Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends. Disney owns Spot, Ireland owns herself, the Lindharts, Alice, Marbles, and Snaps belong to me.
A/N: So...where ya been for two years? Yeah. I know, I know….
Warning: PG (mild language)
Chapter 10: Visitation
I didn't sell papers today. I didn't felt like it. Maybe I would sell them this afternoon, but probably not. My head was still foggy from the uninhibited binge of hard whisky. I'd lost count of the shots after ten. At one point I would have been able to stomach more than that and still be fine, but I'd been dry for too long.
A large part of my not selling, however, had nothing to do with the drinking. Most of it had to do with the pure idea that I didn't want to sell. At one point in time, I had lived to sell, thriving on the competition and turning it into my own kind of art. If I didn't need the money or the prestige of selling, I wouldn't sell anymore. Like so much in this routine I called life, selling papers bored me, but it was mandatory. Much like breathing, it was forced, expected, and I would die without it.
The streets were crowded today. A few children that didn't have to work played a game of tag out in the fresh air and warm sunshine, darting among the people, carts, and horses. Street vendors wielded their wares along the cobblestones, attempting to entice those with a little extra change in their pockets to make a purchase. A few horse drawn carriages attempted to make their way though the neighborhood, finding it difficult on such crowded streets. Women with their shopping lists were flitting from vendor to vendor, looking for the best price as well as what they needed to keep their house in order.
Pushing through the crowds of people, I found it hard to go unnoticed. I had a habit of attracting attention to myself. If I really wanted to, I could melt into the crowd, but it took effort. I'd had to outrun the bulls and bullies enough to know how to become invisible, but being noticed was second nature. I walked tall and people noticed. Some of the younger women whispered to each other behind their hands, they knew who I was. If they didn't know me by my name, then by the fact that I was the boy that had sold them their papers for so many years. I was their convenient human vending machine, and to some, I was at one time or other an object of affection.
One of the kids playing tag crashed into my legs and I almost fell over. The young boy looked up at me with fear as I had grabbed his shoulder to steady us both. A flicker of recognition danced across his face as he looked up at me. The child's eyes flickered to the gold tipped cane in my opposite hand and then back at me. His playmates now were close by watching timidly to see if I would strike out. They all had noticed my cane as well, they all knew who I was, and most likely informed by older siblings or children on the street. The kids couldn't have been older than five and they were lucky enough to not work in the factories. Around us, the streets moved and teemed with life though we stood still, recognition replaced by fear in the child's eyes as they looked up in mine. At one point in time, I would have acted out against the boy, but this wasn't that time.
"Be more careful." I said, but those weren't my words.
They were ghostly words, a haunted memory best left forgotten. I let go my firm grip of the boy's shoulder with a jerk. It took no time at all for the child to scurry off with his playmates with a squeal of delight. He had forgotten his brush with Brooklyn himself, but I stood frozen
Children have a way of forgiving and forgetting, don't they?
The question menaced the back of my mind. Blinking fiercely I attempted to repress the things I couldn't quite remember but never could never forget. The busy main street seemed claustrophobic and I cut down a side street that I hadn't ventured upon for quite some time.
It was a passage that taunted with familiarity, but so long ignored that the memory of it all was faded. Where was I going? I didn't even care. The path was so automatic that it took no effort. It wasn't until I saw a painfully recognizable landmark that my heart stuttered.
The white wash was faded on the modest building since the last time I had seen it. Some of it had completely peeled away. The sideboards were more warped than I remembered and the cement stairs leading to the unimposing, scarred, oak door looked more crumbled. The shingles needed patching. This backstreet hideaway for God's people had taken a beating since the last time it had graced my vision. The last time I had come here was when – no, I wouldn't think those thoughts.
My head told my feet to turn and hurry from the place where potent memories lingered. My heart screamed to rid myself of the ache and leave. Everything within me ordered me to run and hide from the thing that stood in front of me, but I couldn't move.
Few people walked these paths unless it was to return to their work or home, and even fewer walked it during this time of the day. It was a desolate byway that I had tried to forget, but failed miserably.
I couldn't move, couldn't think, and for a suspended moment I couldn't breathe. Like a child faced with his ultimate fear, I stood pulverized by the humble building that I once frequented. There was a rumbling in the pit of my stomach that I hadn't felt in a long time. Hell, it had been a long time before I'd really felt anything since – God why couldn't I stop thinking about that?
