Hi guys! 12 college application essays later and I'm back!
Okay, so. Explanation/ history time!
As many of you may know, the writers of Newsies actually had a historical basis in mind when creating Katherine: Nellie Bly. She was a female journalist who worked in Pittsburgh and New York during the late 1800s and early 1900s, and one of her most famous articles was written about her time spent feigning insanity at the Asylum on Blackwell's Island in New York. She exposed all sorts of horrible conditions there, and was instrumental in raising awareness about treatment of the insane and getting the place shut down. I guess you could call this a tribute to her achievements, and my way of linking Katherine to her inspiration.
Also, if any of you have time, you should definitely read her exposé Ten Days in a Madhouse. It's available for free online, and very fascinating. I just reread it last night, and it never fails to impress me. Her skills as a reporter – and as a human for doing something like that – are enviable.
As always, standard disclaimers apply.
Pulitzer may be less than thrilled by a certain newsboy's presence in his office early Tuesday morning, but Jack Kelly doesn't care. He wants answers, and he's not leaving until he gets them.
"Look, Joe." He shakes his head. "I know we've had our differences, but whatever you told Katherine, can you tell her to forget it? Please? I ain't – I haven't seen her in over a week. I don't know why this is such a big deal all of a sudden."
Pulitzer stares disinterestedly at him over the rims of his glasses. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, boy."
"Seriously?" Jack snorts. "You told her not to come to the lodging house." He raises his eyebrows questioningly, suddenly confused. "Didn't you?"
Pushing himself out of his chair, the older man crosses the room to stand by the window. Jack feels like it's for dramatic effect – the way the glow offers backlighting is quite impressive, the artist in him can't deny that. He squints to make out Pulitzer's face, and isn't sure if he's comforted or not by the lack of concern he sees.
"While my daughter's . . . relations with you are regrettable, she is an adult. Whose name no longer ties her to me in any way. So she does as she pleases, which you, of all people, should know."
"So you didn't tell her to stay away from me?"
Pulitzer shakes his head. "Regrettable, but no. And it's not as if she would have listened if I had."
"Then where the hell – sorry, heck – has she been?"
"Ah." Pulitzer raises a finger, like this is the reveal he's been waiting for. "That I do know. She's on an assignment for me."
Jack blinks. He'd known Katherine had written a few articles for her father when the editor of the Sun was belittling her work, but it's news to him that the World would actively recruit her for an investigation. "For a whole week?" he asks incredulously.
"Ten days," Pulitzer corrects. Then he glances down at his watch and turns away. "In fact, I'm due to pick her up now. Good day, Mr. Kelly."
The heavy oak doors close behind him with a bang, leaving Jack alone in his office. He's not used to being on this side of those doors slamming. In any other circumstance he might enjoy being left here, in this fancy room with the expensive chairs and the plush rugs quilting the floor. Without knowing where Katherine is, though – there's a nervousness in the pit of his stomach he can't explain.
Why didn't she tell him where she was going?
He catches up to Pulitzer's carriage several blocks down the street, where it's stopped for a wagon in the middle of the lane.
"Hey, Joe," he says amiably, tugging the door open and slipping inside. "How's about I go with ya, huh?" He smiles, very forced. It kills him to ask this man for anything, but he can't shake his sudden discomfort with the whole situation. The sooner he sees Katherine, the better.
"How about you don't," Pulitzer fires back, adjusting his newspaper so that eye contact is no longer possible. "Please remove yourself from my carriage at once."
"Like hell I will," Jack mutters, plopping down opposite him in the cab. He finds himself face to face with the man's name in bold type across the front of the paper. Pulitzer's sympathy knows no bounds, the headline boasts. It's as if it's mocking him. The World is such a quality piece of literature.
Pulitzer huffs out an impatient breath at his immobility, casting his paper aside to ready himself for a verbal spar. But before he gets the chance to give Jack a piece of his mind, the coachman raps on the window and pokes his head inside.
"The street's backed up ahead," he informs his boss. "We're going to approach Blackwell's another way."
Pulitzer says something authoritative in response, but Jack hears none of it. The coachman's words echo through his mind. Blackwell, Blackwell. It sounds familiar, so achingly familiar. Then it hits him, like a block of ice dropping through his stomach.
"Hold up. That's where they keep the crazy people. The insane ones the cops drag away."
Both Pulitzer and the coachman turn to stare at him. Their expressions aren't impressed, or surprised by this news in any way.
"Katherine's on the island with the crazy people?"
The sigh Pulitzer lets out is equally exhausted and patronizing. "She is currently a guest of the asylum, yes. We're going to run an exposé."
Jack doesn't just hawk the papers – he reads them, too. He's seen the stories about Blackwell, the unconfirmed rumors, the laments of relatives seeking their loved ones locked deep within the cold stone walls of the asylum. He's never heard stories from anyone who got out, though, and he can't help but feel that there's a reason for that.
"What are you, nuts? She can't be there! We need to–"
"What we need, Mr. Kelly, is for you to be silent. As I was saying–" With a stern glare, Pulitzer turns to offer more instructions, but Jack interrupts him.
"It doesn't matter what he was saying. You get there as fast as you can, and you do it now."
Maybe it's the panic in his voice, or the angry glow of his eyes, but the coachman does as he is told without another word. And this time, Pulitzer doesn't try to stop him.
He can smell the crazy on the island the second his feet touch the shore.
There's something sick about the air, a combination of silence and stillness and heaviness that pushes down on his shoulders and makes it hard to breathe. There's no breeze, but he can feel his skin tingling. It reminds him of the Refuge, but more structured.
Less alive.
Inside, the smallest footstep echoes long and loud around the high ceiling, giving a surreal and disorienting quality to the whole place. But it's the screaming that really distinguishes the mood from the death-like stillness outside. Jack can hear women's voices, high and clear. They sound like they're terrified.
They sound like they're in pain.
The woman at the desk asks if she can help them, and he wants to ignore her. He wants to push past her, run down the hall, pound on every door until he finds Katherine and makes sure she's not the source of that horrible wailing. But he forces himself to stay calm. It won't help anyone if he gets himself locked up, too.
Can this woman not hear the screaming? Or does she just not care? How can anyone listen to this, day after day, and not go mad themselves?
Making up his mind, he glares at her. She seems unmoved still, and a sudden urge to punch her overtakes him. He resists. "We're here to see–"
"Kitty Parker."
He jumps. He'd almost forgotten Pulitzer was here.
"Huh? Kit–"
"Yes, Kitty Parker." Pulitzer pushes past him and addresses the woman. "I heard from a friend she was brought here. I wish to secure her release and bring her back to her father."
She studies them for a moment, her face pinched in an unattractive manner and her fingers tapping doubtfully on the scratched surface of the desk. Finally she stands, waving them toward chairs arranged against the wall.
"I'll see what I can do," she says.
Jack can't remember hearing anything less reassuring in his life.
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Much love,
KnightNight7203