by Denise Daisy
It’s sweltering in the small hovel. I’m miserable, and the suspicious glares of Lunar’s brothers do nothing to calm my nerves. I sit up straight, exemplifying perfect posture, hoping I might come across as self-assured and intimidating instead of crazy. It doesn’t take long before Emily draws me into their plans, ignoring their obvious disapproval of my involvement.
“This is where you come in, dear.” She reaches over and touches my hand. “All this is done quite simply, really. I utilize secret passages running through my home. Escapees are invited to spend the night, escorted upstairs to the unused bedrooms on the third floor.” Her involvement is a blatant disrespect of her parent’s trust, yet I believe her actions are justifiably righteous.
“Tonight at ten.” She begins laying out her plan. “Exit your room through the grand mirror. Pull on the bottom left of the frame. It will open. Take the stairway down and follow the passageway to the end. It will lead you to the carriage house. Lunar will deliver the cargo to you there. Take them up the passageway to the third floor, sixth door on the left. It will be marked Bed 23- bookcase. It empties through bookshelves into a bedroom. I will have provisions waiting for them in there. Tell them to sleep. At four in the morning, escort them back to the carriage house. Jeb will meet you and take them from there.”
I hope no one sees me trembling. I can’t do this. I simply can’t go traipsing through that foreboding mansion in the dead of night. What if I am caught? What then? I want to protest, but they are waiting for my response, skepticism carved on everyone’s face except Emily’s. I am not sure why she thinks I am so wonderful, but she does have complete confidence in me. I do hate to let her down, but I am ready to give a valid reason why I shouldn’t participate, like blame the nonexistent baby growing in my womb, when Jeb speaks up.
“Naomi died last night. She died feelin’ real proud knowin’ you took up for her. She left this world knowin’ there are some good white folks who care ’bout us.”
“Was it my fault?” is all I can say, remembering Potbelly made her walk home because of what I did.
“You meant well, ma’am.” His words fall like a gavel on a judge’s bench, convicting me of her death. My face burns hot in shame as the small room falls quiet.
“Maybe I shouldn’t help,” I manage to squeak out. “I’m afraid I might do more harm than good.”
“We do the best we can,” Lunar says. “You gotta pick your battles, and when you’re pickin’, only pick ones you think you can win. You ain’t ever gonna succeed goin’ up against someone like Mr. Butler in public. Our best fighting is done in secrecy. We triumph by not drawing attention to our plight.”
He’s right. With unwavering conviction, he looks me in the eye. It’s then I notice his resemblance to Quillan.
“I trust Miss Emily’s judgment,” he continues. “If she says you got a good heart, then I believe her. But you different, that fo’ sure. And in a way, it scares the hell outa me ’cause I can see you causin’ a lot of trouble. This ain’t some game. Its life and death. The Underground Railroad is dangerous work. Any of us will hang if we get caught…”
I hear nothing else after that. I know why Lunar was hung. It has nothing to do with him being in love with Emily. I want to tell Quillan about my discovery, but unfortunately he is sitting in church. I agree to help tonight and for the remainder of this month, if they need me. I’ll do what I can. It may be the only way I can prevent Lunar from being caught and hung, giving Quillan his chance at life. There is so much at stake, my heart thunders. I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
“I understand,” I say. Lunar stares at me in silence. Both of us searching each other’s soul. The way I once envisioned Lunar Wilson, swinging from the mighty oak, is nothing how I picture it now. Today, it turns my stomach and terrifies me in an entirely different way. Before, he was a just a creepy legend, a haunting story I pushed to the back of my mind. Now, he stands before me in the flesh, full of life and hope. Lunar has a heart that fuels his passion for a better life, and at the same time burns with love for Emily. Our inspection of each other has gone on far too long. He swallows hard. I think I spook him by the way I am looking at him.
