Breakfast In Ocean City
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“It’s a nice little town,” John said as we made our way down the boardwalk. “I was hoping to see something like this, just to give you a sense of what life is like on the East Coast.”
Mary gave him a strange look, but I understood his point and felt that he might be right after all. The streets were busy with horse-drawn wagons filled with produce from local farms, the smells wafting from their open cargo doors making it hard for me to keep my eyes off the street.
It was a bit overwhelming, and I knew we had better get used to the bustle of urban areas if we ever wanted to become full-time citizens in the United States.
“You know there are people here who don’t own any slaves?” I asked Mary, trying to sound casual while pointing to the white families strolling along the boardwalk.
“Yes,” she answered. “And that’s what’s so strange about it, isn’t it? That’s not the way things are supposed to be.”
She had a good point, but the idea was still new enough that I was hesitant to say anything more than a quick acknowledgment. Instead, I took advantage of an opening as a man walked past us, carrying a large basket on his back. He stopped at a nearby stall where two women were selling fresh vegetables and started to haggle over the price.
“How do they know each other?” John asked when the woman dropped her head, unable to afford to buy the vegetable.
I looked around and realized that both of them were black—one young and pretty with long braids and the other older, wearing an elegant dress and a wide smile. Mary seemed surprised by John’s comment as well, but quickly caught herself and smiled politely instead.
“That’s a very interesting observation,” she said quietly before turning back to John. “Do you think the white women here are aware of how much better off the slaves are than they are?”
John nodded slowly. “Perhaps, but they may simply feel no guilt or remorse for their treatment of blacks.”
The conversation moved away from slavery, as was common whenever the topic came up. We were now deep in the heart of New York City—or so I hoped, considering we weren’t sure exactly which part of Brooklyn we should have landed in—and it was only a matter of time until the first slave catchers showed up to try and take us away.
But it wouldn’t happen today because a group of three men and two women were coming toward us from across the street, laughing and chatting excitedly. The men carried guns slung over their shoulders, and one was waving his hand back and forth, signaling the other two to stop walking and turn around.
“Run!” John cried.
We turned and raced down the street as fast as our legs would carry us. I glanced back just in time to see one of the men drawing his gun and raising it to shoot. But Mary was moving too quickly for him to hit her and we were already out of his line of fire by then.
As I watched, the gun went off, but there was nothing behind the bullet except empty air; a split second later, one of the women let out an ear-piercing shriek, and another man cursed loudly.
Mary kept running as we turned left onto a small side street. She slowed down as the buildings grew fewer and further apart, and finally stopped when she found what looked like a dead end.
“There’s nowhere else to go,” Mary said as she took off her coat. “They’ll track me down wherever I run.”
“No problem,” John replied as he took out a pair of handcuffs from inside his coat. He tossed the jacket aside without looking back at it. “Let’s tie your hands together.”
Mary stared at him in disbelief. “Are you crazy?”
“Not really,” he replied, taking another step forward. “But we can’t just sit here and wait.”
He reached out for her arm, but she slapped it away.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she declared.
“Oh, yes you will. I need you to take me to the police station and tell them I’m lost and ask if they’ll help me find my way home.”
I stood there dumbfounded, unable to believe what I had just heard. John was insane!
“If we get arrested and thrown in jail, they’re likely to search my pockets and discover my gun,” John continued, “which would be a huge mistake on their part. They’d think we were dangerous criminals and I could take over here and save the day.” He grinned widely, showing a mouthful of perfectly white teeth.
Mary shook her head vehemently. “No,” she whispered. “No. No. No.”
“It’ll be okay,” I tried to comfort her as I took hold of her hand, but she pulled away again.
“This is a terrible idea!” she shouted.
The door behind us suddenly burst open, and five men stepped through the entrance.
“Get down!” John ordered.
I didn’t want to, but I lowered myself to the ground as one man raised his pistol. Another followed suit, then another, and another—until every single person in the building had drawn a weapon of some kind.
