There was a chorus singing in the church as he walked past, a haunting tone that sounded to him like angels. Or, rather, what he thought angels might sound like. Amid the snow, the street lights, and the faint starlight overhead, it made for a comforting sense of tradition. A Christmas walk, at night, alone.
It wasn't as though he didn't care about the newsies. He did, he loved them. They were the best kind of family he could have built for himself. And he'd been there all day, for the presents and the dinner. The younger boys running around with their new marbles and bits and bobs. Race had a few new cigars, and was puffing away at them, as close to the window as he could stand without getting cold, Skit and Crutchy both got some new penny dreadfuls that they'd promised to swap once they'd read theirs, Mush got a new pair of shoes that a few of the boys had all pitched in for, and Blink swore up and down he hadn't just plain stolen them. Boots had a new slingshot, and Bumlets had pencils and a blank handmade notebook. They'd even surprised David and Les with little gifts, which had made David turn as red as an apple, and so flustered he could barely say thank you. Kloppman was tucked in his room at the Lodge with the bottle of whiskey the boys had pitched in for, and he suspected pretty strongly that the old man was going to be sleeping quite soundly that night.
He had a new bandana, and a new cowboy book of his own, and that was nice, and all. He was grateful that people thought of him, that anyone wanted to give him a gift. He'd given his share, of course, he always tried to take part, because he knew how much it meant to the others. But it wasn't quite the same, it wasn't quite Christmas.
He'd celebrated Hanukkah with the Jacobs's, and that was lovely, too. The sense of being in a family, being part of something small, and special. And almost exotic, with the candles and food he'd never even heard of, prayers sung in a language he didn't understand, but could feel the weight of, in his bones. When Mayer told stories to Les, after dinner, he invited Jack to join in the story time, sharing their history, the family history, his own history, with both of them, as though Jack was just one of his sons who just had been missing for a long time, and needed to be reminded of their stories. Hearing those stories was like being back home, with his mother, with his own family.
But it made him miss her. Made him miss nights tucked in his bed, with his mother in a chair at his side, telling him stories long into the night, to keep the darkness outside at bay. His mother was beautiful, tall, slim, with long dark hair, and big brown eyes that were soft and kind, and inviting. Her voice was perfect for telling stories, quiet and light, almost magical. She was everything to him, his whole world, mother, and father, with John in and out of jail. John Sullivan was cold, occasionally cruel, a drunk who was happily rarely around for his wife and son. When he was finally locked up, for good, it had been almost a blessing. But then…then his mother…
It was just around Christmas time when she died, and for years after that, cold, hard years on the streets, he'd hated Christmas. It was everything he didn't have- a happy home, a family, warmth, and good, and presents under a tree. He hated people that had those things, even as the boys around him just tried to be happy for what they had. It was a sentiment he didn't understand, drowning in his own bitterness and resentment.
And it wasn't as though he'd changed overnight. He hadn't. He was still angry, and he was still bitter, but this year wasn't as bad, and maybe next year would be a bit better. Maybe next year, he'd sing a carol or two, maybe next year he'd remember what the thingies on the spinning square thing Les was so excited about meant, maybe next year he'd go to church, and listen to that chorus singing all night, like a choir of angels bringing in the holidays, maybe next year…
Maybe he was just looking forward to next Christmas.