“How could Gram take an overdose of heart medication she’d been taking for years?”
“It happens,” Langley said. “Older people sometimes forget that they’ve already taken their pills.”
“Gram wouldn’t have done that. She wasn’t old.”
Langley nodded sympathetically. “According to the lab the symptoms of an overdose of Inderal and cocaine are quite similar.”
Blais flipped through the pages of her notebook. “An overdose of either drug can cause hallucinations, disorientation, convulsions, coma, delirium and death.”
I thought about Gram’s final battle with no one. Hallucinations? Convulsions? Delirium? It had certainly ended in death. I thought about the charm bag flying from my hand, and it occurred to me that “scared to death” might be more than just a metaphor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
September 21, 1859
It has taken me a full day to regain the strength I need to continue my story.
As I knelt by my dying husband, Papa stood with his rifle resting on his knee, silent and still as a statue, staring at nothing. He did not try to stop me from speaking to Silas. He did not try to do anything.
“Of course I’ll help your brothers,” I promised Silas. “I’ll do all I can, but you’ll help them too. Dr. Miller will come and mend you and make you well. We’ll help them together, and then we’ll all go to Kansas Territory. We’ll raise our family there, and grow old together. You and I …” I began to choke on my tears, for it was all too apparent how short our future was to be. “You and I will …” But before I could tell him of all we would surely do, before I could tell him how we would raise our son to be strong and proud in a free land, he squeezed my hand once, then his eyelids dropped closed.
I knew Silas was gone because I felt his spirit, his essence, separate from his body. I could almost see him, feel him, as he wrapped himself around me. “I won’t leave you,” the spirit of Silas seemed to whisper in my ear. “I’ll stay with you forever.”
The charm bag Silas had been given by the plantation conjurer hung around his neck. I gently removed it and pressed it to my heart. The “Hand” Silas had said it was sometimes called. I would keep the hand of Silas close. Papa jerked me up toward him.
“Go to the barn and get Caleb,” Papa ordered as I slipped the small sack into the pocket of my dress. “Then go to your room and wait for me to come to you.”
“How could you—”
“I have done nothing,” he said. “You have seen nothing, and you will not speak of it to anyone. Ever.”
“But—”
“But nothing!” he roared. “Go get your brother.”
My pen quivers and shakes and falls from my hand. I can write no more this night.
September 22, 1859 (morning)
Papa and Caleb buried Silas at the far end of his tunnel, then they filled it with dirt and placed the canning rack Silas had built in front of the hole. It is as if neither the tunnel nor Silas had ever been. Papa informed the Vigilance Committee that Silas had left for Canada and that his brothers should be sent straight on to Montreal. The Committee said they would attempt to get the messages through, and as no brother of Silas’ has arrived at Harden House, I can only hope word reached them rather than the alternative.
As for me, on the following Sunday, Papa announced in church that I was suffering from a severe case of tuberculosis. Dr. Miller was the only one we took into our confidence, and he preserved the charade of my illness throughout the long, hot summer.
I was alone all those months, save visits from Caleb and Dr. Miller. I did not see Papa in all that time, nor did I wish to. I lay in my bed, overwhelmed with guilt. Why had I been so stupid, so trusting? Why hadn’t I listened to Silas’ warning? If I had we’d have been on our way to Kansas. I was extremely contagious, and even Mrs. Harrington did not dare to come near.
I do not remember much of that time, but I do remember Caleb telling me of John Brown’s raid at Harper’s Ferry, of the thwarted slave rebellion, of John Brown, dead. Just like Silas. Just like me, though I still breathed.
I mostly slept during those scorching months, dwelling in a hazy dream world of cold winter nights with Silas alive beside me. When I woke, hot and covered with sweat, I would turn over and dream again so that the spirit of Silas could come to me. He whispered the same words in my dreams as he had on the day he died. “I won’t leave you,” the spirit of Silas promised over and over again. “I’ll stay with you forever.”
