The Safe Room

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Perhaps,” Mom agreed vaguely, and I knew from the thin tone of her voice that she didn’t want to talk about Beth. Mom preferred to pretend everything was as she wanted it to be. “I’m sure Beth will understand.”

  Right. Beth was going to understand real well. “So no one knows about this but you?” I asked.

  Mom’s sigh was long and deep. “Your grandmother really loved that old house. I guess she thought you’d take better care of it than Beth would. That you’d make sure Tubman Park happened.”

  It hurt to think how much having Harden House a part of the Park had meant to Gram, that she would never see it happen, that she had entrusted it to me. “Do you think she knew she was going to die?”

  “We all know we’re going to die, Lee.”

  Right. Another deep insight from my mother. “Do you know anything about Sarah Harden?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Sarah Harden. She must have been your great-great-great grandmother, maybe great-great. Something like that. The Colonel’s daughter.”

  “Where did this sudden interest come from?”

  “It’s not so sudden,” I argued. “I’ve always been interested in the family history.” My mother had a way of putting me on the defensive about the most absurd things. “Since I was a little girl.”

  “Well, this is news to me,” she said curtly.

  I swallowed my annoyance. “Oh, you know, with the whole Underground Railroad thing, I’ve just been thinking about the house and the family …”

  “Well, I’m sure you know far more than I do about it all.”

  I tried one more time, although I didn’t know why I was bothering. “How about anyone ever being killed here? Did you ever hear about anything like that? A runaway slave maybe? In the cellar?”

  “Now, Lee Anne,” Mom admonished in the same tone of voice she had used when I was a small child, “please don’t start this again. Aren’t you getting a bit old for this foolishness about the cellar? I thought we put all this nonsense behind us years ago along with your nightmares and sleepwalking.”

  “Like they put away Dotty Aunt Hortense.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Forget it,” I grumbled, in the same tone I had used when I was a small child. “Forget I mentioned it.” I told her I was running late for a date, which was clearly the first thing I had said that pleased her, and hung up the phone. As I had no date, I wandered into the kitchen to see if there was any food in the fridge.

  There was a half-eaten pan of lasagna and an untouched mystery casserole, along with a bunch of cakes and gooey desserts people had brought over after the funeral. There were also three cartons of milk turning bad now that Gram wasn’t around to drink them. I poured the sour milk down the drain and sat down at the table with a fork and half a chocolate mousse cake. I could hear Gram telling me to drink milk, how women needed lots of calcium, how chocolate cake just cries out for a tall cold glass of milk. I hoped wherever Gram was, she was able to get her daily milk quota.

  As I was flaking bite-size pieces off the side of the cake, I noticed the boxes that still sat on the floor in front of the old couch. Could it only have been a week ago that Michael had brought them up from the cellar, that Gram and Beth and I had sat around talking about Sarah Harden? I licked the frosting off the fork and knelt next to the boxes. Gram had said it was a disappointing haul, but she had never had time to go through it. Maybe there was something in one of the cartons that would give me some insight into Sarah’s life—or into the life of the black man who had called out to her from the cellar floor.

  I hadn’t gotten far into the moldy baby clothes and water-stained photos when there was a knock at the back door. I looked up as Michael walked in. I jumped up, awkwardly balancing one of the cartons in my right hand, and smiled. Michael had been very sweet yesterday with Blais and Langley. I hadn’t had a chance to thank him.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey yourself.” He smiled back at me, and his dimples flashed.

  I made a rather large production out of putting the carton back on the floor, remembering the warmth of his arm across my shoulders when Blais began pushing a little too hard. I gave the carton a shove with my toe. “Those detectives came back again today.”

  “What’d they want?”

  “It was at SafeHaven. They were checking out alibis, but it’s still supposedly just procedure. They’ll probably be calling you soon.”

  “Me?”

  I dropped into the couch. “Did Gram ever say anything about leaving money to you in her will?”

  “I thought she was joking.”

  “You better hope Blais and Langley believe you.”

  Michael’s face paled, and he leaned into the wall. “Clara really left me some money?”

  “Trina too.”

  “Shit,” he said. “That was really nice of her.”

  “I don’t know how much.”

  He shrugged. “You got any beer?”

  “Just wine.”

  “I’ve got some out in the truck. Want one?” When I told him no, he left and returned with a six-pack under his arm. He turned a kitchen chair around and draped his lanky body over it, then he removed a bottle from the pack and took a long drink. “You think the police are going to think I killed Clara because she left me some money?”

  “I suppose it’ll depend on how much it is.”

  He frowned.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much—they’re looking to hang it on Trina.”

  “Predictable,” Michael said. “Is she doing okay?”

  “As okay as any innocent person suspected of murder might be.”

  “Where is this coming from? There’s no evidence. They don’t even know for sure how Clara died.”

  “Trina says evidence doesn’t matter: if the cops want to make it real, they can make it real.”

  He grunted, then glanced at the cartons at my feet. “Those the boxes I brought up from the cellar last week?”