One of my feet moved forward without my consent. Then the other foot followed suit. The rumbling in my stomach turning into a kind of self-destructive courage. I moved warily towards the church's door. Like that child so afraid of the monster that was really only hidden in themselves, I felt myself fighting the reasonable and unreasonable instincts to flee when I heard it:
The church's doors are always open.
My head swiveled from side to side to see where that voice had come from, but I knew it only echoed in my mind. I had heard those words before and I knew the voice that had spoken them. I knew that voice – oh… far too well.
Fingers gripped the gold tip of my cane tighter than before, my knuckles actually crackling from the intensity of my grip. What in the hell was I doing? Or rather, what the hell was I afraid of? Each tentative step said nothing of the cocky confidence I had cultivated to make a name and reputation for myself. Brooklyn wasn't scared of anything! This building was a part of my past that I had made every move in the world to forget. This building was a piece of me that I had tried to drown with alcohol on too many occasions to count. Maybe I needed to face it to move past the hurt.
I didn't redirect my I climbed the cement stairs. My face stared down the scratched and marred surface of the strong door. I could feel my own breath coming back and touching my face. Licking my dry lips, I could taste my fear. Swallowing, I took a cautious look around the deserted street as if to make sure no one was watching. Then I placed on damp palmed hand on the brass handle and opened the door.
His palms were sweaty as one gripped the head of a gold tipped cane and the other the lackluster brass handle on an unimposing oak door. The door was in fact similar to the one on the newsie lodging house he called home, but this scarred, battered door was much different. It was the door of a church.
The paper advertisement was still crumpled in the pockets of the only pair of pants he owned without holes in them. The shirt also was remarkably clean for the ruffian who got into fights to defend his borough, his honor, or just for the hell of it. Each of the buttons were slipped through the frayed holes, except for the one that was missing about halfway down his chest. He'd even scrubbed himself down with soap before he'd come, much more than his usual rinsing of his face. His traditional gray cap rested low over his face as he was half-scared lest anyone important would recognize him. The matter was almost laughable. Spot Conlon, Brooklyn's fearless but feared leader, was going to a prayer meeting.
Steeling his nerves, Spot shoved open the door. There was no one to see his dramatic entry.
He looked around. A small stained glass window was behind the pulpit, and a few normal glass panes were placed along the sidewalls. Only twelve straight back wooden pews were lined up, six on each side of the cramped interior. There was no raised platform for the speaker or any fancy decorations lining the walls or decorating of the pulpit. What looked to be a well-used piano sat along back wall. Behind the piano, a single non-descript, unattractive door, closed from prying eyes, seemingly melted into the wood paneling. A single black pot-belled coal stove was right by the doorway where he had entered along with several wooden pegs lined that back wall by the door.
No one else was there, but he expected it to be so for he was early. He'd planned it this way. This gave him every opportunity to find out what he could about this creature he was seducing. He would take this chance to explore his surroundings a bit more and perhaps when other parishioners arrived he could inquire further about this Mary girl.
Shutting the entryway door, Spot took a seat in one of the back pews and ran his fingers over the finished wood. The pews were plain maple without ornaments. The free standing pulpit was the same. Sparkling light filtered through all of the plain glass panes onto the well kept floorboards, but none radiated through the single stained glass window. Spot found that curious. His puzzlement wouldn't be long lasting.
He walked towards the piano.
The black painted surface must have at one time held a fine gloss, but now it was faded and worn. The ring shaped stains on the top looked as though this had been a bar piano and had too many beers set on it instead of upon tables. A tattered hymnal rested on the music stand ready to be used for its noble purpose.
Spot pulled out the bench that accompanied the keyboard and it scraped across the floorboards noisily. The racket seemed to echo in the silent space and Spot froze. He looked around to make sure that no one was there to see that even though he knew no one was. Letting out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding, Spot sat at the piano. The bench wobbled slightly under his weight. Setting his cane at his side on the bench, he looked at the black and white patterned keys for several long moments. Then, reverently, Spot rested one hand's long, tan, ink-stained fingers upon the chipped ivory keys. Feeling their cool surface against the callused pads of his fingertips, he pressed a few notes. The tiny out-of-tune sound was barely audible, but it pulsed inside of him. He liked it.
