Treasure in Exile

by S. W. Hubbard

  “The house was tidy, but so lacking in creature comforts. And people—children and adults—seemed to be tumbling out of every room. How different from the huge, stately elegance of the Tate Mansion. How different even from the home of her adoptive parents, which had been modest but comfortable and very quiet.

  “Her nieces and nephews clung shyly to their mothers, looking at the white lady in their living room like she was some exotic zoo animal who’d unaccountably turned up in their home.

  “Vareena stayed less than an hour. She left much unhappier than she had come.

  “How could she bridge this gap? Where did she belong? She was an alien to her biological family, and soon would be a pariah to the family she had joined by marriage. How could she raise her son in this East Orange neighborhood? His grandfather intended for him to inherit the Tate business. His father would have wanted him to study any subject he chose and launch his own career. If Vareena brought him here, he wouldn’t have either of those options.

  “But how could she raise her brown-skinned boy among the Tates and Crawfords and their milieu?

  “Like Eula, Vareena wanted what was best for her child. How could she provide it?”

  Martin leans back and closes his eyes. He’s been talking nonstop for over an hour. I know I should offer to leave to allow him to rest, but selfishly, I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m dying to know how the story ends. What happened to Vareena’s baby?

  “Can I get you some more tea?” I offer.

  Martin smiles slightly and his eyes open. “I’m not tired. I’m just traveling back in time. We’re getting close to where I enter the story.” He takes a deep breath and resumes.

  “So, you may wonder why no one else noticed the baby’s appearance. Well, consider Vareena’s position. She was estranged from her adoptive family and felt awkward inviting her nurse friends to the Tate Mansion. Certainly those young women wouldn’t “drop by” the mansion the way they might have if Vareena lived in a regular middle-class home like theirs. She had not made any new friends among her husband’s and father-in-law’s circle. It was not up to her to invite them. She was the newcomer; they should reach out to her. Until that happened, she spent her days and nights alone with Maybelle. And that solitude allowed her to postpone any decision about her son’s future. How she loved taking care of the little fellow! He was plump and healthy and happy. But at the same time, Maybelle noted a cloud of sadness that never left her sister. It was as if she were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Then one day an invitation arrived. It was inevitable. After all, Vareena Tate was a young, widowed heiress. It’s true that her pedigree left something to be desired, but the mothers of Palmyrton’s high society could overlook that if it meant that one of their sons could marry the Tate fortune and the Tate business empire. Vareena’s husband had been dead for almost a year, her father-in-law for three months. It was now appropriate to invite her to a small dinner party.

  “Maybelle carried in the mail. She knew an invitation when she saw one and she knew who had issued this one: none other than Mrs. Julius Crawford. She stood in front of her sister and watched her open and read the card.

  “‘Are you going?’ she asked.

  “Vareena looked up at her. ‘Yes. I want to meet my father.’”

  “As the day of the party grew closer, Maybelle begged her sister not to go. No good could come of it. But Vareena assured Maybelle she had no intention of creating a scene. She simply wanted to meet the man who was her biological father. I’m told by friends who were adopted that this is a powerful drive, even if you know in advance the parent is not a kind, upstanding person.”

  “I understand,” I murmur. When I thought there was a possibility my mother was alive, I certainly would have done anything in my power to meet her even though I was sure she’d abandoned me.

  “On the afternoon of the party, Cassie came over to help Vareena get dressed. She told me many years later that on that day, Vareena was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. She wore her wavy hair swept up to reveal her high forehead and regal profile. Her dress was simple but elegant. Then Cassie began to cry because Vareena looked so much like Eula in the days when she was a happy young wife and mother. In the days before violence and loss cast a shadow over her.

  “Cassie and Maybelle watched through the window as Vareena backed the Tate family’s Buick out of the garage and drove off to meet her father.

