To all my readers, this is my insignificant, little Christmas present to you.
I was planning on writing a Christmas chapter for "A Voice and the Future of a Racetrack." Unfortunately, there has been a death in my family and my house isn't the calmest place to write so I haven't gotten far enough to have that promised chapter. I hope you all will forgive me.
I don't own Newsies. I don't own the Italian song, "Mille Cherubini in Coro." I don't the carol, "O Little Town of Bethlehem." The prayer is from a traditional Midnight Mass.
More than the presents and the food and the decorations, I pray that your Christmases are lovely expressions of hoped-for peace on earth, goodwill towards men. And Happy Birthday to the precious Savior...
"Frenzied Patrons Trampled! Macy's Depahtment Stoah Breaks Recuhds!"
The winter wind bit into Racetrack's fingers and he willed them to fall off. Maybe bloody stumps would sell more papers, he thought cynically.
A stack of papers lay untouched at his feet and he cursed his stupidity. He had started late and bought too many.
His brown eyes watered as he squinted into the empty streets. No one in sight. Without much hope of another penny, he raised the newspaper over his head again, "Frenzied Patrons Trampled!" His hoarse voice that normally carried two blocks barely went a foot in the muffling snow.
A guttersnipe passed him, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Racetrack didn't bother making eye contact. The boy didn't want to look at him anymore than he wanted to look back. It was Christmas Eve and neither had enough money for a warm lodging house bed. Neither wanted to admit it.
The newsie let the cold blow over and through him. After awhile the burning sensations in your feet just...go away.
Racetrack thought back to every Christmas Eve he could remember, most of them cold and dark like this one. But farther back glimmered the memory of his mother. His Italian mother, with long dark hair and winsome doe eyes like his.
Her sweet vibrato voice sung in his ears, not weighed down by snow or dark or lonely Christmases...
Dormi, dormi Sleep, sleep
Sogna, piccolo amor mio Dream, my little love
Dormi, sogna Sleep, dream
Posa il capo sul mio cor. Rest your head on my breast.
Racetrack's dark eyebrows furrowed and he angrily scraped the tears from his eyes with the wool of his cap. He wouldn't cry, he told himself, teeth clenched. He didn't need to cry.
Mille cherubini in coro A choir of a thousand cherubs
Ti sorridono dal ciel. Smiles on you from the sky.
Una dolce canzone A sweet song
T'accarezza il crin. Caresses your brow.
The newsie dropped his papes and ran. Blindly, at first, towards the one thing his mother had never been able to live without.
A sudden thought seemed to possess him and turning, he ran back and grabbed the little guttersnipe by his collar. The small boy yelped and began to bite and kick, though Race could feel him shaking, hear his teeth clicking helplessly together.
"'Ey, kid! Ya wanna get wahm owah not?"
The child stopped fighting and stared up at him.
"C'mon," Racetrack put a firm hand around the back of the boy's neck and pulled him in the direction of hope.
"What's ya name, 'uh?" he asked, as they plodded through a large drift.
The guttersnipe said something that Race couldn't hear.
"What's dat?"
"Patrick."
"Patrick, 'uh? Racetrack 'Iggins, at ya soivice."
They didn't speak again and the gentle voice came floating back...
Una man ti guida lieve A hand is gently guiding you
Fro le nuvole d'or Through the clouds of gold
Sognando e vegliando Dreaming and keeping watch
Su te, mio tesor Over you, my treasure
Proteggendo il tuo cammin. Protecting your path through life.
"What's that?" Patrick's little voice quivered in the darkness.
"It's a choich, stupid," Race cuffed his head.
"What are we doin' here?"
"Ya see dat doahway?"
"Yeah."
"Lean up against it."
"Why?"
Racetrack pulled him down on the stone steps, "Jus' shut up and listen, a'right?"
He let go of Patrick and leaning back, closed his eyes. On the other side of the door, the priest was praying, "Lord our God, with the birth of your Son, your glory breaks on the world. Through the night hours of the darkened earth..."Race pictured his mother, her pious face turned blissfully towards the stained glass. What hope she must have known...
"...when the fullness of his glory has filled the earth, who lives and reigns with you for ever and ever. Amen."
"Amen," said Racetrack, bowing his head.
Patrick followed suit, a tear sneaking down his cheek.
The newsie turned his face away quickly. The boys of the street learned quickly the unspoken rule. To cry is to be alone.
The parishioners had begun to sing, "O, little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie..."
His mother had never spoken much English but Race remembered how she would hum along during mass, joining in the Latin bits she knew by heart.
Beside him, Patrick began to sob, "I want my mother!"
Racetrack groaned silently. A runaway. Just what he needed on his conscience.
"Where children pure and happy, pray to the blessed Child..."
The newsie clapped a strong arm about the boy's tiny shoulders. Patrick sobbed harder.
"Where misery cries out to thee, son of the mother mild..."
Sob, sob. Racetrack tightened his grip and clenched his teeth again. Sigh. "Patrick, wheah do ya live?"
"M-m-adison Aa-a-venue."
Other side of town. Naturally.
"When charity stands watching, and faith holds wide the door..."
Racetrack forced himself to stand and scooping the remorseful runaway into his arms, walked down the church steps and down the street. At least, one of them would have a warm bed that night.
"The dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more..."
As the church disappeared in another gale of snow, the singing congregation was replaced by the rest his mother's whispered lullaby...
Chiudi gli occhi Close your eyes
Ascolta gli angioletti Listen to the little angels
Racetrack tugged hard at the bell and set Patrick down on the snowy step.
The boy had long since ceased his crying and sat half-frozen, wide-eyed, watching Race duck around the corner and back into the cold night.
There was the unlatching of doors and some grumbling and a bewildered butler crying out, "Madam! He's come home! Patrick's come home!"
Back at the church door, though Midnight Mass was long over, Racetrack crossed himself before stepping in. It was cold and dimly lit but much warmer than the street. Racetrack stared doubtfully at the pews before sitting, with his back against the corner of one. And that's how the nuns would find him in the morning, curled up on the end of the second pew. As his curly dark head fell tiredly against the hard, polished wood grain, he could hear his mother singing...
Chiudi gli occhi Close your eyes
Ascolta gli angioletti. Listen to the little angels.