When the first Minuteman fell to his death, I burst into tears, so persuaded was I of the authenticity of the fight. “No one’s really getting hurt, honey,” my father assured me. “It’s only make believe—the real men were killed two hundred years ago. They’ve been gone a long, long time now.”
“But how can you be sure they’re not still here?” I had wailed at him. “How can you be sure it doesn’t still hurt?”
My father had laughed and taken me to drown my fears in a big plate of pancakes, but he brought me back to the common when the reenactment was over. He showed me there was no blood and no dead soldiers, and tried to get me to speak with a Redcoat who was having breakfast with his family. But I refused to talk to the Redcoat and refused to believe my father’s unlikely tale. I was certain that my father was protecting me from something he didn’t think I was old enough to understand.
Now, as I looked up at the sightless Minuteman, at Jonas Parker, dead over 225 years, I wished I could be as certain of anything as I had been that day.
Cary Memorial Library stood cattycorner to the Minuteman, behind a tall garden maintained by the Horticultural Society. I walked up the wide stone steps and entered the domed atrium, a remnant of the original library. I breathed in that unique library smell of paper and paste and slightly sweaty children, and felt immediately comforted. Libraries have always had that effect on me: the summer after my junior year in college, I back-packed alone through Europe, and whenever I felt lonely, I’d find the local library and spend a few hours curled in a chair with a book. It never failed to make me feel better.
A dozen blinking monitors were lined up along the top of the card catalogue; the rows of ornately carved drawers and tarnished brass handles looked anachronous and forlorn, downcast over their demotion to a stand for the new technology. I went up to an empty keyboard, pressed the search button and typed in “Harden.”
Leo F. Harden had written a book about quantum mechanics; Leslie Harden had written a children’s book about ducks; Harden and Hayden was a book about two composers. The list contained 17 items and filled three screens, but when I had scrolled through all the entries, it was clear none related to my family. No Harden Papers, no listing for The Letters of Colonel Stanton Harden or The Diary of Sarah Harden. I knew it had been a long shot, but still I felt disappointed as I resigned myself to going to SafeHaven, where last week’s work was piled high on my desk.
On my way out, I stopped at the reference desk and asked for Nancy Winsten. She wasn’t in, so I asked the librarian if she knew anything about historical papers that had been donated by a Lexington family named Harden. The plaque on her desk identified her as Ms. Tosatti, which seemed a good librarian name, but she looked more like a model for a teen magazine with her platform shoes and short black skirt. She hit the search key and typed “Harden.”
“I already did that,” I told her.
Ms. Tosatti didn’t appear to hear me. “Doesn’t look to be anything like that here,” she muttered as her fingers flew over the keys. She made noises like a doctor examining a very sick patient. “Hmm,” she said, her eyes glued to the screen. “Tsk.” She typed and scrolled and scowled. Finally, she looked up at me. “Do you have a few minutes?”
I shrugged. “I guess.” The piles on my desk had waited a week; they could wait a while longer.
“Come back in fifteen minutes,” she said, ducking back toward the monitor. “I’ll be able to tell you something then.”
I returned to my computer and hit the search key again. This time I typed the word “ghost.” One hundred seven items, everything from Haunted New England: Classic Tales of the Strange and Supernatural to Edgar Allen Poe to Successful Ghost Writing: Ten Easy Steps. I read through the summaries and scribbled down a few call numbers. Then I went downstairs into the stacks. The pickings were much slimmer than the computer had led me to believe, and although Haunted New England was nowhere to be found, I did manage to come up with a collection of Victorian ghost stories, an odd little primer written by “professional demonologists” and a volume titled Yankee Ghosts: Spine-Tingling Encounters with the Phantoms of New York and New England. I took the three books upstairs.
