Most of the passengers on the trolley ached from work and yawned for rest. Middle-aged women and men rubbed their knees and lower backs. Those a bit younger than them leaned their heads against the cold window and dozed off, snoring light, nearly missing their stops. Normally, Ichabod Crane had an easy time on the trolley ride to the schoolroom. However, there was rather a rowdy bunch of young white men that sat in the back of the bus since last week. It was four of them, and they looked to be in their mid-twenties. They wore long, black and brown coats and black dress hats or none at all. Crane heard them snickering and laughing loudly, like small boys. Sometimes, they taunted the black passengers, called them old or even niggers and monkeys. It disgusted Crane, forced him to think about Abbie and how she, her family, and her community have been treated by white people.
He saw how the passengers wanted to retaliate and make snide comments, but they bit their tongues. Unfortunately, he knew why. Abbie's story reminded him. They had families to get home to, children to hug and kiss, wives and husbands to make love to and care for, parents to nurse to good health. So he watched them silence themselves and turn their heads or backs or stare out the window.
Crane never spoke to the white men each time they did it, but he did ask the passengers if they were alright and told them to pay no mind to the men's foolishness. They gave him a small smile, a nod. He didn't confront the four white men because he didn't want them to retaliate. Perhaps they would follow him off the bus when it stopped in Abbie's neighborhood. He wasn't afraid of them punishing him per se, but more so frightened that they'd punish innocent bystanders in her community. They would not have deserved it one bit. Therefore, he sat in silence, too, as not to cause trouble. He especially didn't want Abbie to worry about him if he showed up at the schoolroom beaten and bloodied.
On this particular ride though, it was rather difficult to hold still. These four men walked to the front of the bus and mercilessly picked at an elderly black man, who sat across from him. His hair was gray; he wore glasses, a brown sweater. A thin man he was.
"Hey, nigger, what's your name?" one of them said. "Monkey Joe?"
The others giggled while the elderly man folded his hands and turned his head.
"He probably misses his jungle home in Africa," another said.
The third man said, "We all know he's having bananas for dinner."
As the trolley rolled, the fourth member of their group imitated a monkey. Taking the seat beside him, he said, "I didn't know monkeys needed glasses."
The elderly man tried to get up, but the fourth member stopped him with his arm. He snatched off his glasses. The elderly man tried to take them to only watch them be tossed around the group.
"I see we're playing 'Monkey in the Middle.' This monkey is too slow though," said the fourth member.
The more they threw the man's glasses back and forth, the more the man politely asked for them back. They ignored him. Other passengers stared and said nothing. The trolley driver told them to cut it out or else. His words didn't sway them. They continued their childish and unacceptable behavior. It even got to the point where one of the men pushed the elderly man out of his chair.
"Beg like a monkey and we'll give you your glasses."
The elderly man did not. "Return my glasses."
One of them raised his hand, about to hit him, but Crane said, "Stop. Leave this man alone."
He couldn't take such mistreatment of a human being. Carefully, he stood up as the trolley rocked to help the elderly man to his feet and back into his seat.
"I'm so sorry you are being treated this way, sir."
"Thank you for being kind," he said.
Crane shakily turned to the men. "Give this man his glasses back this instant." He balled his fists, had flashes of Abbie or Miss Jenny in such an ordeal. It fired him up just that much.
"Looks like he's got a friend." One of them stepped closer to him, huffed in his face. "I've seen you before. You get off in his monkey-ass neighborhood. You're a stop before him. We saw you last week. You have nigger friends here?"
"My friends are none of your concern. Return his glasses immediately."
The young man pushed him down, broke the man's glasses in half and threw them in his lap.
"Happy, nigger lover?"
As they all went back to their seats at the rear end of the trolley, Crane gathered himself with help from the elderly man. He sat beside him.
"Thank you, sir. What is your name?"
"You're welcome. Dan." He stuck out his hand.
"I'm Ichabod Crane. I'm sorry your glasses are broken."
"Nothing tape couldn't fix." He took a roll out of his coat pocket. "I keep it with me in case things happen. When I young, I was quite clumsy. Broke my glasses often."
Crane chuckled. "I was quite accident-prone myself sometimes. Allow me, Mr. Dan."
He tapped up his glasses and put them on for him.
"You're a nice man. Ichabod, you said?"
"Indeed."
"Thank for your help."
His stop was approaching.
"You are very welcome. No one deserves that. I do hope you get your glasses fixed soon."
He waves his hand. "I need new ones actually."
"Well, I hope they are the best pair yet."
"Thank you." Dan nudged his elbow, spoke softly to him. "Whoever she is, take good care of her. Y'all be careful. Understand?"
Crane's heart fluttered. "Is it that obvious?"
Mr. Dan held his stomach as he laughed. "Shoot, yeah. I don't know too many white men who come to this neck of the woods unless it's for a special reason or trouble. You seem kind, not like those rough raffs. You must be smitten with her, huh?" He winked.
"Indeed, I am, Mr. Dan." Crane knew he was turning pink.
"She's a lucky woman."
"No, Mr. Dan. I'm the lucky one. She is more than incredible."
"The look on your face says as much. You take care of her. Protect her."
"I will, Mr. Dan. I will."
As his stop neared, he noticed passengers both black and white staring at them. They had smiles on their faces, gave both of them small nods, and a little bit of hope for a possibly better world. That hope was short-lived, however, as when Crane stepped off the trolley, so did the four men.
Crane's heart wouldn't stop bumping around as he walked as quickly as he could. He wouldn't dare go to the schoolroom, but he tried to find an old building of some sort. They called after him, ran after him even. He was chased into an alley, one with no escape.
