Treasure in a Tin Box (Wall of Silence Book 1)

by Dorey Whittaker

  Not accustomed to big city life, Grandma CeCe would let my mother wander around the building unattended—as she had been able to do back home in Georgia. But when Momma was thirteen years old, she was gang-raped in the broken lift by three boys no older than she was. This atrocity almost killed my grandpa. He felt that he had failed his baby girl by not protecting her; then he couldn’t even get justice for her. Knowing nothing would be done to those boys, Grandpa wanted to move his family out of the building, but with so few available buildings open to blacks, they were forced to stay put. Two months later, they realized that I was on the way.

  Fearing for their safety and feeling powerless, Grandpa ordered my grandmother and momma never to leave the apartment when he was away at work.

  My Grandmother CeCe had been a third-generation slave from a small plantation just outside of Decatur, Georgia, and she believed in lots of things. Most were remnants of fables and superstitions handed down through other slaves, but her one driving belief was, “If the whites believe it, then I will not.” It did not matter to her how obvious the facts were; she refused to think like whites. Her attitude brings to mind an old idiomatic phrase: throwing out the baby with the bath water. The trouble was, I was that baby.

  According to her beliefs, my life was over before it began. Everything in my grandmother’s world convinced her that I was cursed. I was born on July 28, 1897, the day of a partial eclipse. Grandmother CeCe believed the gods were angry, and the eclipse was their warning. It did not matter what the white scientists were saying, she knew better. While everyone else in the city was excited to see this event, Grandmother stayed indoors lest the gods see her and take out their anger on her.

  Grandpa Samuel did not have the luxury of staying inside that day. He was a welder on the Second Avenue Bridge and had never missed a day of work. Grandmother warned him he was going to draw too much attention to himself. She believed his working up so high on the bridge during the gods’ angry display was just asking for their rage to be poured down on his family. Grandpa went anyway—a decision she would never forget and never forgive.

  Not only was I born during the partial eclipse, I had the misfortune, according to my grandmother, of being born on a Wednesday as well. She believed the day you were born destined you. She didn’t care where her supposed “truth” originated; if it had been around for years, it must be true. When Grandma was young, she served as a house slave, caring for the youngest children of her master. One of her responsibilities was to memorize nursery rhymes and entertain the little ones. One of these rhymes, which was called “Monday’s Child,” had been published in 1838 and had quickly become a popular way to teach children the days of the week. The Mother Goose rhyme went like this:

  Monday’s child is fair of face,

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

  Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

  Thursday’s child has far to go,

  Friday’s child is loving and giving,

  Saturday’s child works hard for a living,

  But the child that is born on the Sabbath day

  Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

  After years of repeating this nursery rhyme, it had become truth to my grandmother. I was born on a Wednesday during a partial eclipse, and I was a child of rape. To my grandmother, I was the embodiment of evil, and she wanted me to die so her gods would stop looking at her family. My mother, who was only fourteen years old at the time of my birth, wanted nothing to do with me either. While the midwife cared for my mother, my grandmother wrapped me in a birthing cloth and carried me up to the roof of our tenement and laid me out to die in full view of her angry gods.

  I was left unattended on that roof for several hours, but just as the sun was setting, Grandpa Samuel returned home, found out what Grandma had done and came to my rescue—a routine he would perform many times throughout my life. Although he could not convince my grandmother she was wrong about me, he demanded that I be cared for. Neither my mother nor my grandmother wanted anything to do with me and had not even bothered to name me. Angry at his wife for being so superstitious, at sunset Grandpa picked me up and returned to the rooftop. In full view of grandmother’s angry gods, he shouted to the open sky, “See this child, this beautiful boy? I give him my name, Tobias Samuel Bascom. He is not responsible for how he came to be. He is not evil. He is innocent, and I love him. I am his grandfather, and I will protect this boy. May his days be many and may his heart be strong. May his courage meet all that life will bring to him; may he never live a single day without knowing he is loved.”

