I know, I'm terrible. Starting new fics when I really should be finishing the old ones. But there is a plan, and I like to think that I'm following it. Suffice to say, that you should probably read some of this fic before I go back to working on Tillie Shakes. Not sure how this fic is going to be taken, seeing that it's basically about an OC, and the actual newsies play a very very minor role.
A Little Surprise Called Robert
Chapter 1: Betsy
Betsy Callahan knew that Whistler would never love her. He had made it perfectly clear the first time he treated her to supper at Tibby's.
"Now," he had said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm gonna be perfectly up front about this. I don't love you. I will not marry you. I want to be bedpartners, and I'm more than happy to be good friends, but you must understand that I'm not going to love you, and that there will be other women. Likewise, you're more than welcome to have other men. All I ask is your bed and your friendship, nothing more. We'll have no talk of love." Then he paused, and smiled. "If that's alright with you, of course. Otherwise I'll go and find someone else."
Betsy had found herself intrigued by this pronouncement. Indeed, she had no hope of marriage and respectable life. She loved show business and working at Medda's more than any man she'd ever been with, and what man would be willing to marry a showgirl, barely a step above common streetwalkers? With Whistler, she'd have a friend and protector who doubled as a bedpartner and nothing more. This suited Betsy. And since the arrangement suited Betsy, it also suited Whistler, who was highly appreciative of Betsy's long dark hair and the way her scanty costumes clung to her curves.
"You're very strange," Betsy said. "You're the first man I've been with who hasn't made me swear to be faithful."
Whistler grinned at this. "I believe in equality of the sexes. If men can be with whoever, why not women?"
"So you believe that women should vote?"
"Of course. I think it's absurd that they aren't allowed to."
Betsy laughed. "I like you," she said. "You're funny."
"I like you too. You're beautiful."
Betsy was hard-pressed not to fall in love with Whistler.
Lying in bed one night, she propped herself up on her elbow and asked him a question.
"Whistler, why won't you love me?"
"Because I can't."
"Why is that?"
Whistler rolled over to face her, his green clay pendant catching the light from the streetlamp outside. "Because."
"It has something to do with that pendant, doesn it?"
"Yes," Whistler said. "Yes it does." With that, he rolled over so that his back was facing her with its light tracing of old scars, and pretended to go to sleep.
He was gone in the morning. He was always gone in the morning.
He always insisted that it be dark when they were making love. Betsy wondered at it, but didn't complain. The lack of light made everything seem surreal, almost magical, and without her usual vision she found her other senses were heightened.
Whistler had a secret—of that Betsy was certain. The pendant was central to it as was his seeming inability to love, and Betsy suspected that his insistance on making love in the dark had something to do with it too, although she couldn't imagine how.
The first time she'd seen him shirtless—properly seen him, not just felt him—had been one afternoon at the Brooklyn docks. The day was hot, the afternoon edition was sold, and the evening edition wouldn't be out for an hour, so when Betsy arrived at the waterfront, the river was full of shrieking, laughing, half-naked boys, presided over by the famous Spot Conlon. Spot was the first one to take notice of her. He whistled a signal from his perch on a packing crate tower, then sat back to watch as three of the larger newsies scrambled onto the pier and over to Betsy. The rest of the boys stood, sat, or treaded water, waiting for orders.
"This ain' much of a place f'girls," Spot remarked, jumping down from his tower. He strode over to where Betsy was guarded by the three large boys. "Whaddaya doin' here?"
"I'm looking for someone," Betsy replied coolly. "One of your men." She was taller than Spot by a good six inches, and estimated him to be her junior by at least four years.
"Yeh?" Spot said, raising an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"He calls himself Whistler Connolly."
Spot grinned. "Heh, might a' known. He's th'only one a' my guys that's got girls lookin' for him." He stomped on the pier. "Hey Whistler! Yah got a broad up here waitin' for ya!"
Whistler swam out from under the pier. His long red hair was tied back with a piece of string and in the seconds before he turned to face the dock, Betsy noticed the scars on his back. They were faint, a series of pale lines crisscrossing flesh only a few shades darker despite the boy's constant exposure to the elements. Then Whistler turned, grinning, and noticed Betsy.
"Heya Bet!" he said. "Fancy seein' you here!" As he climbed up on the pier, Betsy couldn't help notice that he was wearing his greyish cotton drawers and nothing else, the mysterious green clay pendant hanging against his chest. It was the first time she'd seen the necklace properly, since Whistler always kept it tucked in his shirt. She resolved to ask him about it.
"Why do you wear that necklace?" she asked that night after they'd kissed.
"It was a present."
"From whom?"
"Someone special."
"A woman?"
Whistler thought a moment. "Yeh, y'might say that. A woman."
That was all he'd say on the matter.
