New Neighbor

Summary: Our neighbor across the hall is most definitely idiosyncratic.

A/N: This takes place quite some time after the events of Something Worth Winning, and does not require knowledge of the latter in order to be understandable (though many details in this story are consistent with that universe). The narrator is a previously-unknown OC, but the focus is on a character who will be quite familiar to you, and whose identity will become readily apparent as we go along. :)

All I can say is that when the plot bunnies come up with an idea, no matter how random, I try to just go with it. ;)

Manhattan, 1926

"Mama, did you see? Someone's moved in across the hallway, into the Thompsons' old apartment. There's a light shining under the door."

Mama looks up from the sink where she's washing dishes. "I hadn't noticed." She dries her hands, then walks to the door to peer into the corridor with me. "You're right, though."

"Do you think it's a family with kids?" I ask hopefully.

"Maybe…" Mama muses. "But it would be a tight squeeze trying to fit into that tiny apartment. More likely it's a very small family, or a couple."

"Or maybe just one person?"

"Or maybe just one person."

She beckons me inside, for it's late already, and I reluctantly obey and get ready for bed, but as I drift off to sleep that night, I imagine what kind of individual our new neighbor might be (for now I'm convinced that it's only one person, since she or he was able to move in so quietly without our notice). Maybe it's a elderly woman whose children are all grown up and gone, or maybe a young man who's come to the city seeking work. Maybe she knits blankets of homespun yarn for her ten grandchildren, or maybe he has a sweetheart living miles away whom he writes to every night by candlelight…

Only time will tell.

A day or two later, I discover that I'm right: there's only a singular occupant living in the apartment across the hallway. Singular, that is, if you don't count the pet skunk living with him.

"A pet skunk?" Mama echoes in disbelief when I tell her about it.

I nod. "She follows him around sometimes when he goes outside."

"How do you know it's a female skunk?"

"I've heard him talk to her."

"He talks to the skunk?" Mama seems both amused and a little concerned. "That's…idiosyncratic."

"What's…'id-ee-oh-sink-kratic' mean?" I test the word on my tongue.

"It means unique to a particular person. Some habit or mannerism that makes them different or extraordinary."

Our neighbor across the hall is most definitely idiosyncratic. I observe him covertly over the next few days whenever I see him around the apartment building and notice that he doesn't seem to have a set schedule. He goes in and out as he pleases, sometimes ambling down the street to smoke and watch people as they pass by, and other times disappearing for hours on end to who knows where (though he's always back at the apartment by evening). Occasionally, the skunk goes with him, and other times he is alone, but he always seems to be in good spirits. There's a lightness in his step that makes him seem years younger than he probably is, and every so often as he walks, he'll do a little twirl or a shimmy, as though there's some upbeat music playing that only he can hear.

One day, I see him coming out of Jacobi's Deli with a sandwich in hand. It looks like salami and Swiss, which means that he's got good taste when it comes to the menu (most folks prefer the pastrami on rye at Jacobi's, but I've always thought the salami and Swiss was better).

Even sidling along the street, dodging hurried pedestrians while scarfing down his lunch, there's something unusually agile about the way he moves, and I wonder what kind of person he is, and where he goes every day, and how he manages to carry himself like that - graceful and lithe, yet somehow equally tough and tall - as though he owns the streets of Lower Manhattan, regardless of what the Governor's office may say.

Before I can think much more about it, he's disappeared around a corner…but the thought of him lingers with me even as I turn to go back to my work.

I run into him several days later under unexpected circumstances.

It's almost noon, and the papers are moving slowly. I wonder if it's because Christmas is almost here. Maybe folks have too much on their minds right now to bother reading the news.

I wish I had thought of that possibility before purchasing my usual allotment that morning; I wouldn't have taken so many copies of the Herald Tribune if I'd known, but maybe it's just one of those tricks that you pick up the longer you hawk headlines. I've only been at it for a few weeks, and I'm still trying to get the hang of it, so I'll probably just have to cut my losses and chalk it up as a learning experience for next time. It'll hurt to disappoint Mama by bringing home less money than usual, but there's nothing I can do about it now except try my hardest to sell what I have.