September 22, 1859 (afternoon)
On September 1, our son was born. He was a beautiful baby, and although his skin was as white as any child born into the Harden family, I could see his father in his wise, thoughtful eyes. Just looking at him caused me to ache with love and anguish, to long for what was not anymore, and to give thanks for what was. I named him Levi, for Silas’ youngest brother, the one Silas worried about so.
They allowed me to keep Levi one week. One marvelous, wonderful week in which we were never separated, in which my sweet babe slept in the crook of my arm. He was a wonderful baby, hardly ever crying, easily satisfied, happy to be near me. He had the calm of an angel. He was my angel, and I loved him with all my heart. I still do. I always will.
But on the morning of the eighth day, Levi was not in my arms when I awoke. He had been taken from me in the night! I raced down the stairs and discovered Papa reading in the west parlor. I demanded to know what he had done with my baby.
“You have no baby,” he said calmly.
“I do and you stole him from me!” I cried.
He pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. “I dare say, child, you are still delirious from your illness. Please go rest yourself before you take sick again.”
“I shall not rest until you return Levi to me!”
“Please don’t upset yourself so, dear,” he said, then called for Mrs. Harrington. He told her to take me upstairs and returned to his book.
September 22, 1859 (evening)
I refused to eat for five days in the hope that Papa would relent. But he is a stubborn man, and would say nothing. I was determined to starve myself until he capitulated. If I died along the way, so be it.
Three more days passed before Caleb took pity on me and confided that Papa had instructed him to bring Levi to a Negro foundling home on Boylston Street in Boston. I began to eat. I would need my health to reclaim my child.
With each passing day, I grew stronger and more resolute. I had hope for the first time in seven months. I had a plan.
My plan was to tell Papa I must go into the city to purchase clothing for my journey to Ohio. He would insist that Mrs. Harrington accompany me, and I would acquiesce. Once in Boston, I could easily become separated from Mrs. Harrington and “lose” my way. From there I would go directly to Boylston Street. I would find Levi and I would take him with me to Ohio.
The thought of the long train ride with my baby cradled in my arms filled me with joy. I could see the mountains and the rivers and smell his sweet baby smell. Because of Levi’s light skin, I knew I would be able to devise a credible story of his parentage and raise him as my own along with Cousin Hattie’s children. We would be together, happy, and I would never return to my father’s house.
September 22, 1859 (very late evening)
Five days ago, Mrs. Harrington and I traveled to the city. All went according to my plan, and I arrived at the foundling home without mishap. But then my dreams fell apart.
The rooms were run-down and small, but clean, and I eagerly approached the first woman I saw. She was a Negro, as was everyone there, and she looked at me with a world-weary sadness as I explained my quest. She told me to wait and spoke with another woman. They spoke with two more, and then the four took me on a tour of the home. The women stood silent and somber as I walked through the warren of rooms, looking into every tiny cradle—every one—then looking again. I retraced my steps and looked one more time, but as the silent women knew before I began, my swee
t boy was nowhere to be found. There were many children, large and small, with skin of light chocolate or shiny rich ebony, many children running or playing or sitting quietly, many children, but none of them Levi.
Levi was not there. Not there!
No one knew where he was. No one knew of him at all.
When Caleb had no answers for me either, I fell into the deepest despair, caring little if I lived or died. Five days later, I am still completely crushed, without hope, overcome by the impossibility of finding answers to the only questions about which I still care: Where is my precious baby? Where is my husband? Where is the father I thought I knew?
At dawn tomorrow, I go to Ohio. For what purpose? I find myself wondering, then realize I do not care.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The computer technician the Lexington police sent to SafeHaven wasn’t what I expected. Joe was at least seventy-five, bald, paunchy and quite a talker. He was wearing suspenders and looked more like the guy who worked in the corner hardware store than a techie cop. But, of course, he wasn’t a cop. He told me he was a “retread,” that he had quickly bored of retirement after selling his business making Venetian blinds and gone back to school to learn about computers. Now he worked free-lance for a number of small police departments in the Boston area, making enough to nicely augment his Social Security—thank you very much—and keeping him busy.