We make it back to the house in plenty of time. I sit on the front porch, sipping lemonade and fanning my face, faking morning sickness. I am happy when I see Quillan riding up the cobblestone driveway in the Faulkners’ carriage. His lips melt into a grin when he sees me. Call me a romantic, but that’s a damn indication to me he’s relieved I’m back. A warm feeling spreads inside my belly, but then a cold realization I will never be with him quenches the burning. My excitement fades. Tears well up from deep down inside my heart. I keep them back. Now is not the time.
Pearl surprises us with a picnic basket full of goodies. Elizabeth suggests Quillan and I go have our lunch down by the pond. I’m thrilled we will be dining alone.
Quillan lays out our quilt in a patch of thick clover under one of the big oaks. I unload our basket and wonder how Pearl fit all this food inside such a small container. I pull out a spread of fried chicken, potato salad, bread-and-butter pickles, collard greens, deviled eggs, slices of watermelon, and peach cobbler. No more faking morning sickness, I am digging in.
Quillan reclines and eats, lying on his side. He’s more enticing than the meal, so I try putting my attention on other things, like the beautiful lily pads floating on the water or fish bobbing up to nibble on plants growing near the surface. Despite my efforts, I can feel his eyes on me. I don’t want him knowing I can sense his stare, so I act oblivious, giving him my best side as I innocently stare out over the water, careful not to chew with my mouth open.
“How come you won’t admit you like Mike?” Quillan’s question startles me.
“What?” I say, as a piece of my deviled egg falls out of my mouth.
“It’s obvious you have feelings for him. Is it your fear that keeps you from letting him know?”
I swallow the rest of my egg and dab the corners of my mouth with my linen napkin. “How is it obvious I have feelings for Mike? Which I don’t, by the way.”
Quillan takes a bite off a chicken leg and grins. “You dressed up for dinner and sat in on the meal, even though you were scared to death. You did it for Mike.”
“I did it because I desperately needed money,” I launch into my own defense. “Yes, Mike talked me into it, and yes, I wanted to help him out, but that’s only because we are best friends.”
“It’s your scapegoat,” Quillan accuses me. “It’s easy to settle for the best friend’s theory because you are afraid if you take the risk and let Mike know how you really feel, he will reject you. Except, I don’t think he would. I saw the way he tended to you at dinner. I think he likes you, too. I know how guys think. We’re afraid of getting our hearts broken, too. Mike’s afraid of rejection.”
I laugh out loud at that one. “Mike is never rejected. He has a line of girls waiting to go out with him. He’s the heartbreaker, believe me.”
“You’re saying he can have any girl he wants?”
“Basically, yes. He does have them for a while but always finds something wrong with them and tosses them to the curb.”
Quillan shakes his head and laughs. “Oh, Averie, you are blind to the truth.”
“What?” I’m confused. “Blind to what?”
“You said Mike always finds something wrong with the girls he goes out with, right?”
“Yes.” I laugh at the thought. “He broke up with a beautiful girl because he said her breath stunk too much. He broke up with the homecoming queen because he didn’t like a certain pair of yellow tennis shoes she owned. He broke up with the head cheerleader because her laugh was too high-pitched, and he broke up with another girl because she pronounced caramel wrong.” I’m laughing pretty hard now. Quillan is staring a hole through me, probably thinking I’m nuts, but Mike’s reasons for breaking up always crack me up. The yellow-tennis-shoes excuse was one of the best.
/> He shakes his head again. “Averie, Mike breaks up with all the girls because they are not you. You are the standard he’s set for himself, whether you realize it or not. It’s you he wants, not them.”
My laughing tapers off with Quillan’s disclosure. I’ve never thought about it that way before. I can see his point, but he truly doesn’t understand my and Mike’s relationship.
“You have a valid point. I’ll give you that. But, seriously, I am not Mike’s type. He dates the best of the best, beauty queens, popular, rich, and talented. I think he’s afraid of commitment.”
“Would you date him if you knew he was interested?” Quillan asks me.
My cheeks burn with his question. “No.” I sigh. “No, I’ve never liked Mike in that way. He’s too good of a friend.”
