked with—and even the caretaker of Harbor Hill estate admitted to seeing bruises on Delilah’s arms and face. But they were all Negroes, so their testimony before an all-white Southern male jury hadn’t carried much weight.

  Delilah had testified that her husband had systematically terrorized her, beaten her almost daily, and raped her, which the prosecution, many of the jurors, and the reporters covering the trial had considered laughable. How could a husband possibly rape his wife, they asked? She claimed she had been afraid for her life, and she had been running away from him when he grabbed her, likely tripped, and fell down the stairs.

  But the jury hadn’t believed her story. His family had argued that Chauncey Buford would never have abused his wife. They also claimed Delilah had been eager for her wealthy husband to die because, upon his death, she stood to inherit not only the money his family had given him, but also Harbor Hill. He had changed his will only weeks before the murder, making Delilah his sole beneficiary.

  “Delilah didn’t do nothin’ but fall in love with the wrong man,” Agnes Macy had said while on the stand during the murder trial. “I warned her that she’d pay a price for it, but I didn’t think it would be this bad. She didn’t mean for this to happen. She ain’t no killer.”

  Three years after Delilah was sentenced to fifteen years in prison for involuntary manslaughter, she was released on appeal, based on evidence that “drew into question the true assailant and nature of the murder, all of which the original judge had deemed inadmissible.”

  The appellate judge had ruled that the jury’s inability to hear evidence that could have possibly exonerated Delilah “was a gross miscarriage of justice.”

  Tracey read the last line, now at a loss.

  She could have been exonerated?

  So had Delilah murdered him or not? And if she had killed her husband, was it an accident, as her lawyers insisted in court—or had she murdered him in cold blood, as Chauncey Buford’s relatives argued? What was the truth?

  Tracey loaded the first article again. She stared at Delilah’s face in the newspaper photograph, pressing a button on the microfiche reader so she could zoom in and make out every shadow, angle, and plane in the black-and-white image.

  The young woman on the screen didn’t look like a hardened or conniving killer. She looked lost and scared. She looked like it took every effort just to hold up her head and not drop it on the table. On her face was the expression of a woman giving herself over to fate. Tracey wondered if young Delilah had been crying that day but really felt like screaming.

  Had she also felt alone?

  Tracey pressed the button to turn off the reader, watching the screen as it went black. She stared at the black screen for a long time.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, Mommy?” Caleb asked, looking up from this book.

  Tracey turned to her son and nodded. “Yes, I . . . I think I did.”

  CHAPTER 11r />
  Delilah was euphoric. She hadn’t been this happy in months—maybe even years.

  Tracey had called her two days ago to tell her she was accepting Delilah’s kind offer to move into Harbor Hill. Tracey and the children wanted to live there for the next few months, or at least until Tracey got back on her feet.

  As Delilah washed the sheets that would go on no longer vacant beds, as she planned the grocery list for a household that would abruptly expand from two to five, Delilah was filled with a sense of purpose. Even the troublesome voice—her constant companion—had all but disappeared. It would mutter a few sullen words every now and then, but she could easily ignore it or drown it out. There was now a cacophony of happiness and life in her ears.

  Even Aidan’s meddling couldn’t bring her down. He had tried earlier that week to talk to her about Teddy’s offer to buy Harbor Hill, arguing it might be a smart move to consider. He insisted that when she got older, she wouldn’t be able to live in such a big house all alone.

  “You’re no spring chicken, Dee,” he’d said.

  Spring chicken, she now thought, sucking her teeth.

  He should worry more about himself and his life than her own. Besides, it wasn’t like she was on the verge of infirmity or going senile. Aidan knew good and well she still had all her faculties about her. She still took her morning walks around the property, and though she was occasionally forgetful, she could spout her name, address, and what year it was in a matter of seconds.

  Delilah had dismissed Aidan’s advice outright, just as she had dismissed Teddy’s many offers. Harbor Hill was her home and her burden. She was connected to this house, just as her hand was connected to her wrist and her wrist was connected to her arm. She would not . . . could not detach herself from it even if she wanted to. Delilah would only leave Harbor Hill behind on the day she died, and even then, she certainly wasn’t going to put it in the hands of a total stranger like Teddy.

  “What are you doing, Dee?” he now called to her.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she said as she placed a stack of towels in one of the linen closets. She shut the door. “I’m getting ready for Tracey and the children.”

  As she walked around Aidan to make her way back down the hall, he slowly shook his head.

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  “You’ll get used to her and the children, Aidan,” she called over her shoulder as she walked down the stairs with him only a few steps behind her. “It’ll just take some—”

  “No, I mean I don’t like a family moving in here when you’re the . . . well, the way that you are. I think you should see a doctor.”

  “For what?” she snapped, hopping off the last riser.

  “What do you mean ‘For what?’ You remember what happened two weeks ago, don’t you?” he asked as he followed her into the living room. He trailed her like a shadow.

  Delilah grabbed one of her books from the shelves and sat in her chair. She began to read—or at least pretended to—then huffed in exasperation when Aidan continued to loom over her.

  “Do you remember how you were screaming, Dee? How you—”

  “Yes, I remember! I’m not that loose in the head, honey!” She tapped her temple before flopping back into her recliner. “We were both there! I just got scared and confused. That’s all it was! You’re making a big fuss over nothing.”

  “Over nothing? You were hysterical! You didn’t even recognize who the hell I was!”

  Delilah pretended to ignore him and flipped to another page.

