Friday : May 4, 2007
Nick Higgins stared at the sticky bar top, eyeing the short line up of shot glasses, trying to force his swimming head to focus. Too much vodka. He didn't even like vodka—not really, but it was cheaper than whiskey and he needed cheap. As it was he probably couldn't pay for what he'd drunk. He raised his hand but the bartender eyed him with suspicion. They'd only give you so many shots these days before they expected a body to show some money.
He pawed his pockets, hoping his wallet was still around. Wouldn't much matter if it was. Money never lasted and was downright worthless in the end.
"Can't earn enough to please anyone," he said to the man sitting next to him. "And then you can't take it with you when you head to Saint Peter."
"Sure, pal." The man grunted, tossed a twenty on the bar, and hopped down.
Nick watched him go. The bartender still had his back turned, so Nick slid his hand over and palmed the twenty dollars. But before he could slip it into his pocket, a gentle hand grabbed his wrist.
"Put it back, Dad."
Mary's voice spun him around and he stared at her round broken face.
"Go home, Mary," He tried to yank his hand and almost toppled off the stool.
Another small hand caught his elbow, barely keeping him upright. He blinked at Margaret and then again at Mary.
"What you're doing here, then?" He growled. "You shouldn't be here, lass," Nick's words slurred together and he shook his head. "Not here, no place for you, Mary," he glanced at Margaret, "Especially not you and that baby. Shouldn't be here."
He pitched slowly back and he heard Mary's cry as he toppled into Margaret and onto the floor.
Margaret stumbled as Nicholas fell back, half on top of her. She tried to wriggled free, but she was pinned between the wall and the bar. Nick went down, slowly but surely, pulling her down with him. She felt the exposed brick scape along her bare arm and she thought her skirt had ripped, the brick gouging her leg. She end up half sitting in something wet, half sprawled under Nick's body which wedged awkwardly under the bar and the fixed bar stool.
"Oh Marg, I'm sorry," Mary cried, crouching down.
"Shit," Margaret breathed, trying to shift Nicholas to the side, as Mary pulled on his arm.
The man didn't budge.
Mary rubbed her hands down her face, the exhaustion and fear building in her eyes.
"I'm fine, Mary, just stuck. I need you to ask the barkeep for help."
Mary's eyes widened but she nodded. She stood and Margaret waited, trying to shift again, but a pain in her side forced her to stop.
"Bloody hell," Margaret winced. "Well done, Margaret Ann."
Mary returned a moment later, eye shining with tears, "He—he won't, Marg, I can't get anyone to help. They're all drunk as shit. The bar tender won't leave the alcohol unattended and—I'm so so sorry, I shouldn't have called."
"Nonsense," Margaret snapped, grabbing Mary's hand. "Of course you should. Just don't tell Bess."
Mary nodded, and a tiny smile broke over her trembling features. "She'd laugh her ass off if she saw you now."
"Don't you dare take a picture."
"I make no promises," Mary teased.
Margaret chuckled and then shifted just enough to get her hand into her skirt pocket. She wondered how long it had been since Mary had really laughed. Too long if their current situation was any measure. Margaret hesitated a moment before she flicked open her mobile and hit dial. She hadn't wanted to ask for help but she couldn't think of anyone else she trusted more.
And when he got here he was going to be angry as a hell hound.
John glanced at the darkening sky and hefted the last box from the back of his truck. His stomach growled but he barely noticed. For five days, he'd spent every spare moment packing and moving everything he and Margaret owned into their new apartment.
"Is this it?" Watson asked, nodding at the box.
"For today," John grunted. "There's the bed and a truckload of books left at my mother's but it can wait."
"From the study?"
John nodded.
"Your bed will be a bitch to haul up here." Watson followed him up the three flights of stairs and into the tiny apartment lined with neatly labeled boxes. "Could you get a smaller one for now?"
"No."
"Did you actually tell her you're moving out?"
"My mother?" John shook his head. "No use kicking a hornet's nest until you have to. Besides if she can't figure it out, she's an idiot, which she isn't."
"Coward."
"Shut up," John wiped his face with the hem of his shirt.
He pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and checked his watch. Margaret was studying at the library today and was expecting him by midnight.
Since they got married John and Margaret had argued nearly every day about the bus. But since finding the apartment, they'd reluctantly agreed on a middle ground. Margaret insisted on taking the bus in the morning since it was broad daylight and John always left too early for her anyway. And John insisted on picking her up since it was always well past eleven when she was ready to come home. Neither of them were completely happy with the arrangement, but it was something.
