Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  Chapter 42

  AN EMAIL FROM MARTIN Simpson Brantley landed in my inbox long before I woke up. He says Maybelle Simpson was his great aunt, and he’d be happy to talk to me about her. Although the message is brief, there’s something eager about it, as if he wants to meet me as much as I want to meet him.

  So Sean and I set out on a two-hour road trip to the Jersey Shore. Martin lives in a manicured, fifty-five-plus development. There’s a ramp leading up to his front door, and a van with handicapped plates sits in the driveway.

  After we ring the doorbell, we hear a voice calling, “coming, coming.” The door swings open, and we find ourselves looking down at a late middle-aged man in a wheel chair. He smiles warmly. “You must be my visitors from Palmyrton. I’ve been jumpy as a cat waiting for you.”

  He rolls backward to allow us to enter, and waves for us to follow him. “I thought we’d sit in my study. I made us some iced tea, and my niece brought me these cookies.”

  Sean shoots me a glance behind Martin’s back. He had spent half the drive down here discussing strategies to get Martin to open up to us. Clearly, none of them will be needed. I guess the poor man is lonely and happy for visitors.

  Once we’re all settled in the book-lined room, I begin to speak. “As I explained, I’m the estate sale organizer clearing out the Tate Mansion. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the entire estate was bequeathed to the Rosa Parks Center in Palmyrton.”

  Martin nods. “Oh, yes—I read about that. An excellent choice!”

  So, it doesn’t seem he’s conniving to get his hands on some of the money. I want to ask him if he knows why Vareena left her money there, but first things first. Let’s establish the relationship. “Everyone said neither Vareena Tate nor Maybelle Simpson had relatives, but we found some photographs in the house. And it seems Maybelle Simpson was related to you, yes?”

  “Yes,” he says, “Maybelle was my great aunt.” Martin sips from his iced tea. His gaze meets mine over the top of the glass.

  “So was Vareena.”

  Chapter 43

  MARTIN SEEMS QUITE pleased with our slack-jawed reaction to his bombshell.

  “Vareena and Maybelle were sisters?” I ask when I catch my breath. “I guess that explains why they dressed the same. We knew that Vareena was adopted. Is that how—?”

  Martin sets his glass down and folds his hands in his lap. “It’s a very long story. If you have the time, I’d like to tell it from the beginning.”

  I lean back in my chair. “Absolutely. There’s nothing we’d like better.”

  Martin begins his tale. “My great-grandparents were Eula and Raymond Simpson, the maid and chauffeur for Julius Crawford and his wife, Sophia. They considered themselves very fortunate indeed. Two good jobs and an apartment over the garage on Julius’s estate in which to raise their three children.

  “In 1916, Sophia Crawford gave birth to her second son. She had a very difficult delivery and was weak and bedridden for months afterward. It fell to my great-grandmother to take care of the infant. She was just weaning her own toddler, and had milk enough for the newborn. She took to sleeping in a small storage room near the kitchen so she could take care of the Crawford baby at night.”

  Martin rolls his chair to the bookshelf to get a framed photo, which he hands to me. “This is the only photo ever taken of my great-grandmother.”

  In the faded daguerreotype, a tall, slender African American woman holds a white baby wearing a long, frilly gown. She looks at the camera somberly—people didn’t smile for photos in those days—but her large dark eyes are friendly and lively. She has high cheekbones and chiseled features.

  “She was lovely,” I whisper.

  “Yes, you’re not the only one to have noticed.”

  I feel a squeeze of dread for what I suspect is coming.

  “Julius Crawford lost patience with his wife’s long recovery. One night, when Eula had just returned the baby to his crib, Julius decided that his cook and nursemaid could also fulfill the other responsibilities of a wife. He raped Eula in a room right down the hall from his wife’s bed.

  “That night, Eula returned to her own home above the garage. Her oldest daughter, Cassie, heard her enter, saw her trembling hands and tear-streaked face, and knew something was terribly wrong. However, Eula didn’t tell her husband. What good would come of it? The police would not take her claim seriously, and if her husband took justice into his own hands, he would be the one who was executed.

