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: Love each other.
Warning: PG (violence)
Chapter 11: Perspective
The door shut so forcefully that the windows shook. He was still such an angry young man. He always had been. Silently, I offered a prayer on his behalf before I exhaled deeply. It was true that this young man had single-handedly turned my world upside down and done his share to compromise my family, but I had no right to feel as I did towards him. The pain and hate of which I thought I had let go came rushing back in one terrible swoop. Apparently, my forgiveness had not come packaged with the forgetting as I had hoped it had.
Bowing my head, I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, hoping to relieve some of the tension building there. Such as the rushing tide of memories swept over me when his eyes met mine. Our time together was such a brief summer, but so many things had happened. The relationship of this boy to my family had altered our lives irrevocably.
Raising my head, I saw the entry to the church had come ajar. Obviously, the youth's zealous approach to shutting the door had caused it to bounce back open before it could latch. Wearily, I trudged over to the door and placed my hand against its handle. I was tempted to open the door and see if the young man was still in sight, that familiar golden cane glinting fiendishly. He was still such a brazen child in many ways, and for all the loathing I felt towards him, I felt a greater amount of pity.
This pity was the same emotion that had led me to welcome him into our house and allow him a brief respite from the world's troubles. The campaign for the boy's soul had almost cost me my own – but I still couldn't bring myself to understand my conflicting feelings towards him. Looking about the chapel, my eyes lit upon the worn upright piano and suddenly, I was stricken with a memory. A memory that I had buried for safe-keeping of a girl, a boy, and a time that was so foreign it seemed like a completely different lifetime.
He'd come every single day like clockwork and plinked at the yellowed ivory and black keys. Mary was good to him. She would sit on the pews and sew or read as he practiced. She would answer whatever questions he had about the notes on the pages. Even Pastor Lindhart could hear the improvement in the boy's skills in the first weeks. He played through the first music primer with enviable ease. Each out of tune note coming together to create song after song, and even though it had only been a few weeks, it would have seemed strange not to have the boy playing the keys near four o'clock each afternoon.
Every day he would exchange words with the reserved church mouse that went about her daily duties with perfect serenity as the boy did his best to entice her. The patient smile never waned, her soft encouragement never ceased, nor did her seeming oblivious nature to his perusal. Occasionally, the newsie would coax a blush from her when they were alone, which wasn't often. The chapel was frequented with the busy antics of Henry and Martha, who seemed to be far more intrigued with this boy than their eldest sister. Every so often, Pastor Lindhart would find his way through. Normally to round up his younger children so that the lesson could continue without further interruption, but sometimes he would simply sit with Mary in the pews and listen.
Today, however, was a quiet afternoon. Martha and Henry were both busy with studies that Mary had laid out for them. Pastor Lindhart was outdoors, white washing the church. The process seemed strange to Spot who was painfully familiar with the grime of the city. Those walls would soil again before he could finish painting the whole of the building.
"Just because you get dirty again doesn't mean you don't bathe." The Pastor had told him jovially. His dark eyes twinkled with a light that said he knew a secret.
The lesson was going well. Spot was playing through a simple hymn from Mary's piano primer. She was sitting on the bench darning socks. Occasionally, she would give him a tip or come over to help him identify a note pattern with which he had trouble, but primarily she sat at a distance. That is how many of their lessons were, her teaching was limited as Spot ploughed ahead with a stern determination. Today was no exception.
The six symmetrical windows were opened. Noises from outside filtered into the sanctuary. Pastor Lindhart was whistling, an occasional carriage or horse passed, and Martha and Henry played marble on the steps. Their bickering rose every so often but subsided just as quickly. It was just before the hurried rush of workers would return home and just after the hurried rush of the afternoon edition. All in all, it was a quiet afternoon in the small back alley of New York. Perhaps that made the next moments all more deafening.
First, it was a sharp snap, followed by the sound of crunching wood and the clatter of metal. Then there was a harsh call and a sickeningly dull thud. A cloud of dust rose outside of the middle window on the far side of the church. For an instant everything froze, but then Mary was moved over to look out of the window. Spot, quick as a cat, was already at the door and going around to the outside. Just as he rounded the corner to survey what had caused the commotion, he heard Mary's distressed voice floating through the air.
