Through Liberty's Shackles (eBook)

Chapter 6

On a Sunday morning, I was awoken by the bustling of voices outside my bedchamber door—loud attempts of a whisper. I, unfortunately, was aware of the cause of so much chatter. A young woman’s eighteenth birthday is supposed to be a day of celebration. I, on the other hand, was disheartened by the fact that although I was finally an adult, I had little new rights in comparison to my male friends. Even though they were mostly not my own, I hoped my opinions in the Boston Daily Journal held at least some level of consequence to compensate, despite my lowly female existence.

Only moments after I had opened my eyes, my door burst open with all of my sisters and brother stepping on each other’s heels and nearly all stumbling to the floor like animated barbarians.

The first of the lot was our youngest brother, Roscoe, which I always thought was fittingly similar to rascal, which he certainly was, but of the best kind. Although I sometimes found myself in the struggle of comprehending how a person could be so annoying by way of immature pranks and ungentlemanly humor, I was as proud as a sister could be to say that my brother had an unequivocally caring heart for the human condition. For this reason, he wanted to become a doctor.

Behind my little brother stumbled Marion, the artist of the family—though myself included if you consider writing an art. Not to say that she does not have an athletic figure good for all sorts of sports, but Marion simply always had a natural inclination for subjects in which her creativity could thrive. She was a proficient pianist and violinist, as well as an excellent painter. It was fair to say that such a young woman, a good portion of the old-fashioned members of the population—I prefer to call them the “ancients”—would certainly classify as accomplished. Not to mention her being my junior by one year caused me to feel as if the only reason my family kept little ole me around was to feed Jesse. I always aspired to acquire her persistence and dedication. She could sit in front of music sheets practicing for hours on end, whereas I was much too restless to even read a book without pacing. In addition to her work ethic, Marion was far from boring, and her enthusiasm added to whatever activities we shared and time we spent with each other and others. It had been unanimously agreed upon, though, that I had a keen sense of ordering words in a much more pleasant way.

Lastly through the door stumbled Ada-Mae, nearly toppling over Roscoe—who had by then sat in the middle of the doorway like a little fool—contradictory to her usual manner of not simply walking through a doorway but rather gliding through it light of feet. My eldest sister set high standards for us younger ones, but her advice concerning any situation in life was unequivocal. It had been only two months ago that I first saw my sister as someone who had once been a child with childish hopes. To witness those hopes vanish so abruptly and unexpectedly with Oliver brought her out of the discerning and eloquent mold in which she had always confined herself to, and I saw her break into tears for the first time in my life.

“Where is Christina?”

“She’s…busy,” replied Marion dubiously.

“And with what, if I may ask?”

“You may not. It’s a surprise.”

“What surprise?”

“I am forbidden to tell you, or Christie will seriously injure me, according to her declaration to me before I came upstairs,” she rushed, Ada-Mae tapping her on the shoulder, then crossing her arms again.

“She won’t do such a thing. I promise. So what is it?”

“You cannot promise anything on Christie’s behalf. Oh, I am going to accidentally give the surprise away if you don’t stop asking.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll be patient, for now. But no large surprises, you hear?”

She only answered with her usual innocent, yet mischievous, smile and disappeared down the staircase before I had any chance of continuing my interrogation. So, I turned to Roscoe, but before I could say anything, he exclaimed, “Do not even try! I will not tell you anything. It is the oath of secret birthday surprise parties. Oh, dammit.”

“No, please, no. Not a party. How could you let those mischievous party-planning sisters of ours do such a thing?”

“It was not my idea; I would just like to say that before this moves any further,” said Ada-Mae with a grin.

“I am a terrible conversationalist! I am awkward and boyish and my sarcastic wit is only humorous or at all comprehensible by Julian and Roscoe!”

“Do not worry yourself so much, Ruth. It’s not going to be a large party. Simply with your friends and family,” said Ada-Mae assuringly and with unattainable calm.