  “The dinner party was being held in honor of the Crawfords’ younger son, who was home on leave. He had poor eyesight and couldn’t serve in combat, but he held an important position in military intelligence in Washington. This was the child Eula had been caring for when Julius raped her.

  “Did Julius know his wife had invited Vareena?”

  Martin shrugs. “Probably. I imagine he realized that he would have to encounter Vareena someday. It’s my speculation that he did not truly think of Vareena as his child. She was merely an inconvenience from the past. Men have the capacity to walk away from their offspring, but women don’t. Even neglectful, cruel mothers have a hard time breaking the tie. So Julius wasn’t concerned about his own paternal emotions. And he was confident that Vareena believed she was of Portuguese descent.

  “But when Vareena walked into the Crawford’s drawing room, Julius’s indifference fell away. Vareena told her sisters it was like a current of electricity passed between them. From across the room, Julius’s eyes widened at the resemblance to Eula. But when he shook Vareena’s hand, his shock ran deeper. He could see in Vareena’s eyes, green eyes that were so similar to his own, that she knew. Somehow, some way, she knew she was his daughter. All through dinner he was as jumpy as a cat—dropping his fork, chinking his wine glass, not following the conversation. Vareena took note of his consternation and Mrs. Crawford’s puzzlement, but she carried on serenely, making polite conversation with the young men seated near her. At the end of the evening, her farewell lasted a moment longer than that of the other guests. She looked in Julius’s eyes and squeezed his hand. “Thank you for a fascinating evening.”

  “The next day, Julius Crawford paid a visit to the Tate Mansion. When the doorbell rang, Vareena told Maybelle to stay in the nursery with the baby. She descended the grand staircase and answered the door herself. Vareena met with her father in the study. After an hour, she led him upstairs to meet his grandson. Then they sat behind closed doors again. On that day, Larry’s future was decided.

  “Unbeknownst to Cassie and Maybelle, Vareena had already been working on a plan. But there was one aspect that she wasn’t sure she could pull off. Julius’s reappearance in her life allowed her to put the final piece in place.

  “Remember I told you that Cassie had been looking for a new job so she would no longer be beholden to Julius Crawford. Well, a few months before Larry was born, Cassie found the perfect position: head cook at the Palmyrton Home for Retarded and Feeble Children.”

  “That’s what it was called?” I ask. “How awful!”

  “As you probably know, in those days people considered it for the best for children born with any sort of serious disability to be institutionalized. The babies and toddlers were turned over to large, impersonal “homes” to be raised by low-paid staff, while their parents and siblings were encouraged to forget the unfortunate birth had ever taken place.

  “Cassie often came home from work full of heartbreaking stories about the children abandoned there. Many never received a visitor and were essentially dead to their families. Every few weeks, one of the children actually did die, perhaps from their maladies, perhaps from neglect, and often their families didn’t even bother to claim the body. The child was buried in a pauper’s unmarked grave.”

  I have a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have a glimmer now where the story is headed.

  “Vareena had decided that the next time a baby boy of an appropriate age should pass away, she would bribe whatever staff members Cassie indicated and get the body. Then, this wa
s the tricky part—she would need a real doctor to verify that this baby—her “son”—had died of natural causes so she could give it a proper funeral and bury him in the Tate plot. Then, she intended to turn over Larry to be raised by his aunts as a black boy. She would retain the Tate inheritance, and thus be able to provide her son with the best education available to African Americans at the time. And if her sisters objected, she was extending the benefit to all her nieces and nephews as well. All the descendants of Eula Simpson would have the best opportunities money could buy.”

  “And it was Julius’s job to find the doctor who would seal the deal?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Chapter 48

  I TELL MARTIN THAT I’ve seen baby Larry’s grave in the cemetery behind St. Stephen’s. But now I know that ornate grave contains the remains of some disabled child that no one wanted.

