A/N: I've been working on this for a while now, and I can no longer discern if it's good or not, if it flows or makes any sense at all.
I'm going to leave the assessment of greatness up to you, the reader. So please review with all helpful comments, including but not limited to: how much this story rocks, how much this story sounds authentic (i.e., are my historical facts correct and/or is my characterization fairly believable), what I could do to improve this story, should this story be improved at all etc.
This is only the first part; I have at least three parts planned. I might even make it to four.
Enjoy.
Disclaimer (for this and all following chapters): I don't own anything recognizable.
"Leda Rose"
Falling
She was just a common street girl, but the dirt of the streets wasn't in her veins. It didn't cover her cheek, and it didn't rest in her hair. It didn't cover the shine in her eyes, and it didn't coat her hands like gloves. It didn't drape across the folds of her skirt and it didn't cake on the bottom of her shoes. She was pristine. Clean. Rich.
He always noticed this, though he only ever caught a glimpse of her. Snapshots taken by a photographer who doesn't know how to work a camera. He saw her in parts: a hand, one shiny penny in the middle, like a target. The curve of her pink lips as she smiled, courteous and indifferent. An eye, avoiding contact. The other eye was always covered with a lock of pale blonde hair fallen forward on her brow, a winner in the battle with her comb.
He thought nothing of her. She was a customer. A regular. Every morning at eight o'clock. She was a way to make a living.
And he was barely making a living, even after the strike. News was slow. Boring. Overrated. Times were hard.
Hard times . . . . High times . . . .
It was a song he remembered. He never really liked it. It was annoying. Infectious. It had the kind of beat that got stuck in your head and grinded away at your brain until all that was left was a dull pain behind your eyes and the distinct feeling that your brain was no longer there.
High times, hard times . . . . Sometimes . . . .
"Nice song."
Skittery looked up and stopped whistling the song he didn't know he was whistling.
It was her.
That regular.
She had never spoken to him before, barely made eye contact. He'd seen her every day for the past two months, and it was weird to hear her talk, see her look at him straight in his eyes. It was like seeing a dream while fully awake.
They had a rhythm. Smile, paper, penny, nod.
She was ruining it. His whole day was ruined now.
"Thanks," he said, with a small, forced smile.
"I'm Leda." She held her hand out. Her nails were short and clean.
"Skittery," he said gruffly, shaking her hand. He let go quickly, ashamed of his ink-stained fingers. He didn't want to get her dirty. He wished he had thought to tell her his real name. Skittery sounded childish and immature. He was nearly eighteen.
"See you tomorrow," said Leda. She retreated quickly, her shoes echoing against the sidewalk like a nervous heartbeat.
Like someone lying.
She was probably lying about her name. It was probably something ugly. Like Hulga. Leda probably meant something great and philosophical, something he was too dumb to know. Something only a scholar would know. Because she must have been smart or rich or something. Her clothes were too clean for her to be poor.
She turned the corner, and the sound of her shoes was gone, blended with the other steps walking towards an unseen purpose, the other pulses of scattered and wasteful life. The people on the streets became an entity, a solid mass moving forward, backward, and nowhere all at once.
There was no synchronicity, no rhythm, but they all moved. Moved with a purposeful gait that said I am someone, I will succeed.
The purposeful gait was a farce. A facsimile of happiness. No one cared anymore. No one cared enough to help out the poor starving boy stuck like white dot in the middle of the black crowd. No one cared about anyone else. It was all a very selfish society. No one cared to read the news anymore.
Which was all fine for the next day, for there was no World to read. No newspaper to sell. No news to yell out. No way to make a living. The distribution office was closed. The gates were locked.
A crowd of newsies stood gathered around the gate, staring, hoping for someone to come and let them in, sell them their papers, let them live just one more day. Apparently there was a shortage of ink. The paper couldn't be printed until a ship from China or some place across the ocean arrived in the New York Harbor carrying a hundred or so cases of black shiny ink.
It wasn't arriving anytime soon, due to some "mechanical difficulties."
"It prolly ran outta steam," whispered someone in the crowd.
"Don't you know nothin'?" whispered someone else. "They don't run on steam no more. It's like oil or somethin'."
"I t'ought is was coal," whispered another boy.
