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~
Patrick watched the boys pour out of the lodging house, laughing and shoving each other good-naturedly. He pressed himself closer to the wall he was hiding behind and grinned. He always liked those boys. Crutchy hobbled by, making some irritatingly optimistic remark, and Racetrack smirked. When Cowboy walked out, Patrick forgot that he wanted to hide. He found himself leaning across the barrel that was sitting next to the wall, trying to get at close as possible to the leader of the Manhattan newsies. Maybe this time he would have the courage to…no, he couldn't. Then Cowboy was gone.
The late newsies trickled out of the building, and Patrick slid down the wall to wedge himself between it and the barrel. He leaned his head against the rotting wood and imagined himself standing shoulder to, well, elbow with Cowboy. He pushed his dirty red hair off his forehead, smiling lopsidedly at the daydream. But the smile quickly faded; it would never happen. He, Patrick, the twelve-year-old son of a dead factory worker, would never be able to stand up with Cowboy. He tried his best to stay out of the older boy's way. Cowboy would think he was a little shrimp.
Patrick grabbed his cap off the ground and jammed it onto his head as he scrambled to his feet. He leapfrogged over the barrel and dashed down the short alley to the street. On the other side of the street, the lodging house was empty, and Patrick didn't want to be the last one in line to get his papes.
~
Catherine had watched the boys coming up the street, her eyes searching for a familiar redhead. She twisted her apron in her hands, wishing they'd stop milling around so she could see. Finally they did stop, to get some food from some nuns in a wagon. Seizing her chance, Catherine walked over the boys and began looking from one young face to another.
Patrick, darling,
Since you left me I am undone.
But she did not recognize any of the boys. As they shoved each other to get to the wagon, she dropped back out of the group, disappointed once again.
Mother loves you.
God save my son.
It had been three weeks since the boy had run away, four since his father had died in the accident at the factory. Ever since, Catherine had been searching the city, every group of children, peering into the face of every boy. But New York was a big place, and Patrick was a small boy. Catherine was beginning to lose hope. Red would be so disappointed in me, she thought. Eyes still searching the crowds, she wandered down the street again.
~
By the time Patrick reached the nuns, the newsies were gone. He hugged his cap to his chest and accepted the hunk of bread offered to him, then hurried off again in pursuit of his papes.
"Baby born with two heads, must be from Brooklyn," Racetrack was saying as Patrick slipped into the lineup.
Suddenly, Weasel's raised voice stole the attention from Race's joke. "You accusin' me of lyin', kid?"
A new kid, about fifteen or sixteen years old, Patrick guessed, looked flustered. "No. I just want my paper."
One of Weasel's nephews, Patrick wasn't sure which, snarled at the new kid, but Cowboy was at his side in a moment. "No, it's nineteen. It's nineteen, but don't worry about it. It's an honest mistake. I mean, Morris here can't count to twenty with his shoes on." The older boy called over his shoulder, "Hey Race, will ya spot me two bits?" Racetrack dug a coin out of his pocket, and tossed it to Cowboy, who plunked it on the counter. "Anuddah fifty for my friend."
Patrick watched, astounded, as the new kid tried to give the fifty papers back to Cowboy. As the two of them walked off, arguing, the line started moving again.
Soon Patrick had his stack of papes, and he headed out the gates, squinting at the tiny newsprint. His father had never been able to afford the glasses he needed, and his mother would never survive without an income. After his father had died, Patrick had decided to go off and earn money for his mother, but when he had returned to the tenement with a week's work of paper money, strange people were sleeping in the room. His mother was gone. Now fully abandoned, Patrick had found the spot between the barrel and the wall in the alley across from the lodging house.
He folded the paper back up and hurried to his usual selling spot, the corner by the market. "Headless baby born! Extra extra!"
~
Catherine walked by the building that had once housed her family. In four short weeks, her husband had died, her son had run away, and the rent had come due. She had pleased with the landlord to allow her one more month to pay, but they had already been already three months behind, of course he couldn't wait. She stopped and laid a hand against the crumbling wood.
"I'm looking for him, Red, I'm trying." She stopped. She was lying to herself. All this time she had known it in her heart that he was gone. Perhaps he had been hit by a carriage, or beaten by a drunk, or drowned, or starved. What could a boy his age do? "No, I'll never find him," she admitted.
As her shoulders shook with silent sobs, she whispered for a last time, "Mother loves you. God save my son."