Endless Chain (30 page)

She relived her conversation with Judy. Before this, there had been two hopeful signs her brother was alive. A boy had been seen hanging around the home of old friends of her father’s in Manzanillo, a Mexican resort town, only to vanish several days before the friends returned from an extended holiday in Arizona. Then there had been a photograph taken at a funeral in Mexico City for a prestigious colleague of Gabrio’s, and a young man on the third row who looked exactly like she thought her brother might look now. She had seen the photograph herself on the Internet. She knew.

The evidence was subjective. Both Manzanillo and Mexico City were places Ramon might well have thought to look for her. But Ramon was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with honey-colored skin like hers. That did not make him unique in Latin America. Hope and imagination went hand in hand. Like her, the people who had given her this information wanted to believe Ramon was still alive. There were additional trustworthy people both in Mexico and the United States who were watching for her brother.

Now she considered alternatives. She could banish hope, accept the fact that she would never see her brother again and plan the rest of her life accordingly. Or she could continue to believe he was alive somewhere, that somehow they would find each other. Perhaps here, perhaps through a network of trusted friends like Judy, who had tried to help from the beginning. Someday Ramon would trust one of those friends long enough to discover her whereabouts.

And this, in the end, was what she had to believe. Because believing her brother was dead was too terrible to bear.

By the time she walked through the nursing home door, she was able to greet her colleagues with a smile. She answered questions about her week and assured everyone she felt well enough to take her shift. She admired the new charcoal sketches rendered by residents that were now displayed in the hallway and reception area. She did the crossover with Kathy, read a week’s worth of notes, and listened sympathetically to the sad story of another departing aide who had just been jilted by her boyfriend.

She was glad to have work to do. She lingered longer than usual in every room as she checked on patients, adjusting blinds and bedcovers, straightening night tables, adding ice to bedside water pitchers that really didn’t need it. She kept busy so she wouldn’t have to relive her conversation with Judy, but it was Martha Wisner who finally took her mind off the telephone call.

Martha was standing by the window when Elisa entered her room. She turned, squinting as if she wasn’t wearing her glasses, although she was. “Sharon?”

Elisa had come to expect this, but as always, she was disconcerted. “No, I’m Elisa. How are you, Miss Wisner?”

Martha frowned. “You do look so much like Sharon. Have I called you that before?”

“That’s all right. She was someone you were close to once, wasn’t she?”

Martha considered. “My niece,” she said at last. “But maybe she’s gone now. I’m not sure….”

Elisa had found that most patients suffering from dementia preferred to cover up the things they didn’t know. She was touched that Martha had shared her uncertainty. “She lives on in your heart,” she said. “She would be glad, I’m sure.”

“You’ve been gone.”

Elisa was encouraged. “Yes, I was sick.” She saw Martha found that troubling and hurried to explain. “Just sick enough to worry about not spreading any unnecessary germs. Nothing serious. And I’m nearly well now.”

“Well, that’s good. Very good.” Martha pursed her lips, as if trying to remember exactly why. “Oh, I know. I wanted to tell you more of my story!”

“I’m so glad you remembered.”

“I’ve been waiting for you.” Martha made her way to an armchair in the corner. “Can you sit with me a little while?”

Elisa was glad to. She perched on the edge of the chair across from Martha. “When you’re done, I’ll get you something to snack on. You should try to go to sleep soon.”

“Oh, I will. But I’ve been waiting every night to see you.”

Elisa wasn’t certain this was true, but she thought the fact Martha had remembered her and remembered talking to her was a hopeful sign. “I look forward to this time together.”

“Exactly the way Sarah looked forward to Amasa’s letters. Did I tell you that I know so much of what happened so long ago because of those letters?”

“These letters, Miss Wisner, do you know what happened to them?”

Martha smiled. “Amasa was a lucky man. Sarah loved him very much.”

June 1, 1853

My dear Amasa,

Your recent letters were even more welcome than the rain that will bring life to Jeremiah’s newly planted cornfields. Upon his return from town, Jeremiah presented me with three, a treasure beyond price. I will not allow myself to savor all at once and have read only the first.

Now I am almost frightened to open the others, since the news from Lynchburg is growing sadder. I pray for your father in his last days, and for you, as you do his work at the forge and care for him. Calvin Stone is a good man, and the fact that he is not afraid to die affirms what I know of him, that his heart is pure and his life was led without shame. How many can say the same?

I almost smile when I think how little I once had to report. In my letters I told you of birds nesting in my favorite tree, of the black bear with twin cubs who regularly visited our apple orchard, of people from the church who asked to be remembered to you. Now there is so much to tell, I will leave the smaller things for you to imagine. Suffice it to say that the weather has been kind since the storm that brought Dorie to us, and despite our guest and our worries, we have accomplished much.