John jerked his hat back into place when his cell phone rang. Watson waved and let himself out as John flicked his phone open.
"I'm almost done here, Maggie." He shoved a box out of his way and wove through the tiny sitting room into the bedroom, still trying to figure out how the hell he was going to get his big-ass bed up the stairwell. "I'll be there in—"
"John, I need you right now."
He jerked to a halt. Everything about the call— the strained tone of her voice, the garbled background noise, and the fact that she was calling at all—registered in a flash.
"Where are you?" He demanded, wheeling about and moving as quickly as he could manage through the stacks of boxes.
"The Stray Stone."
John's grip on his phone tightened, as he thundered down the stairs, "Why the hell—"
"I need your help and I don't have time to argue," she interrupted. "Please, John."
"Give me seven minutes," He growled, slamming the door of his truck.
The Stray Stone was as crowded as a sardine can when John arrived. The rumble of too many voices collided with the bone vibrating thrum of the bass speakers belting out some shit pop song. He muttered a cursed as he slipped between the sweaty drunken clots of people, grateful he could at least see over the crowd. But he couldn't see Margaret anywhere.
John shoved aside his panic as he swept the room again. A teenage girl at the end of the bar waved, motioning him over. John scowled, unable to place her face.
"She's over here," the girl yelled. "On the floor."
"What the hell?" John muttered shoving his way forward.
And then he saw her, half laying, half sitting on the floor, stuck underneath a drunk man who pinned her between the wall, a barstool and the bar. Anger twisted in his chest and his hands curled into fists. John reached them a moment later and Margaret looked sheepishly up at him.
"Not one word, John Thornton," she called over the din of the crowd. "Not until we're out of this building."
John growled, rolling the man off her. "Slick?"
Margaret nodded, and took John's hand as he hauled her to her feet, "You're going to have to carry him out."
"Like hell I am," John lifted her onto the stool, taking in the long scrapes down her arm and her ripped skirt. He swore and tossed a dark glance at Higgins. "Why didn't you call the cops?" He demanded.
Margaret shook her head and grabbed his arm, putting her mouth by his ear, "Tom Boucher is dead."
"Dead? How do you know?"
"Mary called," Margaret glanced at the girl hovering over Higgins.
Mary Higgins. John's brain snapped the name to the face. Slick's younger daughter. Bess was out on a haul which left Mary all alone. John's opinion of the trucker was sinking fast.
"Will you help?"
John crouched. He was tempted to just leave the bastard to sleep it off and risk Margaret's wrath. But he couldn't leave him to Mary. John let out an angry grunt. Higgins wasn't huge but he looked to be nearly two hundred pounds, all of it dead weight. Still, John had carried heavier. He turned his hat around backwards, "I'll need a little help."
John grabbed Higgins under his arms and pulled him to his feet. Margaret and Mary kept Nick balanced long enough for John to wedge his shoulders underneath the man's hips and hoist him up.
"Nicholas was granted temporary custody of the Boucher children a couple of months ago," Margaret explained as John stood straighter and swung around. "Mary was afraid if she called the police they'd put the Bouchers in foster care."
"They would," John muttered. "Especially if they found him like this."
"That's why I called you."
The crowd parted haphazardly as he trudged forward, sweat building on his forehead and between his shoulder blades. "I swear to God, Higgins," he breathed, "I'm firing your lousy ass."
Mary slipped around in front of him and held open the door as John fenangled Nick through. Once they were outside, Margaret dug the keys from John's pocket and unlocked the truck. John had half a mind to dump him in the truck bed and be done with it. With a little more sweat and cajoling, they settled an unconscious Nick into the passenger seat. John swiped at his face with his sleeve.
"Let's get you home, Mary," Margaret put an arm around her friend, warning John with a look not to argue.
"Did you take the bus?" He demanded, following her around to the driver's side.
"Not now."
Mary scrambled inside.
"Maggie—"
"I said 'not now,' John," Margaret started to climb in after her, but John grabbed her elbow.
"Maggie, what the hell were you doing in there?"
"I told you," She hopped down and crossed her arms. "Helping Mary."
"You should've called me first thing."
"So you could say 'no?' Because we both know you would—"
"You don't what I would say and you never know because you never ask me."
"Please don't do this now."
"Maggie, it's midnight," John's temper boiled into his voice. He tossed his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. "You're in a fucking north side bar pinned underneath a two hundred pound man—"
"Well I'm not anymore, am I?" She snapped.
