The Old Cape Teapot Read Online Free

the bridge rather than live a life of torture and torment as slaves.”
    “How terrible.” I shook my head in disbelief.
     Brian leaned closer to one of the edges. “People still come here to commit suicide. Some young guy died here last week; it was in the paper. They think he was from the States.”
    I stepped back from the violent scene.
    Brian whispered, “They couldn’t identify the body. All they found were some limbs and a pile of shredded clothes.”
    “It’s so sad and frightening. Let’s go.” We walked back to the Jeep arm in arm.
    ***
    After we drove across town, we parked at the Peace Corps office and then took a short stroll for a quick tour of the city.
    As we walked, Brian looked over to me. “Mom, do you have to wear that necklace?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m uneasy with you wearing it around here. It looks really expensive. I don’t want to give anyone any ideas…we have to be careful.”
    “You think I should take it off?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Okay. I trust your opinion.” I unhooked it and placed it inside my purse.
    Vendors lined the edges of streets and stood under the stone archways that connected sections of buildings together. Bought souvenirs weren’t for me; I would rather take home the big conch shells that covered the coastline for remembrances. Some people from behind the tables spoke to us as we passed by; I smiled even though I couldn’t understand the local dialect.
    Brian cautioned me. “Just look straight ahead and ignore whatever the vendors say to you. Don’t acknowledge them.”
    “Why?” I asked trying to keep pace with Brian’s long strides.
    “They’re actually cursing at you because you didn’t buy anything from them.”
    “You’re kidding!”
    “No, do you want to know what that guy just said to you?”
    “Not really.”
    The wide toothy smile of an elderly man hawking everything from deodorant to socks to postcards followed us as we passed him. I looked straight ahead and was grateful that Brian told me to keep the necklace out of sight.
    As we rounded the corner of a large stucco building, a small freestanding lime-green eatery atop a cement block foundation came into view. It looked bold among the white and pastel painted houses on the small street. A sign was scrawled with scripted letters: Julian’s. It was decorated with painted pineapples, bananas, palm trees, and huge white waves that encircled its rectangular opening. The wooden building had grass on both sides and a high, open counter facing the street from which customers could order sandwiches and drinks. A small basket of napkins rested on the counter. From behind it, the tall, middle-aged proprietor was smiling and greeted us with, “Hello, Brian!”
    “Hi, John. How are you?”
    “Fine. Who is this lovely young lady with you today?”
    “My mom.”
    His black face lit up with a broad smile. “Well, I can see where Brian gets his good looks.” After a quick swipe of the counter with a cloth, he asked, “What might be your pleasure today?”
    The cheerful proprietor’s name and the sign above his head made me stop dead in my tracks. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the legend of Sam Bellamy and the Antiguan, John Julian, flooded my thoughts. Julian was one of only two survivors of the Whydah pirate ship. Legend has him possibly returning to Antigua.
    “I’ll have the turkey on rye with a coke,” Brian ordered, oblivious to my stunned stare.
    I couldn’t think about what to order; something far more exciting than turkey was on my mind. I elbowed Brian. Out of the corner of my mouth, I quietly asked, “Did he say his name was John? What’s his last name?”
    Brian reached for his sandwich and casually asked, “Hey, John, is your last name Julian, like on the sign?”
    “Oh yes, I was named after my long ago grandfather.” He stood tall and proudly added, “I am the seventh generation descended from the first John Julian.”
    I swallowed hard. With a timid voice, I