"Papa!" his sharp blue eyes saw her leaning out the window, the color completely drained from her face.
The panic that was on her face gripped his own heart as he saw Pastor Lindhart's crumpled body twisted in the fallen ladder. White wash covered the dirt. The wooden ladder upon which the pastor had stood was on its side and Pastor Lindhart himself was a mess of tangled limbs on top of it. Martha and Henry were opposite of Spot across from their father. Martha had already worked herself into hysterics and Henry looked too stunned to move. Spot felt someone at his arm. Looking to his side, it was Mary. Her wide brown eyes stared up at him in a pleading motion that caused him to clench his jaw and swallow heavily. She expected him to take control of the situation and he knew that there was no choice.
He'd seen enough of death and accidents to know that this could be bad. The pastor wasn't moving, wasn't making any noise, which meant he had either snapped his neck or unconscious. Swallowing a mouthful of nothing, Spot hurried to the fallen man. Mary moved quickly over to her siblings, ushering them into her arms.
It took Spot a moment to assess the situation and figure what had happened. One of the ladder's legs had broken. The old wood just gave out and Pastor Lindhart had taken quiet a hard fall. In the fashion he had fallen, Spot couldn't see his face as he knelt next to the body. His pulse was pounding in his ears, but he moved with a cool confidence he had taught himself to have in any situation.
The throbbing beat rocking through his system as he reached a careful hand over to the man. He could the children's eyes boring into the back of his dark head. They were all counting on him. He could barely breathe. The thumping of his heart was the only thing he could hear. All he could do to keep from shaking was to clench his jaw.
First he took one of the pastor's arm by the bicep and picked it up, it was limp. He turned the older man over. Everything passed in a surreal slowness. His eyes raced to the bright crimson stain on the pastor's temple. It was actively bleeding. That meant his heart was still , Spot arranged the man so his head lolled back over part of the wrecked ladder.
"Pastor Lindhart! Pastor Lindhart!" he didn't know if he should shake him. The way his right arm was bent made him think he shouldn't
He took the heel of his hand and pressed it against the bleeding wound. Pressure stopped bleeding. He knew that. Then there was soft brown hair glistening in the afternoon sun as Mary shoved a piece of white cloth at him. Stupidly, he stared at it, not understanding. When had she come over here?
"Put it on his cut." When she spoke everything sped back up. Nothing was moving too slow anymore. Now everything was racing.
"Henry!" Spot called, grabbing the cloth and doing as Mary said with it. "Do ya know where the doctor works around here?" He didn't wait for the boy to make it over to him before he asked. The boy only nodded, his eyes on his father. "Go get him!" Spot ordered. When the boy hesitated and looked at Mary with dark questioning eyes, Spot felt his patience slip. "Go now!" his voice louder than intended and with a dark edge reserved for his disobedient newsies.
Henry looked confused. Spot had never taken a tone like that with him. Hurt spring into the child's face, and even though he was used to expression on the faces of his newsies, it was different with this boy. Right now, however, there wasn't time for nicety. Spot wanted the boy to run like the wind for the doctor and bring him back. Now.
"Henry. Please. Go!" His tone was urgent, but kinder this time, barely.
He gritted his teeth as the small child looked at Mary for permission. How long would he take? When his older sister nodded he was off in a flash.
"What can I do? I want to do something!" Martha choked on her own sobs.
"Calm down." Spot ordered. He never took his eyes off of the pastor.
His blue eyes went everywhere. There were no other signs of bleeding, but there was no doubt that the pastor had other injuries.
"Martha, go inside and make sure that none of the whitewash came in through the window." Mary said to her sister.
The younger girl hurried into the church. It was a curious instruction, but Spot knew it was just to distract the girl from the situation. Once Martha disappeared, Spot felt the gentle hand on his arm. He jumped at the unexpected contact. His nerves were on fire.
"What do you need me to do?" Mary asked.
