Chapter 2 - The Mercy Cage
Chapter Two: A Date with Destiny—Will Anne Survive?
Anne - New York City, 1899
I plunge backwards into darkness, pulled by hands so strong I cannot escape or even squeak. I grope into nothing, feeling for the girls who had just been at my side moments before. Gone; disbanded in an instant, like a flock scattered by a gunshot. Do Rose and Florence know that I have been captured? Were they as well, or did they escape? I can barely breathe around the thick palm pressed tight against my mouth, and my body, so strong in the air, formidable as I dance, now trembles in fear as I am dragged down a dark alley I have never walked down before. Where is my strength now when I need it most? I am frightened at my own frailty. We never should have tried to shortcut through the back alley. The hand restricting my mouth is large, it must be that of a man’s. He drags me deeper into the darkness. I crane my neck to try to see him, but cannot make him out. He is much larger than me, I can tell from the ease with which he pins my arms to my chest with one of his. Rose and Florence flash into my view for a moment, and I jerk forward to call to them- to warn them! And they are gone as quickly as they came. A vision. This is where I die. I can only hope they make it out of the back alley. Perhaps the police have seized them. Is it better to be dragged into darkness or for us “troubled women” to be pulled into the light?
Where am I? Where am I going? My captor shifts as he pulls and I seize the opportunity. With great effort I bite down as hard as I can on the hand covering my mouth and my suspicions of a man are confirmed with his gruff yelp, though his grip is unphased. “Just try to be quiet, I am trying to protect you” he says under his breath, in a voice, though abrupt, feels almost disarming. Protect me? By abducting me? I open my mouth again to bite harder, and thrash my legs, but before I bite down “In a few moments, I promise, you will understand,” he whispers. I pause, and we come to a door. He opens it, pushes me in, and looks around before following and carefully closing the door behind him.
It’s damp and silent inside, the echoes of my breath seem like screams. Still dark, I cannot make out more than an outline of his figure; do I bolt past him for the door and run, or do I tread carefully and follow? His height looms and I decide to play along. “Where are Rose and Florence? Are they ok?” He exhales finally, “I know you must be terrified,” gasping for air. Was I that difficult to drag? At first I was offended, then I supposed I must have had more strength in my fight than I realized. I did not make it easy on him, and he must have been holding his breath to keep quiet. The thought brings some slight comfort. “Who are you?” I manage to finally gasp out, more winded than I intended. “I grew up hearing screams in the nighttime, and learned it means trouble for women at this hour,” he says carefully. I could make out a tinge of a familiar melody as he spoke. He must be an Italian immigrant. I soften a bit. “I’m Andrew,” he finally says after I am at a loss for words of what to say in return. “Anna,” I finally mustered out. “Thank you,” I pause thoughtfully, “For saving me from trouble.” He strikes a match, and while lighting a lantern a moment later, I catch a glimpse of a sculpted jawline with a soft shadow of facial hair. Beyond him I can just barely make out what looks like a storage room with empty crates and piled burlap sacks. I wonder what time it is. Our struggle in the alley felt endless, though I suppose it couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes. My mother will worry sick if she wakes up and I am not home. How long do I have to wait? Catching my worried look, Andrew softens his gaze, relaxes his posture and finally says, “I know you must have someone waiting for you. If you wait until the dawn breaks, you should be free to return as the sun is rising. It is not safe at night.” I’ve walked home many times through these parts at night. Why is it not safe? Was it the way we carried ourselves home dancing? Should we have walked quietly and stealthily through the streets of Brooklyn to remain unnoticed?
“How long have you been capturing women from the streets?” I finally muttered. Andrew, taken aback, mutters, “I beg your pardon?” “You captured me, and will not let me return”, I retorted back, more rudely than I meant, but nevertheless. I sometimes mistake that my attempt at humor comes across as rude. Though, he did capture me, and I realize I have been holding my breath, shaking. “I’m only trying to help you,” he murmurs, and I feel a pang of regret in how terse I spoke. “I’d like to know what is happening here? I walk home safely every night. In fact, the first I have heard that I should worry about returning comes from a strange man who has abducted me and taken me to…” I search for the words. Is this his home? Does someone else live here? “.... into his… hideaway” I finally say. For the first time, I look into his eyes, as the lantern lights them. His eyes drop, as my words have wounded him, “It’s the cellar,” he mumbles. “My ma is upstairs or I would take you in.” His eyes shift deeper into the room, I suppose towards the stairs, and he pauses nervously to listen. I recognize the feeling. His face is soft in the light, he cannot be much older than myself. “I had friends… with me. Are they…?” My voice trails off as I cannot bear to finish the sentence. The thought of anything happening to Rose or Florence wounds me deeper than the thought of fighting for my own life. I look up at him, but he has lowered the lantern from his face, being careful to not bump me. Before I can stop myself, a tear rolls down my cheek. I am safe from showing tears in the darkness. Where are Rose and Florence? What the hell should I even think at this point? Should I be grateful or terrified? Are they somewhere just as dark? Or worse?
A chill runs up my back at the thought. The shudder of my body shocks him, and he abruptly steps away. In the dim light, I cannot make out his facial expression, and neither of us say a word. I look at the dark room, back towards what I assume is the door he brought me through, though we are too far from the street to hear noises. After what feels like an eternity of silence, I finally croak out, “You haven’t answered, and what of my friends?” My voice cracks and betrays me at the word “friends” and my eyes pool. While I cannot make out his facial expressions, I can feel the heaviness in his deep sigh. He says everything while saying nothing, and my heart plunges into my stomach. Tears stream down my cheeks and I think I might throw up. I start to peel over, but Andrew catches me just before I fall and gently lowers me to the floor.
I feel paralyzed, no longer in control of my arms, legs, limbs. I don’t know whether to scream or if I am ready to spring into action and fight. “Why didn't you save them too?” I sputter out, anger filling my voice and body. “I’m sorry.” His voice is so earnest it enrages me. Why couldn’t he take us all? He slowly stoops down and sits next to me on the cold floor. “I…. I wish I could save everyone I hear, everyone I see… I… no one knows what is happening.” Blood still boils in my veins, “What is happening?”
“How haven’t you heard?” I don’t answer. “They are taking women away. To be… reformed, they say.” “Who? Who is taking them?” He doesn’t answer. “Who?!” I spit. “The city, I think. The church? I’m not sure.” I drink this in. How does one take a woman away against her will? Perplexed, I ask, “All women?” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “Women who might have a reason to walk the streets at night.” Reformed. Reformed. Reformed. What does reformed even mean? I came to America to reform. Is it a crime to be an immigrant? The words “troubled women” echo through my head from the police officer dragging the woman away screaming. I am not troubled. Only troubled women are out after dark, he said. I keep repeating the words on a loop, unable to get them out of my head, and I fail to realize I have been saying them out loud. Andrew gently puts a hand on my forearm. I startle and he moves it quickly away. He takes a slow breath then says firmly, “You don’t seem troubled to me,” and after another pause, “besides being troubled that I…captured you. I don’t blame you for that.” I chuckle through the tears, and lean my head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of exhaustion.
What I need is sleep.
“So are you troubled?” I ask him. “Yes, I must be, because I am sitting on the floor with a woman I captured in the darkness of the night.” I manage to exhale an exhausted laugh, “Well, at least if you kill me now, I will die laughing.” “Nah, can’t be doing any of that, what should my ma think were she to come down?” So disarming I could even rest my eyes. I chuckle and yawn, the dried tears on my cheeks cracking. “Andrew, tell me about your ma?” He mumbles on as I nod. No longer able to keep my eyes open, I…
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