Eulogy
In Loving Memory - Part One
"I listened through the cemetery trees.."
'May 21, 1908.' Joseph squinted down at the card, crumpled and creased in his hand. The day's date was printed above a simple drawing of the holy cross, and below, 'Peter Smith 1883 - 1908' was stamped. Joseph shifted uncomfortably his seat and looked back up to the altar, where a balding, solemn-voiced minister continued to drone on. The sun beat down from cloudless skies, suffocating Joseph in his entirely black suit and causing sweat to run into his eyes. He didn't dare wipe it away.
Joseph flipped the card over, where a prayer had been smudged by his nervous hands. He wiped them on his pants. The minister finished and caught Joseph's eye, who inclined his head and stood, walked smoothly to the altar. He wondered whose idea an outside ceremony was. It was a beautiful day, but too damn hot!
He set the card on the altar and gazed out at those assembled. It was a large crowd, full of Peter's friends, associates, and chance acquaintances. The only family he had to speak of was Mary, his fiancé who was drying her tears, and another old, harsh looking woman who claimed to be his aunt. Peter had been a very likable person, generous and caring. Joseph felt the back of his eyes begin to burn and cleared his throat.
"Good afternoon," he said after a beat. "You've all come here because you knew Peter Smith at one time or another." He paused, still surveying the crowd. "I knew him for most of his whole life. To say I was his best friend would be to put it lightly. I know you expect me to come up here for the eulogy and say something short and appropriate, maybe a prayer or a poem. That was my plan." He pulled a folded up paper from one of the large pockets in his suit jacket, making sure that those assembled could see it. "But I barely ever stick to plan." With a sigh, Joseph looked at the still folded note, then went over to Peter's casket, lying next to his freshly dug grave, and placed the paper on its top. He returned without a word and took in the crowd again.
They were all sitting patiently, some fanning themselves, looking bored, others frowning and rapt with attention.
"I have a new plan, now," he said after a few more moments of silence. "I'm going to tell you a story. I think it's a good one, with all the right elements of a story included, friendship and adventure… dark times and tragedy. Of course, the critics haven't looked at it yet."
A murmur of laughter swept sluggishly through the crowd, a group of people uncertain that any mirth could be considered 'ok' on such a day. But a smile tugged at the corners of Joseph's mouth, and they felt safe. Joseph glanced down to the prayer card again, then turned to look at Peter's casket. At last he faced front again and began to speak, fluidly, at ease.
"I was six when my father was lynched." Another murmur ran through the crowd, but Joseph ignored it. "My mother had not come over from China, and my only uncle was in trouble with the dens. Opium dens. I was alone in Chinatown and a terribly scared little boy. My father had helped to run a laundry business, but the other owners wanted no part of me, and refused to pay for my board or meals. They chased me out immediately, and with nothing but a few extra cents I had found hidden and the torn clothes on my back, I ran.
It's not a question of how fast, far, or long I ran, I ran until I could run no more. Every footstep I heard behind me I thought to be my father's lynchers, or men from the dens, hungry for money or sport. So I put on more speed with each noise, shadow, and face. I never even realized I had run out of Chinatown until I collapsed in a heap, mid-stride, in a totally unfamiliar place. I was out cold, and that's when Peter found me."
-
Joseph laid still, his nerves on fire. He could feel every inch of cobblestone under him, cold and unforgiving, pressing up relentlessly on his new bruises. Tiny shards of glass and small pebbles stuck in his skin from his fall, dirt got into his fresh cuts and sent lines of pain through his limbs. His eyes were closed and breathing steady, save for the occasional sob or hiccup. The muscles in his legs still twitched and protested at the sudden halt in action.
Joseph, only half-conscious, registered the sound of footsteps approaching. He didn't budge, completely defeated. The footsteps stopped and there was a scrape as their owner sat at the curb near his head. Silence reigned.
