Mayor's office to his own room, then returned after less than a minute with a copy of a newspaper from the day before. "Perhaps you should read this. Please read it
carefully,
sir. Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I'd like to repair to my office in order to finish sending out copies of my résumé to potential, future employers. And I have a dreadful headache today..."
His secretary departed, leaving the Mayor more baffled than before. He opened the day-old newspaper, and there it was, the complex Compromise. In it, California became the thirty-first state. New Mexico and Utah were to be organized as territories and residents could decide for themselves whether to be free or slave. The slave trade was ended in D.C., andâ
Wait!
He looked nearer, bringing the paper closer to his eyes in order to read some changes in the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793. Vaguely, he recalled this item, but hadn't attended closely to its details. Under the amendment, federal commissioners were granted the power to issue warrants for runaway slaves. They could form posses to capture fugitive blacks. They could fine citizens if they refused to help in returning Negroes to their former masters, who had to do nothing more than submit an affidavit in court. The blacks were denied a jury trial. They could not testify to defend themselves. Slowly, he put the newspaper down. His man Henry ... their cook ... their three other servants and perhaps
all
the coloreds in his city were runaways. No doubt theyd changed their names. And once they learned of the amendment to the Fugitive Slave Act, they'd fled en masse during the night, probably to Canada. Who could blame them? And
he
had endorsed this disaster?
Gloomily, the Mayor left City Hall. Night was coming on ... and streetlamps were unlit. He plodded on, realizing that until now he'd not seen how dependent the life of the cityâand his own fortuneâwas on blacks. They were interwoven, albeit invisibly, into the fabric of everything; and, like the dangling string on a sweater which, if pulled, unraveled the entire garment, so too their removal caused everythingâhigh and low, private and personalâto collapse. Without sealing the deal on those contracts, he would lose his office. He was certain of that now. His own businesses would suffer. My God, he might even lose his mistress and be left with only his Wife, who sometimes could be a shrew! Miserably, he tramped back home in the snow, which seeped into his shoes and dampened his feet so thoroughly he felt his toes had frozen in one solid block of flesh by the time he reached his front door, coughing, his nose burning and running badly, becauseâyesâhe'd picked up a nasty cold.
The house was colder and darker than before. If anything, he only wanted a little sympathy now from his Wife. He did not see her downstairs. So, blowing his nose into his handkerchief, he climbed the steep stairs to their bedroom, dripping all the way. "Dear," he said, opening the door, "I have some bad news..."
"Well," she crabbed, "you can save whatever it is until you find dinner for us. I haven't eaten all day. I'm
starving!
And so are the children!"
It dawned on him that she had not left their bed all day. "You couldn't find something for yourself in the kitchen?"
"Nothing's prepared! I haven't had to cook in years! You know that. I want you to go out right now and find us something to eat."
"Now?"
"Yes,
now.
"
Slump-shouldered, feeling euchered, the Mayor went back outside, walking two miles in the darkness, with fresh snow beginning to fall, flaking on his shoulders. An hour later he arrived at the building that housed his club, thinking perhaps there they would wrap four plates of food, which he could carry home to his family. He tried the door. It was locked. Inside no lights were on whatsoever. Then he saw a sign in the ground-floor window. NO WAITERS OR COOKS TODAY. He stared blankly, helplessly, at the words. His mouth wobbled.
Of
carefully,
sir. Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I'd like to repair to my office in order to finish sending out copies of my résumé to potential, future employers. And I have a dreadful headache today..."
His secretary departed, leaving the Mayor more baffled than before. He opened the day-old newspaper, and there it was, the complex Compromise. In it, California became the thirty-first state. New Mexico and Utah were to be organized as territories and residents could decide for themselves whether to be free or slave. The slave trade was ended in D.C., andâ
Wait!
He looked nearer, bringing the paper closer to his eyes in order to read some changes in the Fugitive Slave Act of 1793. Vaguely, he recalled this item, but hadn't attended closely to its details. Under the amendment, federal commissioners were granted the power to issue warrants for runaway slaves. They could form posses to capture fugitive blacks. They could fine citizens if they refused to help in returning Negroes to their former masters, who had to do nothing more than submit an affidavit in court. The blacks were denied a jury trial. They could not testify to defend themselves. Slowly, he put the newspaper down. His man Henry ... their cook ... their three other servants and perhaps
all
the coloreds in his city were runaways. No doubt theyd changed their names. And once they learned of the amendment to the Fugitive Slave Act, they'd fled en masse during the night, probably to Canada. Who could blame them? And
he
had endorsed this disaster?
Gloomily, the Mayor left City Hall. Night was coming on ... and streetlamps were unlit. He plodded on, realizing that until now he'd not seen how dependent the life of the cityâand his own fortuneâwas on blacks. They were interwoven, albeit invisibly, into the fabric of everything; and, like the dangling string on a sweater which, if pulled, unraveled the entire garment, so too their removal caused everythingâhigh and low, private and personalâto collapse. Without sealing the deal on those contracts, he would lose his office. He was certain of that now. His own businesses would suffer. My God, he might even lose his mistress and be left with only his Wife, who sometimes could be a shrew! Miserably, he tramped back home in the snow, which seeped into his shoes and dampened his feet so thoroughly he felt his toes had frozen in one solid block of flesh by the time he reached his front door, coughing, his nose burning and running badly, becauseâyesâhe'd picked up a nasty cold.
The house was colder and darker than before. If anything, he only wanted a little sympathy now from his Wife. He did not see her downstairs. So, blowing his nose into his handkerchief, he climbed the steep stairs to their bedroom, dripping all the way. "Dear," he said, opening the door, "I have some bad news..."
"Well," she crabbed, "you can save whatever it is until you find dinner for us. I haven't eaten all day. I'm
starving!
And so are the children!"
It dawned on him that she had not left their bed all day. "You couldn't find something for yourself in the kitchen?"
"Nothing's prepared! I haven't had to cook in years! You know that. I want you to go out right now and find us something to eat."
"Now?"
"Yes,
now.
"
Slump-shouldered, feeling euchered, the Mayor went back outside, walking two miles in the darkness, with fresh snow beginning to fall, flaking on his shoulders. An hour later he arrived at the building that housed his club, thinking perhaps there they would wrap four plates of food, which he could carry home to his family. He tried the door. It was locked. Inside no lights were on whatsoever. Then he saw a sign in the ground-floor window. NO WAITERS OR COOKS TODAY. He stared blankly, helplessly, at the words. His mouth wobbled.
Of
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