DISCLAIMER: None of the characters from the movie Newsies belong to the authors, but rather to Disney. Big surprise there, right? Dimples and Dewey own themselves.
A.N: *clears throat* ahem…yea. So…this is Dewey coming at you with a new story…*dodges the rocks thrown at her* No, no! You must understand! I still do intend on finishing "EA" and "Just a Little Bet" Seriously! I do! But this is a story me and my friend had been planning out since last summer and we just had the urge to write it of a sudden! Please don't stone me! *whimpers* Besides, it's co-written, so it won't take up *all* my time. ^_^ And just so you know, I was writing more of "EA", so no worries, ay?
In any case, odd-numbered chapters are written by yours truly. Even-numbered ones by Dimples. ^_^ Enjoy!
A Tale of Two Families…Trying to Make it as One
Chapter One
The Newsboys Strike of the late 19th century had ended over two decades ago, the dreams of underdogs at long last seen by those in higher power and steadily becoming a reality. Breaking from the Victorian era, even the most unheard of voices liberated the downtrodden when on August 26, 1920, the Nineteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was ratified, giving women the right to vote. The American people had only begun to change. The Age of Jazz blasted its smooth melodies throughout the 'Roaring Twenties', the victory in the First World War left citizens feeling accomplished and secure, and a cherished new self-image for all genders was embraced with fervent enthusiasm. But what had become of those who had made these successes possible?
The names of Alma Clayburgh, Woodrow Wilson, Gandhi, Babe Ruth, and Margaret Gorman would ever be etched on the timeline of humanity, but had society forgotten those prideful young who had tamed the stubbornness of a newspaper giant in the summer of 1899? Had the people forgotten the names of Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon, respected leaders of the Manhattan and Brooklyn newsies, two communities who added heavily to the fights against the tycoons Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst? Had the memories of the working boys of New York been reduced to mere dust?
Perhaps that isn't even the question. Perhaps it shouldn't be asked whether or not those who now enjoyed a new type of freedom remembered the ones who'd fought for it, but rather whether these fighters remembered the freedom themselves. Had they gone on to revel in their won liberation, or had they become the slaves to a modern society, to the dictates of an adult's life?
Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon indeed went on to cast away the stories of their adolescence in exchange for manhood. Only months after the strike, Jack had met the girl who'd become his future bride, a Miss Amy Westhal. They were happily married two years later and moved into New York farmlands where Jack aspired to work as a successful cattle breeder to raise five children. Meanwhile, Spot wouldn't marry until after his twentieth birthday, and it would be to Lillian 'Dewey' Rembrandt, a girl he'd been seeing on and off for four years. After a fairy-tale matrimony, they moved closer to the city where Spot took on a job at a law firm. When he'd finished his legal studies, he became a renowned attorney, and it was only then that he and his wife began raising their six children.
But oh how these families were different, how contrary were their views on a life they both took part in. While the Kelly's were a happy bunch to which the words happiness and unity were interchangeable, the Conlon's barely were a family at all. Spot had made a god of his workplace and more often, his children learned to erase him from their lives. Whereas Jack indulged his sons and daughters with his quality time and company, Spot rather showed his love through petty luxuries and presents. Whereas the Kelly's were a closely-knitted group with a foundation upon harmony, the Conlon's were slowly beginning to drift away from one another. Two families. Two different concepts on how to bring together members of the same heritage. Fate would have its fun one day, though, for fastly approached the time when these two families would have to learn how to live as one.
* * * * * * *
Dewey awoke with the sun, for while its golden face peeked over the horizon, she was already washed up and dressed for a new day, and when it had at last made its ascent to the oceanic skies, she was enjoying a cup of decaffeinated coffee before going on to wake her children for school. She loved these moments, in which the mansion Spot had purchased years back was void of sound, when peace was hers for the taking. She enjoyed the solace for a few minutes more until the grandfather's clock in the parlor chimed a melodic announcement that seven o' clock had finally arrived. Dewey finished her coffee, set the mug in the kitchen sink, and tended to her motherly duties.
The first child she checked on was her youngest. Her four-year old son, Neeko, had contracted a terrible cold and had remained in an ill condition for quite some time now. She stood aside his bed, watching his chest move up and down at a steady rhythm, listening for any difficulty in his breathing. She didn't have to wait too long. Neeko suddenly cried out in pain and began coughing hoarsely, gasping for air as hot tears ran down his face.