“Where did you come from?” asked one of the men as he pointed his revolver at my face.
John stood proudly, smiling back at him. “I just appeared right out of thin air,” he declared. “And I plan to stay there as long as I possibly can.”
***
“So you’re not going to tell us where you were hiding?” demanded one of the men.
“Nope.” John’s voice rang with authority.
“Well, we’re taking you in any way,” replied the leader. “You can answer all the questions later.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper. As he unfolded it, I recognized his handwriting: it was the address of Dr. Samuel Cartwright’s home. I gasped. If the doctor found out John had been living under his roof, he was doomed; the last thing we needed was more trouble.
One of the men placed the paper against John’s chest and shoved his gun into his hand. “Put this in your coat pocket,” he instructed. “And keep your eyes on mine when we walk.”
He led John out of the alley and down a narrow cobbled path between two large buildings. When they reached the intersection at the end of the street, the man stopped and turned to look at the rest of us standing on the opposite sidewalk.
The other four men followed in quick succession until we were surrounded by nine armed individuals. One of them gestured toward the building on my left and spoke in a loud voice that carried clearly across the busy street.
“Everyone who’s seen him,” he shouted, “stand up against the wall and raise both arms above your heads.”
All nine men quickly complied; several of them were holding their guns high above their heads. My stomach began to twist in knots. What had happened? Who had told the cops about John? It must have been the same man that Mary had spoken with earlier.
As the men searched the premises thoroughly, they eventually came to our corner of the street and started to search us, too. After a few minutes of searching everyone’s clothes—including their mouths and pockets—they finally walked away and returned to the building on our left.
When they opened the door, the room filled with light as they stepped outside, and they immediately headed back to the street to continue searching.
While they were gone, one of them returned carrying a pair of glasses. He handed them to me and motioned for me to put them on. “Here,” he said. “We need to see your eyes, too.”
I hesitantly held out my right arm in front of me so they could check the bandage wrapped around my wrist, but before anyone could even touch it, one of the officers grabbed me by the collar and dragged me over to the wall while the others lined up beside me.
They pushed the gun barrel hard against my chest as I looked straight ahead. I could feel my heart beating wildly inside my chest.
“Look at me!” shouted the officer holding me.
After a moment’s hesitation, I slowly raised my eyes to meet his gaze, only to find him staring back at me with an expression of disbelief etched on his face.
“Is that you?” he asked quietly. “Are those really you?”
My breath caught in my throat as I looked back at him questioningly.
“It is,” said one of the other men standing beside him, stepping forward to join our conversation. “That’s Dr. Samuel Cartwright.”
“Oh, my God,” exclaimed one of the others. “Dr. Cartwright! How are you still alive?”
“How am I—what? Where do you know me from?” I demanded.
His face twisted in confusion, and then a smile spread across his lips. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course,” I answered. “Your name is… what was it? Sam? Samuel.”
“Samuel.” He nodded enthusiastically. “You mean Dr. Samuel Cartwright! Of course, I remember you!”
“What are you doing here?” I asked incredulously. “Why haven’t you left town yet?”
“Because I was hoping to catch you,” he responded. “I knew it would be risky staying in New York, so I took the liberty of leaving my home unlocked and boarded up my windows to make sure nobody saw me coming out.”
The men behind us burst into laughter.
“You didn’t think we’d find you that easily,” one of them quipped.
Sam grinned impishly. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
“But we did,” another chimed in.
“How?” I wondered aloud. “Where are the others?”
“They’ve taken care of everything,” he explained. “There isn’t much point in hiding anymore; we don’t want to risk the chance of running into someone else like Mr. Bixby. We all agreed not to leave the city.”
“Who is Mr. Bixby?” I asked.
“Mr. Bixby was a very important man in New York. We used to work together at his office.”
I glanced over at him to gauge his reaction. As soon as I noticed the expression of sadness on his face, I remembered the last time I had seen him, in my dreams, just hours ago. In a flash, I realized what had happened.
