The Safe Room

by B. A. Shapiro

  Gram had been the center around which the project and all its players radiated: she delegated and kept track of who was doing what and what needed to be done next, but not in any organized manner I could discern. I was far from the world’s most orderly person, and no one had ever accused me of being compulsive or even of keeping my desk too neat, but Gram’s system—if you could call a lack of system a system—was out there. Or maybe it wasn’t there at all. She must have kept it all in her head. Impressive, but given the present situation, also exasperating. We all think we’re going to live forever.

  I felt bad that I hadn’t gotten the chance to say goodbye, to tell Gram how much she meant to me, how much I loved and respected her. Perhaps seeing the Tubman Park project through to completion could be my parting gift to her. I lifted up a pile of unruly papers. “I’ll get it done, Gram,” I said out loud. “I promise.”

  “Talking to the walls?” Beth asked as she came through the door into the parlor. She had a funny look on her face.

  “Find something?”

  “It’s not what I found—it’s what I didn’t find.”

  I could feel my energy draining away like air in a punctured balloon. “You know I hate riddles.” I pressed my hands to my closed eyelids.

  “And I don’t like thieves.”

  I didn’t move my hands. Beth was always on the look out for high drama—whether it was there or not—and I had had enough drama for one week. “Just tell me what you’re talking about.” I could hear a touch of irritation thinning my voice, and added, “Please.”

  “Gram’s diamond-and-emerald bracelet is missing.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “You have it?”

  I slowly peeled my hands from my eyes. “No,” I admitted, “but I’m sure it’s there somewhere. I just saw it the other day.”

  “So did I,” Beth said triumphantly. “And so did Trina.”

  “Are you suggesting Trina took Gram’s bracelet?”

  Beth crossed her arms over her chest. “She was staring at it the day we were up in Gram’s room. The day you climbed into the tunnel.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose to try to ward off the headache I could feel gathering. “If you stole every piece of jewelry you stared at, you’d be drowning in diamonds,” I said, but Beth would have none of it, and I finally agreed to go upstairs with her and look for myself. As she had said, the bracelet didn’t appear to be anywhere in the room.

  “Maybe Aunt Doris or my mother has it,” I suggested.

  “You know we agreed to wait for the will.”

  I did know this was true. “Maybe one of them took it for safe keeping?”

  “And not the ruby brooch?”

  The ruby brooch was the most valuable piece of jewelry Gram owned. It had belonged to Charlotte Abbott Harden—the Colonel’s wife, Sarah’s mother—and was rumored to have once belonged to some minor Spanish princess. The brooch was in the jewelry box.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and squeezed my nose again. I wished I was sleeping—or at least swallowing some Tylenol. “When we go through Gram’s clothes and things, I’m sure we’ll find it in a pocket or a purse somewhere. She might have even taken it to the jeweler—she was always complaining that the clasp wouldn’t stay closed. The slip might be in her wallet. Did you check there?”

  Beth raised a single eyebrow and she looked so much like Gram I winced. But her words didn’t remind me of Gram at all. “Think what you want,” she said, “but when all the searching and checking’s done, I’m betting we aren’t finding that bracelet anywhere Gram put it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  November 15, 1858

  The snows have come early this year and it seems darker and colder than it has ever been. I have just received a letter from Cousin Lizzie in Hartford and she is heart-broken that we shall not be together for Christmas as we have in the years past. She writes that Lewis Campbell has asked her to send his warmest regards and to tell me he is disappointed I won’t be able to attend the Buffrum-Chase Christmas Ball. I am heart-broken also, but Papa is resolute in his decision to remain in Lexington, and neither my pleas nor those of Aunt Elizabeth can sway him.

  Uncle Benjamin is in textiles, and he has no sympathy for the abolitionists as he needs Southern cotton for his factory. Papa and Uncle had a discussion of this last Christmas which ended with much raising of voices, and according to Lizzie, the breaking of two glasses and a plate. Uncle said that although slavery might be wrong in the eyes of the church, the founders of the Republic had consented to it, and it was his duty as a citizen to uphold the laws of the land.