His musical revere was broken when the door that hid along side the piano opened. Jumping up at the unexpected intrusion, Spot grabbed for his cane. The sudden movement of his standing upset the uneven bench and sent it crashing to the ground. The noise was louder than anything he could have imagined as it echoed through the silence of the room.
He leaped away. The toppled black bench came to rest at a pair of small boot clad feet that also skirted out of the way of the collision. Spot looked at the trespasser's face for the first time since their entrance. It was her.
"Oh." A soft gasp came from an even softer pair of lips as a girl with gentle brown hair looked at the bench that had so unceremoniously tipped. "Are you all right?"
She brought her large doe eyes away from the toppled piece of furniture and up to the young man's eyes in front of her. If she recognized him or not, he couldn't tell from her worried expression.
"I'se all right." Spot said.
He quickly removed his hat and clutched it to his chest along with his cane. Inwardly he cursed himself. He was acting as nervous as a school boy being caught by his teacher drawing on his slate. He knew his ways on the streets and how to play by their rules. There he wrote the all of the rules. He could eliminate anything that he found bothersome, and people knew to respect him and his choices. Here he was vulnerable. This wasn't the street. This was a church. His closest exposure to a regular religious experience was when he would get food from the nuns that would give it out to the less fortunate once a week and he was sure that didn't count. There was nothing familiar here onto which he could cling. Everything here was foreign and disconcerting. There was nothing here but things he had to learn. Be it rules, words, actions, or thoughts, he had to learn them to be successful.
"What about you?" he asked.
"I'm well. I thought that I heard someone out here. I didn't mean to startle you." She said.
A soft smile stretched her cupid bow mouth open. It reached across the stool between them and put him at ease. She crossed her hands across the front of her plain gray skirt.
"I didn't mean ta bother anyone."
Spot tried his hardest not to fidget with his hat. The whole situation was terribly uncomfortable. He didn't want to be seducing this Mary girl, or to be in this church. Spot wanted nothing to do with any of this whatsoever, but as he was coming to realize all too quickly, he had no choice.
"You're not a bother." She said. "The church's doors are always open."
Absently she brushed a stray curl away from her face. She tucked it back towards the modest hair covering she wore. Spot watched and learned.
"Always?"
Spot found that hard to believe. Who in their right mind would purposefully leave their doors unlocked at all hours in the slums of Brooklyn New York?
"Yes. Always."
She nodded in affirmation and Spot could only wonder in skepticism. This innocent couldn't possibly believe that these doors were open at all times to anyone who would enter.
"How do ya know that there always open?" he said.
His words held a challenge, and he knew he shouldn't try to fight this girl, but he had to know. Always? He tried to relax his posture by tucking his cane through one of the loops in his clean brown slacks. His defenses were instinctive right now against this odd and intimidating situation, but she didn't seem to mind or she simply didn't notice.
"I live here." She said.
The fact came and he was speechless for a moment.
"You live in the church?"
"Well, the rectory. It is attached to the back of the church." She said and made a gesture with her hand towards the still open door from whence she had come.
At least that explained the lack of light coming through the stained glass. There was a residence on the other side.
"I thought that was where the pastor lived." Spot's mind fumbled over the information.
"It is. I'm his daughter."
Her words and all of their ramifications crashed around him like a shattered plate glass window.
The pastor's daughter! When he took on this bet he knew that it wouldn't be easy wooing the unsuspecting church going girl into his less than noble machinations, but this! She wasn't only the daughter of some attendee of this parish, but she was the child of the leader himself. She was the perfect picture of piety and virtue. Her small hands clasped in front of her dress properly. The high collared blouse she wore was clean and neat. She looked exactly like a pastor's daughter should from the tip of her black buttoned boots to her starchy white head cover. Spot looked up at the hill he had to climb and saw it grow into a mountain.
"Ah."
It was all he could trust himself to say.
This whole venture had been a mistake. He may as well just call it off and pay Snaps' board for a year. An awkward silence ensued and Spot was afraid to speak, unsure of what to say to the girl, and considering running out of the door. He cleared his throat.
"Do you play?" She nodded to the piano, and Spot swiveled his head to glance at the battered instrument, and then back at her.
"No. No, I don't play."
