“She enjoys visitors when she’s feeling well.”
“The pneumonia was a nasty bout.”
“Yes, I didn’t see her for weeks. She needed more nursing care than we could give her on our unit.”
“Well, I know you’re taking good care of her now that she’s back.”
Elisa tried to feel her way. “When we have a few minutes together, Martha talks about her house. She knows I’m working for the church. She doesn’t know about
La Casa,
or doesn’t remember. But she likes to talk about the history of the house.”
“Yes, she lived there for many years.”
Elisa had hoped for more, although she wasn’t sure what, exactly. She didn’t want to tell Dovey what little she knew about Sarah and Jeremiah Miller and the slave named Dorie Beaumont. But if Dovey did have information, Elisa was hoping she might share.
“She knows quite a bit about the origins of the house,” Elisa said. “Did she tell you those stories?”
“I can’t say she did.” Dovey looked puzzled. “If she knew the history, you would think she’d have written it up for the church archives. To my knowledge, we have very little there.”
Elisa knew a dead end when she hit one. “Well, if I learn anything interesting, I’ll be sure to let somebody know.” It wasn’t true, but as lies went, it was not a large one.
“We’re glad you’re here, Elisa,” Dovey said. “You are a welcome addition.”
Elisa wondered how welcome she would be if anyone knew the truth about her.
Sam was glad that Mondays and Tuesdays were Elisa’s days off. Not seeing her when he returned from Atlanta had given him time to think about Christine and the changes in their relationship. He had tried to put Elisa out of his mind so he could focus on the future. He didn’t want to end his engagement because he was deeply attracted to another woman. He had no relationship with Elisa now and didn’t want to explore one until he was certain he and Christine had no hope of a happy marriage. He took his commitment to her seriously.
He wondered, though, if they had ever really been in love. Had he let attraction sway him, let the good life beckon him into an engagement that wasn’t right for either of them? He didn’t know, but he did know that just coming upon Elisa sitting with the other quilters had almost stopped him in his path. He had wanted nothing more than to find some excuse, any excuse, to ask how she was and what she had done while he was away.
When he returned from the beehive, Gracie handed him two messages. “Tilly Bratweiser wants another meeting of the youth advisory committee this afternoon. She wants to hold it in the teen lounge, probably to prove what terrible shape it’s in so she can insist it be remodeled to her liking. I’ll bet Elisa hasn’t cleaned it yet. She usually does it midweek. It takes longer than the other rooms.”
The teenagers had appropriated one of the larger rooms in the old Sunday school wing and furnished it with scraps of carpeting and cast-off sofas. It was a dust magnet, not to mention a haven for mice, whose interest was prompted by forgotten snacks and errant crumbs embedded between cushions. More than once the youth advisory committee had threatened to evict the teens. Elisa scrubbed and vacuumed the room as if it were a personal crusade. Clearly she had a fondness for adolescents, despite the behavior of some of the local teens.
Sam scanned the note and imagined sending Gracie, whose arthritic knee had kept her at home half of last week, in search of Elisa. There was no one besides himself to do it, no matter how much he had hoped to keep his distance from her. “I’ll ask her to get to it right after lunch,” he promised.
“The other one’s happier news. A wedding in the offing.”
Sam scanned that one, too, and saw that a couple he had met with had decided to tie the knot in a simple pre-Christmas wedding. No matter what transpired with Capital Chapel, he was sure he would still be at Community Church to perform the ceremony.
“Gracie, will you call them back and ask them to come in sometime next week to make the arrangements? And tell them I’m delighted.”
“You’ll find Elisa?”
“I’ll go find Elisa.”
“Done, then.” Gracie picked up the telephone.
By the time he returned, Elisa had left the beehive. She hadn’t stayed for lunch, and no one was sure where she’d gone. Back to work was all they knew.
Sam finally tracked her down in the social hall. She was spreading wax on the red oak planks, her hair pinned on top of her head, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up to her elbows. Under the circumstances, he wondered how she could look so lovely.
“Elisa?”
She didn’t turn at first. He thought her mind must be somewhere else. He moved closer. “Elisa?”
