Warning: This chapter has use of the n-word and very nasty behavior at the end.
There weren't many patrons at the library. Most of them, it seemed, decided to stay out of the -20 degree weather. It amazed Ichabod the library stayed open in the first place with such snow on the streets and on top of buildings and on thick coats and on wool scarves. However, there were a few who came in today, but only to quickly thaw their hands and legs before trudging out for their homes or the market for groceries. Winter was hell in New York. One could never be prepared enough. Aside from them, there were only a few patrons browsing about: an older white gentleman with silvery hair, a white lady with a fur coat, and two white teenagers. There was also another lady.
She was a black woman with curly hair, brown eyes, and full lips. A quite stunning woman, if Ichabod was honest with himself. She didn't have much height to her and appeared as though she were about a foot shorter than he. Her uniform, a gray dress she wore with stockings and loafers, was pressed.
He didn't know her name or even speak to her when he came in to work every morning. Small nods in passing was all they shared. There was often a cleaning task, James Fuller, the library director, had her completing. She dusted book shelves, wiped the wooden tables in the study area, sprayed windows, pushed up chairs, and returned forgotten books among other duties. He caught her vacuuming at closing.
Ichabod couldn't engage with her if he wanted to. On busy days, there were so many people who needed assisting and so many responsibilities to finish before his day ended that he hardly had time to even converse with his co-workers.
He wanted to introduce himself to her, yet he knew this kind of behavior was frowned up in the North. Just imagine if he were in the South. Heaven forbid. The countless atrocities upon African-Americans down there bothered him to no end. It was astounding to see such hatred for a race of people. How could one rest at night? It's not like it was much better up here though. Sleepy Hollow was but a tiny town, yet they still didn't break societal expectations.
A white person knew not to even consider interacting, let alone initiating friendship, with African-Americans. It wasn't the law, but it was custom, socially-accepted. There was an uncrossed, invisible line drawn that everyone knew about, one he can never step over.
Ichabod watched her polish a table with a tatty cloth. He was curious about her. What was her name, first and foremost? Where did she live? What activities did she partake in for fun? Who was this women, who cleaned and cleaned and cleaned? Was she married? Did she have children? Siblings? A mum and dad? He didn't even know where she ate lunch. Sadly, he knew she wouldn't be welcome in their break room. There were no other custodial workers here but her. He saw her alone and wished he could accompany her during her lunch period. But alas, that line.
She was pushing up a chair when she accidentally bumped into the silvery-haired man.
"Excuse me, sir," she said. "I'm sorry."
The man snatched her by the arm and with a loud and gruff voice, said, "Filthy nigger, watch where you're going." He spit in her face.
The teens and the coated woman glanced their way and back to what preoccupied them. They didn't help her. Ichabod wiggled his fingers. There were a lot of moments where he bit his tongue and stood stiff, but he wouldn't do that today. He was stepping over the line.