"You like niggers, do you?" one of them said. "You know what happens to nigger lovers?"
They crowded around him. Crane tried to remember all Abbie taught him. He kicked one of them, punched with fierceness. It wounded one man, but he wasn't able to fight off the other three. He tried to run, only to be caught and dragged into a corner. One held his arms back as the others punched and kicked him. They struck his forehead and lips that he felt crack open and become hollow. When they punched him, his knees buckled and he choked for stars and night air. The attacks came from all directions, landed in every place he left exposed: his back, his knees, his groin. He felt beads of spit on his cheek and in his eye, on his chin. Their beating was so much that Crane couldn't feel his body anymore. He numbed, saw them run off out of a squinted and throbbing eye. The other was completely closed shut. He prayed Abbie was safe, that her neighbors wouldn't cross paths with them. Her cinnamon laugh and wide smile and doe eyes and plump lips rattled in his aching head. He didn't know if he'd live or die in this alley, but before he passed out, he wanted to remember her that way: happy and present.
Abbie paced and paced. It wasn't like Crane to not show up. It's Monday, and he's late. He's nearly an hour late. If he wasn't able to meet with her, he would have told her. He would have said after work while they waited for the trolley. So where is he? Was there traffic? Did the trolley break down? Did the trolley driver get lost? Her heart clanged in her throat. She quickly ran back into her apartment to dial his number. He could be home, right? Maybe he didn't feel good all of sudden. The flu perhaps. It was still really cold outside. No answer.
She checked back in the schoolroom once more. Because maybe she was just panicking for nothing and he'd be there waiting for her all along, with outstretched arms and shiny blue eyes. Maybe. Maybe. The room was empty. She bit her lips, felt tears. Of course, she pictured the worst things. Someone could have got him, could have followed him, beat him, strung him up on a tree. He could be dead. And she sprinted outside, ran down the street, calling his name, recklessly going into danger. And people stare at her like she's crazy, which she might be, but it didn't matter.
She checked in two alleys not far from the schoolroom. Nearly screamed when she saw a still body in the third. It's him. Crane. There was blood. A lot of his blood that got covered in her hands as she shook him awake. He made a little noise. It sounded like her broken name even. She said he had to help her get him to his feet as much as he could. She'd do the rest. She'd be strong for him. So he did his best, though it was fragile and painful. She pulled him the rest of the way, put her weight and his on the brick wall. Someone helped her carry him. They saw some of what happened. Four men. Angry. Punched. Kicked. Ran away. It was like hearing the news about Stella again, like seeing May and her lover on the trees. That same thing just about happened to Crane. Nearly could have been her if they were still there. They finally got him to her apartment. Jenny was back. Her mouth was open wide and wanted to know what the hell was going on. Why he was here in their home. Why he was bloody. She didn't have time to explain and demanded her sister to stop bitching and just help her get him to her room, so she could get help next.
The only place she knew to go was Mrs. Ann. When she knocked Mr. Sam answered the door. Asked her what was wrong. She spilled the story in a jumbled mess. Thank God Mrs. Ann was home this time around and hadn't worked late at the hospital like normal. Mrs. Ann grabbed her First Aid Kit. Then the both of them hurried to her apartment. It took nearly two hours for Mrs. Ann to fix and stitch his bruises. He had so many. Too many. She felt around for broken limbs. Turned out to be four: a arm, a leg, a ankle, a rib. She wrapped and elevated them as best she could. He may even have a concussion. She left Abbie plenty of instructions on how to change his bandages. How long it'll take him to heal. How he needed to go to hospital here, but it's too crowded and they are short staffed, short of everything really. She'd bring him back some pain medication she used for herself at times. Some crutches. Some of Mr. Sam's clothes because Crane wasn't going anywhere anytime soon until he healed. Jenny stood in the doorway, arms crossed, in shock and anger of it all. Abbie told her they'd talk later. This wasn't how she wanted her to know. Then she walked Mrs. Ann out into the hall and cried and cried and cried. Mrs. Ann rubbed her back and said, "I've got you, sugar."
After Abbie wiped her eyes, Mrs. Ann got to the point.
"How long have you been with him, baby?"
"Not long. Only about a week, officially, you could say. We've been meeting in the schoolroom."
"Look at you, baby. You're scared out of your mind." She brushed Abbie's curls from her face.
The tears came again. "Will he be okay?"
She just wanted him to be okay.
"He's going to pull through. You'll have to check on him throughout the night. Give him soft and broth-like items to eat and drink, like tea and soup."
She'd do everything she could to take care of him.
"I don't know how to thank you enough."
"Don't worry about it, baby. You know I'm here for you anytime if I can be. You try to get some rest, okay? And talk to your sister. I've never seen anyone as shocked and pissed as she was."
"I will. Thank you again."
"And, sugar, it's okay."
"What's okay?"
"You're in love with him. It's okay. It's as clear as day."
Abbie didn't know what to say. She hadn't known Crane long enough to be in love with him. At least she wasn't ready to admit it to herself yet.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Ann." She hugged and thanked her again.
"It's no problem, darling. I'll come check on him tomorrow."
Abbie nodded, and they parted ways. Jenny stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed like before. She wanted answers. Now.
"Tomorrow, Jenny. I just….give me a minute." What else could she say?
Jenny walked away from her toward her room and slammed her door shut. As Abbie walked into hers and sat on the foot of the bed, she stared at Crane's bruised and broken body. Tonight was close. He could have died. She could have lost him and all he was: compassionate, cheeky, charming. He was hope and love and possibilities and courage and defiant. Sacrifice even. And as she watched him sleep and heal, she admitted it to herself, that, yes, she was in love with him, that, no, she wouldn't change that for the world, not even for her sister.