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 THIRTEEN;
They just made it back to the Bottle Alley Home that night.
Stress was out of breath, clutching a stitch in her side. Emma urged her on, taking the older girl's hand as they drew closer to the old Mulberry Bend, pulling her forward, reminding them both what fate was in store for them if they arrived at the Home one minute past ten o'clock. And despite Emma's blissful ignorance of New York as a whole, despite Stress's far-too-many years living on the streets, neither one of them was brave enough to dare being caught on the other side of that flower-adorned door.
Mrs. Cook was waiting on the stoop, a disapproving purse to her lips. She shook her head but, seeing as how the girls managed to arrive with a handful of minutes to spare, she didn't say anything as Stress, offering a cheeky grin Mrs. Cook knew only too well, took hold of Emma's hand this time and led her inside. She didn't let go until they had gone past Mrs. Cook's empty desk at the end of the narrow hall, flitting down the next one that would lead them upstairs—and only then because she needed to cover her mouth as she tried to stifle the newest wave of coughs.
Stress paused at the foot of the steps; she didn't move just yet, not even when her coughs had finished. With both palms against the knees of her skirt, she took in great big gulps of air as if that last sprint and the following fit had stolen the rest of it from her lungs.
Emma watched tentatively from the shadows, flinching when the hacking started and hesitantly approaching Stress after they had finished. Francis' surprise at seeing her, his guarded expression, the meeting they arranged for the the next night at nine... it was all dancing around Emma's mind, desperate to be paid any attention. And though she knew it was quite possibly the worse moment for it, she walked over to Stress and tugged at the hem of her blouse.
"Um, Stress," she said, her voice a mere squeak as Stress turned to look over at her with watery eyes, "do you think you're going to be able to go to the factory tomorrow?"
Stress smiled weakly, straightening back up at last. "A herd of stampedin' buffalo couldn't keep me away." Up close she appeared more tired than Emma would've expected from her but, rubbing the moisture away from the corner of each of her eyes, the Irish girl tried to hide it as best she could.
"And... and after?"
"Ya mean, with your brother?"
Emma nodded, biting down gently as she did.
"If you want me to go with ya," Stress told her, "I will."
"Really?"
"Aye, you bet." She sounded a little bit better; at the very least, her voice no longer held the rasp it had when she was struggling to reclaim her breath. Stress gave her head of wild curls a shake and, as if it wasn't as daunting as it was, she started up the steps, taking them two at a time. "Now, up ya get, Em. Mrs. Cook will be on any minute now and it's more than your Jack Kelly is worth to be caught out of bed when our fair matron looks like she's been suppin' on sour lemons." And she grinned.
Relief flooded through Emma at the sight of that supportive smile, relief that she still had a friend to help, and pride... yes, pride that she had done it. She'd found her brother! She'd spoken to Francis! He remembered her! Emma Sullivan couldn't swallow her grin or, as she started after Stress like a doting puppy dog following a new mistress, keep her giggle back.
Mrs. Cook, sucking on lemons like they were lollipops... Emma couldn't help it.
"She half didn't," she agreed, letting loose a bubble of laughter so contagious that even Stress managed a quick wheeze of a chuckle as they made their way to room three, "did she?"
Jack had hoped to avoid David again the morning after he met Emma. He had hoped to buy his papers from that new window man down at the distribution center and then, after improving the headlines as best as his poor muddled brain could handle just then, maybe sell as many as half of a hundred. Then, if everything went according to plan, he would see what he could do about a bite for lunch, maybe catch a boxing match or two down at the ring before picking up enough of the evening edition to keep his mind off of the meeting he was planning on having at nine that night.
What's more was that he had hoped to do that all on his own. The last thing he wanted—no, needed—was David chirping in his ear with everything else he had on his mind. Besides, how hard would it be? David wasn't supposed to be out selling in the morning any way and not even all the money ol' man Pulitzer had would've been enough to entice him to step foot inside Tibby's again for lunch just yet. Jack had managed to stay out of David's sight yesterday, after all. What was one more day?
Of course, that was assuming that David didn't mind being avoided. Jack should've known better than that—
"There you are, Jack. Would you believe I've been looking for you everywhere? Morning."