In my last letter I told you that Dorie seldom spoke. This has changed, and we now know much about her life. Oh, Amasa, it is all so very sad. I will tell it quickly and know you will understand the things I have no wish to put on paper.

Dorie was born in Augusta County to the cook for a wealthy family with land and many enslaved persons to do the work. Her mother was regarded as an asset, and Henry Beaumont, who claimed ownership of her, treated her as well as a person in such circumstances might expect to be treated. Dorie is probably almost twenty years old, and although she does not know her father’s name, she does know he was one of many guests in the Beaumont home.

Dorie was brought up as a maid and companion to the Beaumonts’ youngest daughter Bertha, and although the law forbade the family to educate her, she was present in the schoolroom where Bertha’s tutor, a Maryland woman with abolitionist sympathies, made certain to teach Dorie, as well. In this, Dorie and I have a bond. Both of us were educated above our lot in life. Me by an educated mother, Dorie by the sympathetic and secretive tutor.

The Beaumont family expected Dorie to remain at Bertha’s side forever, intending to present her as a gift to their daughter upon her marriage to a local attorney and landowner. Instead, Dorie fell in love with a free man named Silas Green, who hired his services as a carpenter and came to the Beaumont estate to oversee the building of a new barn. When he asked for Dorie’s hand in marriage and for the right to buy her from them, the Beaumonts were outraged and ordered him off their property.

Weeks later Silas and Dorie married secretly (as slaves are often forced to) and without clergy. Dorie believed if she promised to remain Bertha’s maid, eventually she could persuade the Beaumonts to allow her to marry Silas and purchase her freedom.

As you might guess, Dorie found herself with child, and when Henry Beaumont discovered all that had transpired, he locked her in the smokehouse with no food and little water. When she was finally set free, she learned that Silas had disappeared.

Dorie is certain her husband was murdered. Others who saw a band of men riding toward his cabin on the night Dorie was imprisoned have told her there is no reason to hope. After the men’s departure, Silas’s cabin was gone, burned to the ground and most probably he with it. As punishment, Dorie was sent to live above the wash house and toil in the yard over the boiling kettle while she waited to give birth.

Dorie’s child was born five months later, a girl she named Marie. When Marie was two, she was plucked from Dorie’s arms and sold with others from the Beaumont estate to a tobacco plantation in Maryland. So that they no longer were forced to witness her despair, Dorie’s services were loaned to a family in Harrisonburg with the promise that if there were good reports of her year there, she would next be sent to Staunton to serve Bertha and her husband.

Instead Dorie bided her time until the new family believed she had grown both docile and obedient. Then, on the darkest night of the month, she ran away.

Oh, Amasa, I have no words for the pain in her eyes when she talks about being separated so cruelly from her daughter. She knows where the little girl was sent, having risked everything before her exile to Harrisonburg to steal into Henry Beaumont’s study to find the sale papers. She can read and understand maps. She learned from others how to stay alive on her journey and who might help her. She prepared as best she could, packing food, even forging papers that claimed she had been recently freed (although it is doubtful that any who read such a document would believe it to be true).

Before we found her, Dorie had been on her journey for four weeks, and she was nearly captured twice. Jeremiah is certain there are handbills in every town in the valley describing her and seeking her return. He has seen one such in our own little burg. For the most part she walked the mountain ridges, staying far from settlements and using the stars as guidance. Several times near the beginning she was moved from one safe place to another by people who were willing to help. She has hidden in caves and in the cellars of vineyards.

She came to us because she was told that when she reached Mauertown, she must look for certain landmarks that would guide her to safety. My heart is brightened that someone not far away is taking in men and women, even families, who are escaping injustice. In the storm and with illness dragging at her, she was badly lost and mistook our house for theirs because of Mama’s quilt. But by God’s grace she was not led astray.

Jeremiah has finished her hiding place, and even I, who have lived in this house all my life, would have difficulty discerning it. Dorie knows how to secrete herself there, if need be, and I am adept at swiftly moving shelves into position and jars to cover their width. The room is dank and narrow, but it is freedom’s home.

Jeremiah surprises me, Amasa. From the beginning, he was willing to act to save Dorie, but with a willingness born of conscience alone. He was troubled by her presence and the demands it made of him. He wanted only to live his life in silence and despair.

Now, once again, he is becoming aware that there are people who have suffered more than he. While extending shelter to Dorie, he has extended a new and tender regard for her that swells my heart with pride. Upon hearing Dorie’s story for the first time, he resolved to help her find Marie, for he fears that a child so young might change hands many times before she grows to be a useful member of a slave owner’s family.