“I feel sorry for Mike then,” Quillan says. “It must grieve his heart to be close to you, yet realize he can never have you.”
For some reason, I feel as if Quillan is referring to himself. Air escapes my lungs as his gray eyes bore into mine, and I am captivated in his presence. A sudden feeling of remorse sweeps across our hand-stitched quilt, causing me to lose my appetite. I want to cry great heaving sobs but dare not to. I am falling for someone I can never have. If we succeed in our mission, he will be born in 1860, making him one hundred and fifty-two years older than me. He will die way before I am ever born, so there goes the chance of us ever meeting up in the future. All we have is this month, and I am wondering if it’s worth it. Should I let myself fall in love with him knowing what I know?
Neither one of us says anything else. We sit on our blanket, watching the ducks on the pond.
Chapter 20
I can’t sleep for fear of missing the ten-o’clock rendezvous at the carriage house. I also can’t sleep because I am nervous as hell. The thought of traipsing through the secret corridors still frightens me, even though Quillan insisted on coming along. I am not sure how that will sit with the Wilson boys, so I told him he must stay out of sight once we reach the carriage house. He agreed, which gives me a little more confidence.
A low rumble of thunder in the distance. Another summer thunderstorm is brewing. I hope the cargo gets here before the rain. The tolling of the grandfather clock echoes through the house, telling me it’s time to head to the secret passage. My pulse races as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Quillan is up fast, too, which makes me think he wasn’t able to sleep either. He turns up the wick in the lantern while I pull on the bottom right hand side of the framed mirror. It doesn’t move at first, but with a harder tug, it swings toward me. Yikes. I’m Alice going through the looking glass, and I pray I don’t encounter the Jabberwocky tonight.
Quillan takes my hand and leads the way down the wooden staircase, illuminating our path with the glow of the lantern. The tunnel is bleak and rustic, giving no resemblance of the luxurious home it hides within. Etched on the walls in black paint is the location and entrances to rooms throughout the house. Bedrooms are numbered, and other rooms are listed accordingly, library-bookcase, conservatory-painting, study-fireplace and so on. I think back to the night Quillan and I hid in the tunnel behind the crates and saw Lunar leading the small family through the dark corridor. Lunar took a big risk coming inside the mansion himself. I wonder why Emily wasn’t the one doing the leading. But then again, it’s a good thing she wasn’t. Had I seen her drifting through the corridor that night, I would have died of fright. Funny how your perspective changes with the truth.
“Here it is,” Quillan whispers and steps back like he promised. Hesitantly, I take the lead. When I do, he pulls my hand, stopping me. “I’ll be right here.” He hands me the lantern. The way his eyes search mine gives me courage to push open the door.
The carriage house is dark and quiet. I don’t see anyone. I wonder if I should step inside and wait. I peek my head out of the secret door and strain my eyes. The darkness is too dense to see anything. Cautiously, I raise my lantern, and it’s then I hear a rustling. My heart is pounding now. Before I can squeak out a hello, I see Lunar appear from the shadows. His eyes meet mine and, relief softens his stone-cold expression.
“The cargo has arrived, Miss Averie.” Appearing behind him is a man and woman with two children, a boy and a girl. They look more frightened than I am. For some reason, it puts me at ease. Trying to put their fears to rest, I take the initiative and smile. “Welcome.” I keep my voice low. “Follow me.” Lunar gives a slight nod. With his approval, they step into the corridor behind me. Once inside, I pass the lantern to Quillan, who leads us back up the staircase. It’s deathly quiet. No one speaks or makes a sound. Even the children are following along in an eerie silence. We make it to the second floor and follow the passageway pretty far before we come across a second set of stairs. We ascend those and reach the third floor. Just as Emily said, the rooms are numbered. Halfway down the hall the lantern illuminates the writing Bed 23- bookcase. “This is it,” I whisper to Quillan.