  It took Mama two days to calm Papa after this “discussion,” and I fear that now that poor Mama is no longer with us, I shall never go to another Buffrum-Chase Ball, visit with my dear Cousin Lizzie nor see Lewis Campbell ever again.

  November 18, 1858

  Papa’s edict that I may have no visitors was difficult enough when it was possible for me to walk to the homes of Nancy Southwick or Mrs. Childs for a cup of tea or go into the city for dinner parties. But now that the snow drifts sweep the landmarks clean, I am unable to move beyond the confines of Harden House.

  Mrs. Harrington comes in each day to do the washing and cleaning and preserving, and as my studies were completed last year, I am mostly left with little occupation aside from my handwork. In the past, my correspondence was extensive, but now that Papa reads every letter I write to ensure I have not “divulged,” I can take little pleasure in that. I attempted to make a new type of candle today with horse chestnuts and oil, but it failed to set correctly and had to be thrown away.

  Papa, Caleb and Wendell are busy with their Vigilance Committee and their chores. Not even Wendell appears to notice whether I am about. It is only Silas who is willing to take a few moments to speak with me. If not for Silas, I think I should surely be mad by January.

  November 19, 1858

  Silas told me such a sad tale today. It happened in the Borderland, the long strip of forest between the Northern and Southern states through which most slaves must make their way to freedom. These woods are constantly patrolled by constables and bounty hunters looking to claim the rewards put up by the plantation owners. These rewards could be as little as a quarter-eagle or as grand as a fifty-dollar gold piece, but as Silas pointed out to me, it is not the dollar value which has meaning, it is the fact that an amount of money is equated to a human life that gives true expression to this horror called slavery.

  The story Silas told was of a mother and her small son. The bounty hunters had set a bear trap to catch the pair of runaways—yes, a bear trap laid down with the intention that it close around the leg of a woman and child! On this day God must have turned his back for a moment, for the little boy became caught in the trap. His mother, of course, would not leave him, bleeding and surely dying, his arm crushed by the rusted teeth of a trap meant for an animal. He was but maybe five years of age. She was unable to free him from the grip of the trap, so they sat together in the woods, consoling each other as best they could as they awaited their fate.

  They did not have to wait long, and when the bounty hunters found the pair, the men laughed with glee. The mother begged the men to release her boy, to staunch his bleeding, to get him to a doctor, but the men just laughed more loudly, and then one pulled out a rifle and shot the little boy between the eyes. He told the grief-stricken mother that he was just putting the boy out of his misery.

  November 20, 1858

  Today Silas told me he did not want to speak of himself, but to hear of me. I protested that I had lived a dull life, but he persisted, so I told him of Mama and my studies and of my favorite books. “I keep a diary,” I confessed shyly, and then explained that although I tried to write every day, I was often too fatigued in the evening to carry out my good intentions.

  “Might I read your diary some day?” he asked.

  I’m sure I became quite red when I realized he was teasing me and told him I certainly thought n
ot. He was a man of such experience—a married man, a widower!—and I a young girl of none.

  He smiled at me, that warm, gentle smile, that told me that although I was right, I was young and inexperienced, that he did not hold that against me. “That would be its charm,” he said.

  November 21, 1858

  Today when I visited Silas in the barn I brought along a book with my afghan. We did not speak much, yet it was one of the loveliest afternoons I have enjoyed in a long time. Silas went about his tasks as I read in the hayloft.

  I am reading Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, a novel which Nancy brought to me last month, and I have kept hidden as Papa would never allow me to read it. Papa says that the “indiscriminate reading of novels” by young women is a “most dangerous tendency.” Silas laughed when I told him this. He said white men have many strange ideas. I told him this might be true, but Papa’s ideas were stranger than most.

  I did not feel the least bit guilty saying such things about Papa, as Silas understands that I meant Papa no disrespect, that Papa is who he is: a man of great moral conviction, but a bit old-fashioned in his ways. The only person to whom I have spoken in such a way was Mama, and in many ways, Silas understands me as she did, listens as she did. Strangely, being with Silas makes me miss Mama all the more.