Ms. Tosatti nodded as I passed by her desk and held up a finger to indicate it would be another moment. I sat down at a large reference table behind her and flipped through the books. The one about the demonologists was actually quite funny; a husband-and-wife team who investigated “bone-chilling phone calls from beyond the grave” claimed to have spoken with John F. Kennedy and Mrs. Douglas MacArthur. They described graveyards similar to the one in which I had just spent a peaceful hour as “eerie and violent places whose dark influence wreaks havoc on those unlucky enough to live near them.” I put the book aside and opened Yankee Ghosts.
In his introduction, Hans Holzer, a “world-renowned” spectral investigator and parapsychologist, stated that ghosts were real people, or parts of real people, who were misunderstood by the living for the same reason psychotics were misunderstood: they weren’t in touch with reality as the rest of us knew it. Mr. Holzer went on to explain that all ghosts required was a little acceptance and sympathy, that they were “caught in the web of their own unresolved emotions at the time of their physical death.” He pleaded with the reader to empathize with any ghost he or she encountered because the ghost “needs your full understanding and, where possible, your help to move on into the wider world of the spirit.” As I read his words, I wondered who was—and wasn’t—in touch with reality here.
I was relieved when Ms. Tosatti waved me over to her desk. “It does appear that something was logged in almost a year ago under the heading of ‘Harden Papers,’” she told me. “Do you think that’s what you’re looking for?”
“Yes,” I said eagerly. “That must be it.”
“Unfortunately, that’s all there is.”
“What do you mean? The papers aren’t here?”
She turned her palms upward, and I saw that she had a ring on every finger. “Oh, they’re probably here. It’s just that we got a new computer system recently, and things often aren’t where you’d expect them to be.”
“But you would be able to find the papers, given some time?”
“Maybe …” She didn’t look happy.
“Would it be possible for you to check into it for me? To see if you can find them?” I smiled encouragingly. “It really would mean a lot. The Hardens are my ancestors.”
Ms. Tosatti hesitated, then returned my smile. “Okay, sure,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do. Leave me your name and phone number, and I’ll get back to you sometime within the next couple of weeks.”
“That long?”
“Maybe I’ll find them sooner, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
I thanked her, and even though I felt a bit foolish, I retrieved the books I had left on the reference table and checked them out. What the hell? I thought as I walked down the library steps. What the hell?
That night I walked in my sleep again. I dreamt I was in a department store with Gram, searching for a dress for her to wear to her great-niece Karen’s wedding. It was extremely important that we find one immediately, for the ceremony was in an hour, and the fact that I knew the dress Gram had bought for the wedding was hanging in her closet didn’t faze me in the least.
I sped through the aisles, pulling dresses off racks, throwing them frantically over my shoulders.
“Hurry,” Gram kept saying in a most un-Gram like manner. “Hurry.”
I was sweating as I staggered to the dressing room door, bowed down by the weight of my load. But when I stepped into the tiny room, I saw that hundreds of dresses were already in there: dangling from hooks, piled on the floor, hovering near the ceiling. I dropped the clothes I was holding as a single dress floated down and hung motionless before me.
“Hurry,” Gram repeated. “Hurry.”
I struggled to remove the dress from its hanger, but it refused to unhook. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t ge
t my fingers around the buttons or get the zipper to unzip. Then the dress raised an empty arm and reached for my hand, as if to invite me to waltz. I yanked my hand back, but the dress wouldn’t take no for an answer. It came at me again, with both arms open wide, grabbed me and swung me around in a wide circle. I yelled and woke myself up.
I found that I was indeed in a tiny room surrounded by dresses. But I wasn’t in a department store. I was standing barefoot in Gram’s closet, the sleeves of the black dress she had planned to wear to Karen’s wedding grasped in my hands.
I was sitting at my desk when Trina walked by; it was obvious from the way she slipped across the open doorway that she didn’t want me to see her, but we needed to talk. I wanted to apologize for getting her involved in the mess around Gram’s death, and, although I assumed she knew it already, to tell her there was no way I thought she was involved. Trina and I hadn’t spoken since Gram’s funeral, and hadn’t really spoken then. “Hey,” I called. “Trina.”