Dewey instantly took the boy in her arms as she sat upon the bed, cradling him and whispering his name continuously into his ear, calming him from his earlier alarm while she rocked him back and forth. "Wake up, baby. You were having a bad dream…" She kissed him tenderly on the forehead and smiled in relief as his eyelids at last opened to reveal curious brown irises.
"Mama," said the child in a helpless plead, "it hurts when I breathe." He frowned and clung closer to her, believing she could make the pain go away simply because she was his mother.
"Oh, Neeko, I know." Seeing him as so brought a tear to her eye, for there was nothing she could do to cure the boy from his ailment. It had been like this for the past three winters as well. Every time late October brought along its chills, the weather would flare up the asthmatic tendencies of Neeko's lungs and make the simple task of breathing laborious. "But don't worry. The doctor is going to get us some more medicine for you, alright?" He only nodded and she laid him back down, covering him with his blankets and quilts, praying his bronchitis would lessen in severity.
She passed the rooms of twins Andy and Ruthie on her way down the hall, for they had yet a few minutes before time would become a problem, and entered next the dark quarters of her second eldest son, J.P. Dark because even though the sun's rays were beaming through his window, the room would never forsake its onyx-based shades. A year ago, J.P. had requested to have the walls painted black to 'match the color of his joy' and as was usual among the Conlon children, his wishes were granted. "J.P., darling, get up," she called from the doorway. "It's past seven."
J.P. only stirred, but didn't make a move as if to rise. Dewey furthered into the room and stood just before him to repeat her words, but when he moaned in pain and hid his face under the blankets cloaking him, she was momentarily concerned. "J.P., are you feeling well?" He mumbled something akin to 'no' and she was prompted to sit onto his bed and ask what bothered him.
He threw the blankets off him to more clearly speak and gave her his most miserable look. "Other than the fact that my head is throbbing like a thundering heart pleading to be drained of its misery, my stomach is boiling with furious rage, making me feel quite faint."
Dewey smiled at his poetic recitation; J.P. never ceased to amaze her with his dramatic speeches. "Well then, I suppose you can stay home and look after your little brother while I go shopping today."
Sitting up on his elbows, he gaped at her. "How does it follow that because I'm ill, I must undertake my responsibilities as one of the older siblings and baby-sit Neeko? Truly, Mom, you do see the injustice in that."
"This is the third time this month you've wanted to stay home from school, J.P. I'm not going to entertain your truancy any longer. Now get up and get ready." She stood to her feet and clapped her hands twice. "Come on, let's go. I shouldn't have to wake you up in the mornings. You're fourteen; this is your responsibility now." With crossed arms she watched in amusement as he arose from the bed grumbling and shuffled to his closet.
"Mother," said he, "why did you bring me into this mundane existence? Why must I daily attend that institution that wears the guise of 'education'? It's a prison, I tell you." He obtained a clean set of the pants and jacket he was required to wear for his private schooling and headed for the desk where laid his comb. "A damned sinkhole," he added under his breath, hoping she hadn't heard him.
"I don't want to hear that kind of language from your mouth, J.P. I thought we went over this already. Watch your language. What would your father think if he heard you?"
The boy shrugged indifferently. "I honestly can't tell you. I've had longer conversations with the lunch ladies at school than with my own father." He tried to push past her and head for his personal bathroom, but she wouldn't let him go with such a rude remark. He should've figured as much.
"Your father cares very much about you, sweetheart." Her voice was tender now, and J.P. almost regretted having saddened her so. She caressed his cheek with her palm and thought upon how the boy was the only one among his siblings who came closest to having all of Spot's features in appearance and character. J.P. had the blazing sapphire eyes and face structure, but his hair, though having the same texture as his father's, was a dark chestnut brown. "He just gets rather busy at work, you know."
He would have nothing of that. "He showers us with evanescent adoration and trivial gifts and then returns to his beloved world of clients and cases. I decided long ago that I have only one parent, and I don't think it's too complicated for anyone to know without hesitation that one parent is you. You're the only one who cares, Mom. My father might as well be dead and buried." Though it was a solemn statement, he smiled warmly and even did so much as to hug her in gratitude and kiss her on the cheek.
"J.P., do you ever wonder why it is we constantly have to be changing you from therapist to therapist?"
"They haven't the capacity to comprehend the level upon which I speak is all." When she laughed at this, he took advantage of her present mirth and asked her if he could possibly stay home if only to make her laugh all the more. She replied with an order to get ready for school before he was late. "Ugh, mom, do I really have to? Jesus didn't go to school and look how renowned he still is almost 2000 years later!"