An unusual case of embarrassment swelled inside of the pit of his stomach at the memory of how he had been so scared when he'd played those few notes and the door opened. He had no reason to be afraid, but he had jumped like he'd been caught stealing. His ears grew hot and his skin felt like he'd been in the sun for too long. The top button of his shirt felt a bit too tight and he resisted the urge to loosen it. He bent swiftly to reinstate the cursed bench's position to upright, but that didn't change the fact that Spot Conlon was blushing.
"Would you like to play?" She asked.
"Sure. Who wouldn't?" He shrugged and tossed his gray cap on the stool between them.
"Have you ever played before?" She moved forward ever so slightly. Her gray skirt brushed the edge of the bench.
"Nah."
Meeting her eyes – he gave her his best knee-weakening smile. He was pleased when she seemed to be slightly flustered by his gaze and smile. This was more progress than he had expected. This was an improvement from their dialogue on the street corner and this was definitely an improvement from him blushing.
"I could teach you if you like." She said.
Her words were like a light shining down from the heavens. This was his chance, his reason, his excuse to be with this girl in a way that didn't require service attendance. Opportunity knocked and Mary held the door wide open for him.
"How much?" he asked.
Money was a serious matter. No matter how golden this opportunity was. Payment was an object.
"How much of what?" Mary frowned, her small nose scrunching up slightly in a way that Spot would soon find very familiar.
"Money. For lessons." He received a blank stare. "How much do ya want me ta pay ya?"
"Oh." She said. Her understanding was accompanied with a soft, melodic laugh. Something in Spot warmed at the sound. "I don't want your money."
"You - don't."
It wasn't a question because he was sure she didn't mean it. This went against everything he'd ever known. How could someone want to give him something and not want anything in return?
"No." She shook her head.
"I don't have a piano. I can't practice."
"You can practice here at the church. The church doors are always open."
The reinstatement, almost automatic on her part, but it held a whole different meaning this time. It wasn't just open to strangers, it was open to him. She held his gaze steadily with her wide innocent eyes and a soft smile hidden at the corner of her mouth. It was a strange moment. Spot was not used to being welcomed openly anywhere but his borough. It made his skin feel funny and his palms sweat. He already planned on taking so much from this girl, and this additional prize seemed tainted.
"Always, huh?" He said, cracking a grin to hide his discomfort. "Sounds like we have a deal."
"Mary? Mary is someone there?" A low voice, slightly worn with age, came through the open door to the rectory.
"Yes Papa." The girl turned her head to the door and smiled at her father as he came through.
Her father was a tall man who looked like life had never been easy for him. The sun-darkened skin of his face was wrinkled around his eyes, and mouth. Trenches lined his forehead, and his jaw was sagging. His eyes were as brown as his daughter's and for all their lines held a jolly disposition that shone from within. In his weathered hands he held a worn gray dishtowel and was wiping the skin of his palms dry. Thick, graying brown hair was combed away from his face. His plain gray slacks were the same color as his daughter's skirt and his off-white shirt was properly ironed, buttoned, and tucked into his trousers. Two faded black suspenders hung at his sides, and his black shoes had obviously been spit shined for the meeting tonight. He tucked the dishtowel into the waistline of his pants and placed a free hand on the small shoulder of his daughter.
For such a meek looking man Spot felt a shock of fear jolt down the length of his spine.
"Are you here for the service tonight, brother?" The pastor said. The man's voice held an accent that was vaguely familiar to Spot. Whatever it was, it was foreign. He didn't remember Mary having an accent.
"Yes – yes sir."
"I'm Pastor Lindhart." He extended the hand that wasn't on his daughter's shoulder towards Spot in introduction.
"Spot." The boy said.
Bringing his palm up to his mouth, he spat out of habit, and almost extended the hand to the pastor. Then, realization struck him that this wasn't a newsie or someone on the street where the palm spitting ritual was understood and accepted. Within one minute of meeting this man Spot had already introduced a very awkward situation.
"Sorry. Habit." He retracted his hand and looked for a place besides his clothes to wipe his palm dry.
"Here." Pastor Lindhart extended the dishtowel from his waistband towards Spot and, gratefully, the boy employed it.
Once finished he returned the towel to the older man who gave it to the girl beside him and whispered a few words in her ear. Mary exited the room with a nod towards Spot and the towel in hand. She exited through the same door from which she came and Spot felt a strange sinking feeling of failure at her departure.
""Thanks for the towel and sorry about that. Newsie."