"They're already on the fourth match, Davey," Jack said by way of greeting, anxiously popping sunflower seed after sunflower seed into his waiting mouth as he watched the fight in front of him. "It's gotta be well past one by now. It ain't mornin' no more." He spat the shells out indeterminately as he spoke, never once turning to look over his shoulder at David.
He didn't need to. With a couple of mumbled "Excuse me"'s and a gentle elbow into the side of the elderly gentleman sitting next to Jack in the front row seats surrounding the makeshift boxing ring, David found a small opening being presented right beside Jack. Wiggling in, he took it, too late to notice the scowl that marred Jack's face.
David wore a look of bright earnestness as he turned to face his friend. "No wonder it's afternoon, I spent my whole morning trying to find you."
"Didja?"
"Well, yes. I tried to meet you down at the distribution center but obviously I was too late. I caught Race and he mentioned you might be selling your papers over in Central Park. It's beautiful out and I didn't mind the walk, but if you'd gone that way, I missed you again. I couldn't think where else to go, Tibby's was empty when I peeked my head in, so I was on my way to Ms. Medda's when I saw you sitting right here. Must be nice, watching the fight without worrying about Warden Snyder."
Yeah, thought Jack, but it would be even nice to watch it without David Jacobs, Walking Mouth, talking in his ear.
Like a bee buzzing right beside him, David kept on chatting; Jack heard the slightly disapproving tone that meant that David thought he was in trouble, followed by the unwelcome mention of Sarah's name and pointedly tuned David out. One of the sunflower seed shells got stuck between his back teeth and he busied himself with trying to poke it out with his tongue. It took half a frustrating minute to get it loose and by the time he had spit the offending shell out, he realized that all he could hear was the cheering, goading crowd and the grunts from the fighters.
"Where's Les?" Jack asked, taking advantage of David's momentary silence to change the subject; Les was David's shadow, always there behind him wherever his older brother went. His attention seemingly captivated by the bloody, sweaty one-sided fight going on in front of him, Jack didn't have to look around for Les. There was no need. If Les was there, he would've piped up by now—especially since David had finally shut up.
If David was annoyed by Jack's interruption, he didn't show it; maybe he was used to it. Either way, he simply said, "He's at home with Mama. He told me if I found you that he says hello."
"Good kid," muttered Jack, nodding to himself. "You'll tell him hey back from me, won't ya?"
"Why don't you tell him yourself?"
"'Cause ya just told me he ain't here." Jack finally tore his gaze away from the short, portly man currently being pummeled by the strapping youth who seemed to be enjoying the fight more thoroughly than he should. "You okay, Davey? The heat ain't doin' nothin' funny to ya?"
"I assure you, Jack, that I'm perfectly fine. I know exactly where my brother is, and that's with Mama... but that wasn't what I meant anyway. Maybe now that I have your attention you'll actually hear what I was saying."
It really bothered Jack when David spoke to him like a child. It was all he could do not to pout—or, considering the rush he experienced and the urge he got to ball his very hands into fists and swing whenever he stopped to watch the fights, just punch David right in his chin. He knew that it was his nerves acting up on him and, after splitting a seed or two in half if only to have something to do with his fingers, he was calm enough to say, "Go on."
As if David needed Jack's permission. Frowning, his big blue eyes narrowed on the profile Jack was presenting him with again, he blurted out: "Sarah was wondering if you'd like to come over for supper tonight."
"I can't."
"Why not?" Thinking of his sister's worried expression from that morning, the way she implored him to find Jack and discover what was keeping him away from their home for so long, David added, "Why don't you want to see Sarah?"
"I just saw Sarah," Jack reminded him. "At Tibby's, two days ago. Remember? Me and you and Les and Sarah, we all shared dinner then."
"She wants you to come by the apartment," David explained. "You've often shared bread with our family, and I don't see what's stopping you from coming back. Unless, of course, there's some reason why you're staying away..."