I looked back at Sam, expecting him to confirm my suspicions. Instead, he gave a small smile of reassurance as he gently squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. He’s been taken care of already.”
One of the officers standing nearby cleared his throat uncomfortably as he stared down at me curiously. “Are these gentlemen your friends?” he asked.
Without looking back, I simply nodded my head.
He turned his attention back to the men behind me and gestured toward Dr. Samuel Cartwright. “Is this your friend?” he asked.
The man named Sam answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
“And you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” admitted Sam.
Another officer approached us and leaned in closer to inspect the bandages covering my wrist. When he reached up and tugged at my sleeve, he immediately recoiled and pulled his hands away when he felt how hot the bandage had become from my body’s reaction to the pain of his touch. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath before pulling Sam aside and whispering something into his ear.
Sam looked back at me briefly as if to reassure me that everything was going to be okay, before returning his attention to the officer who had spoken with him.
A few minutes later, several more police officers arrived, and we were escorted outside into a courtyard. There we stood in line while dozens of police officers surrounded us, their eyes trained on every move we made, as though they feared we might try to flee.
Once they had searched through the pockets of our clothing and patted down both Dr. Samuel Cartwright and myself, they led us to a nearby building that appeared to be a courthouse, where a group of lawyers had gathered to hear our stories.
At first, I thought we might actually be arrested, but after hearing the judge’s words, I quickly realized how wrong I had been. Instead of taking us to jail, the judge told us to follow him as he walked over to an open door and ushered us inside, instructing us to wait for his return.
Once the door closed, we were left alone to stare at each other in silence. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by the entire situation as Dr. Samuel Cartwright continued to hold my hand as we waited together on the dirty wooden benches against the wall.
When the judge returned, he instructed us to take off the blindfolds and sit down across from him at a long table in the center of the room.
I sat down next to Dr. Cartwright, trying to ignore the discomfort that accompanied the sight of the large bandaged wound that now covered my left arm, as well as the other injuries I had sustained from the gunshot wound that was still clearly visible on my chest.
The judge studied us for a moment, his dark brown eyes studying me intently as I tried my best to suppress a wince from the pain I felt shooting through my shoulder. After a few seconds of silence, he finally spoke. “You’re a brave girl, aren’t you?” he asked. “It takes a lot of courage to stand up for what you believe in.”
As he began speaking, I glanced over at Dr. Samuel Cartwright and saw that he too had started to tear up, as though something inside him was causing his eyes to water uncontrollably. I watched with curiosity as the tears rolled down his cheeks until his face was hidden from view by his dark curly hair.
I couldn’t help myself from staring at him, wondering if perhaps there was some kind of connection between us I wasn’t aware of.
Before I could ponder this further, the judge’s voice broke the silence again as he continued to speak. “But bravery isn’t enough to get you out of trouble, Ms. Parker. You see, it’s against the law to protest, no matter how important it may be or who believes in what you’re fighting for.
And that means that even if what you believe is true—that the world will end in six days’ time—you still have broken the law, which makes you subject to whatever punishment I deem fit.”
Dr. Cartwright let out a gasp when he heard this and looked back at me as if to plead for my understanding and forgiveness. “I understand,” I said to him quietly. “I know I don’t deserve any sympathy because of what I’ve done.”
After a brief pause, the judge raised his finger as though he was about to continue speaking. Before he could say another word, however, a loud bang erupted from one of the windows high above us as a single shot rang out across the courtroom.
I turned back to Dr. Cartwright to look at him incredulously as I watched him reach into the pocket of his coat to pull out a pistol that was tucked away inside. He held it in front of him as he slowly slid open the chamber to check it. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he fired off another round that flew past my head and shattered a glass window directly behind me.
I stared back at him in disbelief as he took aim again and pointed the gun straight at the judge, as though he were challenging him to stop him if he wanted to.
“This isn’t over,” I yelled in defiance before turning back toward the door. “I’ll be back soon,” I promised him.
The End