"Get ready," she said once more, just before she left into the hall and closed the door behind her. Downstairs, the oldest in her brood, a sixteen-year old named Ethan, was gazing at himself in a hand-held mirror, checking his face for any flaws for at least five minutes until he was satisfied with the results of the morning's waking and then decided something had to be done about his hair. While he fidgeted with the brunette curls, Dewey greeted him with a rub on the back and continued on into the kitchen where Mrs. Becky, a southern dark-skinned woman with a beautiful personality, was cooking the family a most delicious meal.
"Why hello there, Mrs. Conlon," said the woman in her rural accent. "Have a peaceful sleep?"
"Oh yes, thank you." Ever since Spot had hired a team of servants after his promotion to a higher-paying job, Dewey never had to lift a finger to cook again. As a matter of fact, no one in the family did any type of manual labor. While at school, the children had their rooms fixed from top to bottom by maids and the only chores left to Dewey was that of tending to the personal needs of her sons and daughter. Spot refused to let her know the drudgeries of a housewife, but motherhood still was a role in her life and one she very much enjoyed.
Just before eight that morning, Mrs. Becky had finished setting the dining table for breakfast and all the Conlon children, plus their mother, were seated around the meal in wait for Spot's presence. From one end of the table, Dewey reminded the kids of any appointments-doctor or extra-curricular based-which they needed to attend in the afternoon. "Oh, and Andy and Ruthie? I don't want to hear any more complaints from your teacher that she has to chase you both around the playground for thirty minutes when it's time go inside the classroom, understood?" The twins nodded with mischievous smiles, their blue eyes sparkling.
Seven minutes later, Spot finally entered the dining room in a new black suit he'd purchased the day before, a large briefcase in one hand as he leaned over the table, seized a bagel, and started on his way to the front door. Dewey was taken aback by the near callous action and quickly stood to her feet to gain the man's attention. "Honey, we're having breakfast together today…Monday?" Only on Monday's and over the weekend's did the Conlon's together have a morning meal, for the rest of the week proved to be brimming with busy schedules no one could quite control.
Spot stopped abruptly, cast a glance at the meal and those kids facing him, and grimaced as if presented with two courses of action that to him were equal to one another. "Baby, I'm sorry but they're expecting me at the firm early today. I really wish I could stay, but remember, this is my second promotion since I've been working there and I really think they'll give me a third by the year's end so long as I remain committed." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and promised he'd make it up to her somehow before he rushed out the front door and made his way to the job he so fanatically clung to.
Dewey remained standing a moment longer in disbelief. How could he simply walk out on them in such an appalling manner? Was the family's unity of no importance to him? Had his rank as lead attorney at the firm hold more value in his life than did his very children? "Bye daddy!" called out Ruthie, hoping to receive a farewell in return, but Spot was long gone by the time her little voice had rung out. Dewey frowned at her only daughter and then sat back down, feeling all eyes upon her. When she had gathered her bearings, she prayed over the meal, specially requesting safety for Spot on his way to work, and then the family, minus one busy father, began to eat.
* * * * * * *
That night, Dewey sat in the parlor with her four youngest children, excluding Neeko-who was fast asleep in his room after taking some medicine, when suddenly Ethan returned from his baseball team try-outs and proudly exclaimed that he had gotten placed as pitcher. "I'll have all the girls after me now," he said with a proud grin. "I'll have all the more doll faces to add to the five girlfriends I already have." When his mother gave him a displeasing look, he assured her he was only kidding.
J.P. rolled his eyes at the exclamations. Ethan was a ladies man, indeed, but one who wouldn't make anybody forget that fact. He was much too proud for his younger brother's liking and J.P. felt the eldest acted much in the manner of a brat, as if he expected everything to be given him on a silver plate. From upon the couch where he was curled up with his favorite volume of Edgar Allan Poe prose, he decided to insert his own comment. "I'll never understand the affection of women. They pursue you endlessly, Ethan, and yet when you deny them, it only prompts them to chase you further. It's almost similar to Mom and Dad. No matter how hard Mom tries to obtain his attention or get him to sit for a confounded meal with us, all he does is ignore her." He'd made it loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, but when he saw the hurt look on his mother's face, he immediately regretted it.
Ethan saw how heartbroken their mother was and shot a glare at J.P. "Shut up, J.P. You think you know everything, but you're nothing but an idiotic freak. Why don't you go cut your wrists with razor blades again?"
"Go to hell," was J.P.'s simple but malicious retort.