I heard the sound of reluctant footfalls in the hallway. Trina leaned against the doorjamb and stared at a spot over my left shoulder.
“How’re you doing?” I asked. “I heard you got stuck with kitchen duty. How bad is it?”
“Sucks.” Her voice had no affect, and it was clear that although she was willing to go through the motions of this conversation, motions were all I was going to get.
“Give me a break, Trina. Come in and sit down.”
Her eyes moved from the wall behind my head to scan the small room for a place to sit.
“On the desk,” I said. “Please?”
She walked into the office and rested the side of her hip against the desk’s edge.
“I’m really sorry about all this stuff with Gram and the cops.”
Trina reconnected with the spot behind my head.
“It’s stupid,” I said. “Like anyone would want to kill Gram.”
Trina didn’t say anything, and I remembered what Kiah had said about freshman attitude.
“They were at my house on Monday,” I tried again. “Then they went over to Beth’s too. Beth said they really grilled her. That they were talking as if they thought all three of us were suspects.”
“Like they really believe you or Mrs. Lily-White Wellesley committed murder.”
“I know they’re always jumping to the conclusion that the black person did it, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to go anywhere.”
Her eyes connected with mine, and for a fleeting moment I caught a flicker of hope.
“And anyway,” I continued, “I told them it was ridiculous to consider you a suspect—just as ridiculous as considering me or Beth. Just as ridiculous as thinking Gram was murdered at all.”
“Lee,” she said so softly I almost missed the words. “You just don’t get it.”
“Try me,” I said. “Maybe I can.”
“The cops can take it anywhere they want. It doesn’t need to be real.”
Of course I knew she was right—you’d have to be completely deluded to believe that the American legal system was colorblind—and I didn’t know how to respond in a way that would be both truthful and encouraging. But before I could say anything, I saw Kiah standing in the doorway.
“Those Lexington detectives are downstairs again,” she informed us.
Trina threw me a rueful look, then she pushed off from the desk, squared her shoulders and faced Kiah.
“No,” Kiah said. “It’s not about you. They’re looking for Lee.” She turned to me. “They’re waiting in my office.”
Now it was I who stood, and although I wasn’t anxious to speak with the police, I was relieved it was me and not Trina for whom they were looking. If Trina saw she was wrong about this, maybe she’d consider the possibility that she was wrong about other things too.
I gave Trina’s shoulder a squeeze as I slid by.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
January 28, 1859
I know now for certain, and I am filled with fear. I have not spoken of it to anyone and cannot imagine what I shall do. If only Mama were still alive, my own sweet Mama to help me and guide me in my hour of need. But even as I long for my mother, I know I no longer have the luxury of these girlish yearnings. From this day forward, my position and my concerns are forever changed. I am no longer just a daughter, no longer a child, and I must turn my attention to what shall become of my child.
Mrs. Harrington squints her beady eyes at the waistband of my skirt, and although she believes she knows what ails me, she cannot even imagine the truth. When I told her to send Wendell away again today, she was most surprised. Her confusion provided the only light moment in my dark day.
I pray to God for guidance, but all I hear is silence. I think He is telling me that I am on my own, that I am the only one who can set my destiny—or perhaps He is saying I already have.
January 30, 1859
I received a letter from Cousin Lizzie today, full of the news of her festive Christmas and her latest beau, Mr. William Sinklar Whaley, Junior. William, or “Junior,” as Lizzie calls him, was born on a plantation in South Carolina and moved to Hartford just this past summer. Lizzie says that his father, William Sr., is a business associate of her father’s and, of late, has become a close family friend. I shall not contemplate what views William Sr. and Uncle Benjamin might share.