Joe acted as if he were installing new Venetian blinds in my office rather than copying computer files for a murder investigation, and soon I began to forget why he was there. He told me about his grandson, Josh, and his wife—now dead eight years, God rest her soul, she had never even gotten to see her first grandchild—and asked me if I was married and where my parents lived and if I didn’t think it was about time to settle down and have a family. His daughter was a “career girl” too, but he didn’t think it was enough, not nearly enough, and he was sure she was going to be sorry if she didn’t start acting more agreeable toward some of those nice boys she dated—very sorry indeed. I nodded and smiled and answered when it was necessary, but mostly I just listened.
The binding of Yankee Ghosts—which I had impulsively grabbed from the kitchen table and tucked under my arm on my way to work—was visible through the open zipper of my briefcase. Although Harden House had been peaceful and calm this morning, the dust motes dancing innocently in the sunlight, I wanted to see if Hans Holzer had written anything about ghosts who stole things in the night—and it seemed safer to read up on the subject at SafeHaven. I had searched the house for the charm bag before I left for work, but it hadn’t been anywhere I looked.
“All righty, then.” Joe stood up and flipped a computer disk the size of a cassette tape into its plastic case with one hand. “My work is done here,” he said as he wrapped the cord around the small machine he had used to copy my files. He held the tape up for me to see. “This is exactly what you should do to back-up your system. At least once a month. Bet you don’t do it, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Nobody does,” he told me. “Mistake. Big mistake. With all the viruses and bugs around, these babies break down more than people think.” He patted my computer affectionately. “And once your data’s gone, it may be gone forever. Do yourself a favor, Lee, do a back-up every month.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
He touched a hand to his heart and added, “And find yourself a nice guy.” Then he waved and slipped out the door.
I wondered if I had already found myself a nice guy and where I should take Michael for dinner tonight. Tonight. A jolt of both fear and excitement blazed through me. My track record with men wasn’t the greatest, and I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to run that race again. Sometimes it was better to sit on the sidelines. The only problem was that I didn’t know if this was one of those times.
“Hey.” Trina was standing in the doorway. “Heard the man was giving you some shit.”
I was pleased to see Trina so cheerful—even if it was because she was bonding with me over the shared experience of being a murder suspect. “Yeah,” I said, “they came to the house yesterday, but I wouldn’t let them into the cellar, so they’re coming back with a search warrant. Probably tomorrow.”
“Watch out for the bitchy one.”
“I called a lawyer this morning—I’ll talk to him about you too, if you want.” I didn’t want her to know she was the primary reason I had called Mike Dannow, that I, too, believed she had reason to be seriously concerned over the police jumping to convenient conclusions.
She perched herself on the edge of my desk. “Dannow?” she asked, and when I said yes, she nodded in appreciation of my choice. “He’s good. Lionnel uses him. But don’t worry about me. I’m cool.” Trina leaned closer and said conspiratorially, “Heard about the blow.” Blow is one of the many street names for cocaine.
“They asked you about that too?”
She barked a laugh. “Wanted to know if I ‘had access.’ Told ’em I was in drug rehab, for Christ sake. No drugs allowed in drug rehab. No suh, no ma’am. No drugs a’tal.” She pressed her lips into an impressive pout and put her hands peevishly on her hips. “And they thought I was lying. Can you evah believe such a thang?” she twanged in imitation of a Southern belle.
I looked at her warily. The worst infraction a client could commit was possession of drugs or alcohol while in treatment, but this didn’t make it an unknown occurrence. A freshman had been caught with some crack and kicked out just a few weeks ago; apparently her boyfriend had slipped it to her through the first floor bathroom window. Another time, an ounce of pot had been smuggled in inside a baby’s diaper on visiting day. Had pretty boy Lionnel slipped Trina some cocaine? I leaned closer to see if her pupils were dilated. She was awfully cheerful. And jittery. But her eyes appeared normal. “Did Kiah tell you about this afternoon?” I asked, feeling her eyes on me long after I had looked away.
