Chapter 46

"Jack."

Jack isn't expecting to see David Jacobs waiting outside of his office on Monday evening, but he certainly isn't complaining about it. He's hardly seen his friend since the term started at the law school, professors immediately piling on work the likes of which Jack wouldn't be able to figure out if it came with a step-by-step how-to guide. Which it decidedly doesn't. Which is why David Jacobs is currently spending the vast majority of his time in the university library, rather than standing outside the offices of the Wall Street Journal.

"Davey!"

"Is there a reason that James Rawlings is walkin' around with a bandaged nose and is crossin' to the other side of the street whenever he sees me?"

Oh, shit. Sharp as a tack, that kid. Jack blinks, widens his eyes, tries out a buttery smile that he hopes vaguely resembles Crutchie's. "Who's James Rawlings?"

Davey narrows his eyes, having absolutely none of it. Still, he falls into step beside Jack, wandering in the direction of his house. "I ought to be annoyed at you, you know. I can fight my own battles."

"Never said you couldn't."

(He totally couldn't. Sure, the kid threw a few punches during the strike, but Jack would put money on David losing a fistfight within the first minute. And he isn't a gambling man.)

They're silent for a moment. Jack wonders if this is it, if this is how he finally screws it all up. He always manages it, somehow, to push people away. Maybe there's something broken in him, something deep-down wrong about him. Maybe that judge had been right, all those years ago, when he used that word, what was it? Atavistic. He'd asked what it meant, that word, as they carted him off to the Refuge. They'd said it meant he was a good-for-nothing, a juvenile delinquent, a rotten piece of shit that would never amount to anything. And he's tried, hasn't he, to prove them wrong? But there's always something – the nightmares, the violence, always something. If you're rotten on the inside, then it'll eventually show on the outside, won't it?

Davey finally looks over at him. Smiles a little. "Thank you." Oh.

"You's welcome." Jack says, real quiet, staring down at his boots. Then, looking back up, asks: "You wanta come for dinner? Mrs. Chavers from next-door brought cottage pie round last night, so there's no danger o' you gettin' poisoned by Kath's cookin'."

"Her cookin' isn't that bad." Davey rolls his eyes.

"Says the man who ain't married to her." Jack mutters, then, under Davey's disbelieving gaze, relents. "It ain't that bad, you's right. She's jus' got a real talent for burnin' stuff."

Davey snorts. "Non-burned cottage pie sounds lovely."

Mrs. Chavers' cottage pie, it turns out, borders on heavenly. Katherine even manages to warm it up in the oven without burning it. Walking into the Kelly house, Davey realises, is a little bit like walking into a synagogue or a church. The air inside of such places is always thick, heavy with the prayer that's been prayed, a warm blanket of atmosphere. The Kelly house is similar. There's something there in every floorboard, every insulation fibre in the walls, care, perhaps, or love, not just that of Jack and Katherine, but the newsies that gather at all hours too. It takes him walking in to realise just how much he craves it.

Davey wants this. He wants neighbours that bring him pies and a wife who can warm them up and house that feels like long overdue embrace. He wants this life, this domesticity, and whilst he never thought he'd be jealous of Jack Kelly (as much as he admires him), he finds that the green eyed monster has wormed its way inside of his heart after all.

It only gets worse when Katherine asks him about law school.

"It's alright," Davey says, swallowing a mouthful of pie, "a lot of work, though. At least James Rawlings is leavin' me alone now."

Both he and Katherine turn their gazes to Jack, who suddenly decides that the portion Katherine has given him definitely isn't enough and that the answer is quite clearly to sidle over to the kitchen counter to get seconds. Katherine clucks her tongue at her husband, turning back to David.

"Is there anybody in your classes that you like?" Katherine presses.

"There's Miriam, I suppose."

"Miriam?" Jack turns around, wandering back to the table with a second helping of cottage pie. "'S a girl's name."

