For a moment, as she watched her younger brother and his friends tread water in the lukewarm river, she wished that she could dangle her toes just for a moment, feel the softness of the water against the soles of her feet. A strand of mousy brown hair made its way down from her bun and across her face; it rested on her rosy cheek for a moment before she caught it up and swept it behind her ear in one fluid motion. From the water below, Spot glanced up at her, an expression of scorn masking whatever affection he might have held for the girl. "Why are you still here?"
She didn't answer him. Her mind was screaming. Does it matter? Her eyes cast themselves downward and she was afraid to say anything. Her self-conciousness had always won out over what she did or did not wish to say.
"Didn't you hear me, or have you turned into a lunatic just like - "
Anne's green eyes instantly met her brother's ice-blue orbs, and a fire from within filled them rapidly. Spot chose not to finish his remark, though the boys around him hung onto the tail end of that sentence, waiting impatiently for its conclusion. Anne simply pushed back the burning tears that threatened to burst forth. She stood.
"It's about time," her brother sneered as she straightened her dress and stepped backward to walk away.
Anne said nothing, but turned and walked slowly toward the Brooklyn Bridge. She had a long tread back to Upper Manhattan ahead of her, where she lived with and worked for a Mrs. Mills, who owned a classy ladies' clothing shop. In her head, she calculated how long it would take to get there and back, as well as what time it would be upon her return to Brooklyn later that night. She imagined that her brother would be perched on the barrel that he had claimed as his own, overlooking the river and thinking to himself in solitude during the early morning hours. She knew that this was his nightly routine, and she knew what time he dragged himself to bed at night and what time he dragged himself out of bed every morning. Anne missed her brother, and she wanted him back.
Since Anne and Spot's mother, their only living contact, had been admitted to an institution in upstate New York, Anne had slowly lost her brother. She had remained in Upper Manhattan, where the broken family (by way of their father's early and unexpected death) resided, to live and work with Mrs. Mills, an old family friend. Her brother, however, had packed his bags in the middle of the night and, on a whim, decided to make his new home in Brooklyn with a group of newsies. After several months of searching she found him, but he had changed his name and taken the position of leader of Brooklyn's newsies. Along with his change of name and rank among the street urchins, he had gained an icy, indifferent disposition. What repelled his sister and all adults seemed to entrance his peers, thus giving him a tough, feared reputation. Anne did not like this at all - especially the fact that, every time she tried to come around, he pushed her away harder and harder.
She climbed the steps to Mrs. Mill's home, unaware that she had reached it until she was upon the doorstep. Anne had been so encased in her thoughts that she scarcely remembered crossing through Lower Manhattan and Midtown. No matter, she shrugged. I am at least back in time to bid good night to Mrs. Mills. She will never know I am gone. Anne always calculated her every move so that Mrs. Mills would never miss her. During the times that Anne visited Brooklyn, Martha Mills was always either in the middle of inventory or a period of hushed private time with her husband. Anne knew this because she observed everything closely and came to sense what was happening in Mrs. Mills' house, whether it be Gretta, her daughter, preparing to strike the first chords to a piano concerto, or Harry, her husband, pulling her into the foyer to steal a kiss.
Anne padded up the stairs quietly, listening to Gretta play Bach on the grand piano in the sitting room. The tune calmed her and tuned her senses so that she was acutely aware of every movement in her area of vision. As predicted, she met Mrs. Mills just as the woman was emerging from her bedroom. "Ah, Anne," she smiled, glowing radiantly. "Are you off to bed?"
Anne nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Good night."
Mrs. Mills let a warm smile creep onto her face. "Good night, dear. Pleasant dreams."
Anne let herself into her bedroom with barely a sound. There was only a matter of time before she had to leave again, or she would miss her brother completely. She lit the small lamp on her bedside table, calmly sat down before her mirror, and unpinned her hair, brushing out the tangles slowly and surely. Instead of pulling it back up into its loose bun, she decided, rather, to braid it, despite the fact that she rarely wore her hair in braids outside the house. After several long moments, she blew out her lamp and, as a precaution, stuffed a pillow under the blankets in her place on the bed. Mrs. Mills never checked on her during the night, but she never ceased to do this, as it reassured her more than anything. Finally, she heard the click of the Mills' bedroom door, and that was her cue to pad over to her bedside table, open the top drawer, and draw out the knife that Harry Mills had given her. "You never know what riffraff may be lurking in the dark alleyways," he had said. She tucked the knife into her pocket.
Now she opened her door quietly, closed it behind her, and made her way ever so silently down the staircase. She nudged the front door open and slipped out, clicking it shut behind her.
Anne's journey back to Brooklyn was a long, silent, lonely walk. She knew that most of the ruffians would be spending their time at local brothels at such a late hour, but she kept a hand on her knife all the same. She padded down block after block, intent only on reaching Brooklyn and her younger brother within her given amount of time.
After an eternity, she reached the Brooklyn bridge and retreated into the shadows. As she crossed, she was slowly able to make out her brother's thin, lone figure against the clear, cool night sky. She advanced toward him and finally, she was only feet away. She called out into the night.
"Paul."
He started and turned to stare at his sister. "What are you doing back? I thought I made it clear that I don't want you coming around." His piercing blue eyes met hers, but they were cold and unfeeling.
Anne's lip trembled. "You are not my brother. I want him back."
Spot sighed audibly. "Not this again. Anne, I told you, I ain't comin' back. I got family here, see?"
"I don't care where you live. I just want you to be the Paul I know, not a tough, cold street urchin." Her eyes pleaded with his. "Please. I miss you, the real you."
Her brother was silent for a moment. Then, without looking her way, he replied, "People change."
Without warning, this lone remark ignited a spark within Anne - something that she knew all along would happen. It was inevitable. With this, she drew out her knife and knocked her younger brother to the ground.
He had no time to cry for help, no time to struggle. In his years as Brooklyn's fighting champ, he had never been attacked unprepared. But now he was more than unprepared.
Anne put all her weight on her brother, holding him down by the throat and raising the knife upward. His eyes widened in terror as she brought the knife down in several clean, swift strokes. As his soul left his body he thought to himself how red his blood looked against the pallor of her skin...how wild she looked as she unmercifully slashed at his body...how death came so softly and calmly that he had no idea what people thought was so bad about it.
Suddenly, through the blood and her own tears, Anne looked down at her brother. He was still. He had uttered no cry, put up no resistance. She trembled. She trembled and dropped the knife and oh, God, what had she done to her baby brother? Standing, she stumbled backward, staring only at her bloody hands and thinking how red the blood looked against the pallor of her skin...how she had unmercifully slashed at her brother's body. She felt herself hitting the surface of the East River, thinking again about how she had earlier wished that she could dangle her toes just for a moment, feel the softness of the water against the soles of her feet. Now she felt the softness of the water against her entire body, felt it enveloping her, filling her mouth and nose and eyes and ears and lungs. ...How death comes so softly and calmly...I've no idea what people think is so bad about it...