Minutes passed, and Joseph was on the brink of passing into blissful sleep again when something nudged lightly at his shin. He groaned in annoyance, the sound coming from his own mouth surprising enough to wake him up a little more. The foot was hastily withdrawn, but when Joseph refused to move, the boys boot probed his side again. Joseph curled up into a ball, consciousness and thought returning slowly, his legs yelling in protest at the sudden movement. Joseph forced his eyes open, still laying on his side, and raised them up. He could see a pair of worn out boots, proceeded by a stocky pair of legs, dirty knees, and torn knickers above those. A boys face suddenly intruded on the picture, brown eyes wide, eyebrows raised so high Joseph fancied they might fall off, and gaping mouth.
"You're alive!" the boy told Joseph triumphantly. Joseph blinked and curled up tighter.
"Yes," he said finally, and let out a heavy sigh. The boys expression turned into one of dumb glee. After a few seconds, when Joseph failed to say more, his face dropped.
"Why you layin' here?" He asked with honest curiosity, resting his chin on his knees.
"'Cause."
The stupid grin wormed it's way onto the boy's face again.
"Why?"
"'Cause."
"Why?"
Joseph rolled over. There was a pause, then the boy stood up and walked around to Joseph's other side. He laid down to face him. "Why 'cause?"
"'Cause I'se tired."
"Oh." The boy looked at a loss. "Why you tired?"
Joseph screwed up his face, searching for the right words. "Ran," he said finally. "I ran a long ways. I think." He sighed again. "Where're we?"
"Lowah East Side!" The boy said quickly, proudly. He beamed. "Yer from Chinatown."
"Yes."
"You ran a long ways," the boy confirmed.
"Yes." Joseph was getting irritated. He contemplated rolling over again.
"What's yer name?" The boy wriggled into a more comfortable position on the street.
"Joseph. You?"
"Peter. I'm six."
"Six an' a half," Joseph said. Peter looked jealous.
"Yer old too!"
"Yup."
Peter fiddled with his shirt sleeve. "You ever been at 'hattan?" He asked.
Joseph frowned. "Where?"
"Here. Manhattan."
"Oh. Yes. Once." Joseph stretched out and then stood up. Peter followed suit, looking crushed.
"Gotta go home now?"
"Can't go home," Joseph said.
"Oh." The two stood, still looking at each other. "You got money?"
"Some."
Peter brightened up. "Wanna come stay with me?"
"Maybe," Joseph shrugged, then, "ok." Peter beamed again.
"Ok! We gotta walk though."
Joseph smiled for the first time. "I'm fast," he said. Peter's eyes flashed.
"Wanna race?" And without waiting for an answer, he took off down the street with a 'woo!' Joseph blinked, then sprinted after him. The sun began to set.
-
The crowd was chuckling. Joseph smiled at them.
"I overtook him and immediately became lost. It was well past dark when we finally found ourselves at the door to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House. It was a shabby place complete with a broken window, peeling paint, and a crudely painted sign barely attached to the doorframe, but at that moment it looked like a palace to me. Peter wasted no time in running up and banging on the door.
-
"OPEN UP OPEN UP OPEN UP OPEN UP!"
Joseph looked alarmed. "Shh!" He hissed. "It's dangerous at night!"
Peter ignored him. "OPEN UP OPEN UP OPEN U-oof." The door opened suddenly and the stocky boy fell into the building, a tangled mass of limbs. Whoever was at the door chuckled. Joseph could only make out his silhouette, that of a slender boy with long legs.
"Hey Peter-eater. BOYS! Pete's back!" He yelled into the house. Someone laughed, another voice said 'damn kid,' in response. The boy at the door grinned.
"Hi Soldier," Peter said shyly as he picked himself up. "Sorry I'm late."
"It's ok, pal," Soldier said, and put a hand on Peter's back to propel him in.
"Wait!" Peter protested. "Joseph's outside."
"Who?"