I see a group of ladies across the street and raise a copy of the Herald Tribune in the air, calling out the most interesting headlines, but nobody gives me a second glance. I don't have any luck with the next several passers by, either.

Just as I decide that it's probably time to pack up and find a new selling spot, I sense someone at my shoulder, and before I can turn, I hear a cheerful voice say,

"You wanna know a hot tip for makin' the papes move, kid?"

The man from across the hall is standing there with a cocky half-smile on his face. I can't tell if he recognizes me at all, or if he's just decided to take pity on a struggling newsboy that day, but I could use a hot tip for getting rid of my wares, so I nod, and he beckons for the paper, snapping it open with practiced ease.

"It's all in the delivery," he declares. "The headlines? They's important, sure, but it's all in how you sell 'em, and there's ways of sellin' 'em that are better than others. You gotta play to your audience, ya know?"

His eyes scan the paper for all of five seconds before he decides that he's seen all he has to.

"First off, you's sellin' the Herald Tribune," he begins. "You got a spankin' new pape on your hands that ain't even been in publication for a year yet, and you's goin' up against the likes of the Times and them other well-known papes that folks is already used to buyin'. You gotta convince 'em that what you's hawkin' is better than their usual fare, 'cause folks is all about routine, and if you can't make 'em see that you got the superior product, they's gonna just buy whatever they's used to."

"Aren't all papers selling the same stories?" I ask.

"You'd think that, wouldn'tcha? But it ain't so." There's a twinkle in his eye, and I can tell that he's having fun with this impromptu selling lesson.

"Now this here - " he smacks the Herald Tribune lightly with his hand, " - you can tell from just skimmin' the headline that this reporter's got Republican-leanin' tendencies. See how he speaks all highly of the way Coolidge and his team is runnin' things? I ain't even read the article yet, and I already know his angle."

I nod.

"So you gotta use that," the man emphasizes. "You don't haf'ta be a whiz in politics, but if you got at least a little knowledge of what the different sides think and who's liable to fall into 'em, you's gonna be able to hone in real quick on the folks who's most likely to buy what you's sellin'."

He gestures to a group of garment factory workers ambling down the street. "See those bummers? Generally speakin', they ain't gonna care about Coolidge's laissez-faire policies, 'cause they's only the cogs in the wheel. It don't matter a lick to them whether the government's meddlin' more or less, 'cause all they's concerned about is puttin' food on the table. But those fellas, now…" he inclines his head towards several well-dressed men coming out of a nearby shop, "Small businessmen written all over 'em, the kind who'll stand to benefit by the policies the folks in power is handin' down. They's the type you's fixin' to hook with this headline."

He hands the paper back to me. "Go on, give it a try," he urges. "See if you can't get one of 'em to bite."

Gamely, I raise the Herald Tribune in the air, calling out the headline. A few of the gentlemen look in my direction, but none of them stop to purchase papers or even break their stride, and as they pass me and continue walking, I lower the paper, deflated.

"Ah, come on, don't look so dumb and glum," my neighbor nudges me in the arm. "You ain't gonna sell a pape with that kinda pout, 'less you's the kind who likes to sell by playin' on folks' sympathy."

"All of this sizing up is a lot of work," I can't help remarking.

He pshaws. "You ain't even given it a go yet! Gettin' the brush off's just part of bein' a newsie, and the more you practice, the quicker it'll come to ya!" Giving me an appraising look, he asks, "How long have you been hawkin' headlines, anyway?"

"Almost two weeks," I tell him.

"And you's how old?"

"I'm ten."

"Ten, huh?" he seems surprised. "Well, you look younger and sound older." Another calculating glance. "You go to school?"

"I did," I answer. "Up until about two weeks ago."

"Ah. Playin' hooky?" he grins.

I shake my head. I wish that was the reason. "My mom says I have to pitch in to help, now, so school will have to wait."

"Oh, you got a mother?" he drawls. "I was gonna get me one."

There's a joke in the statement, but I can't figure out what it is.

"It's just the two of us," I elaborate. "My dad used to live with us, too, but a few weeks ago, he left. That's why I have to help out by selling papers now. "

"He skipped out on you, huh?" Our neighbor doesn't sound surprised, but there's a cynical edge to his voice now that I haven't heard before.