She was very close and he was overly aware that she was touching his arm. They'd never touched before beyond an accidental brush. This was the first purposeful touch she gave him. There was a lingered breath. His eyes held hers. Something stirred in Spot's stomach that felt an awfully big. There was no time to consider it now, and part of him was glad for that.
He looked back at Pastor Lindhart. The cloth he was using to cover the wound was now soaked and useless for its purpose. The crimson color was a bloody contrast to the gray pallor that his skin was taking.
"We need some clean water and some rags to stop the bleeding." He said.
Silently she stood and moved into the building hurriedly. Taking a deep breath his mind searched for something, anything to do. Should he try to move the pastor inside or leave him here? Would he even be able to lift the man alone? With one of his boys, he would have moved him, but then again they would not be fetching a doctor. Pulling the rag away from the man's temple, he wondered if the bleeding had slowed at all. It was this moment that he realized he'd been using Mary's head cover to stop her father's blood. The thin cotton ties were as red as the setting sun. Mary returned now along with Martha/ She carried a large pot of steaming water, Martha carried a stack of rags, and sure enough there was no white cap on Mary's head.
The girls brought the things he needed to his side. Martha gazed at him expectantly and Mary's eyes told a similar story. They needed him to know what to do. They needed him to be sure of himself. He knew that it was to be in power and be in control, but if he did not know how to deal with a situation with the news boys, he was always able to dismiss it. This was different, there was no way for him to simply brush it aside and walk away. These girls had followed his instructions, and now as he sat there in the awkward position by the broken ladder, he set his jaw. They needed him in a way that he had never been needed before. No one ever needed him like this before.
He tossed the soiled, bloody cloth onto the dirt and he reached for the clean one Martha extended. The focus on his task kept his hand from shaking as he plunged the cloth into the scalding water. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth as he withdrew his hand. The flesh on it was pink from the heat and the soaking rag burned further, but he ignored it. Blood from his hands tainted the fabric as it had the water even before he brought it to the old man's face. Hopefully this would help sear and clean the wound.
From his time on the streets, Spot understood a thing or two about cuts on the face. One of the things was that they bleed profusely, and another was that if they became infected, it was bad. He'd heard that hot water cleaned out infection, and he hoped that it was true.
The bleeding seemed to be slowing. When Spot pulled back the cloth to check he saw a long gash jerking its way across the man's wrinkled temple and up into his salt and pepper hair. It wasn't simply a scratch either. It was deep and angry.
"Here." Mary said.
Her own hand clutched a steaming rag. The skin of her knuckles was red and the flesh on her hand was a bright pink. Dropping the cooled rag to the ground, Spot hurriedly grabbed the steaming one and held back a hiss. The rag he had been holding might as well been packed with ice for it did nothing to prepare him for the scalding once more.
Once he had pressed the fresh rag to Pastor Lindhart's wound, he looked at Mary. She had no reason to have injured her hand in such a fashion. Then again, neither did he. The self-sacrifice tasted strange on his tongue. He wasn't used to people helping each other. This girl was very different from the self-serving street rats he called friends.
Water and blood ran in rivulets down the pastor's face. Spot noted that both Martha and Mary looked pale. Was his face that ghostly shade? He hoped that he was better outwardly composed than the girls. Mary moved along side of him with a dry rag and began sopping up the trails of water and blood from her father's face and he saw her lips moving in silent words. Was she praying?
Henry came running down the alley yelling something unintelligible.
"Henry, what is it? Is the doctor coming?" Mary stood and he nearly crashed into her.
The boy nodded vigorously.
"When?" Martha went over to her breathless brother, too.
"Soon. Had to get his horse." His was face flushed and sweaty. His hair stood on end in reckless mishap.
For the doctor, 'soon' turned out to be shortly after Henry had made his flustered appearance. He came on horseback at a careful trot and quickly assumed control over the situation. The next events were a blur, passing quickly and orderly. For once, Spot was relieved to be taken out of control and simply ordered.