He stated his occupation in hopes that it would clarify the strange custom. From the look on the man's face, it didn't, but it didn't seem to matter either. The man in front of Spot only smiled at him warmly across the piano bench.
"Let's try this again." Pastor Lindhart said as he put out his hand once more and stated his name. This time, without spitting in his palm, Spot extended his arm and took the Pastor's hand firmly in his own ink stained one.
"Spot, Spot Conlon." The Brooklyn leader gave his name as they shook hands.
"Spot. Did your mother give you that name?"
"No. But it's my name."
Spot was suddenly aware that his street moniker would probably meet with some prejudice in this setting. Very few in this circle would know what power that name held to those on the streets in the group. That could be for the best.
"Well Spot, you're a mite early for the meeting." The pastor grasped his suspenders at his sides and slid them up on his shoulders. "Have you had any supper yet?" He asked. The question took Spot off guard.
"No. I guess I'se should go and get some to pass the time till the meeting." He took a step to the side towards the exit when pastor Lindhart reached out and grabbed his arm familiarly.
"Don't rush off. My Mary just cooked us some supper, and if you're interested you're more than welcome at our table." He invited and Spot looked at him for a minute. He'd barely met this man and he was already inviting him to eat with them at their table?
"How much do ya want for supper?"
The question came as instinct. At this, the older man released his arm and laughed.
"You don't have to pay, son. Here at our table there is always room for one more." His voice was low and warm like the sun on a lazy spring afternoon. "Come." He said and lead the way back into his home.
Spot held back his initial instinct to not trust this man. He let the pastor lead him through the narrow door into an equally narrow hall. There was a steep staircase to his right and in front of him he could see that the hall open to a good sized room. Upon reaching that room he could see that seemed to serve the purpose of kitchen, dining room, study, and bedroom. The walls all had shelves and cupboards covering them. By the door, there was a set of pegs where winter coats hung, unused in these warmer months. A pot-bellied stove sat in the corner. There was a small cot in the adjacent the stove with blankets folded neatly on one end and resting on top of a pillow. By the cot, there was an end table, which looked like it was used for food preparation and cooking as much as a stand for a lamp. A single, small, round table with five mismatched chairs sat in the middle of the room. At that table, two young children sat with their slates and chalk, one boy and one girl.
Spot's eyes took in all of these things and finally came to rest on one thing: Mary. She stood over by the stove with her back turned to them as she worked on her dinner preparations. She'd taken off her hair covering and the western sun shone through the windows causing the tightly bound hair to glisten. Each chocolate strand was in their place besides the few short strands that Spot knew curled prettily around her heart shaped face. The choice of clothes did not do anything to accentuate her figure, but he noticed she had a small waist that flared prettily into strong hips. When she turned her profile towards them it was clear that a pretty flush had taken her cheeks from working so near the heat. This girl was his objective. She was why he was here.
"We have a guest tonight." Pastor Lindhart announced and his family's eyes all turned to him.
The boy and girl at the table looked strikingly similar to the other. Spot noticed that each of the children had their father's wide dark brown eyes. Mary smiled warmly at him when their eyes met. Spot tried a grin.
"This is Spot, and he'll be dining with us tonight." The older man stepped past the newsie and further into the small room. "You've already met Mary." Spot's nodded in affirmation as he eyes stayed with the girl.
"It's a pleasure, brother Spot." She nodded her head respectfully and then turned back to her work. Spot's spirits sunk. Was she so oblivious to his charm?
"These two are Martha and Henry." Pastor Lindhart said.
"Spot?" The boy, Henry, said. "That's a stupid name." His own small voice held a hint his father's accent.
"Henry! Tisn't nice of you to say those things. Tisn't nice at all." The girl, Martha, said. Her hand delivered a firm whack to the back of her brother's head.
"Ow!" He raised a hand to his afflicted skull. "Papa, did you see what she did?"
At this Pastor Lindhart began to laugh. The same rich laugh that he had given only a few minutes before when he had invited Spot in for dinner. Both of the two were sulking and Henry rubbed his head.
"Hush you two." Mary came over to the table now as her father laughed and reprimanded them softly. Kissing them both on the head, Henry twice for his affliction, and she pulled their chairs away from the table. "Put away your studies and set the table." she ordered as she helped by picking up some of the books herself and placing them on one the lower shelves before she opened a cupboard above it and began to draw out miscellaneous dishware.