  “They had too much to lose—their jobs, their home, even their freedom. Eula stayed silent. She watched her back, careful never to be alone with Julius in the house again. Sophia Crawford had begun to regain her strength, and Eula turned the baby’s care back over to the mother. Julius seemed preoccupied with his business, or perhaps he realized he’d been reckless. At any rate, he left my great-grandmother alone.”

  I can see where this is headed. “Eula got pregnant?”

  Martin nods and continues the story. “Eula convinced herself that the baby had to be her husband’s. Julius, of course, noticed her pregnancy as she worked in the kitchen. He asked Eula when the baby would arrive, ostensibly so he could prepare the other servants to fill in. But as Eula’s time drew near, Julius sent Raymond on a long road trip to Detroit to pick up a new Ford roadster that Julius had custom-ordered.

  “Eula got her first contractions just as she was serving dinner to the Crawford family. She went back to her own home to prepare. No one was around to help Eula except her daughter Cassie, who was thirteen. This being Eula’s fourth child, the baby arrived in just two hours, with no problems.”

  Martin gazes out the window and speaks in a whisper. “A beautiful baby girl. Clear green eyes. Wavy brown hair. Light olive skin.”

  Vareena. Martin seems almost in a trance as he continues the story. He asks and answers his own questions.

  “It wasn’t long before Eula heard steps on the stairs that led up from the garage to their home. Julius Crawford had come to check on her.

  “Since when does a wealthy white man care about the health of his pregnant black cook?

  “He came to check on the baby.

  “And he saw the truth immediately. He knew it would be impossible to explain this light-skinned child with golden brown hair—to his wife, to his staff, to his neighbors.

  “To Raymond.”

  Martin snaps back to the here and now. He speaks directly to Sean and me.

  “In the morning, the children learned the sad news. Their new sister had died in the night, shortly after her birth. But Cassie knew the truth. She had seen Julius Crawford carry the baby away, walking in the moonlight with a small bundle in his arms across the wide lawns of the estate.”

  Chapter 44

  “CASSIE WAS YOUR GRANDMOTHER?” I ask. All these family relations are so hard to keep straight.

  Martin nods. “I spent many hours with her when I was a child. First, while my mother was earning her degree, and later when she worked every day. I was a sickly child—had a bout of scarlet fever that kept me out of school and on bed rest for nearly a year. We didn’t have TV, and I wasn’t supposed to strain my eyes by reading, so my grandmother read aloud to me. But sometimes she ran out of books, and she would tell me stories. My grandmother told me the story of our people. She wanted me to know, so that the secrets wouldn’t die with her. She told me the story like it was a Greek tragedy, with heroes and villains and a moral at the end.” Martin smiles at us. “So, you’ll forgive me if I tell the story to you in the same way. I’ve held it in for so long, but now that they’re dead I can finally speak. I suppose I’ve just been waiting for my ideal audience.”

  I take a cookie and settle back for the ride. “You’ve found it, Martin. Did Cassie figure everything out on her own?”

  Martin shakes his head. “The pain of giving up her baby was too much for Eula. She had to confide in someone, so soon she told Cassie as much as she knew: Julius had promised to give the baby to a Portuguese fami
ly in Newark. The man was a manager in one of Julius’s factories. His wife had recently miscarried and was distraught because she couldn’t have another baby. Julius would tell them that this baby had been born to an unmarried teenager who worked in one of his other factories. A Portuguese girl with olive skin and wavy brown hair just like them. Julius told Eula she was lucky—her daughter would be raised as a white girl. What better gift could she give the child?”

  “That’s horrible!” I protest. “Did Eula trust Julius? After all, he was a rapist. How could she be sure he hadn’t killed the baby?”

  Martin massages his temples. “She wasn’t sure. She begged Julius for proof that the baby was safe and well loved. He showed her a photo of the baby with her new parents, taken at the child’s baptism.”

  “I’ve seen that photo,” I interrupt. “Loretta Bostwick, Julius’s granddaughter found it.” I scramble for my cell phone and call up the photo of the photo. “Here’s Vareena as a baby.”

  Martin studies the image on the phone and his eyes fill with tears. “So these are the people who raised my aunt.”

