I poured Mrs. Parker’s tea and we chatted of my mother and Aunt Elizabeth and Nancy Southwick’s sister Emily’s new baby. As Mrs. Parker was taking her leave, she held my hand a moment longer than is customary and called me dear.
Mrs. Harrington came up behind me just as I had closed the front door. “One would be wise to keep the bird in the hand,” she hissed in my ear.
I pretended I did not know of what she spoke, but it scares me to think that perhaps the old crone is right.
February 5, 1859
It is the darkest and coldest hour of the darkest and coldest of nights. I have just had the most terrible nightmare and am afraid to return to sleep for fear the dream shall also return. I sit with the lamp lit and a heavy shawl about my shoulders, but neither can dispel the gloom that has taken hold of my heart. All I can feel are the icy cold tentacles of trepidation. All I can see is the endless blackness of dread.
I dreamt I lost my child. His cradle lay empty, and, lo, though I looked and looked everywhere, I could not find him. I searched the house and looped through the rooms again and again, then I searched a whole city—I think it was Boston—but he was in none of these places. I tried to cry out, but no words came from my mouth. When I awoke, I knew with the certainty of the dreamer that he was gone from me forever.
I believe dreams augur the future, and my fingers tremble around my pen to imagine what this nightmare might portend. Yet I also believe dreams may be messengers sent to aid the dreamer in averting the events revealed. I shall not allow my wild imaginings to get the better of me, I shall not. I shall search the forms of this dream until I discover what I am meant to learn to make it not come to pass.
I shiver in the void of darkness and fear; emptiness and silence surround me. I press my hand to my belly and remind myself that I am not alone. There is someone with me, someone who I wish to keep with me always. What is best for my baby? What is best for us all? I worry that the baby may be born with skin too dark to pass for Wendell’s child. I worry that the baby may be born with skin so light that he easily passes for Wendell’s child and never knows who he really is.
No matter what I choose, the baby shall know me to be his mother and shall suckle at my breast until he is able to stand on his own. But although Silas is his true father, it is upon me to decide if he grows to manhood knowing this or believing he is the sire of Wendell Parker. If I choose Silas, Papa, my home and my family shall be lost to me, and I will set my poor babe on a perilous and unpredictable journey. But if I choose Wendell, Silas shall be lost—to both myself and the baby.
February 6, 1859
As this child grows within me, so too does my resolve to discover a way for Silas, the baby and me to all live together in safety and happiness. Thus far, I have been unable to discover this way, but I shall continue to search even as the avenues appear to be closing around me. What is best? What is best?
Week’s end is fast approaching and Wendell shall arrive soon for his answer. Silas will not hear of my doing anything other than accepting Wendell, and although, of course, we have not spoken of it, I know this would be the course preferred by Papa and Caleb. I am just as certain that Nancy and Cousin Lizzie would counsel the same. Mama also. And yet, I find myself unable to imagine speaking the words that would link my life, and that of my child, to Wendell Parker.
February 7, 1859 (morning)
I have found it! My scheme is so simple and so perfect, I cannot believe I did not think of it sooner. Silas and I shall marry and leave for a place where it will be safe for us to make a life. With the aid of the Vigilance Committee, we shall use the Underground Railroad to go to a free Western state! Instead of heading north to Canada, Silas’ brothers shall meet us there also, and their nephew shall be born in a place where he can grow to manhood unfettered by hatred and laws which are a sin against God.
I know this to be a difficult course, but it is one I can embark on with vigor, for it embodies not only a solution to my problem, but all that I believe is moral and good. I’m just as certain that Silas will feel the same way and am most anxious to speak of it with him.
I shall tell Wendell I cannot marry him.