No one knew why they were whispering. It felt like some great disaster which called for quiet voices. It felt like someone had died.
Skittery sat on the steps of the lodging house, staring at his worn shoes and sucking heavily on a cigarette. His last cigarette unless he could steal one of Race's while he wasn't looking. The smoke relaxed him and his mind wandered, like a puppy who had lost his owner. It wandered to a small pebble on the sidewalk. He picked it up and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb, realizing that it was shaped like a perfect sphere–like the earth.
A globe. He remembered his father pointing to globe once and saying, "We're goin' there some day. We're goin' all over the world and when we get done, yer mother is comin' back, just like I tol' ya son. Yer mother is comin' back." His father always sounded drunk. Or maybe that was just how he remembered him. Maybe his memories were distorted to fit the kind of father he always thought he had and not the kind of father he really had. He remembered wanting to tell his father that his mother wasn't coming back, but he really didn't have the heart to.
He sighed and took another drag of the cigarette, just as a shadow passed in front of him and hovered uncertainly above him. He looked up.
"Leda?" he asked, recalling the woman's name.
"Hey," she said, standing uneasily on her high heels. He had the feeling that she wasn't used to wearing such shoes. Or at least not those shoes in particular, because they looked brand new. Leather. Probably still smelled of leather too and not dirt and sweat. "Sorry, if this seems too forward, but . . . well ya weren't there. Today. On the corner."
He coughed nervously and stood up, wiping his hands on his pant legs ashamedly. "Yeah, well . . . there ain't nothing to sell."
"You mean there ain't no paper?" She shook her head, unwilling to believe his absurd excuse. "But, there's always a paper."
"Yeah, they, uh, ran outta ink or somethin' like that."
"How you gonna make money today?"
He shrugged. "Well, I guess I ain't, uh?"
She frowned and bit her lower lip. She looked guilty of something. Murder probably. Her husband that was cheating on her. Found 'em in bed together and she grabbed the steak knife. "Can I buy ya some coffee or somethin'? Lunch? How about lunch? It's almost noon. We can go wherever you like," she said.
"Thanks, but I can't . . . ."
"Why? 'Cause I look rich? Is that why you actin' so uncomfortable?"
"I ain't actin' uncomfortable."
"So this is the way you always act?"
"Yeah. I mean, no. I . . . I could use cup of coffee or somethin'. But not lunch. I, uh . . . I'm not real hungry."
She nodded, not believing any word of it. His eyes kept flitting around, afraid to look straight at her, as if his gaze would be considered an insult. A debasement of her body. An impure thought projected through his pupils.
Her dress was a little too tight.
"Lunch, then" said Leda. "How 'bout that place around the corner? What's it called? Tibby's?"
"Uh, yeah, Tibby's. I guess we could go there. If ya want."
She grabbed his hand, noticing the black-tinged fingers and not caring in the least. What was a little dirt and ink?
Something that could be washed off.
Tibby's was busy with the usual lunch crowd, only they were in a very bitter mood, cursing Pulitzer, and not eating lunch.
"Pulitzer, that son of a . . . ." "That go . . . ." "Damn bas . . . ." "Fu . . . .""Assho . . . ."
Skittery noticed that the phrases started to drop off as Leda walked to a table in the far left corner. The restaurant quieted by the time she sat down, and she looked at Skittery expectantly.
He started, as if from a daze, and sat down, ignoring the whispers pointed his way. He knew what they were saying anyway: "Who's she?"
Who is she? he asked himself.
Leda. She was Leda. But that was all he knew. He didn't know how old she was (although she only looked sixteen or so) and he didn't know if she was married or if she had a rich family. Probably not, because of her accent. She sounded as if she lived somewhere in Brooklyn. Maybe Queens. Not Manhattan, for surely he would have met her before two months ago. Maybe she just moved to Manhattan?
She was eying the menu with a very serious gaze. "What do you suggest?"
"Uh, the, uh . . . ." He scratched the back of his neck, eyeing the menu and trying to remember how read. It's not like this was a date. He needn't be so nervous. The girl was probably crazy. She probably escaped from a mental institute with one of those nature names, like Sunnyside or Oak Haven.