Jack Kelly was a practiced liar. He could look you in the eye and swear up and down that they sky was green, the ocean yellow and the clouds raining down gumdrops and you would be hard-pressed from running to the window to check. And yet, in the weeks since David Jacobs—honest to a fault—had gotten to know him, he'd managed to pick up on the little things that warned him when Jack was going to lie. First and foremost being any time Jack opened his mouth to answer any question he didn't like.
"N—"
"There is a reason, isn't there?" David said, before Jack even had the chance to finish the word.
Jack gave one second's thought to trying to convince David to the contrary before realizing correctly that he would never pull it off. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"I believed your story about Roosevelt's carriage."
"Eventually," Jack pointed out.
"Yes," agreed David, "though I did believe you."
Jack could see that David wasn't going to drop it. He huffed and pushed the front locks of his hair away in annoyance. "Look, I ain't in the habit of tellin' people all about my troubles."
"But I'm your friend, Jack."
"Alright." Jack dropped his handful of sunflower seeds to the dirt and, scooping up the last couple of World's he hadn't been bothered to sell when this last match started, got to his feet. "But not here. Come on," he said, and climbing over the back of the seat before trying to slip out of the next row, he hardly checked behind him to see if David was coming; from another hurried set of apologies and stifled mutters from the men in the front seats, he already knew.
Just as he landed with a hop on the cobbles, Jack heard the thud as the portly man dropped, the roar of the crowd that followed, the ding of the bell... he heard all of it, knew that the fight had ended and that he had missed it. Scowling again, not really sure why he was feeling so angry—or who, really, he was angry at—he led David away from the crowd and, once they were far enough that they could speak freely, Jack whirled on him.
David, too familiar with Jack's dramatics at times, his defensiveness and his innate tendencies to lie when it served him, he just raised an eyebrow and waited.
Jack exhaled, as if all the fight had gone out of him. Maybe if David had flinched or looked nervous is any way, he would've felt a little better about himself. "It's my sister, alright?"
It was obvious from the look of surprise on David's face that, whatever he had expected Jack to say, it certainly wasn't that. "A sister?"
"Yeah. Remember that girl that ran up to us in Tibby's?"
"Which one? The one that looked like a boy, or the one who looked like she wanted nothing more than to murder you?"
"The one that looked like a boy," sniffed Jack, "and I'll thank ya to remember that that's my sister Emma you're callin' a boy."
"Sorry, Jack," apologized David, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what Jack was saying. It wasn't working. "It's just... you have a sister?"
"Now ain't the time to become a parrot, Dave. Ain't that just what I said?"
David hardly heard the rising annoyance that colored Jack's voice. His thoughts immediately turned to Sarah, her warm brown eyes glossy with a hint of tears, the worried look she wore whenever she mentioned Jack. And all along it was just a sister... He let out a small laugh that only made Jack's expression darken. "But... oh, will Sarah be relieved. She thought you were—"
"She thought I was what?"
"You know how silly girls can be. She thought you might be going after someone else."
The idea was silly, but why did Jack's traitorous mind fling up an image of Emma's new friend? Jack's scowl deepened, a feat he wouldn't have imagined was possible before David hunted him down and managed to get Jack to confess about Emma. His stomach tied up in knots, his fingers still itching to be balled into fists, Jack remembered Emma's earnestness and the red stain to that girl, that Stress's face as she argued with him last night. Far from wanting to see Sarah for supper that evening, some part of him wondered if Emma would bring Stress back with her tonight.
Some part of him kind of wanted her to—
"So, tell me about this sister." And then, because David couldn't help himself, "Was she out west, waiting on the ranch for you, too?"
Though David didn't know what sort of thoughts he was interrupting, the fact that he had interrupted them at all—and with a wisecrack like that—just made Jack even angrier. "You know what?" he spat out. He should've known better than to tell Davey anything about Emma. "Forget it."
David immediately knew that he had said the wrong thing. He held up his hands, trying to calm down his friend as quickly as he could. "No, Jack," he said, and there was a soothing lilt to his voice that was a total contrast to the way Jack had just spoke to him, "I was just kidding. Tell me about this sister of yours. I'm sure it'll make you feel better to get it off your chest."
All in all, it was too little, too late.