Lizzie writes that the holidays were not nearly as gay without me to accompany her to the many teas and parties, and that she prays next Christmas the whole family will dance together at the Buffrum-Chase Ball. She very delicately told me of Lewis Campbell’s engagement to Hallie Perkins, which was indeed announced at midnight during the Ball. It does not seem possible that I once had such strong feelings about this event, as it now seems as distant and unimportant as what time the sun sets in South Carolina.
I am unable to venture where I might be next Christmas or what form my life will have taken a year hence. I press my hand to the flat of my stomach and wonder what Lizzie should think of my news. I dare say I know all too well what Uncle Benjamin will think.
January 31, 1859
I reread Lizzie’s letter and feel so apart, so separate, from this world I so recently inhabited, and I am filled with sadness and longing. I cannot put Wendell off for much longer, and I wonder if I should.
February 1, 1859
Papa asked today if something was troubling me. He said I appeared wan and pale. My eyes filled with tears at the expression on his dear face as he resettled his spectacles on his nose: so concerned, so sad, and loath as I am to write it, so very old.
How shall I answer him? Shall I tell him I am carrying a child without benefit of wedlock? Shall I tell him that although the blood which flows within the child’s veins is seven-eights white, my child is, nonetheless, the sire of a Negro? An octoroon, subject in all Southern states to the strictures of slavery.
Although I know Papa is the most fair-minded of men, I tell him I am just missing Mama, which is not a lie. I must speak with Silas.
February 2, 1859
This afternoon there was no one about the house, and I slipped into the cellar to speak with Silas. He stopped digging and leaned against his shovel as I came toward him. His broken leg was still in its splint, and he looked very tired, worn down by work and worry. I did not have to utter a word for him to know that I had something important to tell. At first, I could not speak, and Silas waited patiently, silently, until I pulled my thoughts together.
I think he feared I had brought bad tidings of his brothers, and when I was finally able to blurt out my news, his grip on the shovel loosened and his shoulders relaxed. For a long moment, he said nothing, then he put his arms about me and held me to him. I could feel his heart beating against mine. He gently, sadly, pressed his lips to my forehead.
“This doesn’t make you happy?” I asked.
He held me even more tightly. “It fills me with fear.”
February 3, 1859
I waited until Papa was in the west parlor wit
h Dr. Ward, and Mrs. Harrington left to go to the chemist, then I slid into the cellar, making my way as silently as was possible down the rickety stairs.
As soon as Silas saw me, he dropped his shovel and took me in his arms. “I’ve been thinking and have decided that you must marry Wendell Parker,” he whispered into my hair. “As soon as possible.”
“I can’t do that,” I cried, as if I had not had the same thought myself. “I don’t love Wendell, I love you.”
Silas held me closer. “This isn’t about love. This is about saving your life and the life of your—our—child.”
“But you have just lost a child,” I wailed, burying my head in his neck. “I won’t let it happen to you again, and I cannot bear to even contemplate a life without you.”
“Sarah,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
I did as he asked and saw that he was not to be deterred.
“A life without me is the life you were meant to live. Wife of a wealthy white man, home, children, tea with Nancy Southwick. And it’s the life you shall have. It’s better for everyone if you do this, I promise you.”
“It won’t be better for you,” I said defiantly.
His voice was as soft and gentle as it had been before. “If I know you and the baby are safe, it’s better for me.”
“You don’t want me?”
“Not like this. If things were—” Silas stopped speaking as we heard the scraping of chairs overhead. Papa and Dr. Ward. “Go,” he urged. “Now.”
I was too stunned to argue, so I went.
February 4, 1859
Mrs. Arabella Parker, Wendell’s mother, came to call today. She brought with her a note from Wendell. He wrote, “Herein, I do solicit the honor of your hand in marriage. If you should so graciously allow it, I shall call on you on the eighth of February at two o’clock in the afternoon. I hope with all my heart that my question will be answered in the affirmative and that we may set the date of our marriage vows at that time.”
The Safe Room Page 13