The Safe Room Page 2

  To my grandmother’s credit, she had taken out a rehab loan and found a company named Preservations to do the necessary renovations—although calling Preservations a company was a bit of a stretch. Preservations was really Michael Ennen, a nice guy who was long on good looks and charm, but short on experience. Gram was convinced that his two years of architecture at Harvard (he had dropped out), two more studying history at BU (he had dropped out), and a dozen summers spent working carpentry jobs with his father made him the perfect contractor for Harden House. His work had to be completed before the US Park Service would certify the house as an official “station” in the Park, and I worried that Michael’s charm wasn’t going to carry as much weight with the inspectors as it did with Gram.

  “Is Michael going to be there?” Trina asked, as if reading my mind.

  “Did you ever notice how neat he is all the time? How can a real contractor have such clean fingernails?”

  “The man likes to take care of himself.”

  “I bet he spends more time getting ready for a date than I do.”

  “Check it out.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.” Trina shrugged. “But remember: a piece of a man is better than no man at all.”

  “You’re so full of shit,” I said. “You think I’m going to believe you think a piece of Lionnel is better than no man at all?” One of the first real conversations Trina and I ever had was about Richie and Lionnel. She had told me how Lionnel got her hooked on him and then on heroin, and how he took a powder as soon as he found out she was pregnant. I told her how I had discovered Richie in bed with one of his graduate students—Richie was a real, live rocket scientist, at MIT, no less—two days after I mailed out the wedding invitations. “Guess a man doesn’t need to be black to be a shit,” Trina had said, and we had solemnly promised we’d help each other to stay away from handsome men. Trina was not holding up her end of the bargain.

  Trina grinned. “I admit Lionnel’s a sleazy, slimy, rotten dog, but the man has his uses.”

  I stepped on the accelerator, passed an old Chevy on the right, and zipped under a light as it went from yellow to red—all right, so it was completely red, but the two cars behind me went through it too. The successful Boston driver is the one who knows which risks to take.

  “I saw you with Ruth in group today,” I said, changing the subject. “You seemed like you were doing real well.”

  Her smile disappeared and she turned away. “You must’ve been doing your spying early on.”

  “Oh?” I waited a good couple of seconds, then said “oh?” again. When Trina continued to stare out the window, I switched the radio to a rap station I knew she liked and didn’t say anymore. It wasn’t easy. No one has ever accused me of being reticent, but over a year at SafeHaven had taught me to hold my tongue. I kept quiet for an entire song.

  Trina watched the rowers out for crew practice on the Charles. Her shoulder-length braids were gathered in a tattered ribbon, and her neck was exposed; it was so innocent, so vulnerable, such a heart-breaking creamy brown. Trina was twenty-three, but looked seventeen, maybe younger. As we crossed the BU Bridge, she turned and followed the path of a sleek boat full of college girls, racing toward Boston Harbor, its oars disappearing then rising from the dark water. A place she’d never been. A life she’d never had.

  Yet, weren’t they more alike than they were different? Trina and those girls? Trina and me? We all wanted the same things: a comfortable existence, health, love, peace, safety. Trina was smart and beautiful and had everything going for her except the facts of her birth and every day of her life. Unfortunately, we got what we deserved even less often than we got what we wanted.

  “Shirleen can be a real bitch,” I said, meaning it. Shirleen had attitude taller than the Prudential Tower. She once told me to fuck off after I offered to help her set the table.

  Trina turned from the window and looked at me sadly. “Oh, Shirleen’s not so bad. She just wants that baby back so much that she’s all twisted around by it—that and the guilt.”

  The expression on Trina’s face reminded me of the first time she had told me about Hendrika’s death. She claimed she had felt the spirit of her child rise and wrap itself around her, full of love and forgiveness. Trina said Hendrika came to her often, at daybreak, the hour of her birth.

  “Do you still feel like Hendrika’s with you?”