  My grandpa repeated this prayer to the universe many times during my young life. It became our ritual every night when he tucked me into bed. Fifty years have passed since I have heard his booming voice repeat it, but I can close my eyes and still hear his love-filled voice pleading on my behalf. Although my mother and grandmother remained cold toward me during those first seven years of my life, Grandpa Samuel was bigger than life to me. No boy could ever have had a better role model.

  While living in Grandpa’s house, the subject of slavery was seldom discussed. Once in a while some of the men at the city park would begin to share their stories, but Grandpa would always pull me away and say, “Those are not stories for young ears.” I often questioned him about his past, but he would scowl and say, “Life is hard enough worrying about what lies ahead of you, Toby Boy. There is no benefit in reliving the past.”

  Although I loved him, there was so much about him I did not know. As a young child, I was taught to fear the gods of my grandmother. She blamed me for every bad thing that touched our family, and I believed I had been cursed. Even though my grandfather loved me and did not believe in the gods of my grandmother, neither did he believe in the white man’s God. He had been born and reared on the Stewart Plantation in Atlanta, Georgia, and the master told all the slaves that the white man’s God demanded absolute obedience from the slaves. When I was a very young boy, this was the only topic which ever caused my grandfather to mention the subject of slavery.

  Whenever a street preacher would approach Grandpa Samuel, he would grab hold of my hand tightly and say, “Tobias, he is talking about the white man’s God. That god did not care about us so we don’t care about him.”

  Since I loved and respected my grandfather, I did not question his opinion. His opinions were my opinions. Although Grandpa refused to talk about his experiences, he did try to help me understand why my grandmother was the way she was. I was four years old the first time Grandpa told me her story. “Toby Boy, your Grandma CeCe was born into slavery, set free at the age of thirteen, but then she was left on her own, without any family or education. She about starved that first year and did menial labor until she met and married me. She is a hard-working woman, Toby, and she deserves to be respected. Without any education, she has struggled to get by. Her superstitions are her rule-book for life. It is all she knows.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Brother Jubilee Comes A Calling

  TOBIAS WAS STARTLED back to the present by the porter’s walking through the car announcing the dining car was now open for breakfast. Of course, no one from the Colored Car could actually enter the dining car, but they were able to walk back to the snack counter to purchase food and drink. Ruth bent down and lifted the brown bag of goodies she had prepared for them. Tobias smiled as he studied his wife and thought, “No one can bake lighter-than-air croissants like my Ruth. Before she took that job in the hospital bakery, I didn’t even know what a croissant was.”

  Trying to shake off the memory of his birth and focus on the goodies before him, he took hold of Ruth’s hand, bent down close to her and asked a blessing on their breakfast. True to form, Ruth leaned forward and tapped the shoulder of the gentleman sitting in front of them, “Sir, would you like a bite to eat?”

  The man’s first reaction to being touched was anger, but as he turned and saw Ruth, he quickly smiled and said, “That’d be nice, thanks.”

  Tobias sm
iled as he watched Ruth unwrap a freshly baked blueberry muffin and hand it forward. What that gentleman saw in Ruth’s face was the same thing Tobias had been seeing in her face since the first day he had met her when he was seven years old—love, compassion, gentleness, and not one stitch of judgment. Tobias smiled again as he thought, “Oh, how I love this woman.”

  After they finished their breakfast, Ruth asked, “Honey, would you mind trading seats with me? I would like to chat with the woman sitting across the aisle.”

  Tobias smiled, grabbed his box, and slid over to the window seat. As he stared out at the landscape flying by, he couldn’t help but think about his Grandpa Samuel, way back in 1886, taking his family to New York on these same tracks. Oh, the train cars were different, but the open fields could not have been much different for him. Sitting there, Tobias tried to imagine what his grandfather was feeling the day he took this train ride.

