"Where's my son?" a man snapped from downstairs. "I know he's here. I want my son!"
The man was haranguing Kloppman who was managing to keep his cool. This didn't surprise the boys gathered against the banister. They all believed that their lodging keeper was older than time itself and they figured that being around so long made you completely unflappable. The man, however, was infinitely younger than Kloppman and was obviously not as unflappable. He was very flappable. He was flapping all over the place. There was something familiar about the man too. He was dressed in an ancient charcoal suit jacket that may have been as old as Kloppman. The jacket was just as unflappable too, listening to the man and allowing him to flap his arms and yell while not doing anything to rile him up further.
"I want my Frankie!" the man continued to rant.
Racetrack pressed his face against the banisters. Frankie? He didn't know no Frankie. Despite their nicknames, the boys all knew each other's real names since they had only adopted the monikers over time.
"I'm sorry," Kloppman said. "There is no one by that name here."
"I read in the paper!" the man shouted. "He's here!"
Skittery nudged Racetrack with his knee.
"Race," he whispered. "Does that guy look real familiar or is it just me?"
Race nodded. The man had scraggly hair that may have been dark blonde or even light brown at one point but was now never washing made it a dark, mud color and he had a matching scruff of hair on his chin. Still, no amount of stubble could hide the cut of his cheekbones and the sparkle of his brown eyes. The face was distinctive and very familiar. He saw the man all but bare his teeth at Kloppman. Even that was familiar. The teeth and mouth shape. But from who?
"And I'm telling you," Kloppman croaked. "There is no one by the name of Frankie here. Maybe if you told me his full name…"
"Francis, you coot!" the man shouted. "Frankie's short for Francis, you dumbass. My son, Francis Sullivan, is here!"
If that registered in any of the boys, they didn't show it. Maybe one was lying. Racetrack looked up to glance at the faces around them. Maybe one was using a fake name. He remembered David shouting something at Jack when he scabbed.
You didn't even tell me your real name!
"Skits," he knocked on his friend's knees. "I think I know why he looks familiar."
The taller boy wasn't listening. But Blink was.
"Who?" he turned his head so he could see their visitor. "I mean, why?"
"He looks a bit like—"
As if on heavenly cue, Jack strode into the boarding house, David in tow.
"Davey," he was smiling. "You didn't have to walk back with…"
He never finished the sentence. Jack stared at the man who suddenly quieted at his entrance. Race saw his fists clench and his shoulders tense. It was like Jack was preparing for a fight. A muscle ticked in his jaw. The man spread his arms. Jack took a step back, like a wary animal.
"Frankie!" he enthused.
It suddenly became very, very obvious to the boys on the steps and to David and to Kloppman that they were staring at a not-so-touching reunion between father and son. This fact became more prevalent as Jack not only refused his father's hug but took off from the lodging house at a breakneck speed.
--
"Jack!" David yelled, pumping his arms and ducking his head for more speed. "Jack!"
Jack was far ahead of him, running on his long legs and not looking back. David glanced back only for a moment to see if the man, Jack's father, was following them. No, he wasn't.
For what felt like hours, David chased Jack through alleys and under overpasses and through apartment buildings. His breathing was ragged and his sides ached like someone stuck him with a knife. He finally found Jack in the basement of Irving Hall, curled up like those plated animals he had seen in his science books at school.
"Jack?" he asked, panting. "What's…wrong?"
He walked over to him, slowing his pace as he did so. It felt like he was nearing a frightened deer rather than his best friend.
"Jack?" he asked again as his heart slowed.
There was no answer. David drew in closer and suddenly the air filled with an almost primal scream. It was coming from Jack. His head was buried in his arms as he lay curled and his body shuddered and convulsed. Another scream ripped from his body before being replaced by the choking, coughing sound made by people who didn't cry every often when they cried. Crying. Jack was crying.
"Jack?" he asked once more, kneeling next to him.
David put a hand on his back where it curved. Jack let out a whimper from his touch.
"Jack?" he asked, feeling impatience mix in with his worry.
Jack looked up from his hands. His face was red and his eyes were puffy. Tearstains ran in lines down his face.
"I'm not Jack," he said shakily.
"What?"
David wore his confusion like a partying mask, very gaudy and obvious on his face. Jack blinked his eyes and turned away, fresh tears rolling down his face. He curled up more and stuck his thumb in his mouth.
"Jack," he grabbed his wrist and tried to ease it away from his face. "What's going on?"
He slapped David the second he touched him. "I'm not Jack!"
"Jack," he tried again. "What. Is. Going. On?"
He started kicking his legs out, trying to hit him. David wouldn't let go of his wrist.
"Let me go, let me go!" he screamed. "Not Jack! Not Jack!"
He tried to calm him down, shhing and hugging him like you would do to a scared child, stroking his hair. Jack recoiled as if he burned him.
"What is going on down here?"
The door at the top of the stairs opened and Medda flounced in, still in a silk robe and not yet changed for her night performance.
"Medda," David let out a relieved sigh. "Something's wrong with Jack."
"Not Jack!" he thrashed. "Not Jack! Let me go! Let me go! I'm not Jack! I'm not Jack!"
She neared them and knelt down by Jack. She put a cool hand on his face and looked into his eyes. David let go of Jack's wrist so he could move to Medda's other side.
"Francis," she said, frowning. "Why are you out?"
Jack snailed up more. David was just confused. Why was she calling him Francis? Jack was the name he went by now.
"He's back," Jack whispered. "I want Jack to protect me but he's scared. I don't want him to be scared."