  November 22, 1858

  The anti-abolitionists are becoming bolder with each passing day, and Wendell has advised Papa that it is too dangerous for Silas to work in the daylight. He also suggested that all the dirt Silas excavates remain in the cellar. Wendell fears if Silas digs during the day a stranger might hear him, and if piles of dirt were to suddenly appear on Harden House property, suspicions might be raised.

  So Silas now works on his tunnel only at night, oblivious to the discomfort of the cast on his leg or the dirt and dust that are his constant companions. I am very lonely and imagine Silas must be also. It is very dark and cold in the cellar after sundown, and although I know his heart is in the right place, I wonder if Wendell has done Silas a service.

  It has begun to snow again.

  November 23, 1858

  The storm continues unabated, and I fear I shall lose my mind if I do not leave the house soon or at least have a decent conversation with a person of some interest and intelligence. Wendell has gone home to his family, and Papa and Caleb are busy with their whisperings on issues not deemed proper for a young lady. Mrs. Harrington is as grumpy as I at being trapped at Harden House by the snow, and her company is even more unpleasant than usual. Silas has spent the last three nights in the cellar digging behind the canning cupboard. He sleeps during the day.

  Papa tells me to content myself with the Bible and Ladies’ Repository but reading Ladies’ Repository is like reading the parson’s Sunday sermon, and although I do try, I find I cannot sustain interest in the Bible. I would much prefer Graham’s Magazine or Harper’s Monthly—both of which I have read at Nancy Southwick’s—or the new novel by Jules Verne about traveling to the center of the earth or perhaps the latest by the writer George Elliot who Nancy declares she knows to be a woman! (I find this assertion very difficult to believe and, at times, Nancy has been known to stretch the truth.) But whether the author be man or woman, Papa will allow none of these books or magazines at Harden House. I have finished Pickwick Papers., hiding it in a back drawer of my chiffonier once again.

  The rooms grow smaller and tighter and closer with each passing day.

  November 25, 1858

  The skies have finally cleared, but the snow rises to the sill of the parlor windows and it is not yet December! No one remembers there ever being this much snow this early in the season, and there is much concern for animals and crops and floods in the spring.

  Wendell rode his horse through the drifts to speak with Papa and Caleb, and, perhaps I flatter myself, with me. When he arrived at Harden House, he was so covered with snow, for a moment, we did not recognize that it was he! It was a great relief to be in the presence of someone besides Mrs. Harrington, and even Wendell seemed less dull than usual. He was only able to stay for a few moments, as some of his animals are sick and need his attention.

  I pray for an early spring.

  November 26, 1858

  With no word of his brothers, and no hope of word soon, Silas has become very reclusive. He is no longer interested in telling me tales of either his life or of the horrors of slavery. He is only interested in digging. He has begun to sleep in the cellar as it is difficult to trek back and forth to the barn. Mrs. Harrington leaves his dinner at the top of the stairs. Often, I add pieces from my own plate to Silas’, as Mrs. Harrington’s servings are as meager as her heart.

  I have not spoken with Silas in five days nor seen him in three, but I confess to you, dear diary, I have begun to dream of him. Last night, in my dream, he had no cast on his leg nor sadness in his smile. We walked together through the apple orchard. I blush to remember that we were holding hands.

  Is this an evil vision for which I should repent? Dreaming of myself, a young unmarried girl, walking with a widowed, runaway slave? It was springtime and Silas and I were both so happy in the orchard. I cannot believe it is sinful to dream of peace and contentment.

  November 27, 1858

  The mails were finally able to get through, and in my little bundle I found a letter from Cousin Lizzie with the most distressing news. She has it on good source and in great confidence that Lewis Campbell is to be engaged! It is rumored that they are planning an announcement at the Buffrum-Chase Ball! He is marrying the second oldest of the Perkins’ girls, a dull sort called Hallie who is always wearing unattractive dresses with those horrid leg-of-mutton sleeves.