  Grandpa was a kind, caring, hard-working man, and he was careful not to talk against the woman he loved. Tobias reviewed what he knew about those first two years of his life. He understood that he was never taken out of the apartment because Grandma CeCe believed that taking him outside was daring her gods to show their anger that he was still alive. Thankfully, inside the apartment, Grandma CeCe tried to be kind to him. His momma, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with him. By the time he had turned two, his sixteen-year-old mother had moved out of the apartment. With this thought, Tobias slid back into his past. Once again his mind drifted back in time.

  My earliest memories began when I was around three years old. I remember when the weather was good and Grandpa had a day off, he would take me out of the apartment. We would sit on the front stoop, and he would talk with the other men from the building. I remember sitting on his lap with his huge arms around me and the sound of his deep, booming laugh that shook my whole body. I have such sweet feelings attached to this memory. I can close my eyes and remember how it felt when Grandpa would place his large hand on my chest and pull me back against his chest and whisper in my ear, “Toby Boy, you are my boy, and I love you.”

  Grandma and Momma usually just called me “Boy.” By the time I was aware of things around me, Momma was seldom there, and when she was, I didn’t much like it. She would smell funny and use bad words to Grandma. She seldom came around when Grandpa was home, so Grandma received the brunt of her anger. I was glad that she ignored me. I think she simply pretended I didn’t exist.

  I was not treated badly; I was simply ignored by everyone except Grandpa. When Grandpa was home, I was on his lap. Until I turned four, he would even eat his dinner with me on his lap. I remember his telling me all about how they built his huge bridge. He would draw pictures of the bridge and show me exactly where he was working. On my fifth birthday, Grandpa took me on the trolley all the way to the Second Avenue Bridge. I remember how proud I felt, seeing that big bridge and knowing my grandpa had helped build it. Once it was built, the construction company kept Grandpa on the payroll as an inspector and spot welder. He pointed out how high up he had to climb in order to make sure the side-strappings were securely in place. “Toby Boy, it takes me one whole year to climb over every inch of that bridge, make my repairs and fill out my reports.” Then he would start the same process all over again. On the way back home, we stopped in at the big library, and Grandpa pulled out a big picture book and laid it on a table. He opened it up and showed me pictures of all kinds of bridges. He explained how they were built over fast-moving rivers, and I was so proud of my grandpa.

  Every evening Grandpa would work with me on my letters and numbers. He told stories of when he was a young boy, and how his sister, Pearl, had taught him all of the letters and numbers she had learned. At first, he didn’t understand why it was so important to Pearl, but she had insisted, so he did it. He said the first word he ever learned how to write was his own name. “Toby Boy,” he would say, “it is important to know how to read and write. It will open up doors for you.”

  I was so proud when someone in the building came knocking on our door, asking my grandpa to read a letter or notice he had received. He was held in high regard, and well I knew it.

  Before I came along, our building had been exclusively black. As with most buildings, when housing became more and more scarce, owners began blending different nationalities in the buildings. Even then, they did try to keep us separated by floors. The Jewish families preferred the first-floor units because most of them worked out of their apartments, and customers did not want to walk up three or four flights of stairs to reach their tailor. Since the top floors were the cheapest, we always lived on the top floor. The Irish and the Italians usually kept to themselves, and we were glad. Regardless of your ethnic background, you learned that living in the tenements of New York City meant following one universal rule: “Mind your own business.” The police were never interested in what went on inside the tenements, so the renters were on their own. The Irish and the Italians had clubs or large families that would come to their aid, so you learned quickly it was neither wise nor safe to provoke them.

  Our building was sandwiched between two larger tenements on either side. By the time I was old enough to walk around with Grandpa, my momma had been gone for almost two years. Grandpa simply called her “Girl.” We seldom talked about her because, by Grandpa’s own admission, he had not handled my momma’s problems well. His guilt for failing to protect my momma drove a wedge between them, and she began to run with a wild crowd. She would not listen to my grandparents—even when they threatened to send her back to Georgia. She seldom came around, and when she did, I didn’t like the shouting.

