“Ten or eleven years old, but I saw you there a couple of years ago.” Robbie puts his cap on his head. “Who’s Tony Schaefer? And what lesson?”
Damn. Why did I let that slip outta my mouth? “Just a guy I used to know with some history with Major Thomas.”
Grand Central Station, New York City
The attendant calls out, “Final stop, Grand Central Station, New York City.”
Robbie and I cry in unison, “Thank God.”
All night long, the bumpy train ride fluctuated between annoying cold and scorching heat without rhyme or reason. But now, all is forgotten and forgiven. We are in New York City.
Exiting the train is chaotic. Crowds surge, nearly knocking me over as I lug my heavy tweed suitcase and clutch my purse under my arm. I glance sympathetically at Robbie, who is far more burdened than I am. I can’t fathom how he manages to stay upright with everything he’s carrying. Bags are strapped to his back, stacked on his head, wedged under his arms, and clutched in each hand—every part of his body where something can be held or balanced is in use.
“Where did all this stuff come from?” I ask. “I don’t recall you bringing that much aboard.”
“I had a redcap help me bring them on board in Chicago, but there aren’t any around here. They must all be helping the first-class passengers.”
“Where are we meeting the Hartfields and Katherine Dunham?” I am distracted by his balancing act. “Hand me some of that stuff. I want to get to our meeting place now.”
“All right, all right,” Robbie replies.
Pushing through the train station with our luggage, knapsack, and other belongings, we finally arrive at the baggage claim after what feels like forever.
“We’re supposed to meet them here,” Robbie states.
“Well, I don’t see them. You should search around and find them. I’ll stay here and guard our things,” I suggest.
Robbie comes back a few minutes later. “I can’t find them anywhere.”
“Are you serious? Were any of them even on this train?” Robbie doesn’t respond. A redcap taps him on the shoulder and gives him an envelope. He tears it open, reads it, glances at me, and winces. It’s bad news.
“What does that note say?” I let go of the suitcase handleand let the knapsack slide off my shoulder. “Tell me what it says.”
He clenches his jaw. “We missed them. They’ve already taken a yellow cab to Harlem. We’ll meet them at the YMCA.”
Without uttering a word, I lift the straps of the knapsack onto my shoulders, pick up my suitcase, tuck my purse under my arm, and take hold of another bag with my free hand. “We better get going if I’m ever gonna see Vivian Jean Hartfield and Katherine Dunham before we board the ship tomorrow,” I say. “Where can we catch a cab?”
With a grimace, Robbie finishes loading the other bags. “We don’t.”
“So, we aren’t taking a cab?” I shake my head.
“We’re taking the subway.”
“I’ve never been on a subway.”
“Follow me. It’ll be fun.”
CHAPTER 12
ZINZI
Victoria Park, Labor Movement Rally, Kingston
The sun blinds me. I lift my hand to shield my eyes but can’t see what’s happening. I can only hear the shouting, the crack of police batons striking flesh and breaking bones, and the cries of agony and pain. I must get to my feet. Crouching on the ground like a frightened child isn’t the woman I believe myself to be, and this isn’t my first rally to go poorly. Though this one went haywire fast.
I rise unsteadily. Victoria Park is in chaos. People are crawling, running, and stumbling into one another. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, and my right leg throbs with pain. But I can’t bring myself to look at it. I’m too scared.
“Help me,” a voice calls out. I glance at a girl lying on the ground with blood on her face, clutching her stomach. I drop to my knees beside her. “Can you sit up? You can’t stay here. You’ll get stepped on if you don’t get up.”