Startled, she turned. “Oh, Sam.” She took a deep breath. “I was a million miles away.”
He wondered exactly where she had been, but he didn’t ask. Not only wouldn’t she tell him, it was not a conversation he ought to start.
He looked down at the floor. “Will this take a while?”
“About an hour. I have to buff it before it dries completely.”
In as few words as possible, he explained why he was there.
“No problem. I’ll just switch doing the lounge today with something else. I’ll start as soon as I finish here and make sure it’s spic-and-span.”
“Good. I appreciate it.”
“Did your trip go well?”
“It went fine.”
“Your roses are blooming, and the garden’s beautiful. It would be perfect for a fall wedding right now, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s one scheduled next week. Hopefully it won’t rain.”
“I gather you don’t have any control over the weather?”
“I didn’t take that class in seminary.”
She smiled. He wanted to look away. Her smiles flipped switches inside him that badly needed to stay in the off position.
“I wanted to ask you about Kendra Taylor,” she said. “She seems, well, interested in what happened at
La Casa,
and I know she’s a reporter for the
Washington Post.
”
“She writes features.”
She pressed her lips together, as if trying to figure out what to say next. “She…is she planning a story? Do you know?”
“I think she’s just a woman who keeps her eyes open for anything her readers might find interesting.”
“Then you don’t think that’s why she came again today?”
“We had a counseling appointment.” His voice softened. “She wasn’t here for a story.” There was nothing else he could say without breaking a confidence. And there wasn’t much to say yet, anyway. Kendra was feeling her way, waiting, he thought, until she felt completely comfortable before she bared her soul. At the moment, all he knew was that she was not happy with her life, and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.
Elisa relaxed so visibly that he could see it happen. He wanted to ask her why it mattered, but she wouldn’t tell him. Besides, he didn’t want to sound as if he planned to be involved in her life.
He turned to go, but he felt her hand on his arm. Her fingertips barely touched his jacket, but he felt the touch in unrelated places and unrelated ways.
“Have I done something to upset you?” she asked. “Or are you just very busy catching up?”
His first response was to tell her she was imagining his withdrawal. But he wasn’t good at lying, nor did he want to be. How much of the truth could he tell her? He had never confessed his feelings, so how could he tell her he was fighting them?
He faced her, and her hand drifted to her side. “I’m going through some personal stuff. I guess I’m just trying to figure out my life. I seem to need space from you to do it.”
She searched his eyes. He was afraid that everything he
hadn’t
said was there for her to read. “Don’t make me part of any equation,” she said at last.
He knew he needed to nod and leave, or even to pretend he didn’t understand. He couldn’t make himself do either.
“Because you don’t want to be?” He heard the uncertainty, the catch, in his own voice. He heard himself uttering words he should never say. “Or because you can’t be?”
“Please don’t ask.”
“This is a conversation we shouldn’t be having.”
“I’m sorry. I just…” She shrugged.
He knew what she had wanted to say.
I just miss you.
He understood only too well.
This time he managed a nod. Right before he left.
Elisa’s next shift at the nursing home seemed to pass in slow motion. Throughout the long night she had done all that was required, but in her head she had constantly replayed Sam’s words and her own response.
She knew now that she was not the only one who felt the attraction sizzling between them. And she knew all too well how doomed any relationship was.
Martha had been asleep the first time Elisa went into her room that night. She had slept soundly through Elisa’s Monday shift, and they had not had an opportunity to talk. Elisa wondered if the hospital stay, then the stay on the nursing care wing, had helped Martha stop confusing day with night. If this was so, she would have to come visit the old woman some afternoon to see if she wanted to tell the rest of her story.
On her second visit to the room, however, Martha was wide awake, sitting up in bed, paging through a magazine. Elisa wondered if it was one that Dovey had brought on her visit yesterday.
“Miss Wisner?”
Martha looked up. She squinted in Elisa’s direction, then she smiled. “Sharon.”
Elisa had not expected this mistake a second time. She tried to smile. “No, I’m Elisa Martinez, your night nurse.”
“It is night, isn’t it? I just couldn’t sleep. I think I slept too much before.” She waved her hand weakly, as if she couldn’t remember when.