“I’m checking it out first.” He warns me to step back. This time, I agree. He pushes open the door and steps into the bedroom. I wait behind the wall for a few seconds before he pushes it open and motions us inside. He has lit the lanterns, keeping the glow low, but giving enough light for the small family to see the provisions available to them. The look on the children’s faces is priceless. I am glad the room is dim so no one sees the tears pooling in my eyes. They act as if they just entered the pearly gates of heaven. The girl is gaga over the big canopy bed, while the boy is salivating over the spread of food Emily left for them on the mahogany table. The woman is mumbling a prayer of thanksgiving as the tears stream down her face, leaving a glistening trail on her dirty, bronzed cheeks.
“Eat up.” I choke back my tears. “Get your rest. We will be back at four. You have six hours.”
The man nods in agreement and thanks us profusely. Quillan’s hand touches the small of my back as he ushers me through the bookcase. My stomach warms with his protection. That, combined with what we did, gives me an overwhelming sense of purpose. It’s a sensation I have never experienced before. I wonder if this is what living is supposed to be like.
We are halfway down the set of stairs when Quillan asks me what our room number is. My stomach drops. “I have no idea,” I whisper back. “I didn’t look. Don’t you know?”
He shakes his head, and I panic. There are at least fifteen different bedrooms on the second floor. “We can discount the ones that don’t say mirror after the number,” I suggest, feeling pretty brilliant with the idea. After walking the corridor, we are left with four doors that still read mirror. From where we’re standing, they all look the same, and in the dark, it’s hard to determine our location.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Taking a deep breath, he pushes the heavy wooden door. It swings slowly, and immediately we realize we’ve made a dreadful mistake.
Chapter 21
The old grandfather clock tolls eleven bongs as Quillan and I stand frozen against the cold glass of the mirror. I wonder if we should make our escape while the chiming echoes across the dark mansion. The tolling of the clock, however, has no effect on the action taking place in the canopy bed. I am hoping our dim lantern will not be noticed either. I can feel Quillan move, ever so slowly beside me, and soon the light we carry is gone. He did a good job not giving us away. Now, the only source of light comes from the silvery glow of the moon pouring into the open window, lighting a path across the sheets and illuminating James Faulkner’s white ass.
My momma always censored what I watched on TV, so I instinctively turn my head away from the erotic episode playing out before me. I shield my eyes with my hand but curiosity gets the better of me so I separate my fingers and peek through. A bronzed-skin woman rises from the bed and gives Mr. Faulkner a lingering kiss on the mouth. I swallow back a gasp and cover my own mouth to keep from making any noise. The woman dresses quickl
y. I fear she will head our way to escape her secret rendezvous, exiting through the mirror in which we stand in front. Quillan’s fingers tickle at my hand, so I curl mine around his and wait. The tolling is complete, and the silence is deafening. We have missed our chance to retreat.
Little by little, Quillan leads me to the right, placing us in a dark corner. Should Mr. Faulkner’s mistress make her leave through the mirror, we won’t be standing directly in front of it. I am hoping she doesn’t take a lantern, but know deep inside, she will need one to see her way through the dark passage. I hold my breath and fear they will hear the thumping of my pulse, which is louder than the clanging of the grandfather clock.
Just as I suspected, the woman picks up a lamp and turns up the wick, allowing the faintest glow possible. Instead of making her way to the mirror, she exits through the bedroom door. Relieved, I watch Mr. Faulkner sit on the edge of the bed. He sighs and runs his fingers through his thick head of hair and then strokes his moustache, pressing it down with his fingers. He sits quietly a few moments, no doubt contemplating ways to justify his sin. The room is dark except for the moonlight that now reflects off his face instead of his rear end. His eyes appear empty, lost in sorrow, not the expression of someone who just enjoyed passionate lovemaking. In a way, I pity him. I wonder if this is how my daddy feels after sharing a bed with one of his clients. I’ve never experienced sex myself. I plan on waiting until I am gaga in love with someone before I strip down and do the wild thing. I may be naive, but when I do participate in the act, I intend on smiling for hours afterward and not have the empty look I see in many of my friends and in Mr. Faulkner right now.