February 7, 1859 (afternoon)
Although I did not tell him why I wished to know, I asked Papa how the abolitionists were faring in the west. He explained about the forthcoming vote for statehood in Kansas Territory which will determine if it is to be a free or slave state. He also told me that Joshua and Sally Kensington left for Kansas in September, and that the entire Locke family—Job and Mae and their six sons—plan to follow in the spring. The Vigilance Committee has raised money for their journey as it is imperative to have a majority of voting men on our side.
Kansas Territory is where Silas and I shall go! It is fitting that Papa’s kindness to those he does not know should provide for the survival of one of his own.
February 8, 1859 (afternoon)
Wendell came for tea today promptly at two o’clock, as he had promised. I told him I was in love with someone else and could not marry him. He was a gentleman in every way, so much so that, for a short moment, I wondered if I wasn’t making a horrible error. Then I remembered Silas working beneath our feet, and I knew I had made the correct choice.
February 8, 1859 (late afternoon)
Silas was most displeased with me when I told him what I had done. “That was very foolish, Sarah,” he said, his eyes hard with anger. “You must write Wendell Parker a note this afternoon and tell him you have made a mistake.”
“No,” I said, then burst into tears. I reached toward Silas, but he stepped away from me. “I shall not marry Wendell. I shall only marry you.”
“Sarah,” Silas said, holding his arms open to me. “My sweet, foolish Sarah. Don’t you know this is just an impossible dream?”
I rushed to him, pressing myself as close as I could. “No it’s not,” I managed to say between sobs. “I have a plan.”
Silas traced the line of my jaw with his finger. He did not ask about my plan.
“We can go to Kansas Territory,” I cried. “Together. There are many abolitionists already there. It’s to be a free state. We’ll be safe. We’ll be together, a family.”
He shook his head. “There’ll never be a state where a white woman and a Negro man can be safe.”
“Then you can pass as white! You’re light-skinned enough. You speak as well as any white man, better than most. If you’re traveling with me, we’ll be able to fool everyone. We’ll go wherever we want.”
He cupped my chin in one of his large palms and wiped my tears with the flat of the other. “Look at my lips, Sarah. Look at my nose. My features will fool no one.”
“It can work!” I pressed. “I know it can. Papa will know what to do. So will the Vigilance Committee. We’ll tell Papa and he’ll help us. He’ll find a safe route. I’m certain he will. “
“It is a brave idea, my darling,” Silas finally said, “but it’s far too dangerous and risky for a woman in your condition, and I cannot allow it. But even if we did decide to go, I would have to insist that your father not be told. “
Although I was crushed by his words, I held out hope that within this last comment lay the seeds of my future.
February 10, 1859
Silas has stood his ground for two days, but he is weakening as he listens to the stories I spin of our life together in the free west with our child, unhindered by the strictures of slavery and old ideas. Although Silas still insists that we cannot tell Papa of our plans, I can see that the idea of Kansas Territory has taken hold of his imagination.
Oh, dear diary, I am so happy. I know I shall be able to convince Silas that Papa can be trusted to stand behind me, my husband and his grandchild, that Papa is a good man whose beliefs go far beyond rhetoric. Then, after we receive Papa’s blessings and aid, we shall be married and go off to forge a new life in a new land in which all are free!
February 14, 1859
Yesterday Silas told me of a plantation cu
stom in which Negroes are married by a ceremony called “jumping the broom,” a ritual he says seals vows as certainly as any minister. I decided that this is what we should do, and today Silas and I were wed. Although we may not be married in the eyes of the church, or in the eyes of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, we are truly married, for we are married in God’s and our own eyes, the only eyes of import.
Now, dear diary, I am certain that this is the course I was meant to follow, that this is why I have always felt a bit apart from Mama and Cousin Lizzie and Nancy Southwick. I shall follow my destiny into a new life, take me where it may. I write the truth when I tell you jumping the broom felt more proper to me than if I had stood at the front of the First Parish Meeting House, Papa and Caleb at my side. For now I have become one with Silas, one of his own.