Jeremiah has convinced Dorie to let him make inquiries before she leaves us. I believe he is reluctant to see her go. She has brought new life to our home, and although he would never express it, I think her quiet, feminine ways remind him of Rachel. Dorie’s love for her daughter reminds him of his wife, as well. These good memories restore his heart.

I have prayed for something to bring Jeremiah back to us, and Dorie is God’s answer.

I will close now. With these words go my deepest affection.

Always with you,

Sarah Miller

June 4, 1853

Dearest Amasa,

I was about to seal this letter so I could read your next (a childish game I play with myself), when all manner of excitement occurred here. I am sorry to tell you none of it bodes well for us or for Dorie. I will set it on paper now but have no hope that this letter will make its way to town in the coming days, for even if a neighbor stops by, I cannot entrust these pages to anyone. Jeremiah is now afraid to leave even for so long as half a day, a justified fear, I am sorry to say. I will explain.

Last night Dorie and I were sitting on the porch, taking our ease as the sun sank in the sky. I reread my letter to you as Dorie read our Bible. She is fascinated by the story of Moses and the Promised Land. I, too, find the similarities uplifting. Since the Fugitive Slave Law was enacted, the Promised Land for Dorie and other enslaved peoples is Canada. How sad that there is no place in this fertile valley where she can live undisturbed. Tell me, Amasa, of what do we have to be proud if we cannot defend the rights of all people to live without fear?

I was so absorbed in what I had written that the barking of our dogs soon became a familiar noise like that of crickets or bullfrogs by the creek. I will confess I imagined you opening the letter, your hands stroking the paper and your smile blooming slowly. Lost in this reverie, I wasted precious seconds. Dorie herself woke me from it.

“Horses,” she said. “More than one. They’re coming quick.”

I looked up, and in a moment I realized she was right. And what a start this gave me.

Jeremiah was out in the barn, and I knew that even if he heard our visitors, he could not travel the distance from barn to house before their arrival.

With one mind, Dorie and I ran inside to the shelves where our dishes and staples are kept. We moved what we had to, lifted two shelves and pushed open the door. Dorie escaped inside and left me with the task of returning everything to its place with hands that trembled badly enough I nearly broke a dish.

We have all grown careless here. What reason is there to suspect this little family of harboring a runaway? Even as Jeremiah fashioned the secret room, I had little thought we might use it. As I returned to the porch, I saw our Bible on one chair and my letter to you (a letter that speaks clearly of our guilt) lying on the next. I closed the Bible and slipped your letter inside, holding it against me as three men drew close to the house. As they slowed their mounts I wondered what other signs of Dorie’s presence I had left in the open for all to see. An item of clothing that was clearly not mine? The trundle bed made up as it would be if a guest were here?

Of course I knew the latter might not be apparent to men like these. These are creatures who could never fathom my delight in having Dorie close at night, her soft, even breathing a reassurance that she grows stronger. If they believe Jeremiah and I harbor Dorie or others like her, they believe we exile her to the barn or the chicken coop, not keep her safe in our home and hearts.

A more scurrilous lot of men I have never encountered. The dogs barked and nipped at the heels of their mounts as if they, too, suspected the worst. One man raised a whip to beat Blue, until I told him that if he harmed one dog, I could not be responsible for what the other four might do to him.

In truth, as you know, our dogs are a useless pack, more adept at lying in the sun than guarding us. But the man, who did not know this, lowered his whip.

I called Blue, and all the dogs moved closer to the porch. There they remained, snarling, between me and the men, their round canine eyes suspicious. For once I felt well protected.

I will endeavor to report our conversation, such as it was.

“We’re looking for a slave girl,” the biggest of the three declared. “Name of Dorie.”

I should describe the slave patrol briefly. The spokesman was large enough to do damage to any horse unlucky enough to be saddled by him. He was nearly toothless, but this has not deterred him from eating, for doubtless, he has consumed enough food in his lifetime to feed several others.

The second was not a young man, but wiry and strong, and his watery gaze never stopped darting to shadows and windows, as if he expected Dorie to materialize momentarily. The third was hardly more than a boy, but he had already learned the insolent sneer of the others. Unlike them, he stared only at me, as if to curdle my blood or reduce me to the vapors.

“Why have you come here?” I demanded. “No one has ever suspected us of harboring fugitives.”

“You seen her?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“We are law-abiding citizens,” said I. (And we are, dear Amasa. God’s law, of course, takes precedence always.)

I had been afraid to take my eyes from the men. Luckily I saw a movement beyond their loathsome circle and knew Jeremiah had joined us. I am not a brave soul, and relief flooded me.

“Good evening,” my brother said calmly. “What brings you here this night?”

The large man explained again. Jeremiah listened without interest. “There is no one here except those who belong here,” he said. “And no reason for you to tarry.”