"Yeah, I doubt that," huffed Jack, tucking his forgotten newspapers under his arm. The way he was feeling, the anxious anticipation he had for that night coupled with the irrational annoyance he experienced with David's appearance, Jack would've rather eat the damn papes than try to sucker another customer into buying one. There was no way he could even pretend to be charming, and any smile he could conjure—far from being as sweet as butter—would've spoiled fresh milk, the mood he was in.
"Ja—" he began but it did no good. Jack Kelly was storming away, his boots smacking against the cobbles, drowning out the rest of David's voice, "—ck?"
Jack never turned back around. The crowd swallowed him up as easily as if he were coated in oil, which left David behind, wondering how much of what he'd been told was true, and if that girl with the boy's hair—Les's new friend, perhaps, he suspected—really was Jack Kelly's younger sister.
That afternoon Jack refused to give the late edition of the newspaper a chance. He was too antsy to come up with any believable "improvements" and, more than anything, he didn't want to run into David Jacobs again. So, after a few more hours wandering around the city on his own, killing time, Jack found himself strolling up to the back entrance of the lodging house somewhere around eight o'clock.
The anger was gone. Somewhere along Canal Street it was replaced by resignation and, if he was being honest with himself, a touch of resentment that was nearly overshadowed by his curiosity. The handful of minutes he had with Emma last night had only opened questions, it hadn't answered any of them. Though every bit of the Jack Kelly he was screamed at him to forget about the upcoming meeting, he knew he would have to go.
It was almost time. But first...
He slipped in through the back, prepared for the gentle ribbing from the supervisor; very rarely did Jack return to the lodging house so early. He was in for a surprise, though: Kloppman wasn't at his post. The desk was empty. Feeling that he'd caught a lucky break for the first time that week, Jack quirked a small smile and hurriedly took to the stairs.
His luck didn't quite hold out as he entered the bunkroom. While it wasn't as filled as it would be come closer to curfew, there were plenty of the fellows lounging in their bunks, swapping stories, playing cards, and washing up for bed because there wasn't anywhere for them to go—or anyone, thought Jack, to secretly meet on the back side of Duane Street. He waved his hand in response to the greeting and the welcome he received but didn't stop to talk to any of the boys. Instead, with an air of purpose about him that he didn't bother to hide, he headed right over to the row of water closets and, after appearing to deliberate which one he wanted to use, reached out his hand for the one on the right.
Jack let himself inside of the toilet stall, holding his breath when he realized that someone must've just left it—and, from the stench of it, Blink had been eating the cabbage special over at Tibby's for lunch again. Still, it was a small price to pay for privacy and, after a few seconds where he peeked through the crack to make sure no one was looking his way, he squatted down to the floor and ran his ink-stained fingers along the floorboard until he found the one he was looking for.
Feeling a little light-headed from the lack of air, Jack breathed shallowly through his mouth as he pried up the floorboard behind the toilet; the wood was warped yet pliable, and it gave way with only the slightest bit of force. There was a tin stowed underneath, a tin wide to fit the gap, and he pulled it out easily before rising to his feet, just a little desperate to get his face away from the toilet.
There wasn't much inside the rectangular box: a marble Spot Conlon gave him as a sign of friendship; a piece of lace Sarah tatted that carried her scent; an old, moldy rag doll that he'd carried with him from that hovel he once called home. Each one was a treasure to Jack but not what he was looking for. A couple of saved up dollars and a few coins were scattered on the bottom of the tin. Brushing those aside with the flat of his hand, he revealed a photograph nestled face-down against the container.
It had been years, two, maybe three of them since he looked at this photograph last. Jack hadn't needed to; just knowing it was near was enough, and looking at it brought the unwanted memories back. Even then, he didn't really want to look at it. In his mind's eye he could see the four people featured in the sepia tones: a man, his wife, a son and a daughter. The Sullivans. Jack glanced at it only long enough to make sure it was the right image before getting to work.
Slowly, carefully, he ripped it right down the middle. The young girl and the man on one side, the boy and his mother on the other. With grim satisfaction, Jack replaced the half featuring his mother back into the tin. The other half he placed between the pages of his Western Jim pamphlet.