Through all of this, Spot stood in the place where the pastor had left him. His head spun. This was out of his element. He watched the little boy, Henry, clear off the school supplies that he and his sister had been using as Martha took the dishes that Mary handed to her. It was a system that had been well practiced as the young girl brought the stack of dishes to the table and set them down carefully before dispensing them to their proper places.
It struck him that he'd never seen anyone set a table before.
Just by looking at them, Spot gauged that Martha and Henry were twins about the age of nine. Martha's dark hair was platted back in two pigtail braids with bright blue hair ribbons and Henry's dark shaggy hair was combed much like his fathers. Their clothes all matched with the same gray wool and off white cotton.
Pastor Lindhart helped his daughter bring over what appeared to be a large pot of soup to the table.
"Come have a seat, brother." Pastor Lindhart said, his voice low and strong across the room.
The cheery family smiled a welcome to him as all but Mary took their places at the table. With more confidence than he felt, Spot went to the table and took one of the vacant seats between Henry and Martha. Setting his cap on his lap, he watched those around him to make sure he wasn't breaking any rule that he didn't know.
"You gotta say you're sorry to Spot before we pray, Henry. You can't pray till God knows you're sorry." Martha turned to her brother and commanded him as soon as Spot had sat down.
"Why? I didn't do anything!" Henry protested, and Spot almost agreed with him. He'd never even talked to the kid. Why was an apology necessary?
"You made fun of his name and it tisn't nice." Martha said and the required apology was suddenly clearer.
"All I said was it was stupid cause it is! I was telling the truth!" Henry said. Spot's head swiveled from side to side between the two. The conversation going too quickly for him to be offended.
"Maybe he thinks Henry is a stupid name." Martha said.
Mary brought over a loaf of bread on a cutting board and a pitcher of water. She looked embarrassed by her sibling's arguing and gazed imploringly at her father to stop it. The quibbling duo did not catch the look, but Spot did and he noticed how the pastor motioned for her patience.
"He does not! Do you?" Now Henry addressed Spot.
The question caught him off guard. "No. I don't suppose I do."
"See? I told you!" Henry said and stuck out his tongue.
"All right, that's enough." Pastor Lindhart said. "Martha, do not judge lest you be judged." He said to his daughter before turning to his son. "Henry, pride comes before destruction, a haughty spirit before the fall." His reprimand seemed gentle by Spot's standards but both hung their heads in shame. "Now please, before we ask our Father to bless this meal, apologize to each other and our guest."
"Sorry." It was murmured in such perfect, pitiful synchronization Spot suspected it was a common phrase for them.
"Now we shall bless the meal. Bow your heads."
It was clear the Pastor was not one to linger in the past. Everyone around the table's heads ducked together, except for Spot who was a few beats behind. Then, in perfect unison, the entire family began to recite their prayer over the meal.
"Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory for ever. Amen."
Spot watched them all surreptitiously. All of their eyes were shut. The twins' eyes were squinted furiously as though it made their prayer more penitent. Both Mary and her father looked serine. He was unable to recite along with them. If this was going to be habit – he would have to learn.
Watching, he saw that the family passed their dishes to their father who in turn served them and passed it along. Spot waited his turn. Tonight's fare appeared to be some sort of soup and the thick crusted bread that Mary had placed on the table during the children's spat. Ladling out the watery broth, Pastor Lindhart took a deep inhalation of his daughter's cooking and smiled broadly. Once everyone was served, Pastor Lindhart took was the first to take a bite and he made a sound of approval.
"Manna from heaven, Mary. The Lord has used you to provide us with yet another fantastic meal." The compliment made the girl blush visibly.
"Thank you, Papa." She said.
Her small voice seemed even smaller in the return of his compliment. If Spot listened carefully he swore he could hear the slightest lilting dialect that resembled her father's much more pronounced one.
Silence came to them as they enjoyed the food that lay before them. Though meager by many others' standards it was a filling feast for the weary traveler. He found that the thick crusted bread was excellent to dip into the broth made from leftover chicken meat.
The thoughts in Brooklyn's head wandered from food, to this peculiar family, to the girl he was impossibly seducing, to his responsibilities to his newsies, and all of the different things he needed to have done tomorrow. There was little which escaped his sharp mind. He had trained himself so that it would be this way, he couldn't afford for it not be.