David put back on his confusion party mask as he stared at them both. Medda stroked his hair but Jack didn't recoil like he had when David touched him.
"Jack will protect you, Francis," she said. "But you have to understand that Jack's just as scared as you are."
"He is not!" he squealed. "Jack's not scared! He has to be brave so I can be scared! Jack's my friend, my friend, Medda. He needs to save me from…"
He broke down into sobs and collapsed into Medda's arms.
"It's okay, Francis," she whispered. "It's okay."
She carefully stood, brushing dust off of her robe. Immediately, Jack curled back up, sucking his thumb.
"David, I think some explanations are in order," she beckoned for him to follow her to the back of the basement.
David was confused but so much that he couldn't be sarcastic. "You think?"
Medda sat down on a large steamer trunk that no doubt held costumes and patted the leather next to her as a signal for him to join her.
"There's something you need to know about Jack," she started.
"You mean Francis?"
"Jack," she repeated. "He told you his name was Jack Kelly, right?"
"Yes," David's eyes hazed over for a minute as if remembering past betrayal. "And Snyder announced that it was really Francis Sullivan."
Medda shook her head. "David, Snyder thought that Jack is Francis Sullivan because that was who he was when he was in the refuge. The boy you met and the boy you know is Jack Kelly."
"I don't follow," David furrowed his brow.
"Jack told you I was a friend of his fathers, correct?"
He nodded.
"I was. I used to perform with Francis's mother, Patricia. The three of us were close," she explained. "Patricia was always unstable. She would get very depressed before and after we would go on. When she killed herself, Isaac—Francis's father—was never the same. Francis was eight. In his mind, Francis is still eight. I would watch him and he would be a very sad, excitable boy. He would never want to play with anyone except himself, sitting in the corner and talking to the horse head on the steps. But he seemed happy until his father came to pick him up.
"Well, Isaac never really took care of him after Patricia died except…when I found out, I had to do something but it was too late. The damage had been done."
"Too late? Found out what?"
"When I found out what Isaac was doing to him," she dabbed her eyes with the hem of her sleeve.
"What'd he do?"
"He would," she took a deep breath. "He would beat him, he would heckle him, yell at him, do anything to hurt him physically and emotionally. That wasn't the worst. He would say that it was because he loved him and Francis believed it. I found out about the beatings from bruises and cuts. I didn't find out the worst until later."
David shifted in his seat. "What was the worst?"
"Isaac would rape him, David. He would," Medda bit her lip and glanced at Jack in the corner. "He would take a corkscrew and grind it into his body, up his…"
She needn't have finished. David understood completely. He looked at Jack. What else had that sick bastard done to him that Medda didn't know? He suddenly felt protective of Jack—er—Francis.
"When Isaac got arrested for a bar fight, I didn't see Francis for a long time. I didn't see him again until he was fifteen. He introduced himself as Jack Kelly, a friend of Francis's."
"Is he?" David asked.
"Yes, I believe so. I figured it out eventually, that they were the same person. I was a little confused because, despite that they were identical, Jack acted completely different. He was loud, brave, sociable."
"He's Jack," David said with a shrug.
Medda smiled. "Yes, he's Jack."
"But I don't get it," he said. "How are they two different people?"
"I'm not sure. I think Francis somehow created Jack, a fake name and fake personality at first."
"To hide from Snyder?"
"And from Isaac if he ever got out I'd believe. Somehow, he was just Jack for so long, he became his own person, different from Francis. To protect him."
David nearly fell back from the weight of this information. He looked back at the huddle, thumb-sucking, sobbing mess. He rose and walked over to him, stroking his hair and putting his arms around him. This time, he didn't recoil.
"Francis," he whispered. "I want to help you."
"Go 'way," was his only answer. "No one helps me but Jack."
"That's not true," he was careful to not raise his voice. "I want to help you Francis."
"I want to you to go away," he mumbled. "I want Jack back. He's scared. He can't be scared."
"Jack's scared for you," David said softly, not knowing if it was true. "He wants to help you too. We both do."
Medda came over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're good at this."
David shrugged. Francis started to unfurl from his snail shell and looked at them both.
"Whatcha lookin' at, Davey?" he smiled. "You look like ya seen a ghost or somethin'."
He blinked his eyes. "Jack?"
"Who was you expectin'?" his smile widened. "Jesse James?"
He wanted to hug him but he didn't. Jack touched his face, obviously feeling the dampness of the tearstains.
"Francis," he said to Medda. "Does Davey…?"
"He does," Medda confirmed. "I have to go get ready."
She touched Jack's shoulder briefly and he nodded as if she had spoken. And then she was gone. Gone to pretend to be Swedish and sing in front of an audience full of people. Maybe they would know some of them.
"So now ya know," Jack said.
It didn't sound angry. It just sounded defeated, sad even.
"Jack, it doesn't matter," David shook his head. "I'm going to help you."
"How, Dave?" he sounded harsh. "I mean…how? What can you do?"
"I don't know," he ran his fingers through his hair, tempted to yank it out in frustration. "I just want to help you."
Jack put his hand on his shoulder. "You can help me. Not Francis or with my dad but you can help me. Help me…uh…"
He turned away from him, hand slipping from his shoulder.
"Help you what?" he asked. "I want to be there for you."
"That's all I want," he said. "For you to be there."
David nodded and hugged Jack like a brother but he was lying. He was going to check out a book about psychology. There had to be something about Jack in there. He was going to help him. Help him and help Francis. Make them the same person. Trouble was, how was he going to do it?