Treasure in a Tin Box (Wall of Silence Book 1)

by Dorey Whittaker

  Patting Tobias on the cheek, Ruth agreed, “We both owe Ms. Estée a huge debt. If not for her, you and I would never have met. That is a life I do not wish to imagine.”

  Tobias let out a deep sigh, “Arthur’s story was hard enough for today, Ruth. I cannot handle the thought of not having you in my life.”

  Trying to lighten the moment, Ruth suggested, “Tobias, you have been reviewing some difficult stories this morning. Why don’t you spend some time remembering the sisters’ happy years with Estee? I am going to leave you to your thoughts. I told Clara I would be right back. I will probably sit with her all the way to Lynchburg. She needs lots of love right now.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Pearl Remembers A Home for Us

  AS RUTH WALKED back to Clara, Tobias pulled out the fourth photo—the one taken of the broken little bird Estée the day of the weddings. He had heard her story so many times he felt as if he knew her. Even in the photo, he could see her shy, withdrawn demeanor. He also remembered how the sisters had told him how Estée came to life while Ms. Pearl had read all those exciting novels to her. Staring at her photo, Tobias let his mind drift back to the day the sisters first told him the final story about sweet little Estée.

  He remembered how angry he was that day and how he had announced that he was going to quit school. He thought that Ms. Pearl was going to tan his hide, but instead, she sat him down at the kitchen table and said, “Toby, I understand how you feel. Life will bring some hard things, but you must never give up. Life is too valuable to just sit down and give up. Oh, I wanted to after Joseph died. I think I might have—had it not been for Estée.

  Pearl Shares Estée’s Gift

  Even though she was a broken person trapped by her own fears, Estée loved me and was right by my side when we lost little Caramel Hannah. She also stood by me as I grieved over Joseph’s death. She had been there for me when I most needed her, and because she needed me, I dared not give up on life.

  Estée had lost her father three winters before Joseph died, and we took over caring for her. Estée had dinner with us every night, and she and I loved sharing our novels with Joseph. When faced with the task of selling her father’s business, I agreed to work with the lawyers to get the business ready to sell. I taught Estée how to take over her father’s bookkeeping to make sure she would not be cheated. Estée still refused to go beyond the yard, so I did her banking.

  Once we found a buyer, the new owner decided to keep me on since I knew every aspect of the business. Because of all my help, Estée demanded to drop the rent in half as payment for my help. Her generosity made it possible for me to stay in this house after Joseph died. For three years, Estée and I helped each other endure our grief. We had our dinner meals together, continued reading novels, and kept each other company. Not until Ruby came home did I realize exactly how much I had missed her.

  Life settled into a calm, predictable routine. Ruby had dinner ready when I arrived home; afterward, Estée and I did the dishes. Ruby gathered her evening’s handwork so she could work while enjoying our current novel. During the next five years, we read the complete works of Jane Austen, Mark Twain, and Charles Dickens. The book cart man began to make regular stops at the house, knowing we three women were always good for a sale. He would occasionally remind us that he was also in the market to purchase used books. Estée would always reply, “We could never do that, Mr. Josiah. We could never sell our friends.”

  As our library grew, so did our understanding of life beyond our little world. Learning how hard life was for Oliver Twist, Tom Sawyer, or Huckleberry Finn was both entertaining and enlightening. One evening as I was reading about Tom Sawyer in the caverns, I stopped and told Estée all about Ruby’s and my experience when we survived in the caverns and our life above the livery.

  In great earnest, Estée declared, “You need to write down those stories, Pearl. They are every bit as exciting as Tom’s experience.”

  Frowning at her, I replied, “Estée, no one is interested in what happened to three little black children.”

  More confident than I had ever seen her, Estée admonished me. “A good story is always a good story. We love reading about Edmond Dantès even though he was a Frenchman. We loved the March sisters, even though they are white. We love Huckleberry, even though he is an ornery white rascal.”

  “I don’t know, Estée. Maybe someday people will be able to hear stories about black people and see them as people just like themselves; I sure hope so.”