"The fish and chips is pretty good," said Jack, right next to Skittery's ear. He was leaning dangerously on the two back legs of the chair, his elbow resting on Skittery's shoulder.
Skittery wanted punch him in the mouth.
Why'd he have to talk so loud? It's not like they were outside. They were inside. Weren't you supposed to talk softer inside? Like a voice for the inside. An inside voice. Why couldn't Jack use a fuckin' inside voice?
Leda smiled. "Oh, but I don't like fish. Disgusting." She turned to Skittery. "What do you like Skittery?"
"Skittery likes the tomato soup."
"I can answer for myself you know," said Skittery, suddenly sitting up straight, causing Jack to nearly lose his balance.
Jack recovered fairly quickly, and he laughed, as if it was some good-humored joke between them. The urge to knock out a few of Jack's perfect teeth curiously intensified.
"I like the tomato soup," he answered for himself.
"I think I'll have the tomato soup," said Leda to the waiter. She smiled at the man, but her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and Skittery felt like she was keeping it for someone. Hiding her smile for someone greater, someone more important. Someone she loved.
"So, uh . . . . Why you here again?" he asked.
She shrugged listlessly, like one of those girls that aren't afraid to kiss you when other people are around. "I just wanted a newspaper."
A newspaper, uh? She just wanted a newspaper. Why was a newspaper so important? It was just the news. It's not like the world had ended. Life goes on. You get over it.
Skittery nodded and began to eat his soup. He took a cautious sip, making sure that it wasn't too hot. He had planned to act courteous to her presence and act like a gentleman, but there was an emptiness in his stomach. The soup was sipped quickly–loudly–and bread was ripped savagely and stuffed into his mouth. If he hadn't been so hungry he would have shown her more respect than Race was, sitting at the table next to them yelling something about "fucking Pulitzer and his fucking paper."
It's not like she could hear his rudeness, anyway. Race was talking too loud.
Leda ate daintily, like a flower drinking up the sunlight patiently.
Practiced movements.
She had an air about her that attracted attention but banished any thoughts of familiarity. She was the girl you stared at, but never approached. You never got beyond the impression of her body, the curve of her shoulder, the perfumed cloud that clung to her movements. You never got close enough to her to find out if she was real or just a figment of a sexually depraved mind.
You never got beyond her smile, a secret for those who didn't know her.
You could never tell if it was the same smile or if it held some nuance, some slight differing pull of the right side. Or was it the left? Maybe she wasn't even smiling. Maybe that was the way her lips naturally held themselves and all other positions were a revelation of her emotions. Her frown was her smile, her smile her frown.
She finished eating and placed her spoon neatly on her plate. She took a few coins from her lace pocketbook and threw them down on the table. Standing up, she said, "Let's get out of here, uh? Let's go for a walk."
"Uh, sure."
He didn't have anything to do anyway. Besides, he didn't want her to think he was ungrateful for lunch. Placing his hat firmly on his head (and wishing he had bothered to at least comb his hair down so it didn't look like he had just woken up), he led the way out of Tibby's and down the street, towards the park.
The way to Central Park was filled with a bustling lunch crowd, business men making their way back to the offices and women making their way towards the shops, to buy the latest fashions–that hat they just couldn't live without. Leda held his hand the whole way, as if afraid he was going to run away like some insolent child. She seemed oblivious to disapproval of those they pushed passed. She seemed oblivious to the world, intent on one single purpose. Skittery wasn't sure if that one purpose was the park or not.
The trees in Central Park were green, the flowers were flourishing and Skittery and Leda were the only people around to enjoy them. They were utterly alone. The only sound was that of a bee, protesting against his limited choice of flowers. Roses or daisies. Daises or lilies. The bee really preferred geraniums.
Skittery was fairly certain their walk should be accompanied by conversation, but no conversing had taken place yet. He knew he should say something, and he opened his mouth instinctively. A strangled sound came out when he realized he really had nothing to say, and he covered it up with a cough.
"Say, it's awfully hot out here," she said, standing in front a pond. The tips of her shoes just barely touched the water.
A duck floated by. He quacked.
"You wanna go swimming?" she asked.
"No."
"Why?"
Because he only had one pair of pants, and he was wearing them right then. Swimming would mean getting wet and getting wet would mean remaining wet for the rest of the day. It could take him hours to completely dry off, and he didn't feel like sitting around in wet clothes. It was highly uncomfortable.
