Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and his likeness is only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.
Fireflies in the Morning
CHAPTER EIGHT;
The Mitchell Shirtwaist Factory was located not too far from Bottle Alley, about a half mile walk away from Chatham Square. The trip over didn't take half as long as Emma had expected—or wished it would.
Before they left the Girls' Home, Stress had snuck into the sick bay and came back with a poultice that looked like mashed bread, smelled like the herbs Mrs. Solomon liked to cook with, and did wonders for the throbbing blisters that covered the backs of both of Emma's heels. In fact, without the pain to focus on, all Emma had to think about was what was waiting for her when she followed Stress and other girls down to start their work day and, sooner than she liked, arrived at the factory.
It was a big, brown building that didn't look any different from the plenty of big, brown buildings standing tall next to it—except for the fact that almost all of the employees filing inside of the Mitchell building were girls, some fourteen like Emma, but most of them Stress's age or older. It was, Emma thought as she lingered on the edge of the crowd, no wonder that Stress had insisted on the bow.
Despite noticing Emma's reluctance, Stress marched her right inside of the factory and, after proving she could take a deep breath without wheezing once or issuing even the slightest of coughs, the foreman let Stress go on to the lines of sewing machines that took up most of the middle of the first floor. Grabbing Emma by the collar of the blouse she borrowed from Pepper, the friendly girl with the red hair,Stress dragged the younger girl behind her and pointedly sat her at an empty machine across the way from where Stress normally sat. She pretended she couldn't hear Emma's protests and, as Stress folded her patched skirt underneath her and took her seat, she waved away any and all of Emma's repeated worries that she didn't know what this contraption did, let alone how to use it.
"Just sit there and make it look like ya know what you're doin', right?" Stress was whispering and Emma correctly realized that idle chatter amongst the workers was not only frowned upon but forbidden. She looked down and made a great display of turning her machine on and, before anyone noticed, flicked the switch on Emma's for her. "You let me take care of Mr. Matthews."
And Emma, who had nothing better that she could do, simply sat there and eyed the monstrous machine skeptically, praying that Stress knew what she was doing.
Mr. Matthews, it turned out, was the foreman, a tiny man with thinning dark hair and a pair of deep-set, narrowed eyes. It was his job to watch over the operators at the machines, the female garment workers who sewed the shirtwaists before passing them along to the young girls who made up the cutting department in the far corner of the first floor. As such, he went up and down the aisles, nodding to himself as he watched over the girls before leaning over to check a seam or spur the workers on a little faster.
The foreman was forever making his rounds, his eyes on everything, rarely blinking as he took in the whole of the first floor. On his third trip past their row, he stopped suddenly, as if noticing for the first time that Emma was sitting there. Though, she figured, it wasn't her sitting there that had caught his attention in the first place. The fact that she was still working helplessly on her first shirtwaist was a much more pressing concern.
He stopped right behind her, hovering over her head as, even when he was standing, he wasn't that much taller than Emma. Emma sat up straight on her stool, trying not to show how nervous she was. She could sense him standing only a step or two past her but refused to look up at him. Maybe if she ignored him, he would disappear.
"And who, may I ask, are you?"
Then again, maybe not.
Stress had been busy on her sewing, operating the machine expertly, cranking out shirtwaist after shirtwaist without ever once looking across at Emma. Or, at least, that's what Emma had thought. But when Mr. Matthews stopped and demanded an answer from the girl, Stress's head jerked up, paying more attention to the scene in front of her than the shirt she was supposed to be sewing.
Then, seeing that Emma was too frightened to answer, Stress did exactly what she told Emma she would—she drew the foreman's attention over to her. "That's young Emma Sullivan, Mr. Matthews," she told the foreman, oblivious to his slight cringe when he heard her voice.
One thing for sure: Mr. Matthews hadn't missed the Irish girl when he forcefully sent her home for her cough yesterday morning. The way she spoke so boldly and out of turn at times made him twitch a little and if it wasn't for the fact that she had a good eye for a seam and a quick way with the peddle, he would've turned her out long ago.
Lifting his head and asking for Stress's silence, he then tapped Emma on her shoulder more roughly than he needed to. "Is that your name? Miss Sullivan? Hmm?"
"Yes, sir," trilled Emma nervously as, gulping, she swiveled around so that she was staring up at him. His eyes were so sunken in on his skeleton-like face, she didn't know where to look and settled for focusing on his neck. It was loose, like chicken skin, and she watched it jiggle as he shook his head slowly.
Mr. Matthews didn't look convinced. "And you're a young lady?"
"She's wearin' a bow," Stress pointed out.