"Your daughter has been kind enough to offer to teach me how to play the piano. I hope that's all right with you, sir." Spot offered tactfully into the silence, and Pastor Lindhart cast a look of surprise towards his oldest daughter.
His eyes went to the girl who had offered him the lessons and she was looking at him with an expression he wasn't sure he understood. Was it embarrassment, perhaps?
"My Mary plays the piano for our services. She's the best accompanist for which you could ask. She has the voice of an angel, too."
Mary swatted at her father's arm with a small hand to shush him.
"Papa!" Clearly she was embarrassed by this open praise.
"Oh come now, Mary. There is no need to be shy with your gifts. The Lord has blessed us all in different ways." He placed a large hand on her back comfortingly.
"Why's your name Spot?" Henry said, having been quiet too long.
"Henry, that's rude." Martha rebuked quickly. She leant forward to look around Spot at her brother.
"That's enough you two." Mary took the initiative to stop them this time before they had a chance to really get started. It was clear she was just relieved to have the topic off of her. "If Spot wants to tell you why he is called that, I'm sure he will." She looked at the boy across the table from her with her wide brown eyes and Spot grinned at her once more. To this, she continued to smile sweetly in return until Henry tapped Spot on the shoulder and he was distracted once more.
"Are you going to tell us?" he asked.
Spot heard Martha heave a sigh on the other side of him as Pastor Lindhart chuckled.
"I'se a newsie, kid, and that's what the other newsies call me." Spot said. What other reason could he give? He didn't want to give the explanation of running from the warden and how using an alias made him harder to catch. Henry's eyes grew wide.
"You're a newsie? Is that why you have a cane?" He grabbed at the gold tip that hung from Spot's hip. Spot made a protective move towards his prize possession blocking it from the invasive hands of the child.
"Henry, tisn't nice to grab other people's things!" Martha said, but Henry did not even respond.
He was too enthralled with Spot. The way he was staring at him inflated Spot's ego. If it was this easy to impress the boy, could it be that much harder to impress Mary?
"I've always wondered what it would be like to newsie." Henry said to Spot with wide eyes and Spot could not help but smile. It seemed like such a strange wonderment.
"Do you live with your family or on the streets?" Henry's mouth was full of bread.
"I lives in the lodging house." Spot didn't want to go into his family history right now and hoped the boy would leave it alone.
"A lodging house. What's that?" At this point the lad had swung his legs over to the side of his chair so he was now facing Spot.
"It's a place where all the newsie live and sleep." Spot explained.
"All of the newsies live there?" Henry's eyes grew wide.
"Well, not all of them. Some of them live other places. Some live with their family."
It was the truth, but he did not give those boys and girls the same respect as those that lived in the lodging house
"So you can live with your family and still be a newsie?" Henry lent forward with anticipation and Spot lent back with shock.
He was unsure of how to respond to this young boy's overly enthusiastic questions. He looked out of the corner of his eye towards Pastor Lindhart and Mary for a cue, but got nothing.
"Of course ya could." He chose the truth. The boy could be a newsie, but that didn't mean he would be.
"You can't be a newsie! Tisn't proper." Martha said Henry's enraptured face twisted into a sneer.
"You're just jealous because girls can't be newsies!" Henry looked up at Spot. "They can't, can they?"
Spot smirked. This child was so young and naïve, he would not last a week as a newsboy.
"There's girls." he said and the boy's face fell. "But there are a lot more boys." Spot covered, trying to not disappoint either child too greatly.
"All right, Henry." Pastor Lindhart cut off his son before he could ask anything else.
"That's enough questions about being a newsie for one night, or at least until after dinner." He winked at the small boy across the table who smiled broadly back at his father.
After that, they all ate in silence. Spot never took his eyes off Mary.
The inside of the church was just how I remembered it, though like the exterior, it was a little worse for wear. Tucking my cane into my suspenders, I took in the scene. The floor didn't shine with its previous radiance and the windows seemed more dingy. The same twelve pews were lined up in perfect precision leading to the same wood pulpit. If I shut my eyes, I could almost hear her playing the same black piano that sat in the corner. I was drawn to the instrument as I had been the first day I had come here so long ago. That day was such a distant memory, I could barely recall the details of any of it.