"His parents were dreadfully cruel." David deadpans. "She is a girl, Jack."

"They lets girls into law school?" Jack asks around a mouthful of pie.

Davey wrinkles his nose, suppressing a that's disgusting comment. Katherine, it seems, is less concerned about Jack's table manners than his sexism, turning a severe glare upon him and raising her eyebrows.

"Why shouldn't they?"

"I ain't sayin' nothin' 'bout their brains, cool it." Jack says, sitting back and raising his hands in the air. "I jus' ain't never heard o' no lady lawyers."

"Well, you hadn't heard of any lady reporters writing the hard news and here you are married to one." Katherine frowns, but there's no real malice in her words as she turns back to David. "Go on, Davey."

David turns a little bit red. Any interaction with Jack and Katherine is always an adventure, but he wasn't expecting an interrogation. Frankly, he won't be surprised if Katherine produces a large lamp to shine into his eyes.

"She, uh, she's in my employment law class." The tips of his ears turn a little bit pink. "Usually sits in front of me in the lecture theatre. I gave her some paper last week when she forgot her notebook."

Jack whistles under his breath, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. David suppresses a groan. "Wow, Davey-boy, really puttin' the moves on her – ow! Whassat for?" Jack rubs at his arm where Katherine's leaned over and smacked him.

"Stop it, you." The admonishment is somewhat mitigated by the unbridled affection in her tone. Katherine turns back to David, raising her eyebrows. "That's lovely. Why don't you ask to see her outside of class?"

And, well, why doesn't he? No, no, that's a stupid idea. The worst possible idea, in fact. The last thing he needs is more fuel for people at law school to hate him, and looking like he's trying to court one of only three women in his year group is a sure-fire way to make himself public enemy number one. As safe as he feels with Jack backing him up, Davey really doesn't want another black eye. Besides, Miriam is pretty and intelligent. The only time she's ever so much as looked at him is when she asked him for that paper.

"That seems… forward."

Katherine shrugs. "Worst thing she can do is say no."

Good grief, it'd be even worse if she said no. "That seems pretty bad."

"She ain't gonna say no to you, Dave." Jack says, continuing to eat. For the second time that evening, both David and Katherine turn incredulous eyes to him. "What?" He shrugs. "You's handsome, clever, hard-workin' – hell, you can even be funny when you tries hard enough. You's a catch."

Katherine full-on beams at her husband and turns back to David, nodding enthusiastically. He gulps. Of all the people that he was expecting a pep talk from, Jack? Well, not top of his list, he'll admit. But, then again, despite all his snarky comments, Jack has never been anything other than supportive.

"'Sides," Jack stands up, collecting the plates, and grins, "who's goin' to say no to a guy who lends 'em paper?"

That's more like it. Jack continues to rib him about Miriam all evening and it's so comfortable, so well-intentioned, that Davey doesn't even care. Eventually, however, conversation dips into a silence, the three of them stretched out in the living room as the embers of the fire in the grate start to dim. He glances at the clock.

"You been practicin' with the numbers at all?" Jack's jaw tightens at his words and David instantly realises that he's screwed up. Really, really badly.

"Numbers?" Katherine asks, looking between the two of them from her position stretched out on the couch, her legs slung over Jack's lap.

David's eyes go wide. "Oh."

"'S nothin', Kath." Jack waves his hand, dismissive, but he doesn't look at her, doesn't quite meet her eyes.

"You haven't told her?" Davey asks, incredulous. Sure, he'd used Katherine's thoughts on the matter against Jack to get him to agree at the start, but… oh good lord, has he caused this? Do you really want Katherine to know that you don't know your numbers? No wonder the newsies call him the 'walking mouth' – he doesn't know when to keep the damn thing shut.

"I's tellin' you to shut the hell up." Jack replies, his tone hard and dark, fixing Davey with a stare which pins him to the back of his armchair like a preserved butterfly to corkboard. Stay there, it seems to say, and shut up.