“Now enough moping and self-pity, and come eat breakfast,” Roscoe said to me encouragingly.

I fell back onto my pillow defiantly and sighed.

Breakfast was superb—an array of goods from Millard’s—and Julian surprised me with more during dinner. By suppertime, I was considerably full, but I could not help myself but eat even more. That was the one upside to birthdays—the unequivocal breakfast, dinner, and supper. Food during the following week after a birthday always seemed so bland in comparison. During this day, you are raised to a level of greater significance, a pedestal of sorts, and anyone who was upset with you only the day before is obliged to treat you kindly, to forgive and forget your flaws, and do whatever it is you ask him or her to do during those twenty-four celebratory hours. And though I appreciated the constant flow of kindness, I was never fond of attention, and so I escaped to the ocean in the evening after supper.

I laid down a blanket on the beach, shoes off, legs crossed, and feet attempting to warm themselves under the layers of my dress. I held myself in my own arms to shield from the cold wind as I watched the orange sun sink behind the faded black mountains in the distance, lined with a sheer layer of fog—and then, it was gone. The faint redness that remained from the falling sun melted into the other colors that lined the horizon, more mountains a farther distance away but hardly visible, overlain with the palest gradient, moving upward from pink to orange, to yellow to green, and finally, the darkening blue of dusk. As my eyes gravitated up to the sky right above me, I witnessed the dark purplish-blue background of the semi-full moon that stood in front of it, its grayish discolorations clearly visible in its crisp white luminescence. This half of a circle was the only object I could find in the sky—the stars had settled much too far away from our world to be noticed, the emptiness of the sky yielding their message of “come find me tomorrow,” and not a cloud disrupted the colorful smoothness of the evening.

I thought of what the setting sun would look like in Tennessee. Would the colors of dusk be too dissimilar to feel as if I were on the same Earth, or would I, in this unknown place, look up to the sky and find home? Though of allthese questions I had no answer to, my excitement was beyond containment, and so, when the only others at the dock, a middle-aged couple, had continued far enough past me as not to hear what I was prepared to do, I stood up on my blanket and shouted with all of the air in my lungs without shame and for no other reason than because it was what I desired to do in that moment.

Content with my dose of the landscape, I gathered my things, and standing up, I turned to see a young man, appearing a few years older than myself, looking at me with satisfactory surprise. He walked toward me, hands in his dark gray coat pockets. I assumed he was simply being friendly, but he stopped when he arrived at my side, and turning to the sea, he yelled as I had just moments earlier, for no apparent reason other than to mock me in my jubilee.

“Do you find me comical, sir?” I asked with a lowered, curious brow.

He did not answer but grew a grin as he looked down to the wood of the dock. Turning his head upright, again avoiding contact, he finally replied, “It’s fun, is it not?”

I did not know what to reply, as I was still in shock of his sudden scream and wavering in my embarrassment because he had likely watched me act like a fool. After taking a moment to gather myself, I said to him, “What is?” with my usual lack of better things to reply.

“Yelling.”

“I thought I was alone.”

“So did I.”

I avoided forming a smile at his quick replies, and I suppose he was not satisfied with the conversation, so he continued, “I am new to town.”

“Yes, I hear your accent. Where did you move from, if I may ask?”

“Ireland. Home country.”

“Ah. I apologize, I am not familiar with the accent.”

“That is interesting.”

“What is?”

Finally turning to me and meeting my eyes, he said, “You think I have an accent?”

I paused for a moment, then answered, “Well, you do here, I suppose.”

“Hmm…and I supposed you to have one.”

There was another moment where us strangers, remained silent, longer this time. In an attempt to end the dreadfully awkward silence, I inquired where he was residing, which I discovered was in close proximity to where Julian lived, I related him, “My best friend owns a bakery that I go to often in your neighborhood. I would be happy to introduce you and show you the neighborhood, if you would like.”

“I would. Thank...