If you asked him why, he couldn't tell you. Maybe it was because Emma had reappeared so suddenly last night with unwelcome news of a father he wanted to forget; maybe because, of them all, Margaret Sullivan was the only one left to mourn, the only face he wanted to save. Either way, once the picture was separated, a feeling of peace washed over him. He even dared a small smile as he flattened the old rag doll back into place and restored the tin's lid to the top.
Just then someone banged on the door to the stall. "C'mon, Cowboy! Didja fall in there, or what?" It was Race. "I gotta go."
"There's two other stalls," Jack reminded him, stooping slightly and slipping the tin back into its hidey-hole.
"Yeah, but Tumbler messed with one, and I got a thing about usin' the one in the middle. 'Sides, I like that one. The flusher works the best in there and I ate lunch with Blink and Mush today."
Ah, Jack thought, the cabbage special all around.
"Hold your horses, Race. I'll be out in a minute," Jack called, hurriedly putting the piece of the floorboard back in place. He stood up quickly, pressing down on it with the heel of his shoe. There. No one could ever tell that's where he kept his treasures.
He heard some of the other boys making wisecracks, laughing and teasing—something about warning Race not to take that stall considering how long it had been occupied—and, for once, he didn't feel like one of them. It was like, with Emma's arrival, who he was—Jack Kelly—was quickly being replaced by who he'd been, and who could be again. Francis Sullivan... he spit in the toilet. Hell no.
Adopting a proud expression as he marched out of the stall, teasingly pushing Race aside as he pretended to sway and fall faint from Blink's foul aroma—Jack had no choice but to take credit for it—he started for the door.
Kid Blink called out to to Jack with a sly wink as he went past his bunk, Skittery offered to share a smoke—that alone was nearly enough to entice Jack to stay in the bunkroom—but he waved his hand behind him and headed out through the door before any of the other boys could stop him or ask him where he was going. The newsies were a nosy bunch and Jack didn't want his secret getting out any further than David.
There was still plenty of time until nine o'clock, until Emma promised she would arrive, but Jack was too antsy to stick around inside the lodging house. He took the stairs with every intention of heading right out back again to wait—
—except, as he got halfway down the steps and an unfamiliar voice reached him, he froze. He squatted again, lowering himself so that he could get a better look downstairs without having to reveal himself. Kloppman, Jack saw, was back at his desk. And he wasn't alone.
There was an old broad standing in front of Kloppman, wearing a hat with so many feathers in it Jack expected she'd plucked a gaggle of geese to make it. She wore fancy, studded gloves on her hands that she waved energetically, over and over again, because she didn't seem to want to stop talking. Jack glanced at Kloppman, surprised to find that instead of the bemused expression he expected to see, Kloppy was actually listening to her in rapt attention.
Something warned him from interrupting that scene. Without another thought, he slowly went back upstairs. There was another staircase at the end of the second floor, one that was rarely used by the newsboys, who, as a rule, preferred the anonymity of the back entrance. The spare stairs would lead him towards the front of the lodging house. Just managing to avoid running into Swifty as the other boy was coming out of the bunkroom, Jack hurried towards the other side of the building before dancing down the steps as if they burned his feet.
Jack slipped out through the front door, intent on avoiding Kloppman and the woman, figuring he would just nip around the back. He doubted such a high-bred lady would dare going out the back door. In fact, he could hardly believe she would step foot in through the front.
And then, even though he knew he shouldn't, he stood with his hand holding tightly to the lamp post, ready to wait for his sister.
End Note: I know it's been forever and a day since this was updated but, well, things have been really hectic around here. Add that to the fact that I wanted to finish Red/start Cyan, and this poor story fell to the wayside. Of course, this chapter was one of the barely started ones; the next two are nearly complete already!
If you've stuck around this long, I'm really glad and extremely appreciative - and I'd like to finish it fairly quickly. I'm going to see the new Newsies! musical this weekend as an early birthday present, and I'd like to get the next chapter out about the same time. Here's hoping ;)
And, in case it wasn't obvious, we've finally hit the part where the prologue comes in to play. After that the end is in sight!
- stress, 09.22.11