We placed a broom on the earthen floor of the cellar, directly in front of Silas’ tunnel so his brothers could be our spiritual witnesses, and then, hand-in-hand, we leapt backward over the broom handle. “This is your husband,” Silas said to me, solemnly pointing to his chest. “This is your wife,” I said to him, just as solemnly pointing to my own.
Then we laughed and kissed, and Silas finally agreed to allow me to tell Papa of our plans. He said he was still uncertain, but that if it meant that much to me, his dearest wife, and if I was so confident that Papa would stand with us, then he would not bar my way.
February 15, 1859
I shall speak with Papa tomorrow morning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kiah’s office was two small parlors separated by a sliding pocket door that didn’t exist anymore, its rich Victorian detail barely discernible beneath the years of neglect and bad paint jobs. The original owner of the turn-of-the-century house, an elderly Italian woman who had never lived anywhere else, had sold it to Kiah for a dollar to avoid taxes; ten years later it wasn’t clear which one of them had gotten the better of the deal.
I dropped into the worn brown-and-orange couch in the bay window and stared at Detective Blais. “I what?”
Kiah had followed me in and stood at the end of the couch. She placed a hand on my shoulder.
“That can’t be right,” I said, both horrified and thrilled by the policewoman’s claim. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s what the lawyer told us.”
“What lawyer?” Kiah asked.
“Jan Rosenthal,” Blais said calmly. “Her grandmother’s lawyer.”
“But no one’s even seen the will yet.” I glanced up at Kiah, then over at Raymond Langley. “How could you know who’s inherited what?”
“We got a subpoena,” Langley said helpfully, leaning forward in his chair. Blais shot him a look, and he sat back and pressed his lips together.
I pushed my palms into the nubby fabric of the couch. It was ugly and scratchy and had obviously been someone’s yard-sale cast off, but in the world of urban drug rehab, a couch is a couch. I continued to push into the cushion until I could feel the nubs branding my hands. Could Gram have really left Harden House to me?
“But Gram was planning to give the house to the Lexington Historical Society,” I said. “She just told us last week.”
Detective Blais flashed her pointy teeth. “Apparently, your grandmother died before she had time to change her will.”
“But then it would’ve gone to my cousin Beth. The eldest child of the eldest child always inherits Harden House.” I looked at Kiah, as if for confirmation. “Aunt Rhoda, her mother, is dead.”
“Michael Ennen is the contractor renovating your grandmother’s house?” Blais asked. “He told us that was why he was there Monday afternoon.”
“Michael Ennen?” This was getting more confusing by the moment. “What does he have to do with this?”
“There were a number of smaller bequests.”
“Still pretty generous,” Langley offered, and Blais silenced him with another glance. He cleared his throat and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Bequests?” I repeated. “Gram left money to Michael?”
Kiah leaned over and whispered in my ear, “To Trina too.”
“Although the largest bequest, the house, was to you, Ms. Seymour,” Blais said.
“Just what do you want here, officers?” Kiah asked, drawing out the word “officers,” knowing full well they were detectives. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“Oh, we’re not implying anything, Ma’am,” Blais said, stressing the “ma’am” in a way that made it as insulting as Kiah’s “officers.” “We just stopped by to establish exactly where everyone was on that day.”
Again, I felt as if everything was off-kilter: unexpected inheritances, alibis, murder. This was someone else’s life, not mine. “Are you saying that you think I could have possibly—”
Kiah squeezed my shoulder to silence me. “Ms. Seymour will not be saying any more without her lawyer present.”
“My lawyer?”
“Oh,” Blais said breezily, continuing her conversation with Kiah as if I hadn’t spoken, “I doubt that will prove necessary. This is all standard operating procedure. We just need to verify the exact hours Ms. Seymour was here on the afternoon of the fourth, as well as the comings and goings of Trina Collins.”
I couldn’t help but notice that Blais referred to me as Ms. and to Trina by her first name.