  Instead of answering, I surprised myself by asking, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Michael seemed more amused than surprised. “Nope.”

  “Do you believe in dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  His ease with my odd questions was disarming. Too disarming. “How’s your mom?”

  “Better, they think. Still in the ICU though.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “I’d rather talk about ghosts.”

  “You just said you didn’t believe in them.”

  “Just because I don’t believe in something doesn’t mean I’m not willing to talk about it. You’re having dreams about ghosts?”

  “No,” I said, then changed it to yes. “I mean, I’m having dreams, but they’re about real people. Or at least I think they’re about real people …”I paused, feeling foolish. “I guess,” I continued, “if I believed in ghosts, I’d say I was dreaming about people who had once lived in this house, but since I don’t, it must just be my overactive imagination …”

  “This is really bothering you, huh?”

  “I guess I’ve always thought of Harden House as such a proud place, with such a moral history—you know, the Colonel, the abolitionists, the Congressman, all those liberal women who worked for the vote. But these dreams—nightmares really—are always about hatred and violence. Awful things. About people hurting each other, about slaves being killed, not saved …”

  “And you think these dreams are telling you that the house isn’t what you believed all these years?” Michael asked. “That maybe your family isn’t either?”

  I was unnerved by his perceptiveness. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Dreaming it doesn’t mean it’s true—it just means you’re worried about it.”

  I told him about the black man with the shovel and the cast on his leg digging behind the root closet. Then I told him about the same man with a mortal wound to the chest, lying on the cellar floor, bleeding and calling for S
arah. “Sarah’s buried right next to Gram. I saw her grave yesterday. Her picture’s in the east parlor.”

  Michael reached out and touched my arm lightly. “Your dreams sound a lot like what’s been happening around you: digging and death and thinking about the Underground Railroad and the people who’ve lived in the house.”

  “I suppose …” I could feel the warmth of his fingers even after he removed them. “I have been thinking about Sarah Harden quite a bit this past week.”

  Michael nodded toward the library books on the kitchen table. Yankee Ghosts was on the top of the pile. “And ghosts?”

  “That was afterward.”

  “Anything in the books?”

  “Only if you’re looking for instructions on how to help a ghost ‘move on into the wider world of spirit.’ Something I’m sure you’ve just got to know how to do.”

  His eyes were amused, and I wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to kiss him. “And why would I want to know this?”

  “Beats me, but this guy, Holzer, seems to think it’s a good thing. He says you do it through empathy. That first you’ve got to understand the ghost, and then explain to him what his misconceptions are—apparently, they don’t usually know they’re dead—and once he understands what you understand, then he’s freed to go on to wherever it is he’s supposed to go on to.”

  “Sounds like resurrection and the Eucharist and all that other Catholic bullshit my father’s sisters are always spouting on about.”

  “I think this is a lot weirder than your aunts could ever be.”

  “Take it from someone who knows: nothing’s weirder than my aunts.” His smile was slow and sensuous, and I felt a warmth spreading through me that was so powerful, so familiar, that it scared me.

  “Good,” I said abruptly, stupidly. I broke eye contact and reached into the box at my feet. I pulled out an old doll with one leg and a ripped dress. “Why would anyone save this?”

  “Nothing like the historical restoration business to show you that people will save anything.” Michael leaned back easily in his chair; he looked like a man who was willing to take his time.

  The idea of Michael taking his time nearly made me blush, and I quickly handed him an old photo album in which there were no photos. “Like this?”

  “I’ve seen entire attics filled with newspapers from fifty years back that’re impossible to read.” He put the album aside and reached into one of the other boxes. “There’s got to be something interesting here—there almost always is.” He pulled out a stack of pictures that were stuck together from years of being stored in the damp cellar. When he tried to pry them apart, they fractured between his fingers. He put the photographs carefully back into the box. He had nice hands, large and callused and hard working, but gentle, deliberate, somehow intelligent.

  I raised my eyes from his hands and burrowed further into my box. I took out a long piece of tattered rawhide; at the end of it hung a cloth sack about the size of a man’s fist. The sack appeared to have been made from red flannel, but was so old and worn it was difficult to know for certain. There was a small hole at the bottom; it looked as if it had been scorched in a fire.

  “Any idea what this could be?” I asked.

  Michael took the sack from me and turned it over in his hands. He whistled in appreciation.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

  “It’s an old charm bag,” he said slowly. He carefully pried open the top of the sack and looked inside. “I think they also called it a Mojo.”

  I leaned toward him, watching intently.

  “There’s something in here.” He shook the bag over his open palm. A small object fell out.

  I jumped back. It looked like the deformed stick Hansel and Gretal had pushed through the bars in lieu of a finger to convince the witch they were too thin to eat. “What is that?”

  Michael cautiously lifted it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light, turning it in all directions. “I think it’s a frog’s leg,” he said, his voice full of awe. “Or at least the bone from one.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Gross.”