  “The announcement of baby Larry’s death shook Palmyrton high society. Many people murmured how tragedies always come in threes: Lawrence, Edgar and now little Larry. The doctor who was called to the house one dark night in March examined the baby and said he had died of complications of brain trauma sustained during Vareena’s long labor and difficult birth. Since no one other than Maybelle and Cassie and Julius had ever seen the child, no one knew how robust and healthy he really was. Vareena had even laid the groundwork by telling a few ladies at the dinner party that her son was frail and that she worried about him. A small funeral was held at St. Stephen’s Episcopal church.”

  “Who was the doctor?” I ask. “How did Julius get him to sign off on the death?”

  Martin shrugs. “I don’t know. He bribed the doctor, I imagine. Money makes all things possible. As Maybelle had predicted, lawyers for the distant relatives began circling, but Vareena hired her own lawyer and defended her inheritance. She received an excellent recommendation on legal representation from Julius.”

  “They became close after this?”

  Martin shakes his head. “Vareena walked a fine line with Julius. She could not afford to be so contemptuous of her father as to make him into an enemy. Still, she maintained an unshakable aloofness and dignity in his presence that Julius, perversely, admired. He respected her, was oddly in awe of her, emotions that he was used to receiving, not giving. He never received them in return from his daughter, but I think that he desired her approval.”

  “And what about baby Larry? Did Vareena see him every day? Did he know she was his mother?”

  Now Martin leans back in his chair and takes a long drink with a shaking hand.

  “The sisters argued about this, but Vareena was unshakable. She could not risk Larry knowing the truth. A child will tell other children what he knows. So Larry was raised believing he was Larry Simpson, Cassie’s cousin once removed, the child of a cousin from “down South.” It’s not uncommon in the African American community for a relative to bring up another woman’s child in a time of need. The neighbors, the sisters-in-law, and the kids living at home all accepted this. Larry called Cassie his mama. My mother considered him her little brother. She was ten when he arrived.”

  “But did Vareena see him? Did Cassie bring him to the Tate Mansion?”

  Martin nods. “For the first three years of his life, he came to the back door every day with Cassie. Thanks to the inheritance, Cassie no longer had to work at the Home for Retarded Children, thank goodness. But it would have looked suspicious to the neighbors and other family members if Cassie didn’t work at all. So she told everyone that she too worked for Vareena Tate, and that Mrs. Tate didn’t mind if she brought Larry along with her. He called Vareena VaVa, a term of endearment. A toddler does not question relationships. He just knew there were many people who loved him and whom he loved, and VaVa was one of them.”

  “But something happened...?”

  Martin nods. “One day, Larry threw a huge tantrum. He did not want to go home. He clung to Vareena. He pushed Cassie away. Cassie stepped back. It was Vareena’s call on how to handle this. But at that moment, Vareena knew. Cassie would never be able to parent the child when he was a teenager if she lost all authority over him now. He would run wild. She told Cassie to bring the boy less often. She distanced herself from him. Told him he must call her Mrs. Tate.”

  “That’s so sad!”

  “Vareena spent her time with him teaching him to read and write so he would always be ahead of the others in school. She had Cassie bring the other children to the house as well, including my mother, and she ran tutoring sessions for them all, one or two at a time. She didn’t treat Larry any differently than the others. This went on for years.”

  “But why didn’t you ever spend time with Maybelle and Vareena?”

  “In 1964, the year before I was born, the sisters had a falling out. It concerned another war.”

  1964! This is it—the year Vareena stopped leaving the house. The year she turned the accounts over to Maybelle.

  “Vietnam,” I say. “But I thought people didn’t start protesting the war until the late sixties, early seventies.”

  “You’re right—they weren’t arguing about the politics of the war. In May of 1964, Larry fulfilled everyone’s dreams by graduating from Princeton with a degree in chemistry. Vareena wanted him to immediately apply for medical school. Larry thought he should serve his country. Cassie didn’t disagree—his father had served, although of course Larry didn’t know that. His uncles had served. Some of his cousins had served.”