John clenched his teeth as he ran his hands through his hair, "I asked you not to do shit like this and you just ignore me."
"I don't ignore you. I waited for you every single night this entire week, like we agreed, except today because this was an emergency—"
"Emergency, my ass, Maggie," John spat. "There are other people who can deal with this."
"Like the police? They'd put the children—"
"It's not your problem. You're pregnant for shit's sake. You're putting other people's kids before the safety of our kid."
"What was I supposed to do?" Margaret hissed, raising her chin. "Tell a sobbing Mary 'I'm sorry your uncle just killed himself and your father is missing and there are six children depending on you, but I can't bloody help you because my husband will be a bit put out if I ride the damn bus. Best of luck.' Is that what you want?"
He shook his head, crossing his arms, and growled, "You are a royal pain the ass to be married to."
"Blame yourself, John," she retorted, stepping closer. "Marriage was your idea, not mine."
John stiffened. They both stood there, inches apart, chests heaving, glaring at each other. Margaret blushed, wrapping her arms around herself, her chin raised high. He turned and swiped his hat from the ground.
"Get in the damn truck, please," he muttered, stalking past her. He climbed into the truck bed, temper still boiling.
"What about you?" Margaret demanded, following. "You can't ride back there."
"We won't all fit in the cab."
"Mary and I can squeeze in—"
"No." John interrupted.
"The last time you were in a truck without your seatbelt you almost died, John Thornton."
"Hell will freeze over before I'm let you or Mary sit back here, so shut up about it and drive."
Margaret let out a noise of frustration, turned on her heel, and climbed into the cab, muttering under her breath. The truck grumbled to life and John wedged himself between the wheel well and the back of the cab, forcing himself to listen to the roar of the engine as it mixed with the wind.
It was already shaping up to be a long night and he doubted if he'd be any less pissed in the morning than he was right now. John shook himself but Margaret's stinging comments still rattled around his head. He tried to think of something else, but the only other thing he could focus on was Tom Boucher's suicide. He'd spent thirteen years beating down his own awful memories but they always lurked under the surface. John had learned do deal with them years ago. Except now his fears wore Margaret's face.
Marriage was your idea, not mine.
John clenched his fists as memories raised their ugly heads to dance alongside Margaret's words.
Saturday : May 5, 2007
Hannah Thornton sat up in bed when she heard the rumble of a pickup truck. She glanced at the illuminated clock on her bed stand and frowned at the glowing numbers. Her son was in and out of the house at all hours, packing and loading his and Margaret's things. But two in the morning was far too late, even for him.
A small stab of fear pushed her from her bed. She said a silent prayer that nothing had happened to Margaret or the baby as she pulled on a robe and her slippers. She moved softly down the carpeted hall and front stairs just as keys rattled in the lock. She flicked on the foyer light and hauled open the big oak door.
Margaret stood flanked by two little red headed girls who looked scared and exhausted in their shabby nightgowns. Margaret looked almost as bad. She had several angry scrapes down one arm and her skirt was torn and stained on the same side. Behind her, Mary Higgins had a baby perched on her hip and two duffle bags at her feet.
"Well aren't you a sight?" Hannah pressed her lips together.
"Might we come in?" Margaret asked, sounding for all the world as if she'd been invited to tea.
Hannah stepped aside and the ragtag group trudged into the hall.
"I suppose there's a reasonable explanation for this." Hannah commented quietly to Margaret.
"There is." Margaret handed Hannah key ring. "I left the truck in the drive."
"Where's John?" Hannah picked up the duffle bags and led the way up the front stair case.
"With Nick Higgins," Margaret directed the two girls into the first guest bedroom. "Janie, Lilly, you can have this room. Brush your teeth and off to bed."
Hannah opened the door to the smaller guest room and Mary slipped inside with the baby.
"Does he need a crib?" Hannah asked.
"He sleeps with me," Mary said. "I—thank you—Marg, Mrs Thornton—I—thank you."
Margaret squeezed Mary's hand and shooed her into the room, "Sleep Mary."
The house fell silent once more and Hannah retreated to the kitchen, heating milk for hot chocolate. Margaret followed her.
"I suppose you'd like to know what we're doing here, unannounced, so early in the morning."
"Yes, I would," Hannah placed two large mugs on the counter and then began breaking pieces of chocolate into the heating milk.
"John sent us. Tom Boucher killed himself." Margaret sat at the kitchen table and shook her head. "His children were staying with Nicholas Higgins but there's been a complication. John suggested we bring the girls somewhere safe to sleep. He'll be here with the boys in the morning."