  He looked over at me with an expression of mild disappointment. “Not really,” he said. “It was probably a good luck charm. Slaves wore these bags for protection from evil.” He pointed to the knot at the end of the rawhide. “You tied it around your neck and let it hang over your heart. It had a talisman inside—to bring luck, or ward off illness, or whatever. A rabbit’s foot, horse hair, sometimes a piece of snakeskin. I never heard of anyone using a frog’s leg, but it seems to fit.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  “Doing historical preservation is a good excuse to waste a lot of time reading things you’re interested in, but will never have any use for.”

  I forced myself to touch the bone. It was smoother and stronger than I expected. “You think this could be from the Underground Railroad days? That it could’ve belonged to a slave who was hidden in the house?”

  “Hard to know for sure,” he said, “but the historians at the Park Service should be able to date it pretty accurately.” He ran his finger along the burnt edge and turned the bag over. One side was quite a bit darker than the other. “Definitely hand-sewn, well-worn, full of stains—could be sweat, blood, who knows? Could easily be nineteenth century.” He paused and continued his examination. “Can’t tell if these burns are from fire or a bullet.” He pressed the cloth to his nose, then shook his head. “Smells like the cellar. No carbon. But then, that’s what you’d expect after all these years.”

  I stared at the charm bag and once again saw the black man, prostrate and bleeding, beseeching me—beseeching Sarah—to help his brothers. Had he been wearing a charm bag next to his heart? Could it have been this very one? “Are you saying that this bag was once worn around the neck of a real slave?” I asked, my heart pounding. “That it could have blood and gun residue on it?”

  “Whoa,” Michael said, holding up his hands. “It’s quite a leap from this bag to the man in your dream.”

  “So you don’t think it’s possible?”

  “No,” he said with a certainty I envied. “No, I don’t.”

  I didn’t realize what I was going to do until I did it: I leaned over and kissed him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  September 17, 1859

  It has been seven long months since last I wrote to you, dear diary, for I have been too filled with despair to take pen in hand. All that used to give me pleasure, whether a walk in the woods, a quiet hour with a book or a whisper with Nancy Southwick, now requires far too much effort. For what purpose? I find myself wondering. For what purpose?

  It seems I am always tired.

  I remain broken-hearted, even more broken-hearted now than before, but after what happened today, I feel I should chronicle the horror of all that has transpired between February last and the present, though I know it will be most painful to me.

  Yet now that I have found the courage to take up my pen, I do not know where to begin. Shall I begin at the end, with the emptiness and defeat, or begin where I left off, when I still had hope and faith, when I still believed in human goodness and a merciful God? I suppose it is always best to begin at the beginning, but find, as with most things, I don’t really care.

  I never had difficulty with the making of decisions before, nay, Mama always claimed I was far too headstrong for my own good. But now, even the simplest of judgments, such as whether to arise or remain abed, requires more strength than I possess.

  Perhaps I shall try to do this some other day.

  September 18, 1859

  Silas is gone, and so too is my child. Now it is time for me to leave also. I am to be sent to Columbus Ohio, where I shall live with Cousin Hattie and help tend to her four children. It is thought that my repentance shall be more complete if I am far from the place of my sins. I find I care little if I go or if I stay.

  September 20, 1859

  I
am to leave for Ohio in three days, and feel that I must take pen in hand once again. I shall begin at the beginning and go to the end. If I tire, I shall rest and begin again when I rise.

  On the day after Silas and I became man and wife, I was determined to take action. First, I would speak with Papa about my situation and then explain to Wendell why we could never marry. When these discussions were past, and the truth was finally known, I would seek advice from the Vigilance Committee as to the best route to Kansas Territory. Then Silas and I, and our unborn child, would be on our way to our new life.

  Silas warned against this plan, arguing that we should leave for the west without telling anyone, for my husband was convinced that Papa would be furious, Wendell horrified, and the Vigilance Committee of no help to us at all. Silas tried to explain that I could not understand the response of white men as he did, but I told him I was a white woman and could understand my own father and his friends quite well. Silas didn’t contradict me, he just touched his charm bag.

  I convinced him to remain in the cellar, to continue digging his tunnel, while I went into the west parlor to speak with Papa. Silas was not happy, but he loved me and did as I asked.

  I entered the parlor with both excitement and fear, although, the truth be told, I was quite apprehensive and my hands trembled as I approached Papa’s desk. He was entering numbers into his account book and barely acknowledged my presence.

  “Papa,” I said loudly, trying to speak over the pounding in my ears. “I have news.”

  He looked up, surprised, and resettled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Then he said, not unkindly, “Please be quick about it, child. I have much to do.”

  Before I could lose my nerve, I told him I was in love.

  “Well, my dear,” he said with a chuckle. “This is indeed news. I hope it doesn’t mean I am going to lose you too soon?”

  I took a shuddering breath. “We want to be married as soon as possible,” I said, not so foolish as to presume Papa would consider jumping the broom a suitable marriage ceremony. “Then we shall leave for Kansas Territory.”

  A frown creased his brow. “Kansas Territory?”