  Life in the tenement was full of rules, and Grandpa made sure I knew them. The earliest rule I can remember was, “Mind your own business, boy.” On the rare occasions when Grandpa had a day off work, we walked to the park. I remember seeing something happening, and Grandpa Samuel yanked my arm and said, “Mind your own business, boy. You don’t see anything, and you don’t remember anything.” I knew having a “blind eye” bothered Grandpa, but rules were rules.

  One day, when I was four, Grandpa and I walked out of the apartment and down the hallway to the sometimes unlocked lift and saw a man stealing our neighbor’s tool chest. Grandpa repeated this phrase to me loud enough for the thief to hear. As he pulled the lift gate closed, he bent down and said, “Do you know why I said that so loud, Toby Boy?”

  I shook my head and answered, “No.”

  “Because I needed him to know that you and I were not a threat to him so he would leave us alone. That man lives on the second floor of our building, and he knows he will have those tools sold within the hour. The police won’t do anything to him because it is one black man’s word against another’s. Without the tool chest as evidence, I would just be putting my family in danger.”

  Even as a small child, I knew this admission hurt Grandpa, but I also knew I was to say nothing. He was a proud man who knew he could not protect his family. Even though I never thought of him as such, oh, how it must have hurt him to look like a coward in my eyes.

  After dinner Grandpa would bring out the large tablet and a box of pencils he always kept on the sideboard. I would climb up onto his lap, and we would trace my letters as I called out their names. One night Grandpa forgot his rule about not speaking about the past, and I was certainly not going to remind him. As we traced the letter P, Grandpa said, “P is the first letter of my sister Pearl’s name.” As he took the pencil and spelled out his sister’s name, Grandpa Samuel’s eyes kind of glazed over as his mind traveled back in time. “Toby, Pearl and her twin sister, Ruby, are three years younger than I am. When Pearl turned eight, the missus of the house decided that Pearl should learn to read and write. Toby, this was never done. It was actually against the law to teach slaves how to read and write, but Ms. Victoria did not care about laws when they interfered with her plans. Our Momma Hannah was the house cook but she could not read or write, which meant that Ms. Victoria had to sit in th
e hot kitchen and write out the shopping list for Momma. Ms. Victoria hated this task and her daughter, Miss Elizabeth, refused to do it.

  “My sister, Pearl, was sharp as a tack,” Grandpa smiled as he said this. “Ms. Victoria always used to say this to our Momma. Pearl loved letters and words and was an eager student, but the tutor Ms. Victoria hired to teach her own children was not so eager to teach a black child. She was hard and mean to my sister, but the pay was good. Besides, Pearl had no choice in the matter.”

  Grandpa caught himself and realized he had been talking about their time as slaves and abruptly stopped. “Toby, regardless of how it came about, my sister Pearl was a good student and later, she became a good teacher. She was determined that I would also learn how to read and write, and when Ms. Pearl was determined, it was so.”

  I remember trying to imagine what this Ms. Pearl looked like. Was she big and strong like my grandpa? I knew Grandpa did not have any pictures of his family—at least none that he had ever been willing to share with me. Even as a four-year-old, I knew better than to ask questions. Grandpa never got angry with me; he would simply say, “Maybe some other time, Toby, when you are a little older.”

  By the time I turned five, I could print all of my letters, and I could count to one hundred. I knew Grandpa was proud of me, and that knowledge made me feel special.

  Two weeks after my fifth birthday, Grandpa was injured on the job. For almost a month twice a week, Grandma took the train to see him in the hospital. I was not allowed to go see him, so I was left with a neighbor. I was told he would never walk again. My big, strong Grandpa, who had built the Second Avenue Bridge all by himself, would never walk again. The bridge had been his life. He loved being the inspector-welder. He was now in his early fifties, but he loved his work and was proud of his bridge—as he always called it. He had been inspecting way out on the tresses when the weather suddenly shifted, and as he began making his way back, he lost his grip and fell. His safety harness stopped his fall, but the snap broke his back. Grandpa hung there for thirty minutes before the other workers were able to get him down.