I ran my fingers over the key's case before lifting it and touching the precious, stained, chipped ivory. The same worn hymnal rested upon the stand. I picked it up. The binding broken fell open in my hands. So many of the songs were familiar. I could still hear her singing them or playing them. The sound of my shutting the book resounded in the silent building. Again, I shut my eyes. The noise from the hymnal was not the only thing that echoed inside of this building. Every sight, sound, and smell reminder me of her. Absolutely everything in this building tied to her in some way and I practically feel her inside of me.
It exhausted me. My legs felt like they could not support me any longer as I collapsed onto the uneven piano bench. One hand came up to hold my head as I shook. I felt like I was breaking apart. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but I was cold. I felt like I could vomit. Opening my eyes, I took in the room once more. I had no right to be here. I wanted to leave but stayed rooted.
Leaving this place would be like losing her all over again.
It was stupid, but as I sat there, I could have sworn that I felt her, tasted her once more. The initial tidal wave of emotions waned, but I could taste my own anxiety.
I heard my cane click each time I moved my body. Every sound that I made was amplified in the quiet of the sanctuary. I stroked the keys once more. I hadn't played after she left, but the familiar cool ivory beckoned my fingers. I picked out a faint, familiar melody. I was so lost in the tune that I did not hear the door open behind me.
"Can I help you, brother?" Came a voice I had not heard in oh so long.
The warm baritone swept over me like a cold splash of water, snapping me from my dreamlike state into reality. I froze, every hackle on my neck rising. I almost ran just so I would not have to face him, but this was a man whom I once respected.
I stood. I should have known this moment would come if I ever came back. It was just that I had not expected it to happen like this. With my back still to him, I bowed my head as I turned. My heart pounded in my ears so hard that I could not hear anything else. It took every bit of courage that I had to lift my eyes to meet his.
It was startling to see him. The dark brown eyes were not jolly like I remembered. He looked remarkably older, as though time had finally caught up with him. The laugh lines around his eyes had faded, but the trenches on his forehead and between his eyes had deepened considerably. The cap of hair on his head was now more white than brown. A thick beard, just as white as his hair, replaced the clean-shaven jaw I remembered.
For a long moment, we simply stared at each other.
"Spot." He closed the rectory door.
I clenched my jaw, steeling myself against the onslaught of memories driven from this meeting.
"Sir." I nodded, doffing my hat.
"Why – why are you here?" he struggled with the idea I was standing in front of him and I understood. We did not part on good terms.
Why was I here? "I don't - I just - I didn't come to see anyone if that's what you mean." It was the truth, but he didn't believe me. He had the right not to. "I'se sorry. I shouldn't have come. I didn't mean to bother you."
I couldn't stop the compulsion to apologize. Guilt hung around me like a thick black cloud. I ducked my head, unable to continue looking at this man in front of me. I had to leave. I couldn't stand to be here anymore.
"Is there something you need, son?"
After all I had done to him and his family he still asked if I needed anything. It would have shocked me less if he punched me in the chest.
Bile rose in the back of my throat. My mind cursed my body for bringing me here. How could I answer him when he stood here, no doubt feeling a hatred for me as strong as I felt for myself? Even if I needed the smallest token I could not ask it of this man.
"No. I'm set. I won't bother you again."
I wished there was something, anything I could do for him, but this was the greatest favor I could think to pay him. I looked at the man who was stood waiting for me to make the next move. His old body was tense. His eyes watched my every move. It was apparent he remembered our last meeting. I did, too, and regretted it every day.
The man nodded his head and pulled his eyes away from mine. Even so, I saw his tears.
I could never come back here again. I clenched my teeth against the emotions that though surfaced. This was how it had to be. I'd taken something from them, and I wouldn't take anymore. I jerked my cap on my head and refused to cave to the emotions ripping through my chest. My heart was already so shattered, I hadn't conceived that it could possibly break any other way.
Just as I reached the door I heard his voice trail after me.
"The church's doors are always open, Spot. For everyone." His voice was low and strained. My hand clenched painfully around the door handle. Did he have any idea how cruel that phrase was?
The church's doors are always open.
Each word slammed inside of my mind until it was all I could do not to scream. I flung the door open, the heavy wood whipping back against the side of the entryway. I couldn't be out of the building soon enough.
I ran and didn't look back once.
A/N: aw…. Poor Spot! I wish I could just give him thousands of hugs and kisses!
Spot!Muse: Didn't ya want ta do that before I was all sad an heart broken, anyway?
Raven: Oh yeah. I guess I did! Whoops…. Anyway, review!