  “But who is Maybelle?” Sean asks to get Martin talking again. “Cassie was thirteen years older than Vareena.”

  Martin continues his story. “After Julius took the baby away, Eula grew despondent. Of course, her husband thought she was mourning the death of their daughter, and he was sure that if Eula had another baby, her spirits would lift. And two years later, she did give birth to another child. A girl. A black girl. Her husband’s daughter.”

  “And that was Maybelle.”

  Martin nods. “But only a few months after Maybelle’s birth, a flu epidemic struck. Everyone in the family got sick, but they all got better. Except Eula. She left four motherless children. The youngest, Maybelle, was only five months old. My grandmother, Cassie, took over raising her siblings, and also took over her mother’s job as the Crawford family cook. The boys were old enough to fend for themselves, but Cassie became the only mother Maybelle would ever know. But at the same time, they were still sisters. As Maybelle grew older, Cassie told her the story of their lost sister, a story that their father and brothers never knew. Eventually, Cassie married a young man who also worked for Julius Crawford. So the lives of the two families remained linked.”

  Martin adjusts the cushion on his wheelchair. “Then war broke out. I am a peace-loving man, but World War II turned the fortunes of my family for the better. Julius won several contracts to produce cleaning supplies and other chemical products for the military. At the same time that his business was booming, it became harder and harder to find men to work in the factories. All the able-bodied young men were enlisting.”

  “So he had to hire women,” Sean says.

  “Yes, he got so desperate, he even had to hire black women. By this time Maybelle was a teenager, helping her sister in the kitchen of the Crawford estate. But she despised housework, so Maybelle asked if she could work at Julius’s factory in Newark. Everyone had to sacrifice for the war effort, even the Crawford family. They decided they could do with one less servant at home, and Maybelle got her wish to work in the big city.”

  Martin smiles.

  “Maybelle had an ulterior motive?” I ask.

  “She wanted to find the man who was her sister’s adoptive father. Cassie was totally opposed. Leave it alone. Don’t stir up trouble. But Maybelle was determined. She could never get her mother back, but she could find her sister. She wasn’t sure what she would do when she found her. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.”

  Again Martin shifts into a trance as he recites the details of the story. It’s as if he’s forgotten we’re there.

  “Once Maybelle started working in the factory, she watched and listened to learn more about the managers. All of them were Portuguese, so nationality didn’t narrow down her choices. But the general manager had eight kids and the shipping manager was a skinny, unmarried young man who walked with a limp. The assembly line supervisor had frequent loud, angry arguments with Julius. That left the accountant. His name was Roberto Soares. He worked in an office far from the factory floor, and Maybelle couldn’t think of any reason why she should ever be over in that part of the building. Her prey so was close, but so far away.

  “Then one payday, she got an idea. At that time, hourly workers received their pay in cash. One of the girls claimed she’d been shorted. The argument with the paymaster escalated until the girl was taken to Soares’s office. The next day, the girl reported that the accountant had been very nice. He’d checked the records carefully and discovered there really was a discrepancy, and the dispute was settled in the worker’s favor.

  “This incident gave Maybelle an idea. She waited a couple of weeks, then made her way to Soares’s office. She knocked on his door and told him she’d received an extra dollar in her pay and she was there to turn it in. Needless to say, Soares was stunned by her honesty. He counted the pay packet, into which she’d slipped a dollar saved from the week before.”

  “That must have been a big sacrifice.”

  “It was. That’s how badly she wanted to find her sister,” Martin tells me.

  “Soares was a meticulous man, and while he searched his books fruitlessly, Maybelle sat in his office. A studio photograph of a young woman sat on his desk. She was beautiful—big eyes, a narrow nose, full lips, prominent cheekbones, a high forehead. Of course, Maybelle had never met her own mother, but she had seen this photo of Eula holding the Crawford baby that she had nursed. And of course, she knew Julius. The young woman in the photo on Soares’s desk looked like a blend of Eula Simpson and Julius Crawford. She looked nothing like Maybelle and Cassie, who strongly favored their father, Raymond.

  “Finally, Soares looked up from his search and saw Maybelle gazing at the photo. ‘Is that your daughter? She’s real pretty.’ Maybelle asked.