Hannah nodded, digesting the information. As a volunteer at the hospital, she'd known about Tom Boucher's suicide the day after it happened. It didn't surprise her that Margaret was tangled up in it.
"What happened with Higgins?"
Margaret raised her chin, her face hard as a stone. But then something shifted and the whole story came pouring out. Hannah finished making the hot chocolate as Margaret ended with her fight with John.
"He cares more about me taking the bloody bus than he does about the Bouchers. He just doesn't care. He's calloused and uncaring with nearly everyone—"
"You know that's not true."
Margaret scowled. Then she shuddered and laid her head in her hands, "I love those children," she whispered. "They need someone and they have no one. I can't even begin to imagine what this must be like for them."
"John doesn't have to imagine," Hannah said firmly. "He lived it."
"Then why can't he show some bloody compassion once in a while? Why must he be so cold and stubborn about it? What if he treats our children like this?" Margaret rubbed her temples and tears filled her eyes. "And why do shitty things always happen to decent people that don't deserve it?"
"Sorrow is a beast we all have to fight," Hannah said thoughtfully, pouring the hot chocolate. "None of us know what form it will take or how we'll survive until we face it ourselves."
Margaret glanced up, wiping her cheeks with her hands. "What do you mean?"
"I want to show you something." Hannah walked to a shelf in a small side room, pulled down a photograph album, and returned to the kitchen, setting the album on the table between them. She sat and opened the cover. "You're family now and you ought to know."
It had been almost ten years since she'd looked at her wedding photos. She pushed the book towards Margaret who flipped slowly through them.
"Jonnie was a player in more than one sense. He lived and played hard. He loved beauty and fun and laughter but he never wanted to see or endure the ugly parts of life. But we managed to be happy for fourteen years. "
Hannah studied her hands, stirring through her memories.
"Maybe I got too tired of carrying it all or maybe Jonnie cut too many bad deals or maybe fate just caught up with us. They say chickens always come home to roost."
She took a swallow of her hot chocolate.
"John is a fighter. He always wants to win. My husband teased him for it. He could make John laugh at himself where I never could, not even when he was small. Little boys ought to laugh and play and be full of mischief. He's too much like me, I suppose—too serious and solemn, never willing to give in."
"Mrs Thornton—"
"When Jonnie—when he—" Hannah sighed and forced herself to say the words. "When he killed himself the light in our lives went out. We faced a monster none of us were prepared for."
Hannah laid her hand on a picture of the handsome smiling man in front of them.
"My husband gave up and he almost took us down with him."
"How did you manage?"
"We all had some part to play in our fight to survive, but we all paid a price, Margaret. Some days I think John paid the most."
Hannah turned the page to a newspaper clipping of Jonnie Thornton's obituary.
"John was an affectionate, mischievous little boy, but that boy disappeared when his father died. Fanny—well, she lost her innocence in more ways than one, and I—" Hannah paused and took a sharp breath. She never could say what she'd lost—not out loud. "Suffering is never really beaten, only held at bay. It's been thirteen years and sometimes it feels like I'll never be free of it."
Hannah turned the page again, revealing a portrait of a teenage John and a young Fanny looking miserable and ridiculous in coordinating outfits. John's face was rounder, and not so care worn, but his thunderous displeasure was unmistakeable.
"What the bloody hell are they wearing?" Margaret giggled softly. "They look awful." She ran a finger over John's face.
"Jonnie was their anchor." Hannah closed the album, "John was lost for a long time before he found his feet."
"I don't see what this has to do with the Bouchers." Margaret brushed the scrapes on her left arm, flinching a little.
"My son isn't pitiless or unfeeling. He knows exactly what those children have to face tomorrow. But he also knows they must find their own way, Margaret, if they're going to survive this."
"They didn't deserve this."
"Of course not, but it's their life now, and you cannot shield them from it."
"Mrs Thornton—"
"You should clean those cuts."
"They're fine." Margaret grumbled as she stood. "I'll just have a hot shower before I go to bed."
"Clean them anyway." She insisted.
"I'll live."
"Miss—" Hannah bit her tongue, "Margaret. I used to think the little boy I lost when my husband died would never come back." She stood and opened a drawer. "So I clung to what was left of him." She held out the first aid kit. "I suppose I held too tight but Fanny and John were all I had left of their father."
When Margaret reached out to take the kit, Hannah didn't let go. "I didn't want things to change. And then—"
"Then?"