  Trying to convince herself, as much as me, Estée pleaded, “Pearl, we can’t be so very different. We can love these characters, and even see things in their stories that remind us of ourselves—even though they are white, and we are black. But even if white people can never see how alike we really are, I want to keep reading these stories because I love them.” As if thinking hard, Estée paused and then declared, “I don’t think there is a single real white person whom I like or trust. I can’t leave my yard for fear of running into one of them. But all these characters in all of these books we have read are now my dear friends. I would be sad to think that any one of them might have lived right down the street from me, and my fear because of the color of their skin kept me from knowing them. Wouldn’t that be sad, Pearl?”

  “Yes, it would be, Estée. Reading is a safe way to get to know what others have gone through and realize we all hurt in the same ways. I think once we know that, it might be harder to hurt people. At least I hope that is true, and who knows, maybe someday, someone will write our story.”

  Just the hope that someday, someone might write our story seemed to make Estee happy, but there was still something bothering her. A few days later, Estée came to us with a plan; a well thought-out plan. “As you both know, I receive a fair payment each month from the new owner of my father’s business. It is sufficient for my needs. Both houses are paid off, and I am able to live in my house quite well, but I am lonely. What would you two think if I were to sell my house and move in here with you? I could take some of the house money and have a third bedroom added to the back. That way I am far away from the street, and no one has to share a room with me. What do you think?”

  Neither Sissy nor I answered right away, and Estée feared she had overstepped her boundaries when I asked, “Estée, how would we settle the rent?”

  “Oh, Pearl, I would not charge you rent. I would be so happy here with you two that I could not think of charging you rent. Also, you do know that my father intended to leave this house to you when I pass, don’t you? He loved you both so much for your kindness to me; he said he could never repay you. So I will have the lawyer prepare the deed in such a way that all three of us own it equally. The last one to outlive the others will own the house, and that must not be me. I do not want to outlive either of you.”

  Estee’s generous offer went a long way in allowing Sister and me to keep our pledge of never touching Joseph or Arthur’s money. I always considered Joseph’s death money to be blood money, and Ruby always hoped that Arthur might one day return, and she would be able to give his money back to him. Ruby knew if she was going to keep her promise, it would require her earning her own way again.

  After several months of recuperation, Ruby found the old handcart she had used so many years in the past. It was now rusty, and even when it was empty, she could not manage it. She could no longer conduct her personal door-to-door service anymore. She decided to try something new and had me place an ad in the local paper.

  Mending • Alterations • Personal Embroidery Services

  All work must be dropped off and picked up.

  I was surprised at the response she received from that ad. Ruby worked quickly and neatly, but what set her apart as a seamstress was her ability to take a drawing from a client and embroider it exactly as drawn. Soon even Ruby was paying her own way.

  The year was 1886 when the house was placed in all three names. Sister and I were now thirty-seven and doing well. Brother Samuel, on the other hand, was
not. Work was hard to find, and he yearned to take his family somewhere with plenty of opportunities. He and CeCe had been married for twelve years and had lost three babies before Little Ruby Girl came along. She was now three years old, and her daddy felt the pressure to provide for her. At the same time, with feeling responsible for us, he would not entertain the idea of leaving Atlanta.

  After Joseph died, I had depended heavily on Brother Samuel—not for income, but for emotional support. But once Ruby was back and we were secure in a house of our own, Brother Samuel began to rethink his options. After talking with us, Samuel packed up his little family and headed to New York City.

  For the next fifteen years Estée, Ruby, and I lived a quiet, comfortable life. We saw the dawn of a new century arrive, but our life remained unchanged—just as we wanted it. Then in 1901, Estée was given her most ardent wish, to be the first to pass. She always feared being left alone, so when the end was near, she made her final preparations. She had turned seventy-six the week of her passing, and on the nightstand next to her bed was her most prized possession, The Count of Monte Cristo. Inside this book was a letter from her lawyer. Estée apparently realized she was ill and had her lawyer write up her will, leaving the balance of payments from the business and her note for the sale of the house next door to us.