Trina frowned and moved toward the door. “Fine with me,” she said stiffly. “If that’s what you want.” She knew exactly what I had been thinking.
“Of course it’s what I want,” I said, pretending to misunderstand. “It’s what I need. You’re the only one who has any clue about Gram’s system—or lack thereof—and we’ve got less than a week to get it all together.” The Park Service had called that morning to tell me they had rescheduled their inspection for next Wednesday. I had asked Kiah if I could bring Trina to Harden House this afternoon to help with the paperwork. I had also called Michael, but only reached his machine.
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“Great,” I said. “We’ll leave about two. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
Trina looked disappointed. She clearly wanted to leave earlier—probably to miss lunch duty in the kitchen.
“I’ve got to hang around here for another few hours,” I explained, “but I’ll tell Kiah I need you for a full day tomorrow, so you’ll have to catch the bus before breakfast in the morning.”
“Thanks,” she mumbled and clomped out of my office.
As I listened to Trina’s footfalls descend into the stairwell, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Who was this woman who believed her dreams were a reflection of some past event? Who believed her house was haunted and that a friend was lying? I stared glumly at my overflowing in-box. I looked into my briefcase at Yankee Ghosts.
I pulled out the book and began to flip through the pages, searching for something that might convince me I had indeed just misplaced the charm bag, that there was no ghost in my house. Instead, I read of ghosts who were very connected to “things,” how they often “tenaciously cling to earthly possessions,” especially a possession that had great meaning in their lives. Such as a charm bag created by a sorcerer to bring the owner good luck?
Then I read that ghosts were unhappy creatures, caught between two states, often unaware of which realm they existed in at any given moment, unable to adjust to either one. Holzer said a ghost was “the emotional memory of a pe
rson who had died under tragic circumstances,” one who was frequently seeking revenge for his untimely death. Such as a slave who had been killed by anti-abolitionists in one of the few places he believed himself to be safe?
I read on. According to Holzer, in the ghost’s confusion, he was unable to differentiate between one time and another, thinking now was then, then was now. When a living person appeared, the ghost perceived that person to be in whatever time the ghost believed himself to inhabit. So, if the ghost at Harden House was the slave who had owned the charm bag, and he believed he was still living in 1859, he would also believe the anti-abolitionists were still around. And if a person from the present—Gram perhaps—stepped into his world, he might think she was the anti-abolitionist who had killed him, or another, just as dangerous.
I dropped the book back into my briefcase, but not before my eye caught the paragraph pleading with the reader to appreciate and understand the ghost’s predicament, to help the ghost comprehend his situation so he would be released from his netherworld and freed to move on in peace. If I tried to talk to the poor man—the poor soul?—to explain to him what had happened and where he was now, would he then go away? Would he and I then find some peace?
Trina and I were sitting cross-legged on the floor of the west parlor, sorting through piles of papers. We had been at it for a couple of hours, and were making some headway, albeit slowly. Trina had perked up as soon as we left SafeHaven, apparently forgiving me for scrutinizing her eyes, and as we worked, we chatted about music and government stupidity and the dangers of being involved with a handsome man. “You want him, you got to tolerate his alley cat ways,” Trina was saying, although she insisted Michael was the exception that proved her rule. I was inclined to agree with her.
As Gram often noted, Trina was great at getting to the heart of an issue, at seeing things as they really were, at assessing priorities. These skills were fortunate for more than my love life. We didn’t have much time before the inspection, and the Park Service was more than sustaining the federal government’s reputation as the master of superfluous paperwork. Strong organizational skills were going to be a necessity, and I, unfortunately, took after Gram in that department.
The Safe Room Page 17