"Jack Kelly, what haven't you told me?"

Katherine yanks her legs off his lap, tucking herself into the opposite end of the sofa. Numbers. What does Davey mean, numbers? Katherine bites her lip. What if it's financial? They're fine, surely. Her mother's words come back to her, even though they've long since burned away – men of his class are too quick to fritter away their pay on drink and bets. No. She pushes the thought away. It will be something completely innocent. Jack wouldn't do that; she knows him.

Still, it's difficult to know what to do when he's looking at her like that, eyes pleading for her just to drop it, looking like she's abandoned him when he's only at the other end of the sofa.

"I – I have studyin'. Yeah." Davey shoots to his feet and nods, a little manic. "Important law studyin'. Thanks for dinner."

Jack looks up at him, completely done. It's like the kid doesn't understand how to be a fucking human being, coming out with something like that and then just upping and leaving. Still, he closes his eyes, breathes in deep, and reopens them. This is just Davey. Now he has to deal with the consequences.

"Thanks for comin', Davey. You know where we are, 'f you need anythin'." Jack claps him on the arm. Probably a little harder than he ought to, but still, it's friendly.

"Thank you for coming, Davey." Katherine says, getting up to walk him to the door, shooting a fierce look over her shoulder at her husband, letting him know perfectly well that he is in for it when she returns. "Don't be a stranger."

By the time Katherine returns from showing Davey out, Jack has slipped into the kitchen and is standing with his back to her, scrubbing the plates in the sink with considerable vigour.

"Dinner was lovely," he declares, his voice light, not turning around to look at her, "we should thank Mrs. Chavers-"

"Jack."

In the sudsy water, his hands still. He drops his head, breathing deeply, chin pressed to his chest. "Let's not do this, Ace."

She folds her arms across her chest, still stood in the doorway to the kitchen where she's paused. It feels wrong, somehow, to walk in. Like if she does so then Jack might break. He's clearly pretty close already. "You're keeping secrets."

"I ain't keepin' secrets," Jack sighs, still not looking at her, bracing his wet hands on the edge of the sink and gripping it, white knuckled, "I jus' wants a little privacy-"

Why won't he bloody well look at her? Katherine wants to stamp her feet, shout, hit him, something, force him to acknowledge her. She needs to see his eyes, angry or sad or worried may they be, needs to know that these 'numbers' aren't any one of the terrible things running through her head right now. Every thought feels like a betrayal, because this is Jack, her Jack, and he's good and kind and loyal and would never do anything to hurt her, so why is she even still worried about this? But she is.

So, she interrupts him, goading him, trying desperately to get a proper reaction out of him. "Davey clearly thought I should know."

Jack laughs, bitter and biting. "Davey does a lotta thinkin'."

"Unlike you, clearly."

Jack freezes. Finally. Finally, she might have got through to him. And then his words come out, and she realises that she's managed nothing at all. "'Scuse me?"

She's too far gone, now. "Well, you clearly aren't thinking very hard if you're keeping things from me-"

"I can think jus' as well as you, thank you very much."

"Jack, stop being stupid-"

"Stupid?"

Katherine winces. Too far. She never thought that Jack would be the kind of person to be hurt by words, when she first met him, but she's slowly realising that beneath the front that he presents to the world, he takes each and every word to heart. Especially hers. She opens her mouth, ready to do damage control, but he continues.

"I'll ruddy well show you stupid." Jack turns around and yanks open a cupboard with such force that Katherine's surprised that he doesn't rip the blasted thing right off its hinges. He reaches in, right to the back, and yanks out a large box, slamming it onto their kitchen table. It rattles as he does so, and something inside shatters. "These are the big bloody secret."

She peers into the box. "What are these?" Tentatively, she reaches inside and plucks out a graceful clay swan that's shaped to look like a number two.

"They's numbers." Jack snaps, his face red, though whether from embarrassment or anger she can't quite tell. "Which Davey made for me, outta clay, 'cos I's too stupid to learn them the normal way."