"I can see that, Miss Rhian." Mr. Matthews pursed his lips, then, doing his best to ignore Stress again, turned his attention back on Emma. "Your hair is quite short, Miss Sullivan. Why?" He sniffed. "It better not be because of lice. I won't be having that on my floor."
"It's not lice," Stress cut in before Emma—who had turned red at the insult and had just about found her voice in order to offer him her retort—said something that got her sent off the floor. "There was an accident. Her long hair got caught in her machine and the only way to keep her from gettin' scalped was to cut it all off. Aye and that's why it's so short, it is."
"I don't remember any accidents." He narrowed his eyes even more so—they nearly disappeared in the folds of his weathered face—and scratched the back of his thin, wobbly neck, obviously trying to think back to such an accident happening at the Mitchell factory. There was a touch of disapproval coloring his frown, almost as if he suspected Stress of making it up—which, of course, she had, but there was no way for Mr. Matthews to know that.
"It was her last position, Mr. Matthews," Stress added hurriedly. "That's how she's come to work at Mitchell's. Right, Emma?" And she kicked Emma in the shin with the tip of her shoe, signaling that now was the time for her to speak up.
"Ow! I mean, yes... yes, that's right."
Mr. Matthews was good at his job, watching over the young garment workers, making sure the Mitchell factory got the most out of their laborers during the ten hour—and sometimes longer—work day. He could hear a pin dropping from across the room, he always knew when one of the girls had disappeared off to the water closet and was gone for longer than was considered necessary. What he wasn't so good at was determining when someone might be pulling the wool over his eyes. The way he saw it, the garment workers, the operators, the collars, the cutters, even the piece workers... they were all tools that kept the Mitchell Shirtwaist Factory running. Miss Sullivan was just another one of those such tools and it was only his concern to make sure she wasn't faulty.
He sniffed again. "We don't tolerate none of that tomfoolery, Miss Sullivan. Don't let anything like that happen here."
"I won't, sir," promised Emma.
Mr. Matthews was just about to walk away—his sharp hearing had picked up the sounds of muttering over the hum of the sewing machines a row over—but, just when Emma was about to exhale her relief and maybe chance rubbing her palm against her sore shin, the foreman turned back around. Fifteen years on the job was enough to hone some sort of instinct and regardless of what he'd been told, the young girl didn't look like she belonged at the sewing machine, fitting the shirtwaists.
For one thing, she seemed quite young; Mr. Mitchell, though he often turned a blind eye to what happened in the factory, tried to keep anyone under sixteen off the operating line. And small and nimble fingers, while excellent for doing the operating, could be just as necessary at another important task.
"Maybe... maybe it would be better off if we kept you away from the machines and the other operators." He crooked his finger and gestured for the girl to come with him. "Come quick, Miss Sullivan, follow me."
Emma shot a panicked look Stress's way but the older girl just shrugged; there was nothing she could do and they both knew that. So with a racing heart and a bundle of nerves in the pit of her stomach, she followed the factory foreman to the far corner where a handful of girls were sitting on a threadbare rug, stacks and stacks of folded shirtwaists besides them. Each one had a pair of scissors in her hand and they were dutifully cutting loose threads off of the fitted shirtwaists before folding the material neatly and reaching for another one. Emma couldn't help but notice that, with the approach of the foreman, the workers started to pick up the pace a little.
"I'm placing you with the cutters for now, Miss Sullivan," Mr. Matthews said and he gestured for two of the girls to move closer together to leave room for Emma. "We'll provide your first pair of scissors but if you break them, you'll be responsible for bringing in your own. If you cut more than just thread, the shirtwaist comes out of your pay. Do you understand?"
And Emma, who could hardly believe that young girls got paid real wages just to cut the ends of loose trails of thread, simply nodded her response and took her seat. She accepted the flimsy scissors one of the other girls handed her and, following their lead, reached for her first shirtwaist. Now that, she mused, was a job that she could just about manage to do.
After all—and Emma thought of her new hairstyle—she was pretty handy with shears.
–
"So, ya wouldn't've believed it, I mean, I almost didn't believe it and I was there, right? But there she stood, a gal dressed like a boy, sure as I was standin' there with her. Davey, I'd heard of girls choppin' off their hair and tryin' to pass themselves off as boys, but I'd never seen one. Did you ever?"
David Jacobs knew better than to blow his kid brother off by not answering that question for the countless time already. Because Les, for the last day and a half now, had been telling a tale about a queer girl who was trying to pretend that she was a boy. The one time David lost sight of his brother when they were supposed to be selling the evening edition of the paper, and Les came home with a whopper of a story that he just wouldn't stop bringing up.
Oh, well. He only had himself to blame.