Together, Spot and the doctor, who was a man not over forty, moved the pastor into the rectory. After they had placed him on the cot in the corner of the kitchen, the doctor had everyone to leave the room so that he could examine his patient. They all sat out in the sanctuary. Martha and Henry played marbles on the wood boards. Mary tried to return to darning socks, but her burned hand pained her. Spot slumped over the keys of the piano, his own injured hand curled against his torso. The burns weren't bad, Spot knew, but they were still uncomfortable. They'd heal quickly.
It wasn't necessary for Spot to stay. The obligation that he held to this situation passed once the doctor had told him to leave him with Pastor Lindhart. Surely a new edition of the paper was out and being hawked on the streets for money - money that he could use. However, he stayed. The time that he had spent with this family had changed him even if he refused to realize or admit it. Justifications of wanting to stay to win this bet preached themselves in his mind, and he adhered to them stubbornly.
Very few words were exchanged, and time crawled by. Spot sat by Mary on the pew. They were close, but not touching. He watched her hands move with an experienced deftness about her task. Neither one spoke, but they were both seemingly glad for the mindless distraction of her household task. Even Martha and Henry were quiet, their usual squabbling absent in the presence of a seemingly much larger problem. It was a painfully long time before the doctor emerged from the door by the piano. They all stood.
"How's Papa? Can we see him?" Henry said, scattering marbles all over the floor in his haste.
"Hush Henry." Mary said. Her tone was soft but it was clear her patience was waning. Apparently, strain could effect even the most pious.
"Yeah, hush Henry," Martha echoed and Mary gave her a look that silenced both of the rough and tumble children.
"He's broken his right arm and ankle." The doctor informed them briskly, but mainly speaking to Spot and Mary. "I set the bone and stitched the cut on his face." He listed the processes, and Spot swallowed heavily at the remembrance of the gash on the pastor's temple. "He is unconscious, and because of the blow he took to his head I cannot be sure when he will wake." Spot could see Mary tremble from the corner of his eye, but she stood tall and maintained the peaceful expression on her face. "If he doesn't wake within twelve hours, be sure to fetch me once more. If he does wake, give him a dose of this laudanum for the pain." He stepped forward and handed Spot a small, brown, glass bottle of the painkiller. "I'll send you your bill. Good day."
Then with a tip of his hat, he stepped around the crowd of people and made his way to the door. His spry step was comparative to his brisk business manner. Then he was gone.
For a long moment, they all stood stupefied. Spot numbly held the laudanum in his ink stained, burned fingers processing the information that the doctor had delivered. It seemed like the others were doing the same thing. Blankly he turned to them. The two children were both staring at Mary who was obviously trying to be much stronger than she felt. Wordlessly, he watched as Henry pulled on Mary's sleeve and Martha on her skirt. He knew the strain of caring for those younger than himself when he was nothing more than a boy in his own right. He knew the weight of responsibility and the sting of heartache as well as the pressure of making decisions when all you wanted to do was hide. That is why he was the one acted first.
"Is'll check and see if it's fine for yous come back." Spot said.
He knew how messy things like this could be and he didn't want them to walk into a room where their father was bloody and battered. He walked to the backroom. Sunlight glimmered in through warped windows onto Mary's well-kept floor. The Pastor lay still on the cot, the top of his head facing Spot and the boy could still see some of the blood matted in the man's hair. Spot moved towards him and looked at the pastor.
Aside for the blood that had dried in his hair and on his clothes, the Doctor had cleaned Pastor Lindhart well. His face was still ashen and there was a large white patch pressed over where the cut had been and securely wrapped in place with strips of equally white fabric. The broken arm professionally splinted and draped across his torso. It looked far superior to the makeshift restraints that he had made for his boys from time to time. A dark bruise was creeping along one side of his face, but he didn't look like he was in pain.
"Spot?" Mary said. Her voice floated down the hallway. She must be eager to see her father.
"Come on back." Spot said.
They'd seem their father bleeding and crumpled. Seeing their father like this would probably have an effect on them no matter how good he looked. They all came in and immediately came to their father's side. Mary knelt closest to his head. Her two siblings stood next to her silently. Slacking one hip, Spot stood uncomfortably in the eerie silence. Then the question that they all held back until now came.
"Is papa going to be all right?" Henry asked.