“I’m so glad to see you again. We missed you.”
“I was in the hospital, then…somewhere else.”
“That’s exactly right. After the hospital they moved you to a different wing right here, so you could have more care. But now that you’re feeling so much better, you’re back home.”
“This isn’t my home.”
Elisa was sorry she had used that word. “I know it doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”
“My home is behind Community Church. Do you know it?” She laughed. “Of course you do. What am I saying? You lived there as a little girl.”
“That must have been Sharon. I’m Elisa.”
Martha was frowning. “Didn’t I…? Didn’t I tell you…you know?”
Elisa moved across the room to sit beside her bed. “You told me about Sarah and Jeremiah Miller, and the night they found Dorie Beaumont in the rain.”
“I did!” Martha’s eyes glowed. “I remember. And I remember why. You found the room.”
“Yes, I did.”
“But I didn’t tell you more?”
“No, it was time for you to go back to sleep.”
“I’m not sleeping now.”
Elisa smoothed a wrinkle in Martha’s covers. “You certainly aren’t. I have a little time, unless someone calls me. Would you like to tell me the rest of it?”
“Oh, my dear, there’s too much to tell all at once.”
Elisa wondered if this was true, or if Martha just wanted to drag it out to help pass the time. “Whatever you want to tell me,” she said.
“Oh, good.” She was silent a moment. “Did I tell you how sick she was?”
Elisa settled in for the story. “No, you didn’t.”
“Very sick, you know. It’s a wonder she survived.”
May 25, 1853
My dearest Amasa,
So much has transpired since last I wrote that I am uncertain where to begin. First, I pray this letter finds you and your father well. I have not received a letter in many weeks, but, I know, as often happens, I will receive several upon Jeremiah’s next trip into town.
I no longer feel free to make that journey with my brother. The reason will be clear after I tell all that has happened.
I am sure you remember the story that had just begun to unfold. That night I sat beside the bed of our frail visitor, wiping her brow as fever shook her. Her illness was not unlike the one that took Jeremiah’s family, and I was frightened that I would not be able to affect its course. I was helpless as Rachel and my beloved niece and nephew succumbed to its evils. Only Jeremiah was helped by my ministrations, and I think he holds my aid against me, for I truly believe he wishes he could have perished with his family.
Dorie Beaumont is very thin, so slight that I feared the worst for her. But by morning she was taking sips of water, and while the fever did not break, it abated. Hope returned to my heart.
Near dawn, Jeremiah came into the sickroom to see if a new grave would be required. After helping to settle her in my bed, he had told me he would notify no one if she died, but bury her on the hillside with our Miller kin, where she would be free forever from enslavement or the taint of it.
Jeremiah stared at Dorie’s face, a lovely face even though it is gaunt and sad, and asked the question I knew he would. Why had this woman survived, when his plump, healthy Rachel had not? He does not want to talk of God’s will, even though the words never fly far from his thoughts.
By noon Dorie’s eyes had opened several times, never for long, never with comprehension. But by the time it was necessary for me to leave her and set food on the table (certainly not the large meal Jeremiah is accustomed to) she seemed to be sleeping deeply and comfortably.
I made haste to serve Jeremiah and flew back to the sickroom with my own meager dinner on a plate. When I arrived, Dorie was sitting on the edge of the bed, the quilt I had rescued from the porch and with which I had covered her gripped in her hands.
“This is not the quilt,” she said, although I cannot properly convey the way she said the words. With little strength, certainly. Her voice was halting and difficult to understand. Not because she doesn’t speak well. (She does.) But because she was still so very ill.
I bade her lie down, but she would not.
I approached to smooth her pillow and she cowered as if I meant to strike her.
I stood back and assured her I meant no harm. “But this is not the quilt,” she repeated.
“Do you want another?” I asked, in hopes that this simple kindness might calm her. I have many quilts, as you know, Amasa. My mother’s final years were spent stitching them when she could no longer find strength for much else. “I will bring another,” I promised our poor guest. “Only you must lie still and rest so that you will grow strong again.”