"No, Les," he answered, providing the correct answer to his cue.
"And then there was the way she spit," Les went on to add, chuckling as he skipped ahead. "I think even Sarah coulda spit better than that."
"Hm... I don't think Sarah has ever spit in her life," David mused.
"That's my point!" Les stopped and turned around so that he was facing his older brother. He puffed his chest out a little. "And, ya know, I let her think she fooled me, too. Poor girl, I don't know what she was thinkin', but I helped her out. I mean, gosh! Can ya imagine Sarah doin' something so silly, cuttin' her hair like that. Her hair was shorter than mine, Davey."
"That's nice, Les."
"I don't even think I told you about the way she tried to talk—" David had to swallow his groan because, by then, he'd already heard that part of story, and Les's pitiful attempt at an imitation, at least four times "—like a chipmunk's squeak at first, I don't know, but it was the funniest thing I ever heard, I'm telling you—"
Yes, David thought to himself, that was exactly the problem. And they hadn't even gotten to the distribution center yet!
As Les continued prattling on and on and David only paid enough attention to make sure his little brother didn't get so involved in his tale that he wandered off the path and got himself hurt, David was trying to find something to get Les's mind off of the strange girl he had met. There was no way he could just ask Les to change the subject, it would hurt only his feelings and until something more exciting happened, he knew Les would be stuck on it. It was, he realized, like the strike all over again.
In fact, it seemed to David that this was the first time since early July when Les wasn't talking about the strike. David almost missed it.
That wasn't the only thing he almost missed. Glancing up, he looked past Les and saw a very familiar figure heading down the street towards them. The red neckerchief tied smartly around his neck, an unlit cigarette hanging absently off of his bottom lip as, his head bowed, he searched his pockets for something, David might not have noticed Jack out for an afternoon stroll before the evening edition if it wasn't for that same red neckerchief and the frayed rope Jack insisted on wearing as a belt.
There was only one way for David to step out from underneath his brother's endless tales. Forgive me, Jack, he thought before turning a winning smile on his little brother. "Hey, Les? Have you told Jack about your friend yet?"
Les's eyes lit up like a firework. Jack Kelly was his hero and he had been since Jack took him on as a selling partner and, in one whirlwind afternoon that David's mother would have kittens over if she knew the truth, Les took his first sip of beer, earned his first quarter, learned how to trick a customer into buying a sympathy pape and got his first eyeful of a vaudeville show over at Irving Hall.
"Jack? You see him, Davey? Where is he?"
David pointed. "Isn't that him right there?"
Les had already spotted him. "Jack! Hey, Cowboy!" He left David behind, performing his awkward sort of run and skip in order to reach Jack as quickly as possible. David allowed himself a small smile, never losing Les—or Jack—from his sights, taking his time strolling towards his friend so that, by the time he met Jack, Les had already launched into his story.
Jack had managed to light his cigarette before Les ambushed him. The cigarette was perched in the corner of his mouth, his lips curved up in a wry smile as he nodded in answer to everything Les was telling him so energetically. But there was a distracted look in his brown eyes, a lost yet guarded expression that flickered into an expectation when he noticed David at last—because, wherever Les was, David was sure to follow—before it fell back into place.
Any guilt, or any humor, David might've felt for turning Les on Jack disappeared. An unsettled feeling took up root in David's stomach; always something of a worrywart, he had the sudden sinking suspicion that something was going on with Jack Kelly that had nothing to do with the girl Les was still going on about.
Which only goes to show that, even with a fancy education and a way with words, you could still be wrong sometimes—
David had to admit that, up close, Jack looked pretty terrible. His hair, which was usually greasy, seemed even slicker than normal and was plastered to his forehead in clumps. His brown eyes were bloodshot and watery; the bags underneath made his eyes so sunken in that it was almost a skull looking back at David, not a boy. There was a slightly noticeable growth of stubble on his chin. Not only did it look like he was running on empty, but it was obvious Jack hadn't bothered to shave and splash his face at the sink that morning. In fact, David had the sinking suspicion that he probably hadn't gotten a good night's sleep last night, either.
"Hey, Cowboy? Where were ya goin'?" Les asked suddenly, hero worship evident on his young face. "You gonna sell papes with me and Davey today? Huh?"
Les's voice drew David's attention from his own thoughts as quickly as Les had asked his question of Jack; it was just the question he'd wanted to ask himself. David cocked his ear, almost as curious as Les to hear Jack's answer.
It had been a couple of days since they had last sold papers together. Things were more different now than even as close to a month ago, when Mr. Jacobs suffered an injury in the factory he worked at and lost his job because of it. All three Jacobs children—Les, David and their old sister Sarah—had found ways to help support their family. While Sarah tatted lace and made deliveries, selling her wares, David and Les took to selling papers, morning and evening, anything to bring the pennies in.