  “Damnit, Dee, I’m not kidding! If you don’t go to the doctor . . . if you don’t let me take you to see someone, I’m . . .” He paused. His shoulders rose, then fell as he took a deep breath. “I’m not letting that woman move in here with those kids. I’m not doing it! You hear me?”

  At those words, she sat her book aside and frowned up at him. Aidan stood in front of her recliner, looking as strong and immovable as a mountain, but she wasn’t intimidated. She remembered him when his voice still squeaked, when he had proudly showed her his first razor.

  “What do you mean you won’t let them move in here? This is my house, not yours! Or have you forgotten?”

  “Of course I haven’t.”

  “You just don’t want her to move in here! You’re scared those children are going to remind you of—”

  “It’s the kids I’m worried about! What if you start ranting again and do it in front of them? What if you forget where you are and—”

  “It’s not going to happen! I told you that I just got a . . . a little confused, but . . .”

  “You weren’t confused!”

  “. . . but I’m not anymore!” she continued, shouting over him. “I know who I am and where I am!”

  “I’ll tell her what happened,” he blurted out, and her pulse stuttered. “I’ll tell her what you said . . . how you acted that day. She’s not going to bring little kids into this house . . . into a situation like that! You know she won’t. No decent mother would!”

  The living room fell silent. The silence stretched for a full minute before Delilah regained her voice.

  “You would . . . you would really do that, Aidan? You would make her think I’d endanger those babies?”

  She watched as he closed his eyes and lowered his head. He wouldn’t answer her, and that was all the response she needed.

  Delilah pursed her lips and swallowed. She turned her head to stare at the lamp, blinking back tears.

  She never thought the day would come when Aidan would turn on her like the other people around Camden Beach. She remembered the old days when women would cross to the other side of the street, yanking their children to their side when she passed. She remembered when one of the old-timers had spat at her feet, mumbling, “You murdering nigger bitch! You should still be in jail for what you did!”

  It had taken every part of her to continue to hold her head high and not go running back to the house and cower in her bedroom.

  Aidan knew her heart. She had practically raised him, and yet he could do this to her.

  “Are you going to tell her she should be afraid of me?” she persisted, facing him again.

  He opened his eyes, scratched the back of his head, and sighed. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Dee. I just need to make sure you’re okay. That’s all. I need someone to say you’ll be okay.”

  One tear fell down her cheek—but only one. She would allow herself that solace, but no more.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go to the doctor.”

  It wasn’t like she had any other choice.

  * * *

  Delilah pushed the ugly memory of her confrontation with Aidan a week ago to the back of her mind and instead focused on the squeals she now heard and the thump of footsteps on her wooden stairs. It was a siren call she couldn’t resist. She set down the ladle she was holding and walked out of the kitchen into the foyer. The front door swung open, and a small figure came racing through—a blur of color and sound, energy and joy.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to slow down?” Tracey shouted to the boy as he galloped across the hardwood. He ran straight to Delilah, barreling into her and wrapping his arms around her waist. He knocked her back a step, making her laugh and drop her dish towel to the floor.

  “Is my room upstairs?” he asked Delilah almost breathlessly. His face was flushed. His eyes were wide and bright, and Delilah couldn’t help but clasp his freckled cheeks in her hands.

  “Yep,” Delilah said with a grin, “right up the stairs to your left . . . three doors down.”

  “My own room! Woo-hoo!” Caleb cried before letting go of Delilah and charging to the staircase. He thudded to the second floor.

  “Caleb, didn’t you hear me?” Tracey shouted, stepping through the entryway. “I said stop running!”

  But he ignored her and instead headed down the hall to the upstairs bedrooms. Delilah heard more squeals and shouting before the noise f
inally died down. She chuckled quietly to herself.

  Tracey lowered Maggie to the floor, and the little girl toddled off toward the living room to explore. Curious about the new little human, Bruce trailed into the living room behind Maggie.

  “There’s a lot of nice stuff in there,” Tracey said, staring into the living room, furrowing her brows with concern. “You know, I can get Maggie’s playpen and put her in there so she doesn’t do too much damage. I do it at home all the time when—”

  “Oh, it’s fine!” Delilah waved her hand. “I baby-proofed everything.”

  Delilah had gone to the local Target a few days before to fill her shopping cart with more than a hundred dollars’ worth of supplies. Now every electrical outlet was covered, every table and shelf was padded with a rubber bumper, and every door had a safety lock.

  Her home was better fortified than the Alamo.

  “I prepared. The little one can only cause but so much mischief in there,” Delilah said.

  “Oh, trust me. You’d be surprised!” Tracey laughed awkwardly as she stood in the foyer, gazing around her. She peered up at the exposed beam ceilings and the wainscoting along the walls. She slowly lowered her suitcase to the floor. “Thank you so much for doing this, Delilah.”

  “Oh, just call me Dee, and no thanks needed. It’s a pleasure, honey,” she whispered, and she meant it. She cleared her throat. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get settled into your room,” Delilah suggested to Tracey, who still looked as if she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. The young woman had an air of nervous energy Delilah hoped would disappear the longer she lived at Harbor Hill. Whatever was making her anxious would not find her here.

  “Dinner should be ready in less than an hour, honey.”

  “Oh?” Tracey asked, looking hopeful. “Well, if there’s anything you need help with, I can—”

  “Nope, I’ve got it covered. Everything’s already done.”

  Tracey’s face fell.

  “I’ll cook on the first night to give y’all a chance to get situated,” Delilah quickly added. “But if you want to handle dinner tomorrow—”