“The quilt.” She lifted her hands, the fabric gripped tightly within them. “The quilt. The centers are not black.”
The pattern of that quilt, Amasa, is that of squares surrounding squares. If it has a name, I know it not, being less a seamstress than most women. Each square surrounds one of Turkey red, a red that appears often in my mother’s quilts, since this color of poppies and sunsets was her favorite.
Seeking to understand, I pointed at a red square cocooned by strips of brown and dark blue sprigged calico. “This is not black?” I asked.
“Black. For safety. Black like a starless sky,” she said.
I pondered this, and at last I understood. “You were searching for such a quilt? You were searching for a house with such a quilt hung out to air?”
“Black,” she said softly. “Like night, when it is safest to travel.”
I understood then what she was trying to tell me, or perhaps to tell herself. In the darkness, in the storm, she had come across our home and seen Mother’s quilt draped on the bench across our porch. She believed she had found the house she sought, a house where she had been told she might be safely sheltered.
A house with a quilt of many black squares.
“You have found the wrong quilt but the right house,” I promised her. “We will tell no one of your presence. We will help you.”
“Are there others here like me?” she begged to know. “Have there been others?”
I was so ashamed, my dearest, to tell her there were none, nor ever had there been. We believe not in slavery, Jeremiah nor I. Our church, the same church in which you worshiped, believes it is a sin to hold any man or woman in bondage. Yet we have done nothing to assist our African sisters and brothers. Silently we decry the practice that has brought them to our shores, but Jeremiah and I offer no assistance nor speak out publicly. Some say that war will come of this one day, and perhaps it shall. But I think that had Dorie not arrived on our doorstep, we would not have been tested until war was upon us.
“You are the first,” I told her. “The first of many to come.” As I said this, I knew it must be true, and that Jeremiah and I must make it so.
I did not know that Jeremiah stood behind me until he spoke. “Promise nothing,” he admonished me, “except that this woman shall find no harm here. The rest is not our business.”
Jeremiah’s heart has been hardened. This you know. But to hear it spoken so clearly, to hear how sadly transformed he is since the death of his family, frightened me.
“I will speak only the truth,” I told him. “If others come, and they will if we speak of our commitment in the right places, then we will take them in. Or I will not remain.”
Jeremiah did not answer. He strode to the bedside and helped Dorie back under the quilt that had frightened her so. “The future matters not,” he told her. “It matters only that you must rest and recover until you are ready to travel again.”
She was soothed by his words as she had not been by mine. She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
“You must sleep,” he told me. “I will stay with her and make certain she takes no turn for the worse.”
I asked him then the question I had not yet been inspired to voice. “And what will come of her if the slave patrol is searching? Will you give her over to them so that we will be safe from their punishment and that of the law?”
“We will hide her,” he said, never once looking at me. His gaze was far away, somewhere no one else will ever go.
I had pondered this through the long night and found no answer. “There is no place they will not look,” I told my brother.
“They cannot look at that which they cannot see,” he said.
A week has passed since Jeremiah uttered those odd words, Amasa. And in those seven days my stern, brokenhearted brother has wrought such changes that sometimes I am uncertain, upon waking and going downstairs, that this is my childhood home.
In the week since Dorie held the quilt in her trembling hands, she has eaten and slept, but rarely spoken. As each day passes, however, she grows more confident that we want only for her to recover her strength so she can continue her journey to freedom.
She still is not well. As of yet I do not know if it was the enslavement or the journey out of it which has laid her so low. I am thin, but she is thinner. Her wrists are as narrow as reeds, her face is skin tightly stretched over bones like a sparrow’s. Her hair, which is only a little darker than my own, is lusterless. She coughs, and I fear she will never draw in another breath. But each day, I believe, she improves a bit.
Pray, Amasa, that the transformation of our home will be completed soon, and that until it is, no one will discover her presence. For if they searched for her now, I fear they would find her. If only she will grow stronger as her safety is secured here, so that soon she will be strong enough to hide without fear.
I will write again, and soon. I know, even though you are far away, that you are as sad and concerned as I am for Dorie’s fate.
With all my heart,
Sarah Miller