  “Sure,” Trina said. “The dead don’t ever leave.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  August 28, 1858

  Today is my seventeenth birthday, and Papa has given me this diary as a gift to commemorate the day. Though I have often wished for just such a chronicle, I find it difficult to feel gladness as my dear Mama is not here with me. Mama passed on in the spring, on March twenty-one, one hundred and sixty days ago. I know Mama is with our Lord, in a happier place, but still, I am sad. Papa says if I read my Bible, the words of our Lord shall provide the comfort I seek. I read, I do, or try my best to do so, but comfort eludes me. Papa does not understand me as Mama did, but he is a man and has many important things to which he must turn his attention.

  Still, I have much hope for the future. I have two beaus, or rather, two boys with whom I would consider keeping company. One is called Lewis Campbell, of the Connecticut Campbells, and the other is Wendell Parker, whose family was among the earliest settlers of Lexington, way back when it was still named Cambridge Farms. Lewis is quite handsome and took three dances on my card last year at the Buffrum-Chase Christmas Ball, but he resides in Hartford, a day’s journey from Lexington. Although Wendell could not, in truth, be described as handsome, he has a kind soul and his home is just across the Common from Harden House, which is where we live.

  Dear diary, please excuse my rudeness, as I have not yet introduced myself or my family. I am Sarah Abigail Harden, daughter of Stanton Elijah Harden and Charlotte Margaret Harden, nee Abbott, late, of Lexington, Massachusetts. I also have one brother, Caleb Lloyd Harden, born in 1842, one year after I.

  Papa is a famous man. He is known throughout the Commonwealth for the strength of his religious and moral convictions as well as his speeches against the sins of slavery. He has many enemies and takes far too many risks to help runaway Negroes, and I am often concerned for his safety. But Papa says he is doing God’s work, and that the Lord protects his own. I, of course, do not question Papa, but nonetheless, I cannot but wonder how the Lord can maintain vigil on all of those who claim to be his own.

  September 3, 1858

  I received a letter from Lewis Campbell today by the afternoon post! Nancy Southwick had stopped for tea, and the two of us did giggle so over the contents of the correspondence. Lewis spoke briefly of his studies and his father’s business plans, then said that his thoughts were already turning to Christmas and the Buffrum-Chase Ball. He added that he hoped he would have the pleasure of dancing with me again, and he signed the letter, “yours very truly.” Nancy claims that this is a sure sign he has marriage on his mind!

  I admit, I do admire him greatly, and his family would be acceptable, yet I am not certain I wish to be such a distance from Papa and Harden House. Nor, as Nancy remarked, do I wish to be separated from my dear friend Nancy Southwick. Wendell Parker does not cut nearly so fine a figure as Lewis, but he is of mild temperament, and Papa does admire his moral leanings. Nancy tells me Mr. Elijah Parker, Wendell’s father, left him a parcel of land in his will, and that Wendell intends to build himself a grand house. I do confess it would be quite wonderful to be mistress of a great house, out from under the thumb of the dreadful Mrs. Harrington, and, truth be told, a bit more removed from Papa, whose piousness, at times, can be trying.

  September 15, 1858

  We went to a gala dinner party this evening at the home of William Lloyd Garrison of Boston. He is the publisher of The Liberator, and the most famous abolitionist in the entire United States! Everyone knows of the mock gallows that were built outside his house by the anti-abolitioni
sts and how, while he was jailed for opinions printed in The Liberator, he wrote, “I am in prison for denouncing slavery in a free country!” He and Papa are grand friends.

  Although there was much talk of the great injustices of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 and the “conspiracy of silence” perpetrated by those who prosper from exploiting the Negro, the party was most enjoyable. There were twenty in attendance for dinner including Lawrence Cabot Adams and Mr. and Mrs. Chas. Thayer Perkins. There were cold oysters and oyster pate and three kinds of wine. I was seated next to Wendell Parker whose talk was more lively than usual, although I dare say it was a few too many glasses of Roman punch which loosened his tongue. Papa would not agree with my assessment as he is most taken with Wendell due to his strong opinions against slavery.