"He met you." Hannah dropped her hand and laid it on Margaret's stomach. "And my boy came back. Only he didn't come for me, and he's not a boy anymore. It felt like I lost him all over again."
Margaret laid her hand over Hannah's.
"Will you forgive me?"
Margaret blinked, surprised, "Yes, of course."
Hannah nodded, satisfied.
Hannah Thornton's confession followed Margaret to her bedroom, a strange weight that made her feel better and worse. Margaret hadn't thought about how Tom Boucher's death might affect her husband. She rarely considered what John felt at all. Margaret glanced at the empty side of their bed, a wave of guilt washing over her. John had barely spoken after their argument at The Stray Stone. She hated when he went all quiet and sullen, but her conscience continued to poke at her, replaying John's face as she hurled her words at him like rocks. She'd hurt him and hadn't even noticed.
Margaret shivered and rubbed her arms, wincing at the stinging ache of the cuts and bruises along her left arm. Marriage was John's idea but nobody forced her to say yes. But she still wasn't quite sure why she'd said yes. The only thing she knew for certain was, if given the chance, she would say yes again.
When she rolled over to check the time on her mobile, her eyes widened. She had one missed call. "You impossible man," she whispered. Margaret hit 'call back', a small smile splitting her face.
"Margaret, darling, you've been avoiding me," Her cousin chirped as soon as the line connected.
"Edith?" Margaret blinked. She hadn't meant to ring Edith. She'd wanted to ring—
"Of course, darling, who else would it be? Now I need your opinion about the music for the wedding. I remember you used to adore live music so what's the name of that one band you love? Aren't they Canadian or something? I thought I might fly them over for the wedding and—"
"Edith, when I said I wasn't coming to your wedding, I was completely serious. Hiring my favorite band won't change my mind."
"It's not fair for you to drop out at the last moment, Margaret. You're being so heartless. I simple cannot get married without my favorite cousin."
"I'm your only cousin," Margaret rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry, Eds, but I do have a good reason." Margaret's phone buzzed indicating an incoming call. She bit her lip as John's face lit up her screen. "Edith, I'm sorry, but my husband is calling, I—"
"Bring your new husband, if you must, but really, Margaret—"
"You don't need me to get married, Edith. All you need is your fiancé, a priest, and two witnesses."
"If you put your foot down, I'm sure he'll have to see things your way. All husbands learn if you're persistent."
"You've clearly never met mine," Margaret grumbled. "Now I have to—"
"I'll meet him at the wedding in June. I won't take no for an answer, Margaret Ann. You must come and if I have to fly to America and fetch you myself—"
"I'm not coming because I'm pregnant, Edith." Margaret blurted. "Now I have to—"
"You're—oh my God—" Edith shrieked. "You're pregnant? How are you pregnant, you only just got married, Margaret! Was it on purpose? Mother is going to be furious when she finds out."
"Edith, please let me tell Aunt Shaw myself." Her mobile buzzed again. "I'm sorry I have to—"
"How could you let him do this to you? You're too young!"
Margaret leaned her head away from the mobile speaker as her cousin continued to babble in her high pitched voice.
"I sorry but I promise I'll explain everything later, Eds." She fumbled with phone for a moment and clicked over to the incoming call. "John?"
But the line was silent. She'd missed his call.
John switched off his phone and shoved it into his back pocket. He leaned against the fridge in Higgins' apartment, running his hands down his face. He knew Margaret would be asleep even if he wasn't. It was stupid to call.
The sound of little footsteps made him look up. A little boy of about five or six, with fiery red hair, blinked up at him.
"Which one are you?"
"Joey." The little boy tilted his head to one side, studying a snoring Nick, who was still passed out on the couch, before he turned back to John. "Is he dead or just drunk?"
"Drunk."
"My daddy's dead," Joey rubbed his eyes. "Tommy said so."
John crouched, looking the little boy in the eye, "I know. That's why I'm here."
"Are you the police?"
"No," he took off his hat and tossed it aside. "I'm John. Your Uncle Nick works for me."
"Are you Master?"
John shifted, but he nodded. He hated his old trucking handle but nothing he ever did made the fleet stop using it. "You don't work for me, so you can call me Mr John."
"Is that your gun?" Joey pointed to the hand gun sitting on the counter.
John stood, knees cracking. "Yep."
"Can I see it?"
John frowned a moment and then shrugged. He carefully unloaded the weapon, double checked to make certain it was empty, and then set it back on the counter, keeping the barrel pointed away from the little boy.
"My daddy had a gun."
"So did mine," John crossed his arms and watched as the little boy studied it.
