One sleeps restlessly, knuckles propping up his chin while echoes of a conversation he wasn't meant to hear torment his fragile juvenile psyche. Julia's look of horror when he came in from the barn early, Emma's scowl at Hugh who offered nothing more than a pragmatic shrug in return. He understood, of course. Simple math; too many mouths and a crop that hadn't turned a profit in over two years. He wasn't blood, felt he'd gotten by on the kindness of others for too long now. He played dumb for the sake of the womenfolk- his boyish grin easily winning them over- proceeded to wash up for supper but his mind was already made up.
"You don't have to do this," Emma's voice urged quietly from the shadows of the kitchen corner the following morning, stopping him in his tracks.
Stunned, Tommy could only gulp and nod in the direction of the stairwell.
"She's asleep."
He nodded again at the assurance, stalling for something to say. So many goodbyes, he should be used to it by now. She approached in a tiptoe, placing a small envelope in the faded green satchel he'd strapped over his shoulder.
"It's not much," she offered albeit apologetically.
"I can't—"
A gentle squeeze on his hands, her own cold; pale.
"You can."
"I…I don't know what to say…" Tommy stammered. He looked at his feet, then met her eye. "Thank you, Em. You been real good to me. Jules too…"
"It's okay. She'll be upset but she's a survivor. You are too, kid," she smiled cupping his cheek; one last look before glancing at the clock. "You better git goin' before the sun comes up."
"Yeah," he agreed, pursing his lips.
No crying.
She followed him to the side door, staying behind the screen as he marched off just as she'd done the day Pa drove her brother to the depot for boot camp.
"Tommy!" she called softly.
He turned three-quarters and looked over his shoulder.
"You can always come home. Ya hear?"
Yet he could do nothing but tip his hat in response.
The other eagerly greets the day with an escape plan of his own. Folding plainclothes in his schoolbag, he put on his uniform and tried his best not to grin at the breakfast table. Ma bought it and Daddy wasn't home. He walked to the car; a spring in his step he could feel yet hoped was unnoticeable.
"Good day, Brown."
Sonny Capone bid adieu to his chauffer upon reaching the school, preferring to open the door to the backseat himself—he hated being fussed over.
"Three-thirty, Sir?"
The boy cleared his throat.
"Yes," he lied.
But there would be no bodyguards today. Instead he excused himself from Latin early that afternoon, asking to use the lavatory and changing in one of the stalls. Having bribed one of the cafeteria workers, he slipped out the kitchen and into the schoolyard.
Freedom.
Finally allowing himself to smile, Sonny stuffed his hands in his pockets and rounded the corner, careful not to slip on a mound of snow. Chicago winters—not for the faint of heart. But he was used to it, his navy coat thick and warm, and all he could think about was the chocolate malt he intended to order the moment he reached the soda shop.
The train ground to a halt, lurching Tommy forward his heavy head falling on his shoulder. Weary eyed, he looked around him trying to recall how long they'd been traveling. The sky outside was grey, but when was it not this time of year? Disoriented and wishing he hadn't sold his watch last Christmas he peered over at the other passengers hoping for some indication of the time.
"Tracks are frozen up ahead," explained the middle-aged woman across the aisle. "Stopping off in Chicago."
"How long?"
Clearly she found the situation frustrating as well, rising to collect her suitcase from under the seat and tugging the hand of the toddler looking out the window.
"Not sure," she sighed. "Come now, Johnny. Best we telephone Aunt Sally and tell her we've been delayed."
He'd planned on going straight to New Jersey, only stopping briefly in Pittsburgh or Philadelphia while they restocked coal. What to do now?
Chicago. Me-mawh once said that his father had friends there. And he recalled a similar tale from Richard. That they'd met there. Passing through. Just like he was at the moment. With resolve he put one foot in front of the other, following the herd off the platform and into the station. When he got to the street he couldn't help but glance up at the sky. No stars, of course, it was still midafternoon. But he knew they were there and let out a deep sigh. And he found himself wandering aimlessly downtown, the bustle a refreshing change from the hopeless silence of Plover. Had they walked the same streets? Saw the same sights?