"Joseph. He's my friend. Can he stay?"
Joseph scuffed his shoe on the stone and looked up hopefully. Soldier saw him and shrugged.
"Sure. Come on in, Joseph. Where's 'e from?"
"Chinatown. He ran all the way here," Peter said with wide eyes.
"Without stoppin'?"
"Yep."
Joseph grinned at the exaggerated tale but didn't speak up. Soldier motioned him forward and he went gratefully into the house.
"You tired?" Soldier asked with a smile. As his mouth moved the corners of his eyes crinkled with already well-defined laugh lines, and Joseph took comfort in the warmth that his molasses colored hair and green eyes offered. His skin was a dark tan, and the tip of a scar peeked through his shirt at his collarbone.
"A little," Joseph said with a shrug.
"You must be darn fast," Soldier said, and led them up the stairs to were a crowd of boys, all ages, sat around a messy bunkroom.
"Boys, we gotta new 'dition to the house. This is…" Soldier frowned, having already forgotten Joseph's name. "Well, anyway, we gonna call 'em Swifty 'cause Pete says he ran straight from Chinatown ta here!"
Several of the boys laughed, other just rolled their eyes.
"Petey tellin' his tales again?" One asked from his bunk. "Naw, dun answer that. 'course he is."
"Am not!" Peter piped up, but was ignored.
Soldier left them. "Where's Jazz?" He asked one of the boys playing poker in a corner. The boy shrugged.
"Why're ya askin' me?!"
"You're his second, Gooser," Soldier said patiently. Gooser grimaced.
"Yeah, well, tell that ta him. 'E don't talk ta me no more."
Soldier sighed and moved on to talk with someone else.
Joseph crossed his arms and moved closer to Peter, nervous and feeling like he was going to choke. He had never been in such a room before, packed with so many strangers - not for a long time. And he didn't like to remember any of the other times a similar circumstance had come up.
"DIRTY ROTTEN SNITCH!"
Joseph whirled at the sound of a yelp and saw a small boy go flying to the floor. Standing above him, seething, was a large, solidly built teen with distant gray eyes and a murderous expression. The boy on the floor scuttled away as fast as possible. Joseph realized with a panic that Peter had disappeared, and quickly found and followed him in hiding behind a bunk.
Soldier looked pleadingly to Gooser, but the shorter boy just shook his head in exasperation and took up another card.
"Jazz, wh-"
"The little bastard kid stole my money!" Jazz roared, his face turning a reddish color and spit flying. Soldier sighed.
"Jones wouldn't do th-"
But the young boy from before was already standing and reaching into his pockets. A few odd coins fell from his shaking fingers and hit the floor, a loud sound in the otherwise silent room. Soldier groaned and covered his face with his hands.
"Jones," he moaned.
Jones took one look at Jazz, still trembling, and ran to hide in an adjacent room. Jazz grumbled to himself and gathered up the money.
"He's a snitch, everyone remember," he told the rest of the room. "Just 'cause he's young don't mean 'e's inna'cent."
Gooser's barely audible "fold" from the corner was the only thing needed to cut through the tension and restore the room to normal. Joseph felt Peter relax from beside him.
"He's not like that always," Peter whispered to him. "But watch out when 'e's inna bad mood. And don't steal!" Joseph's eyes were as wide as Peter's had been earlier.
"I won't!" He said honestly.
Soldier came to them. "Come on," he said, sounding tired. "Pete, Jazz wants ta meet yer friend. Swifty, Jazz is the leader of us 'hattan newsboys. Whatever he asks ya ta do? Do it. Got that?" Joseph nodded firmly. "Good. He's over there."
"Let's get this over with," Peter said with a sigh.
-
**Author's Note:
This story is in no way associated with Misprint's brilliant "Dancing on Razor Blades." I realize it deals with the same theory and actually, Swifty as well, but that's where the similarities end. Go read hers too though, it's fantastic.