"Did he shoot people?"
"No," John knew his voice was too harsh when the word snapped out. He took a calming breath and crouched down again, facing Joey Boucher. "No, he didn't shoot people." It wasn't exactly true but he couldn't bring himself to tell the kid the whole truth. His father only shot one person—himself. John tried to smile, "That's not what a gun is for."
"What's it for?"
"To keep people from hurting you."
"By shooting them?"
John chuckled. "No, by making them too scared of you to try to hurt you."
"Have you ever shot someone?"
"No." A flare of guilt made John shift again. He'd threatened to shoot Tom Boucher with this very gun. It hadn't really bothered him then. The memory of Margaret's angry face flashed across his mind and John cleared his throat, "I hope I never have to shoot anyone."
"Did your dad give that to you?"
"No," John sighed and scratched his head. "It was his gun and then he died. So it's mine now."
"My brother Tommy took my daddy's gun. He keeps it under the bed."
John's eyebrows went up, and he stood, sliding his gun into its holster in his jeans. "Show me."
Joey slipped his hand into John's and pulled him after him. The older Boucher boys were asleep on a set of bunk beds in a tiny room jammed full of junk and dirty clothes. John could see the small cot that must be Joey's bed. Joey crawled under the bunk beds and pushed out a battered shoebox. John picked it up and marched back into the kitchen. The old nine millimeter looked loaded and had no safety.
John swore. He worked quickly, unloading the weapon, and tossed the mag and extra bullets on the counter.
"Where's Mary?" Joey trotted to the rickety card table and clambered onto an old chair that was missing most of the back pieces.
"With Maggie." John replaced the gun in the shoe box and set it on top of the highest cabinet in the kitchen, pushing it as far back as it would go.
"Whose Maggie?"
"Margaret," John rummaged around the kitchen drawers until he found an old bread bag and removed the bullets from the mag into the bag, tying it up in a firm knot. "I call her Maggie."
"Did you marry Miss Margaret"
"I did." He put the empty mag in his pocket and set the bag of ammo on the back top of the fridge.
"I like her."
"I like her too," John said. "Go to bed, kid."
"But I'm thirsty."
"Get some water."
"The water tastes funny."
John opened the fridge. It was full of odd jars and takeout boxes. The milk was long sour and the only other beverage was cheap-ass beer. John dumped out the milk. He grabbed a plastic cup from the sink, rinsed it out, and then filled it halfway with tap water.
"You get water or nothing, kid."
Joey sighed but he drank it. John retrieved his hat, stopping short when the little boy spoke again.
"My daddy killed himself."
John stared, a scowl settling on his face,"Who told you that?"
"My brother," Joey kicked the table leg.
John pulled up a chair and sat next to him. He hated shit like this. He'd fought through this hell once before and that was more than enough for him. The kid was too damn young for this and what the hell was he supposed to say? John yanked his hat on. Margaret would know. She was always helping people, especially when things were shot to hell.
"How did your daddy die?" Joey held the cup up to his eye and was peering at John through the warped plastic.
"Same as yours."
Joey set the cup down, his eyes filling with tears. "Really?"
"Really."
Joey rubbed his fists into his eyes. But the tears kept coming.
"You can cry if you want," John said gently. "I won't tell."
"Did you cry?" Joey demanded, a single tear dropping from his dirty cheek.
"No," John pulled out his handkerchief and laid it on the table."But I was a lot older."
Joey was blinking hard, tears streaking down his face, but he didn't make any noise except a sniffle or two. John nudged the handkerchief closer and waited until he finished.
"Do you feel better?"
"I guess," Joey took the handkerchief and sloppily scrubbed his face. John took the crumpled ball of fabric, folded it, and put it back in his shirt pocket.
"It'll be alright, kid."
"Promise?"
John's jaw tightened, a coil of anger and tension in his gut. Tom Boucher was a coward of the worst kind. Margaret would say he was to be pitied but the man didn't deserve anyone's pity. John would've like to give the dead bastard a piece of his mind—not that it would matter now. Joey was too young, younger than Fanny had been, and she almost hadn't made it.
John clenched his fists. These kids needed someone and all they had was Higgins. Margaret was right to help and John felt like an asshole for trying to stop her.
"I promise."
AN : Apologies for taking so long again. I've been working like mad, but on different chapters. This one was a challenge. But, I've finally got it where I want it and I hope you enjoy it. I'm sure there are typos but I'll have to come back to fix those.
Please drop a review and thanks for sticking with me. Cheers.