His thoughts were interrupted by a growl from his stomach. Having only an apple when he set out from the farm, he wasn't surprised. He needed to budget, had heard there were soup kitchens all over the city, but the aromas from the restaurant on the corner were heavenly. Reminded him of the sweet shops on the Boardwalk when he was a kid and he couldn't resist.
Meanwhile, Sonny marched across the parquet flooring and plopped himself down at the counter. The clerk looked up briefly from the glass he was drying as the boy looked over the menu then went back to the kitchen. The place was practically empty, a group of older teens huddled in one of the booths; an older gentleman with a cup of coffee perusing the Tribune. The doors chimed as another customer entered, but nobody paid him too much attention.
"You ready?" The clerk inquired upon his return but Sonny didn't look up.
"Hey," he tried again a bit louder, "You gonna order somethin' or what?"
"Chocolate malt, please."
His diction was slow, the pronunciation exaggerated earning a snicker from the boys in the corner. Tommy grit his teeth, and folded his hands on the counter. How many times had his hero been laughed at? The whispers, the stares. Years had passed but the indignity he felt—that fire in his belly—still burned brighter than ever. He looked over his own menu in an effort to distract himself.
"Nice jacket ya got there," snarked a stocky in a striped sweater.
Yet Sonny was too enthralled in his newfound (and very temporary, he knew) independence to notice. He looked around at the neon in the windows, the neatly stacked straw container, wishing he could do this every day yet still careful not to waste the moment though he'd surely pay for it later.
"I'm talkin' to you, pal."
"Richie over there thinks he's too good for the likes of us," another one chimed in.
"Yeah, Joey?" Stripes echoed. He started to rise and the others followed suit. "That so, huh kid?"
Tommy, meanwhile, watched peripherally as he waited for his own soup to be brought out.
"Real nice coat, don'tcha think boys?"
Unbeknownst to him, Sonny was surrounded from behind. One of the boys ran his hand along the outside of his shoulder, startling him.
"Stop that," he uttered.
They wouldn't stop—he knew. But he also knew how to take a punch, braced himself for the worst.
"Nice warm wool, shiny buttons."
"Think we can sell 'em?"
"Not if I can keep this for myself," laughed their ringleader shoving Sonny to his feet.
Having inherited his father's short fuse, Tommy was already standing himself.
"Why don't you lay off him?"
"Why don't you make me?"
The struggle ensued, escalating quickly as Sonny—having found an ally- also found the courage to stand up for himself. Lean and muscular from years of working on the farm, Tommy easily evened up the odds. Primarily pushing and shoving, yet Joey still managed to grab Sonny by the back of his collar. Just then, the clerk emerged from the kitchen, the cook in tow; a steak knife hidden in his apron just in case.
"What's goin' on out here?"
The boys broke it up, Tommy glaring as he smoothed his vest and re-tucked his shirt.
"You okay, kid?" asked the cook. He bent down to retrieve Sonny's coat from the floor, stopping mid stance upon noticing the name embroidered on the inside collar.
Albert Francis Capone
Bemused, he shook his head, handing it over to the clerk for him to look over. The men silently agreed via shared raised eyebrows and grimaces that the customer was, indeed, exactly who they thought he was. With that he returned his attention to the neighborhood kids.
"Scram," he growled. "You have no idea how lucky you are that this little skirmish wasn't worse. Now git outtahere or else I'll tell your folks."
Embarrassed at having been identified and dreading explaining the situation to his parent's—his father in particular—Sonny put his coat on the seat next to him and returned to his malt, mindlessly stirring it as if the answers to life's questions would be swirling around the bottom of his glass. If only it were that simple. Tommy returned to his own seat and his now cold soup, which, he figured, was still better than no soup at all.
"Thank you," Sonny muttered, offering a meek glance.
"Sure," Tommy shrugged. "You'd have done the same for me. Besides, those fellas—they're jerks. You can't treat people like that, it just ain't right."
"Yeah, I guess."
Tommy nodded in acknowledgement, taking another spoonful and clearing his throat.
"Joe Harper."
"Sonny Capone."