When he didn't answer, she scooped up a handful of water and flung it at him with a laugh.
"Dammit," he said. "What did you do that for?" He surveyed the damage, mumbling something about "pissing his pants." He couldn't go back to the lodging house now. They'd all laugh.
Skittery wasn't in the mood to partake in jokes.
Then again, Skittery was never really in the mood to partake in jokes, especially if they were at his expense.
Glum and dumb is what they called him. He wished they'd all just die.
"Dammit," he said again.
"I'm sorry." Her voice sounded sincere, and he thought about forgiving her. But he really didn't feel like it.
"Yeah, well . . . . That ain't good enough."
"C'mon," she said, taking his hand. "I'll get ya some new clothes."
He wrenched free from her grip. "I don't need no new clothes."
"Oh."
The duck quacked again.
"Then at least come back to my place for a while. We can hang your clothes out the window to dry."
Skittery shrugged. "Yeah, okay." It was either that or go back to the lodging house. He wasn't about to wander around New York City looking like he pissed his pants.
Leda's apartment was small but surprisingly pretentious. There was a brass sign on the door that read "Leda Rose" and the paint on the walls was a shiny white that made your eyes sting when you stared at it too long. The furniture looked as if it had never been sat in and was placed strategically throughout the room so that you had to take as many steps as possible to make it from one end to the other. The end tables were adorned with fresh roses, and the walls were decorated with paintings of the French landscape.
As he walked in, Skittery noticed a bouquet of roses by the door. He pointed them out to Leda, but she simply waved it off without giving an excuse. Not that he needed one. They were her flowers. It was her life. It wasn't his business.
"I have some spare trousers and a shirt that should fit you. They're my fathers," called Leda as she walked down a small hallway to his left.
"Where's your father?" he asked. He didn't want to be wearing the guys clothes and have him come home.
That would be awkward.
"He's dead."
"Oh."
She came back into the main room and handed him the clothes. "You can change in the bedroom down the hall."
"Thanks."
The pants were too large, and the shirt was missing half of the buttons. As he changed, he eyed the picture on the armoire. It was a photograph of an older man, a thick beard hiding his chin and a mustache covering his lips. Must be Leda's father, he thought. The man's eyes were staring at Skittery uncomfortably. All-knowing, as if he was God or something.
He turned away and walked out of the room, his wet clothes in his hand.
He found Leda sitting on the balcony, perched on the edge of the railing, her feet dangling below her. Leaning his back against the railing, he looked at her profile, his arms crossed over his chest.
She turned. "Tell me somethin'. About you. Anything you wanna tell me."
Though talking about himself was never Skittery's strong point, her enthusiasm to hear about his life urged him on and inflated his ego a few inches. He told her of the strike a few months ago. He told her why he was a newsie. What he thought about Pulitzer and the news. About how Pulitzer was just some greedy rich guy who didn't even know that his own wife was sleeping around. With Randolph Hearst no less. Yes, it's very true. Some newsie in Brooklyn had a cousin who worked as the doorman for one of them fancy hotels. He'd seen 'em walking in and out, all over each other.
He told her where he used to live. He told her of his family and why he left. After some pressuring, he told her how he got his nickname.
She laughed and sat her tea cup on the table. "It's getting late Skittery. I like you, you know that?" She stood up, and he followed suit. "We should meet tomorrow. Around six, after you've finished selling your newspapers."
"Uh, sure. Tomorrow."
"I'll see you then."
"Yeah. G'night."
"Night Skittery."
The door closed, and he was left standing in the dark with the image of her smile imprinted on his brain. He felt like he was forgetting something, but he shrugged and walked home.
It was after he stumbled up the steps of the lodging house that he realized he forgot to get his clothes.
(tbc)
A/N: Please review with all helpful comments, including but not limited to: how much this story rocks, how much this story sounds authentic (i.e., are my historical facts correct and/or is my characterization fairly believable), what I could do to improve this story, should this story be improved at all etc.
Thanks for reading!
(edit 2/27): I've changed a small little bit about the belt. Thanks to Garen Ruy Maxwell for pointing out that mistake to me.)