  “Soares smiled at the picture. ‘Yes, that’s my Vareena. Smart as a whip, but very headstrong.’ That was the extent of their conversation.

  “For a while, knowing that their sister was alive and that her adoptive father seemed to be a kind, honorable man was enough for Cassie and Maybelle. They speculated about her life. What was it like being Vareena Soares, growing up in the Portuguese community in Newark, that neighborhood they called The Ironbound? They knew that Soares wasn’t extremely wealthy like Julius Crawford, but they were pretty sure he didn’t live in a small apartment above a garage, as they did. In those days, black people couldn’t walk down the street in a white neighborhood for no reason, but Maybelle had glimpsed the Ironbound neighborhood from the back window of the streetcar as she rode to and from work. She saw the children playing ball and the little corner stores selling fish and vegetables. She saw the streets lined with tidy brick and frame houses. Behind which door did her sister live?

  “The more the two sisters talked, the more obsessed Maybelle became, and the more cautious Cassie grew. Cassie said their sister was a white girl now. There was no coming back. Why would she even want to? But Maybelle said Vareena was their kin. Soares said she was headstrong. Maybe that meant she wasn’t happy. Did she even know she was adopted? Maybe she was longing for them just as they longed for her.”

  Martin sips from his glass of iced tea.

  “Meanwhile, the war ground on. More and more men went off to serve. Julius Crawford’s elder son joined the Navy, the younger served in military intelligence. Cassie’s husband enlisted with the Army in a segregated tank battalion, and so did her two brothers. Men were shipping out every week, and there was a rash of hasty wartime weddings. Lovers knew they might never see each other again, so they rushed to tie the knot. Even the wealthy could not get enough ration tickets to put on an elaborate wedding with a long silk gown for the bride and a big feast for the guests. Weddings were quiet family affairs with an announcement sent to friends after the fact.

  “It was just such an announcement that Cassie brought in with the mail as she was serving tea to Mrs. Crawford and two of her lady
friends. When the envelope was opened and the announcement shared, a gasp went up among the ladies. Lawrence Tate had married before he shipped out to Germany.

  “The ladies were astonished. Edgar Tate and his son Lawrence were prominent members of their circle. They hadn’t heard of any courtship. Who had he married?

  “My grandmother remembered Mrs. Crawford’s hand shaking as she read from the printed card: Vareena Soares, daughter of Roberto and Emilia Soares of Newark, New Jersey.”

  Martin raises his voice an octave to imitate the society ladies. “Who in the world is that? The name sounds Portuguese! This would never have happened if Mrs. Tate were still alive!”

  “Cassie slipped back into the kitchen absolutely thunderstruck. Her sister, the bastard daughter of a rich white rapist and a poor black servant had first been elevated to the white middle class, and now had ascended another huge step into the stratosphere of wealthy high society. Cassie was afraid to tell Maybelle, but she was so shaken by the news that she couldn’t hold it in.”

  Martin leans toward us. “Now don’t forget that Raymond, their father, was still Julius Crawford’s chauffeur. He had driven Mr. Crawford to the Tate home many times, and while a chauffeur is waiting to take his employer back home, he goes around back and sits with the servants of the host family. So in this way, Raymond heard all about how Mr. Lawrence Tate’s new bride was coming to live with Mr. Edgar Tate to await the return of her husband from the war.”

  “So now they knew exactly where their sister was living,” I say. “But what made Maybelle decide to go to work for the Tates? And how did she tell her sister who she really was?”

  “To understand that, we must go back to the Soares family. You may find this surprising, but they were not happy about their daughter’s marriage to a man so far out of their social sphere, even though their new son-in-law was wealthy. The reason Vareena had even met Lawrence Tate was because she had defied her parents’ wishes. Mr. Soares was an indulgent daddy, but Mrs. Soares had very strict notions about proper behavior for a nice Portuguese girl, and they didn’t include training as a nurse and joining the Army. After a lot of arguing, the father relented as long as Vareena did not serve overseas. But her mother lashed out. She said her real daughter would not disregard her wishes. And in that moment of anger, the secret was revealed. Vareena was adopted.”