  “For three years we refused to spend Estée’s funds and simply added them to Joseph’s and Arthur’s money. The house was paid off, and we made sufficient money to meet our own needs. It wasn’t until we received the telegram from Brother Samuel, asking us to take in his grandson that we felt the full blessing of Estée’s generosity, which made it possible for us to welcome you, Tobias, with open arms, knowing we would be able to support you.”

  Sitting here all these years later, holding this photo of Estée Washington, Tobias allowed the full weight of her generosity to sink in. We were never well-off, but we never went without our necessities. As a youth, whenever the Aunties told Estée’s story, my heart struggled. I know that it was because of her passing I was able to live with the sisters. I longed to know this wonderful lady, whose love for my aunties made my life in Atlanta possible. I think about Estée in heaven, free and whole, living with people of all colors without any fear. “Ms. Estée, thank you, and say hello to my family for me, and tell them I am well.”

  Tobias’ heart was filled with emotion as he returned the photo to his tin box. Knowing what these two aunts had gone through and how they both had overcome issues that should have crushed them, filled his heart with pride. He thought about the speech he had prepared for this event and knew there would never be enough time to properly tell these people all the things that Ms. Pearl had accomplished in her lifetime.

  These hours on the train spent in reviewing all of the family stories drove home the huge responsibility he had felt after Aunt Ruby passed away. He knew he had to keep his promise to all three of these amazing women—to write down their stories. The book was not simply to address what they had endured; rather, this book would tell all of the wonderful things they did for others because all three of these women did not simply endure; they overcame. They used their experiences to teach me and many others, that lying down and giving up is never the answer. They taught me that quitting is for cowards. That doing right—even when everyone else is doing wrong—is always right.

  SECTION EIGHT

  TOBIAS:

  Life Must Go On

  1906-1922

  24. Anger Took Hold of Me

  25. Dissension in the Church

  26. The Whippoorwill Calls

  27. My Faith Was Tested

  28. The War in Europe

  29. Surprised by A Visitor

  30. Pushing the Color Barrier

  CHAPTER 24

  Anger Took Hold of Me

  THINKING ABOUT THESE three women reminded Tobias of one of the hardest times in his young life. It was a time when he had to stand tall and face the pain of loss instead of quitting. He reached in the box and pulled out the little white button and the marble. He had been nine years old the night Ms. Ruby handed him that little white button and told him, “You have a choice, Toby Boy. You seldom get to choose what hits your life, but you do get to choose how you will respond. Put these in your box as a reminder that life is seldom fair, but on this day, you have decided to stand tall and live right anyway.”

  Holding the button and the marble brought back all the pain he had felt that day he had to decide to stand tall—regardless of how he felt.

  Two weeks had passed since the riots had ended. All the black women and children had been ordered to remain inside, while all of the able black men were busy helping clean up our part of town. Two weeks of hunkering down in fear takes its toll, especially on a nine-year-old boy. I tried to stay focused on the good, but the reality of what had happened rattled my world. I tried not to think about all the terrible things going on out there, but I knew out there was waiting for me, and the thought frightened me. I didn’t want to believe that innocent people could be hurt. I remember thinking, “Maybe the black men got mouthy and talked back. Maybe they were the shiftless bums who wandered the downtown streets. Ms. Pearl said they were always up to no good, stealing from those who work hard for what they have.” I needed a good reason for this to have happened. If I could figure out what they had done wrong, and if I just did not do whatever it was that they had done, I would be safe. But then my mind went back to Miss Buttons, my beloved teacher. What in the world could be the reason for her death? What could she have done to deserve being killed? Then my mind would fill with fear and rage because, if she was not safe, then I would never be safe.

  The first day back to school was filled with tension. As I walked down the street, I studied everyone, wondering what they had seen and had done during the riots. I was anxious to see all of my friends, but I feared that some of them might be gone. I didn’t know what to think; I only knew that Miss Buttons would not be standing at the door that day. I would never again see her beautiful smile and shining eyes greet me as I entered her classroom. Even my aunties could not shelter me from this cold, hard fact. I was nine, and life was hard.