  I have a sinking feeling. I know where this is headed. “Cassie encouraged him to enlist and he was killed.”

  “She didn’t encourage him, but Vareena said she should forbid the boy to enlist. But of course, he was a grown man—he didn’t need anyone’s permission. And Vareena of all people should have realized that young people will follow their own hearts.”

  “Even into disaster.”

  “Exactly. So Vareena blamed Cassie, and Cassie was angry and hurt at being blamed, especially since she too was devastated by Larry’s death.”

  “And where did Maybelle stand?”

  “Maybelle had an anti-authoritarian streak. Despite the fact that some of her nephews had used the military as a stepping-stone to a better life, she didn’t want Larry to go. She spoke her mind to him, which Vareena saw as support for her position. But Cassie thought Maybelle’s nagging just made Larry more set on enlisting. And then Larry’s cousins weighed in.”

  “So everyone blamed everyone else. Sounds like my family,” Sean says.

  “The upshot of the feud was that a coolness set in between the Tate mansion in Palmyrton and the Simpson family home in East Orange. Vareena said she no longer had the patience to tutor the next generation of Simpson children, of which I was among the first. But she continued her financial support. Cassie took the money to help the kids, but she never visited the big house.”

  “Maybe Vareena was afraid of getting too attached to any of the children.”

  Martin nods. “I think that was it. She became more and more reclusive. She couldn’t bear any more loss.”

  “What happened to Edgar Tate’s business, Amalgamated Metals?” Sean asks.

  “Vareena had the lawyers sell it. Years of neglect and mismanagement had eroded its worth. Vareena wasn’t as rich as she had been in 1950, but she still had plenty.”

  I want to get back to the family drama. “But didn’t Maybelle miss Cassie? You said Cassie was the only mother she ever knew.”

  “Maybelle visited the house in East Orange occasionally. Cassie gave her the latest pictures of the children. I remember Maybelle as rather dour, easily annoyed by the commotion at our house. By this time, she had lived with Vareena for over twenty-five years. She got used to peace and quiet and space. People become set in their ways. It’s easier to avoid conflict than resolve it. So Maybelle and Cassie drifted further and further apart, until in 1975, Cassie got liver cancer. She was dead in a matter of months. As is often the case when there’s a rift, Maybelle was hysterical with grief. She las
hed out, blaming Cassie’s children for not taking good care of their mother. Of course, that was preposterous. Liver cancer is deadly even now—in 1975, it was always incurable. So the break was complete. We never saw Maybelle or Vareena again.”

  Chapter 49

  “SO THAT EXPLAINS WHY Vareena didn’t leave her money to your family. But do you know why she chose the Rosa Parks Center as her beneficiary?”

  Martin shrugs. “It’s an organization that helps young African Americans. I suppose she preferred to give the money locally, rather than to the NAACP or the United Negro College Fund.”

  Clearly, Martin doesn’t care about the money. But I’m shocked that he could have known the story of his family all these years but stayed estranged from them. I know I’m prying into his personal emotions, but I have to ask. “So you always knew who Vareena and Maybelle were. Why didn’t you ever get in touch with them after your mother died?”

  Martin closes his eyes briefly, as if he’s saying a private prayer. Then he speaks directly to me. “I’m sixty-eight years old, Audrey. Time and illness have mellowed me. But I came of age in the sixties and seventies, reading the works of Malcom X and Huey Newton. Martin Luther King was too tame for me. I reveled in my blackness and rejected white culture. Vareena was an embarrassment to me. A black woman masquerading as white, hiding her true identity. I could afford to be high and mighty about rejecting the blood money she had acquired by being raped by a white man. I told myself I had achieved my success entirely on my own, by virtue of my superior intellect. I certainly wasn’t going to sneak around and enter the Tate Mansion through the back door! Not Martin Simpson Brantley, JD, PhD, professor of law.” He slaps a fist into his palm.