Ethan had been retreating after he'd put his brother in his place, but when he heard those three words, he whirled around half in shock and charged for the younger Conlon. Before Dewey could intercede, he yanked J.P. from the couch and slammed the boy against one of the walls in the room. "What the hell is your problem!" he yelled at his brother. "All you do day in and day out is sit on your ass and complain about Dad being at work all the time, how no one pays you any attention, and how life is worthless. For God's sake, shut your mouth and grow up. No one cares what you think…"
"Ethan Isaiah Conlon!" Dewey pulled him away from his brother heatedly and gave him a scolding look only mothers were capable of conveying. "I won't tolerate this any longer…from the both of you! How dare you use such language in front of your younger siblings, in front of your own mother! Not only is it disrespectful, but it also reflects poorly on me. And we all know for a fact that I never speak such nonsense."
She was shaking with anger and the two teenaged boys wanted nothing more at that moment than to cower away into their rightful rooms. "I don't know where you hear that language but this will end right now. There'll be no more of this fighting either! You're brothers." Pulling them so that they now faced each other, she ordered them to shake hands and apologize for their actions. Ethan muttered something unintelligible under his breath but held out his hand nonetheless. J.P. only glared at him, and when he could take it no longer, the younger of the two shoved his brother away angrily and stormed to the other side of the parlor. "I'm not going to shake hands with that brat," he said simply.
"Whatever," Ethan said with a shrug. "I'm not the one seeing a therapist twice a week."
J.P. was truly shattered by the retort and ran back to Ethan with means to avenge his pride but Dewey stepped into the middle of them and held the younger Conlon back, though with much difficulty. "Take that back!" J.P. nearly screamed, hot tears welling up in his eyes. If there was anything he hated it was how Ethan very well knew how to crush him; a simple mention of his reoccurring depression and visits with a psychiatrist could scar him for a month. "Take it back!" he yelled again, almost free of his mother's grasp. "Damnit, take it back or I'll kill you!"
"Sure you will." Ethan only looked at him, and then turned to walk out the room. It was only then that he saw his father standing in the doorway. "Dad…"
J.P. spun around at the sound of the name and gasped when he saw the man, collapsing to the floor shakily and no longer caring that tears were cascading down his face. He was definitely in for it now. If their father had heard as little as a fourth of their conversation, it'd give him the means to be quite upset. "D-Dad…I, I…didn't mean…E-Ethan…" He simply pointed up at his older brother.
Ethan shook his head vehemently. "Ethan nothing," he replied quickly. "Dad, your son here needs another dose of his anti-depressant medicine." Then, when nothing had been said, he hurried out the parlor and left the man's wrath to J.P.
Spot was not filled with this wrath, however, for his mind dwelled elsewhere. "Kids, get on to bed. We'll talk about this tomorrow morning." Andy and Ruthie instantly dashed out the room, not needing a second invitation. Only J.P. and Connor remained behind. "Daddy," said eight-year old Connor with wide brown eyes, "You said you were going to get out of work early to come to Parent's Day at my school. My class waited for a long time, but our teacher said we had to move along and let the other parents talk." His lips were plastered into a frown.
"I'm sorry Connor," Spot said, patting the boy's head and pushing him off to the parlor's exit. "I'll make it up to you some time this week, alright buddy?" Connor nodded, but the frown was yet on his face, and it was obvious to those watching that it'd be there even if Spot promised the boy a toy store's worth of gifts. "J.P., I'll deal with you later. Get on upstairs and wait for me in your room." J.P. was use to snapping back at his father at like times, but there was something different in the man's stern tone that made him want to leave as soon as possible.
Once the room was cleared of all the children, Dewey looked at Spot, astonished by his actions. "What was all that about? You didn't even bother to scold Ethan or J.P. for what they had said to each other, as if you didn't even care. Spot, what's going on with you? The past few days you've been completely oblivious to your own family!"
"Dewey, please. I don't need this right now." He walked to the couch J.P. had earlier occupied, threw the boy's book of prose across the room, and fell down onto the piece of furniture with an aggravated sigh.
"Oh, you don't need this right now? Do tell, Spot, what's that suppose to mean? That you don't need your sons and daughter? That you don't need me? Because it sure seems as if that's how you'd have it. You didn't even go to Parent's Day at Connor's school? You'd promised that to him weeks ago! You didn't pick up Neeko's medicine during your lunch break like you said you would; the doctor was nice enough to make a house call and bring them here! J.P. failed one of his math tests again, Andy and Ruthie got bad marks for discipline on their progress reports, and though you didn't help Ethan practice for baseball at all whenever he asked you, he still made the team. So there's one piece of good news."