Oh. She's known that Jack struggles with reading, what with not having attended school, but not knowing basic maths? Not understanding numbers? She hadn't realised it was this bad. It's not his fault, of course, but it explains a lot. She wants to throw her arms around him for going to Davey, proud of him for everything he's done, that despite everything he's been through, he's still here and he's still trying. But none of that comes out of her mouth, because she trades in words, but Jack steals them right out from under her. No, what she actually says is:

"You don't know your numbers?"

And that is, categorically, the wrong thing to say. Jack draws that curtain of his around his features again, shuts her out. "No, Katherine, I don'. Stupider than you thought, huh?"

Fix it, Katherine, fix it! "Jack-"

He shakes his head, turns away from her. "I's goin' for a walk-"

"Jack, I-"

He's out of the door before the words have time to shrivel up in her throat.

Jack realises that he should have picked up his jacket. It's cold, for September, the last glimmers of summer fast fading away, chased by the setting sun. The sun has disappeared, now, behind a New York skyline that encroaches ever more into the sky with each passing year.

On Sunday, the sermon had been about the tower of Babel, about the people who had built a tower so high that God had struck it down and scattered them, giving them all different languages. Sometimes it feels like that, with Katherine. Like they're speaking two different languages. Like perhaps this life they've built together is too ambitious, precarious, waiting to be struck down by something – by God, by death, by stupidity.

He still doesn't like Reverend Bates. The man won't shake his hand as he emerges from the church if Joseph Pulitzer is within eyesight, despite the fact that, at this stage, Pulitzer's blindness is so bad that the Reverend could shake hands with a sodding zebra and he wouldn't be able to tell. No, Jack is decidedly not welcome there. He's aired this, of course, with Katherine, and whilst she has finally accepted that such behaviour towards her husband is neither normal nor acceptable, she's still harping on about how he's welcome because he's loved by God. Jack doesn't believe her, but he has enough sense to keep his mouth shut about it. He wishes he could give some of that common sense to Davey, who he really could have done with keeping his mouth shut, honestly.

It's not really Davey's fault, he knows. He really ought to have told Katherine by now. But what she doesn't know can't hurt her, right? (Well, that's clearly not true, Kelly.) Marriage has just been so good so far. He doesn't want her realising what a mistake she's made quite yet. Surely he gets to have at least a year before that happens, right?

Jack stops on a street corner, breathes. What to do? He certainly isn't going home anytime soon. He can't face her. Not when she's going to look at him like that, all sweet and sympathetic, and then turn away and regret ever choosing him. He considers going to a bar, decides against it. He's not going to turn into his old man. Still, a bar fight sounds good, right about now. He'd really quite like to punch someone. But he isn't going to do that, either, because Katherine doesn't want to patch him up after fights, she's told him so, and he already disappoints her enough. He can't bear to do it twice in one day. He runs the pad of his thumb over his wedding ring, allowing the motion to clam him, then sets off walking. Where, he doesn't quite know.

Jack isn't entirely sure how long he wanders the streets of New York for, scuffing his boots along dirty pavements, but it's dark by the time he gets back, the kind of dark that quiets the city. He eases the front door open as quietly as he can and toes off his boots in the darkened hallway, hoping that Katherine isn't going to be woken by him. All he wants is to make it to the sofa and make it through the night without waking up screaming. And then the hallway light turns on. He blinks, momentarily blinded, then makes out Katherine standing in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown and with tear-stained cheeks. He feels like he's collapsing in on himself.

"Kath, I-"

She cuts him off by drawing him into a hug so fierce that it almost knocks him over and the breath out of him. It's instinctive, now, the way that he hugs her back, the way that he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair. After a long moment, she pulls away and takes his hand. Jack can feel the warm metal of her wedding ring pressed against his fingers, a promise.

"Come to bed. We'll talk about it in the morning."