  I know that the conditions of the Negro in the Southern states are deplorable and wish with all my heart that those in bondage might soon be free, but I also wish that the men would not have taken so much time in the discussion of this matter in what otherwise was a lovely and gracious evening.

  October 10, 1858

  Just as I have feared, Papa was almost caught today helping a runaway slave. As the sun set, he arrived home with Dr. Howe and Mr. Weston Chapman, all three breathless and covered with leaves, but unharmed. As I wiped the dirt from Papa’s cheeks, he instructed me to remain close-lipped about the comings and goings at Harden House. He said we must always be on our guard against those “respectable citizens” who seek to undo the good we are trying to do. So I have decided to lock away this diary within the back drawers of my chiffonier until it is safe for these words to be read.

  Despite my misgivings, it is true that I am most proud of Papa, who is doing God’s work by providing safe passage for those who seek freedom from the subjugation of slavery. He always leaves a light glowing in the front parlor window, a back door ajar, and keeps an ear pressed to the grapevine dispatch. He feeds, conceals, then helps the refugees along their way. He is watched by our neighbors, threatened by the authorities, and sometimes betrayed by his friends. But Papa says that the laws of God must take precedence over the laws of man. He is a very wise and brave man.

  Neither Caleb nor Papa is ever afraid, and I venture to guess that were dear Mama still alive, she would have no fear either, but I am only seventeen and a girl. Nancy Southwick whispers that the house of Papa’s friend, Professor Samuel Hillard, was stoned and that the professor is no longer allowed to teach at Harvard College. She also said a man named Lovejoy was killed and another’s hand was branded with the same horrid instrument they use to mark ownership of cows. “SS” they burned into his skin. “SS” for Slave Stealer. What if such things should befall Papa or Caleb?

  October 24, 1858

  In consequence of Papa’s near arrest a fortnight ago, Papa and Caleb and Wendell Parker are constructing a secret room in which to conceal the fugitives. Although Wendell is two years older than Caleb (one year older than I), they have been friends since they were small boys. Wendell’s father was an abolitionist too, but he died of consumption last year, and it has been left to Wendell to carry on for him. Wendell is usually silent, but I must admit that it is nice to have someone about Harden House besides Caleb and Papa and Mrs. Harrington, whose only conversation is of the torment of her gout and the weight of her unfinished tasks.

  The men do all their work at night, in bits and pieces, and hide hammers and wooden planks in the bottom of the carriage to be brought into the house under cover of darkness. I am most impressed with their cleverness. They are building a door with concealed hinges that opens into a space no one would ever suspect is there! It is behind the landing of the staircase, between the east and west parlors. It is most exciting!

  But I must say no more, as these days there are many bounty hunters about, and Mr. Harrison Gray Otis spoke of Papa at one of his Whig meetings, calling him a “d—abolitionist” and a “curse and a contagion” to the good people of Lexington. Papa has never pretended to be anyone save the abolitionist he is, but being named by Mr. Otis will make it increasingly difficult for him to carry on. He has oft been watched before, now he will be watched always.

  It’s difficult to know whom to trust. Papa was most surprised when Mrs. Lucretia Child did loudly click her knitting needles last Sunday when Reverend Lyman declared in his sermon that “those men who speak against slavery speak against the Union.” Mr. Child’s family hails from Kentucky, and he is quite vocal about his proslavery beliefs. Although Papa was encouraged by Mrs. Child’s act of defiance in so public a place, he found it distressing to hear such sentiments spoken of from the pulpit of our little church.

  Papa reminds me that despite the words of the reverend, I must never question the righteousness of our mission. He nods gravely and pushes his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, a gesture I always equate with his compassion and humanity. I nod in return, but do not reveal my true thoughts. I do not tell him it is not righteousness that I question, but safety. Is it so very wrong to desire the safety of the ones I love most dearly? As I write these words I see that I must open my heart and drive away my fears, for what else do the poor fugitives desire but the safety of those they hold most dear?