Spot ran his fingers through his hair in blatant frustration. "Dewey, will you give me a break?" he snapped. "The last thing I need is a run-down on all the things that make me a miserable father, alright?" It'd come out far more scathing than he'd intended and when she began to walk away with clenched fists, he reached out and grabbed her arm, gently pulling her so that she fell onto his lap. "Baby, I'm sorry. You're right; I've been a real jerk lately…" When she looked closer into his eyes, she saw that they mirrored a pain she'd never seen before.
She wrapped an arm behind his neck and rubbed his hand soothingly. "Honey, what's the matter?"
"Dewey, I…" He couldn't possibly answer her. He couldn't possibly tell the woman he loved of the great failure he'd achieved at work. He looked all about him, taking in the grandiose and elegance of the room that was only a pallid reflection of the beauty of the entire mansion and the lands upon which it sat. He looked at some of his children's toys carelessly cast about on the rugs and smiled sadly at them. Lastly, he looked at his wife, at her beauty and splendor in the dress she donned that day. "Dewey…I…I lost my job…" He was too ashamed to face her look, but when she placed a soft finger under his chin and moved his face so that their eyes connected, he was forced to. Surprisingly, there was no scorn in her features.
"Oh, Spot," she said with only a tone of sadness, "what happened?" Her heart had sunk at the words. Had lost his job? But why? How? Most importantly, what were they going to do now? Her mind instantly flew to concerns for her children. How would they be affected by all this?
"Well, remember that promotion I was telling you about this morning? Apparently, there was only room for one person to receive it, and this scab with more seniority got the job while I was laid off. Can you believe that! After I've been there for so long, they just drop me from the staff!" He pulled her closer and buried his face into her mass of curly hair. "Dewey, I don't know what I'm going to do! There's a pile of bills sitting on the desk in our room, and I don't have the money to pay a cent of them!"
She kissed him softly to alleviate his worries and began to subconsciously stroke his hair. "What about the money in the savings account?"
"I thought I was doing so well, Dewey. I thought I was on top of the world, that nothing could ever strike me down." He sighed and massaged his temples with a hand. "So last week I went out and spent all the money in the bank on expansions to the house. I thought it'd be nice to maybe add a garden in the back with a fountain and benches and a nice little brick pathway…" He shook his head angrily. "The money's all gone…all gone…"
"Baby, what are we going to do?" Her eyes were full of fear. She knew what it was like to live as a ruffian on the streets of Brooklyn, and she knew what it was like to be the wife of one of the city's most acclaimed attorneys. But never had she experienced having all her possessions taken away from her of a sudden as if she were a thief who didn't deserve a single item. "We can't keep this house up without paying the mortgage…it's already late! Plus, there's a whole other list of things we're behind in paying. The last time you checked, none of the law firms in the city were hiring."
"Dewey, maybe it'd be best if you took the kids and went to your mother's house…just so that they won't be in the house when…"
"When what?"
He sighed again and rubbed her hand between the both of his. "There's some security money behind my name, but you can't obtain it unless…it's kind of like a will, baby. And…"
"Michael Conlon! How dare you even think of taking your life merely to benefit your family." She gently took his face in her hands and kissed him again, more deeply this time. "It's not money we need, Spot. It's you the kids want, it's you they love. And the same holds true for me." She laced his fingers with her own and leaned her forehead against his. "Maybe we can just stay at your cousin's house for a few weeks until you get back on track."
"Nah, Lucas is on vacation I think. But I'll write him anyway, see if he's come back sooner than he thought." He was truly touched by her profession of love to him. It put him in awe how his family could care for him so when he'd never mirrored the same care for the past few years. Maybe there was a reason behind him losing his job.
"What about Jack?" she asked softly.
Spot thought upon the notion. Jack Kelly? He hadn't spoken to his long time best friend in over a decade! The two had gone their separate ways long ago and were obviously content with the paths they'd chosen. If Spot remembered correctly, Jack lived out in the country. They'd shared a Christmas together when Ethan was only three years old. "Do you think he'd mind?"
"Not at all," was her smooth reply. "You two are the best of friends, Spot. He'll definitely help us in our time of need. Plus, he's the only one I can think of with a house big enough to accommodate all of us. I still have his address if you'd like to send him a telegram…"
Spot brought her hand to his lips in thought. Could there be a more detrimental blow to his pride? Could anything be worse than having to admit to his shortcomings and moving in with the one he'd brag to about being the most successful man in New York? But Jack would understand, he kept telling himself. He won't say anything… He nodded, finally believing his musings. "All right, let me write him a letter…"
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