Now, though, now that Mr. Jacobs' arm had healed enough for him to find new work, Mrs. Jacobs had put her foot down: she didn't want her children running amok through the city any longer. She was proud of David for his role in the strike and had taken to Jack as a potential suitor for her only daughter as best as could be expected considering he was an Irish Catholic boy, but that didn't mean she liked the idea of David and Les warming to the newsboy's way of life. They would be going back to school when lessons started up again and would only be allowed to sell the evening edition of the paper when they did. Why not start straight away?
So David and Les were only allowed to head down to the distribution center and wait for the circulation bell during the afternoon. Jack, who didn't have the luxury of picking and choosing when he sold his papers, seemed to do most of it in the morning. By the evening edition he was long gone, either selling on his own again or off doing who knew what. David had caught up with Jack once since Mrs. Jacobs put her foot down about morning selling and Jack had agreed that it would do them both some good to sell on their own for a couple of days. David and Les really didn't need the money; Jack did. Might as well make the best of the summer sales while he could.
Maybe, David thought, all that time apart wasn't as good for Jack as he thought it might be. It had been his idea, after all—though he never would dare tell it to Sarah—but having a family, while great at first, was too stifling for Jack and David wasn't so naïve as to not notice that; sometimes he worried that Jack blamed them for holding him back when he could've been out West already. At the best of times, Jack could barely stand to tell David the truth, though he knew better than to lie to his friend, especially after the whole Francis Sullivan mess at Judge E.A. Monahan's bench during the strike. So, even though Jack said it was for the money, David suspected there was something else going on in addition to that.
He wondered how he would ever get Jack to tell him what it was.
As it turned out, for once luck really was on his side. Just like when he cast his gaze around for something to save him from Les's repeated story, a quick glance around the busy street gave David another excuse. Reaching out, he tapped Les lightly on the shoulder, interrupting him in the middle of asking Jack if he ever caught Sarah spitting. Les seemed a little put-out that David wanted his attention but his face lit up at what David asked next—
"Les, ain't that Boots over there?"
There was a dark-skinned boy bent down at the side of the road not too far ahead, hiking up his socks before he picked up his stack of papers and tucked them under his arm. He hadn't seen any of the other boys yet, his eyes were drawn to a particularly luscious looking apple sitting on the edge of the fruit vendor's stall, and suddenly David saw his chance.
Slipping two of his fingers into his pocket, he pulled out a dime and handed it to his brother. "Why don't you go over there and buy an apple or two for you both?"
Les, eager to see one of his newsie pals, took the dime, promised Jack he'd finish telling him his story later, then loped off to greet Boots.
That left Jack and David standing on the side of the street alone. And, where there had been that easy sense of camaraderie they developed during the Newsboys' Strike, there were a few awkward moments while Jack kept his thoughts to himself, his eyes drawn down to the cobbles, and David simply furrowed his brow.
At last, David worked up a friendly smile. "It's been a couple of days, Jack. It's good to see you again."
"A coupla days already, Dave? Didn't I just see ya yesterday?" Jack had forgotten about his cigarette. The tip had burned down, leaving close to half an inch of ash hanging there. He flicked it absently and slipped it back between his lips. His eyes were still turned down. "Yeah, I'm sure I saw your mug only yesterday."
David's friendly smile wavered, replaced by a concerned frown. "I brought Les to the distribution center to sell the evening edition yesterday. We didn't see you there."
"Oh. Maybe the day before then."
David shook his head. "Sarah's been asking after you."
"I know," Jack muttered and, glancing up, David could see he looked guilty. What did that mean? "I've been... I've been meanin' to stop by." When was the last time Jack had stopped by the Jacobs' apartment? Last week? The week before? He shrugged. "How's your pops?"
"Papa? He's been doing better." Then, slightly distracted, David called after Les, "Don't go near that horse with your apple, Les! I'm not bringing you back home with any less than ten fingers!"
Les's childish reply was lost in the hustle and bustle of another Manhattan afternoon. Something told David, though, from the twinkle in his kid brother's dark eyes and the way Boots snickered into his fist, that it was probably a good thing that he hadn't heard what Les had said. David sighed. Sometimes he wondered if Jack Kelly really was such a good role model for Les.
Jack—who had made out Les's response and was damn glad that David's blank expression meant he hadn't—wasn't eager to drop the subject if only because he knew how easy it would be for their conversation to stray back to Sarah... or something worse. Rubbing the back of his sweaty neck with his hand, he got David's attention again by asking, "How's his new job?" Talking about Mr. Jacobs, that was safe enough.
