Warning: Mention of rape and lynchings.
"Unhand her," said the man who walked over.
He was tall. Taller than her. Blue eyes. Brown hair tied in a ponytail. A beard. She saw him here all the time, sitting behind the front desk or at a shelf. What was he doing? Abbie couldn't focus on the tall man right now because this old asshole still clutched her arm and his spit ran down her cheek.
"She needs to learn her lesson."
Abbie tried not to whimper as he squeezed her arm tighter. She attempted to tear away from him, but couldn't, so she pointed her knee in his groin. He yelped and released her.
"Leave at once. Do not return," the tall man said.
"You watch yourself, nigger," he yelled as he limped off in pain.
That'll teach him, Abbie thought. She massaged her bicep, which was sore and probably bruised. Jenny, her sister, would be worried. Their parents told them it was never safe for a black woman in a white world, particularly a white man's world. Black women were raped and beaten by gangs of white men. Some survived. Other women didn't survive at all. They were murdered, left in the woods or in alleys, bloodied and broken. Their voices choked out, their legs forced apart, and their arms pinned to their sides, struggling for help, struggling for their lives, struggling for stars and night air.
Black women were also lynched, found limp, hanged and roped from a tree branch, burned, probably tortured for hours until the crowds of white people squashed the very spirit of her. No, it was never safe for a black woman in a white world.
Her sister would know more than her. Jenny was raped and beaten the night they walked home from the theater. They ran into three or four white men, who took an interest in Jenny. They touched her hair, her cheek. Jenny told her to run. She didn't. Because how the fuck was she just going to leave her damn sister? The white men tried to persuade her to go as well, said that she shouldn't watch her sister like this. Fuck them. She was staying, and she'd fight. She'd claw and bite and kick and scratch and pull. Abbie was willing to die with her sister that night, to die battling for her sister that night.
But Jenny, too brave and stubborn for her own damn good, ordered her to go home, like she was the one who was the fucking oldest sister and not Abbie. Jenny promised she'd be back soon. Bullshit. She knew Jenny tried to protect her, return the favor. Abbie took the blame for Jenny when they were younger and in school. Jenny mouthed off; Abbie withstood the punishment: a hit across the face, a broken arm, a repeated grade level. It was her job to protect her sister in a white world. She'd surely do it again.
There were only two outcomes for Jenny. Alive or dead. Yet Abbie left and as she did, she prayed her sister came back to her not so broken, that she'd still have fight in her. Two hours later, Jenny returned. Her clothes ripped and cheek marked. They both had tears dripping and dropping down their faces. Jenny wiped Abbie's tears, shook her head, and pulled her in for a fitted hug. Jenny said she'd do it again if it meant keeping her safe. And all Abbie felt was ulcers of guilt.
Her sister wasn't here to protect her right now. She had her own job, trying to scoop wages for the crappy apartment they shared. There was no way she trusted this tall string bean to be sincere about his actions earlier, even as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
If a white man was kind to a black woman, he wanted something from her for his help. That's what she was told, too. White people were snakes. She didn't accept it and wiped the spit from her face with the back of her hand.
"Ma'am, please. I insist." He held it out to her.
She still didn't take it.
"You do not deserve such treatment. That man was disgusting."
She noticed the few people here began to observe them. "I have work."
He straightened up. "Very well. I shall leave this in case you may need it for a spell. One doesn't quite know what this weather may bring. It is clean if you are worried about sanitation." He folded it and hung it on the back of a wooden chair. "My name is Ichabod Crane. I am a history librarian. I'm curious to know your name, ma'am."
What's with him calling her ma'am as if he respected her? She was called "girl" and refused to give out her name if they asked.
"I have to finish working."
His shoulders slumped. Why was he so disappointed? Her name shouldn't matter to him.
"Very well. I will see to it you will not be disrupted the rest of the evening."
She nodded. Then watched him walk off without his handkerchief.
It was closing time. Everyone was gone. More people did come inside, but no one bothered Abbie or cause any trouble. She kept the tall man, Crane, in her sight and listened out for his footsteps in case he tried anything. However, he didn't. He sat at the front desk all day and politely smiled and nodded at her like they were friends.
If she were honest, she liked having someone to protect her besides herself, Jenny, and her parents before they died. She wouldn't accept this white man's help and kindness, convinced herself he wasn't honest, that she only stuffed the handkerchief in her uniform pocket because, like he said, the weather was unpredictable. Before she went out into cold, bundled, she said, "You can call me Abbie." The only reason she did it was because she hoped he wouldn't bother her anymore about it.
He smiled, nodded, bid her a safe evening. She might have did the same as she slid her fingers across the silk handkerchief.