  To be fair to our new teacher, I don’t think there was anything she could have done to win us over. In our eyes she was an interloper; she did not belong in our schoolroom. Sulley’s eyes blazed with anger as she waltzed into our room as big as life, leaned against Miss Buttons’ desk and called the class to order. He could hardly contain himself when she tapped the desk with Miss Buttons’ pointer and demanded the class’s attention.

  Of course, all of the girls quickly sat up straight and tall, but this attention only fueled Sulley’s rage. He stood up and let his chair crash to the floor. He did not pick it up; instead, he just glared at Miss Jackson while he fought back tears. Miss Jackson stepped down off the platform and began walking toward Sulley, but he did not want anything to do with her. He picked up his cap, shoved it into his back pocket and stormed out the back door without saying a word. We all knew he was hurting at the loss of Miss Buttons; we all were.

  If only we had been given a few minutes alone to mourn the loss of Miss Buttons together. We knew it wasn’t Miss Jackson’s fault, but since she was the one standing there, she felt all of our anger. I knew my feelings were wrong, but my loyalty to Miss Buttons and then to Sulley clouded my judgment that day.

  When the class stood for the pledge, I remained seated. I did not want to pledge allegiance to a country that would allow someone to hurt my teacher. I remember feeling overwhelmed at everything I was thinking. I felt that a firestorm was in my mind. Only two weeks had passed since the Atlanta riots. Miss Buttons was dead, and I had finally heard all about what slavery had done to everyone I loved…and I was an angry boy.

  All of Ms. Pearl and Ms. Ruby’s warnings to me now fell on deaf ears. I wanted to lash out and hurt someone like I was hurting. I wanted to scream until all of the pain poured out of me. I wanted to slap that smile off Miss Jackson’s face. How dare she smil
e at me? I wanted to go find Master Stewart’s grave, dig him up and kick him as hard as I could. I wanted my grandpa, how I wanted my grandpa. I placed my head down on my desk and began to cry. I didn’t care who saw me cry. I WANTED MY GRANDPA! I knew if I held in those tears, I would choke on them.

  Thankfully, Miss Jackson did not approach me that morning. She allowed me to grieve without interruption. After the pledge, Ruth Naomi Johnson led the class in a hymn as she always did. But this time, she stood right beside my desk and laid her hand on my back. I had been smitten by her the first day of school, but that day—that was the day I fell in love with sweet, kind, understanding Ruth. I felt no condemnation from her. She did not say a word, but the feel of her hand on my back that day was priceless to me.

  That evening I told my aunties what had happened at school. I knew I was in for a lecture from Ms. Pearl, and I knew I deserved it. “Tobias…” (She always called me ‘Tobias’ when she was serious), you have to understand something. You have a right to be angry. Losing your teacher was terrible, Tobias. Miss Buttons was a wonderful young lady, and she did not deserve what happened to her.”

  I did not want to start crying again, so I said, “Ms. Pearl, can we please not talk about Miss Buttons tonight?”

  Ms. Pearl’s gaze softened, and she came over to sit beside me. She placed my head on her lap and confessed, “Toby Boy, this has been a long hard day for you, but I think that Ruby and I are partly responsible for all the rage and anger you are feeling. Remember, we warned you that hearing the whole truth about our family was going to upset you? Maybe we should have given it to you in smaller doses. It is never easy to hear about injustice. You are only nine-years-old, Toby Boy. Most adults cannot handle the truth about slavery and hatred. I wish we could have sheltered you from the truth, but you need to understand that life is not fair. There is hatred in this world, Toby Boy. There is injustice and racism. This is our reality. This is why we need you to learn self-control and self-determination. Most of this world believes they have a right to control you and to determine for you what your life should look like. Toby, even though I hate it, sometimes we have to go along to get along. Maybe someday, things will change and the rules for everyone will be the same, but that day is not today.”