Kiah must have noticed it too, for she said stiffly, “Ms. Collins already told you she was at Clara Barrett’s house all day. I’d think that would be all the verification you’d need.”
Blais’ smile was warm and pleasant. “Detective Langley has already talked with your secretary, who unfortunately could not verify either Ms. Collins’ or Ms. Seymour’s departure times that day, but I spoke with a Ruth Thompson—I understand she’s one of your department heads?” She paused and waited for Kiah’s confirmation, as if that would also confirm the veracity of her suspicions.
“Ms. Thompson,” Kiah corrected.
“Ms. Thompson told me she’s almost positive Ms. Seymour left at 2:00 on the afternoon of the fourth. She said Ms. Seymour was walking out the door just as her 1:00 group was letting out—a group which she remembers did not include Trina Collins, as Trina was on a SafeHaven furlough assignment in Lexington.”
“Ms. Collins.”
Blais stood and said to Kiah, “Now, if we may, we’d like to take a look at Ms. Collins’ records and Ms. Seymour’s computer files.”
“You absolutely may not,” Kiah retorted. “Not without a warrant.”
The detective nodded, as if Kiah’s response was exactly what she had expected. “We’ll stop at the courthouse on our way back to Lexington,” she said, “and drop by again in a couple of days.” Langley stood too, and the two detectives sauntered out the door.
Kiah crossed her arms as the door slammed behind them. “Shit,” she said.
“Shit,” I agreed.
Trina couldn’t believe it. Ten thousand dollars. Shit. Clara had said she was going to leave her “a little something” in her will, but Trina had never expected that much. One thousand maybe, two. But ten thousand dollars. Shit. She never figured she’d see that much money all at one time. Ten thousand dollars. Of course, the cop made sure to tell her that you couldn’t inherit money from someone you were convicted of murdering. But Trina already knew that.
Kiah came up to Lee’s office and said that the cops were there to talk to Lee, but in the end Trina knew they’d want to talk to her too. No big surprise there. The surprise was the money. All that money. Cash money. Ten thousand smackers. Clams. Greenbacks. Whatever, there were ten thousand of them. She could finish up her time here and jet out. Get a new life going some place different. On her own. Really make it work.
But Trina knew the same money that was her ticket out also gave the man a suspect with black skin and a motive. She had told Lee that the man could take his suspicions anywhere he wanted, that nothing had to be real for him to decide to make it real. And now, he had more real than he needed to hang this around
Trina’s neck.
A sister with old tracks in her arm is a sister with old tracks in her arm, and the world wasn’t gonna see anything else. So they’d just prowl around, watching her every move, waiting for her to screw up.
And Trina knew you didn’t need to screw up to get screwed.
When I got home from SafeHaven, I went straight to Gram’s Rolodex and called Jan Rosenthal, who for some unknown reason was Gram’s lawyer although she practiced in Connecticut. Jan had already left for the day, but her secretary assured me she’d return the call first thing in the morning. I dialed my mother in New York without much hope that she’d have any information for me, but she turned out to be more knowledgeable on the subject than I had expected.
“Well,” Mom said slowly, “yes, I did actually know your grandmother had decided not to stick with family convention.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How did you find out? The will hasn’t been probated yet.”
“I thought her break with family convention was leaving the house to the Lexington Historical Society.”
“Well,” Mom said again, even more slowly, “that was your grandmother’s other plan.”
So it was true. Harden House was mine. I looked around the west parlor, the room in which Gram had chosen to spend most of her time. It was a beautiful place, well-proportioned, with hand-carved, built-in bookcases surrounding the fireplace and multi-paned windows on two walls. The house was on a slight rise, and the west windows caught the full evening sun. I leaned back in Gram’s chair and put my feet on the desk. My desk. But even as I basked in the glow of new-found home ownership, I felt the clutch of anxiety. Beth was going to be really upset. “Gram underestimates—underestimated—Beth,” I said.
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