  Although I did not wish to move all the way to Connecticut, I find myself most disappointed and extremely vexed. Why must it be my father who is so devoted to the cause? Why must it be my family who suffers for his righteousness? I am certain that if Lewis had believed I would be at the ball, he never would have betrothed himself to Hallie Perkins.

  November 28, 1858

  While Papa and Caleb were in the barn tending to the horses, I slipped into the cellar to visit Silas. I told him I was curious about his progress, but I confess to you, dear diary, I was lonely and wanted to see him. He appeared quite pleased that I had come and showed me the long tunnel he has dug. I cannot believe he has covered so much ground and think that surely he will be all the way to the well very soon! I only wish the post which brought me such distressing news of Lewis Campbell had also brought some news of his brothers to cheer him. But there was nothing.

  After I inspected the tunnel, he showed me how he had devised a means to hide the tunnel opening by making Mama’s canning cupboard appear solid and fixed in front of it. It is as clever as the safe room above! Dear Mama, for all I miss and admire her, was not particularly taken with either the eating or the preparing of foods, and this is why the canning cupboard is so modest. (Mrs. Harrington, for all I dismiss and dislike her, does make a wonderful strawberry preserve and can rinse and scrub salted beef in some special way that makes it actually taste good.) Papa used to complain that the cupboard was too small for a family such as ours, but now its size is coming in quite handy, for Silas has built a rack of shelves with a false back that fits right into the shallow cupboard. The shelves can be filled with cans and jars and strings of dried fruit—but the whole rack can also be lifted out to expose the tunnel behind it.

  December 1, 1858

  I had a dream last night in which Silas and I stood on the edge of a wintry forest. It was snowing and windy and I was horribly cold, shivering within my heavy wool cloak. Suddenly, Silas lifted a huge old oak tree right out of the ground as if it were a light as a sapling! He dropped the tree and held his hand out to ease my way over the hole where the tree had once stood, then climbed over himself. As soon as we passed beyond the spot where the oak had been, it became sunny and warm, and we were in a glorious field of sunflowers! I threw off my cloak and raced through the flowers. Silas laughed and fol
lowed me.

  December 3, 1858

  Papa, Caleb and Wendell have gone into Boston to meet with the Vigilance Committee. Papa left Mrs. Harrington in charge of the house and in charge of me, although I am surely old enough to look after myself. I avoid her whenever I am able. Papa and Caleb are staying at the home of Mr. William Lloyd Garrison and hope to get word of Silas’ brothers while there. They have been gone for three days and shall probably be gone another two.

  When Mrs. Harrington is busy with her chores and her grumbling, I slip into the cellar to talk with Silas.

  December 4, 1858 (morning)

  The snows have come again, and I fear Papa and Caleb may not be able to return from Boston for many more days. Early this morning, during a break in the storm, Mrs. Harrington left to check on her cows, but now the winds have picked up and beyond the windows we can only see white. I dare say she shall be unable to return either. How scandalized she must be at the thought of a white girl all alone with a Negro man. It amuses me to think of her, staring out her window at the unrelenting snow, horrifying herself with fantasies of sin and wickedness.

  Silas has built a huge fire in the dining room hearth, and we are warm and safe and protected while nature and Mrs. Harrington rage on the other side.

  December 4, 1858 (late afternoon)

  The sun sets so early this time of year, and usually I am made melancholy by its disappearance, but as Silas and I sit together before the fire, reading and talking quietly, there is a gentleness to the approaching darkness that is comforting, beckoning. Like the softness of a black velvet gown.

  December 5, 1858 (morning)

  Silas has been telling me stories as we wait out the storm. Stories of the worst cruelties and the greatest kindnesses, of bravery and of cowardice. Of the power of the human desire for freedom and the equally human desire to keep others from being free.

  I learned of a Negro man named Henry Brown who packed himself into a wooden crate and “mailed” himself to a Quaker meeting house outside of Philadelphia. I learned of a white woman named Nelly who sacrificed her own life to help a family of runaways escape across the Ohio River. And I learned of the practice of cathauling.