  October 25, 1858

  There is a family coming, a mother and her little girl, and the safe room is not near to ready! Papa got word last night from a station master in Hartford, Connecticut. God and weather permitting, a young woman named Rachel will arrive with her baby, Chloe, just before dawn tomorrow. They have come all the way from the Carolinas.

  Papa, Caleb and Wendell hurry as much as they are able, and even I have been pressed into assistance. Although I recognize the seriousness of the work, and the many dangers it poses for the poor fugitives, as well as for my own family, I cannot help but be exhilarated by partaking in activities beyond keeping my receipt book and overseeing the cleaning and cooking of the peevish Mrs. Harrington.

  Although I would not admit it to anyone but you, dear diary, I have always felt myself to be a bit apart from Nancy Southwick and Cousin Lizzie and even dear Mama. They are well-satisfied with the activities of embroidery and handwork, entertaining and visiting, with ensuring the housekeeper has properly laundered the linens and that the children are clean. Although I do desire to be wife, mother and mistress of a fine home, I sometimes find myself also desiring more, although what “more” is, I know not.

  It is enough for me today to feel of so much use, to God and to my fellow human beings, for today I do more than just pull the ropes and handle the ribbons of our small household.

  This morning I went out to the carriage, as if in search of a missing hat. Papa instructed me to place three pieces of wood inside my gray cloak, and then walk nonchalantly back into the house. I did just as he asked, pretending that losing my bonnet was the most vexing event of my day. Wendell told me I was very clever, and I could feel my face flush with pleasure at his praise. Caleb whispered that Wendell is sweet on me, and appeared surprised when I calmly acknowledged the truth of his observation. Men can be so foolish.

  As Papa, Wendell and Caleb work on the safe room, my job is to keep watch for slavers and bounty hunters and those nasty, prying persons who wish the Negro to remain within the chains of slavery. As a good Christian woman, I try to have compassion for all souls, for all ways of thinking, but I cannot understand why anyone would wish to see another human being in bondage.

  October 26, 1858

  Rachel and Chloe have arrived safely! The mother is weak and quite sickly, but the child, a little girl of about two, is chubby and healthy and a very happy sort. It appears Chloe’s father was a white man, but mother and daughter don’t seem to notice any difference between them. Papa says that is because there is none. The soul has no color. Neither do the ties of family.

  It breaks my heart to think that there are so many men about, maybe some as close as the apple orchards behind our house, who desire to tear this little family apart. Harriet Exeter told me bounty hunters take babes from th
eir mothers’ breasts, then sell the little tykes down river. In almost all of these occurrences, mother and child never see one another again. Harriet also told me there are many children whose skin is far lighter in color than that of their mothers. Another great abomination of slavery, but one of which we rarely speak.

  Rachel rests on the trundle under the bed in my room. Her fever is high, and she has no interest in taking any sustenance. When I tell her she must, for her little girl’s sake, she gamely attempts to swallow the soup. Often, it comes up again.

  Mrs. Harrington is not happy with our guests. She prefers to pretend that they are not present and to thwart any efforts I might offer on their behalf. When I requested that she put up a quart of split peas to soak overnight so that Rachel and Chloe might have the hearty sustenance of winter pea soup, she claimed there were no peas among the provisions. I was certain there were at least two quarts of peas in the canning cupboard, and told her as much. But when I went into the cellar to retrieve them, I found there were none and was forced to admit she was right. Mrs. Harrington smiled for the first time since Rachel and Chloe’s arrival.

  October 27, 1858 (morning)

  Papa says we must find a way for Rachel and Chloe to leave tonight. Bills have been posted at the depot with their description and the offer of a large reward. It is also reported that Mr. Child (the one from Kentucky) has told Mr. Harrison Gray Otis that the fugitives are in Lexington. We cannot fathom how Mr. Child came upon this information, but we do know if fugitives are believed to be in Lexington, it will also be believed that they are at Harden House.