His tone wasn't tainted with doubt like Spot knew his would be, but laced with a child's fear. It was an honest question for which there was no easy answer and he watched Mary as she turned to him as he stood next to her. Martha's eyes also watched her older sister, and from where he stood, unnoticed and unremembered, Spot could see the same question reflected in each of their eyes. Would they all be orphans soon? Life's frailties caught in this expression.
"I don't know, Henry. We must pray for him." Mary said, honest and steady.
Sunbeams sparkled off her uncovered hair. A few ringlets had come loose around her heart shaped face. She gripped her brother's shoulder affectionately, smiling gently.
"What if he isn't all right? What if he never wakes up?" Martha asked.
Her lip and voice quivering in unison. Spot saw the true pang of hurt hit Mary. The single question sapped her strength instantly. Spot stepped forward.
"Martha, Henry," All three heads swiveled towards him. "Come with me." He ordered and then looked at Mary. "We'se going to go and get something to eat." He answered Mary's questions even as he ordered the two as to what they would do.
"I'll stay here with Papa." Mary said. "Go and get a quarter each from the rag money."
The two scurried off, excited at the proposition of getting to eat outside of the house and Mary stood.
"Thank you." Mary said to Spot once the two children had run upstairs. Unsure of what to do – Spot smiled nervously.
"Here." He extended the bottle the doctor had given him to her. "Is'll have them back after we'se eat. Ya gonna be all right here by yourself?" He stepped closer to her, taking a risk on proximity.
His eyes peered down at her. They were closer than he had allowed himself ever to be to her. The line of propriety was crossed, but she wasn't drawing away. He knew about taking advantage of girls when they were in an overly emotional state of mind. Plus he knew how outrageously innocent this girl was. Would she even understand his close posturing as an act of pursuit or would she translate it into something more platonic?
"I'll be fine. Thank you." She looked up at him and smiled. Her melted chocolate eyes were wide and clear. There was a peace about her even in this time of trouble. It was a peace that he couldn't even begin to understand.
Small feet pounded down the stairs. The sound alerted Spot to their nearing presence and his natural sense of timing signaled him to act quickly. Easily, he slipped on of his still pink hands under her chin and held it between his thumb and forefinger. This forced her to keep her face cheated towards him as he lent down with practiced ease. Chastely he brushed his lips against the place on her forehead where her hair met her skin. The gesture could have even been described as brotherly, but Spot knew his motives behind it were anything but pure. He drew back just as the two scrambling around the corner. They were ready to depart. Giving Mary a smile he stepped back. The smile she gave in return was strained. That wasn't the reaction for which he hoped.
Henry was at Spot's side now – practically shaking with anticipation. Spot had become a sort of idol to him over the past week and it was very clear to all of those around them that Henry indeed wanted to be as much like Spot as he could.
Grabbing his cap from one of the pegs against the wall Spot nodded to Mary.
"Is'll have them back soon. Theys'll be safe, don't worry." He said.
"I trust you." She said, and he wondered if her words meant more than she said.
He could think about this later. Right now he had two hungry, eager children pulling at him. Turning on his heel he opened the back door into the alleyway behind the church.
"Behave!" Mary called after them. In the back of his mind Spot couldn't help but wonder if she was referring to him as well. If she had a lick of sense in her – she would.
Sighing, I pressed firmly and the door clicked smoothly into place. The sound of the
heavy edifice coming into the place rung in the silence of the church's sanctuary, and for a moment it was the only sound in the building. Then, it was replaced by soft footsteps.
"Papa? Was someone here?" The lilting, feminine voice floated over the echoes of the door. Slowly I exhaled, turning around to face my daughter. She had come down the aisle and stopped at the last row, her heart shaped face drawn with exhaustion but still peaceful. How could I answer that question?
"Just a lost soul looking for an answer." I said.
I didn't have the heart or courage to tell her exactly who it was. She'd been through more than any girl should have to go through. Taking a few steps towards her, I wearily extended my hand and put it on her shoulder.
"Come Mary," I turned her and directed our steps back to the rectory. "Let's go and see what we can have for dinner."
A/N: Oh, now I know you didn't expect to see her come back, now did ya?