"He likes it. Working with figures is a lot safer than factory work," David pointed out. "Mama's pleased that there's hardly any chance he'll come home with his arm in a sling again."
"Unless some dumbass goes on and stabs him in the arm with a pen or something, right, Dave?"
"I... I guess so." David's blue eyes watched every move his brother made as Les and Boots, each chomping on a juicy apple, thankfully backing away from the horse's bit, sat down at the edge of the alleyway and started up an impromptu game of marbles. He let out a sigh of relief. Les could hardly get into any trouble playing marbles now, could he? Praying that he wouldn't, David said quite firmly, "Don't think I didn't notice you changed the subject, Jack."
"What do you mean?"
"Sarah."
Sarah... David's sister. Pretty, sweet, caring Sarah Jacobs. Brave enough to stand up to the Delancey brothers on her own, and foolish enough to actually care about him. Jack had never thought he would find someone as perfect as Sarah and, sometimes, he knew that that was the problem. Street rats like Jack didn't get perfect. Hell, they barely got good enough. He was afraid he would screw it up; he was afraid he would prove himself to be as worthless as Snyder always told him he was. And that wasn't all.
More than anything, Jack was terrified that he would become as big as a mistake as his old man, rotting away in Sing Sing on some stupid, trumped up charge. With that kind of Sullivan blood running through his veins, no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was a new man—the he was Jack Kelly, damn it!—he couldn't help but wait for the moment he would hurt Sarah and lose David and Les as a result.
Which was why he was staying away. Especially after yesterday, the memory of his cursed name and the nightmares of the first person he failed—the terrible reminders of his lost sister—Jack wanted nothing more than to forget his old family and his new family and go about it alone. Just like he had done since he was eleven. Just like he would've done if it wasn't for the first time he ran into David and Les outside of the distribution center's gates and a chance partnership led to his meeting the rest of the Jacobs.
"Yeah," Jack sighed. "Sarah." He took a long drag on his cigarette, using the rest of it up before tossing it away. "I miss her."
"Just because we're not selling together all the time, that doesn't mean you have to stop seeing her. Even Mama was pleased that you were walking out with Sarah."
"It's not that, Dave. It's got nothing to do with Sarah, ya got my word on that." Because it had everything to do with him.
"Then what is it?" David persisted. As if Jack would expect anything less than that from someone Spot Conlon had dubbed "the Walking Mouth".
Jack didn't know how to explain to David how conflicted he'd become in the weeks and weeks following the strike. He was used to being a loner with the ever-changing faces in the lodging house as his only family. Before the strike, Jack knew he was coming to the end of his time as a newsie and, while he would miss some of the fellas—Blink, Mush, Race and Crutchy to name a few—and Kloppman, too, when it was his time, he knew he could walk away without looking over his shoulder... just like he'd done the last time he left that basement slum he'd lived in with Emma. But how could he walk away from David? Or Les? Or Sarah... He tried once. Got in the governor's carriage and everything, but what had that gotten him? A round trip right back to the distribution center.
He didn't know how to explain that, after his mother and his father and even his sister abandoned him, he spent his life waiting for the next person to disappear—or, barring that, he always made sure to get out first. He didn't know how to explain that, with summer ending and autumn quickly approaching, that that was precisely what he was trying to do. Jack didn't know how to explain anything, so he didn't say anything at all.
He didn't have to.
"Is something wrong, Jack? Is there something going on that you want to tell me?" Worry lines creased David's forehead; his blue eyes darkened as he peered at his friend. "I'm a good listener. Whatever is on your mind, I'm here. I hope you know that."
And despite not wanting to be caught lying to David again, he shook his head. "Don't worry 'bout me, Davey. There ain't nothin' on my mind except for supper." And then, because he really did miss David's family, and would only be punishing himself even more by staying away, he asked, "You think your ma would mind another for soup?"
Because, with a full belly and a little rest, maybe the all-too-real nightmares won't be able to find him and haunt his dreams again.
End Note: Ah, that was a nice long chapter :) I wanted to show Emma's start at work and finally get another peek at what Jack was up to - and I managed to get it done in one. Considering the next chapter, it was necessary... and it might just be as long, too!
I hope it was interesting, though - not only what's going on with Jack for the moment (and his mindset before the fic started, ie: Sarah), but the shirtwaist factory. I spent forever last night researching factories, factory work, and shirtwaist factories in particular. Ever get interested in child labor at the run of the century? Read about the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. It's fascinating, and it hit its 100th year since this year.
37k down, 13k to go!
- stress, 07.24.11