"Mama said he just had a lot of things to sort out," I hedge. "She said…that he needed time to think about whether or not he still wants to be a part of our family." It's not the whole truth, and I know it, but that's all I've been told, and I'm not sure of what else to say.

"Well, your ma's got a real charitable way of spinnin' things," our neighbor huffs. "It ain't my place to say so, but I don't think much of your pops for bailin' on his wife and kid and leavin' 'em to fend for themselves - and right before Christmas, too."

"We're getting by," I shrug, repeating the phrase I've heard Mama use often enough. "I like making money, and Mama says that an education is important, but it's not the most important thing. She used to be a teacher when she was younger, so she's been giving me my lessons every night before bed. I don't miss out on much. It's not too bad."

The last part's not entirely truthful; in fact, it's about as far from the truth as you can get. But what is there to say? The truth is that I'd seen this coming. Dad had been slowly slipping further and further away from us, anyway, and a part of me wonders if he would have left no matter how much we tried to make him stay.

My neighbor seems to sense the conflict in my words, but he doesn't challenge them, only claps me on the back with a sympathetic look, as though acknowledging that the situation stinks but that there's really nothing either of us can do about it.

"You got spunk, kid," he says quietly. "Ain't no escapin' the bum turns life throws at ya…but you's makin' the best of it, and that'll get'cha far."

A beat of silence passes before he gives the paper in my hand a little nod.

"Speakin' of which, you ready to get back to sellin'? I got a few other pointers for ya if you's wantin' to learn."

"How do you know all this, anyway?" I ask, partially to stall for time because I'm in no rush to return to selling, but also because I really do want to know.

"I used to sell The World," he grins. "I bunked over at the lodgin' house on Duane Street with a bunch of my pals." There's a gleam in his eye as he adds, "We was the ones who went on strike against old Joe Pulitzer and got the whole city to shut down for a day. Made all the papes."

He looks at me as though he expects an acclamatory reaction, but I've never heard anything about the newsboy strike before, and he deflates a little at my lack of recognition.

"Guess it's true what they say," he mutters to himself. "You's front page news for one whole minute, and then you's nothin' but the wrappin's for someone else's fish 'n chips."

"I'm not very good with history," I say, trying to console him.

He waves off my attempts at sympathy. "Ain't nothin' to cry about. I had my time, and I drank in the moment. A fella's gotta move on and live his life; there ain't no use dwellin' in the past. I still got my pals and my memories, and that's good enough."

"What happened to all your newsboy friends?" I ask.

He smiles a little. "We grew up. Some of us stayed in Manhattan. Others went further away. A few of 'em passed on." He says the last part matter-of-factly, but there's a wistfulness that flits across his face before his characteristic half-grin returns.

"I could talk your ear off tellin' you stories about 'em, all the scrapes and shenanigans we used to get into while we was carryin' the banner. We was each other's family, 'cause most of us didn't have family of our own, and each of those bummers was like a brother to me." He chuckles, and the wistfulness is there again. "It was a mighty fine life while it lasted."

"Sounds like it was," I agree politely.

"Speakin' of the lodgin' house, you ever run across the newsies from Duane Street? Bet'cha if you ask real nice they'd let'cha partner up with them for sellin', long as you's willin' to switch to whatever pape they's hawkin'. You could pick up some real good tricks that way, maybe make a few pals."

I seriously doubt that. I've seen the boys from the Duane Street Lodging House before. They're usually jostling and joking, all clumped together in a group, and they look like a fun-loving sort, but they're intimidating, too, aggressive in their headline hawking techniques and territorial over their selling spots. They seem like the type who will have your back in a fight if you're one of them, but who also take a devilish glee in threatening to soak any unwitting sucker they come across. Maybe it's all bark and no bite…but despite my neighbor's assurances, I'm in no hurry to cross paths with them.

Now that I think about it, it's not too hard to imagine the man next to me being one of those newsies years ago, the way he still walks as though he owns the streets. It's one thing for him to suggest partnering up; he was a part of the lodging house, and he's got a charisma that must have made him a natural at selling stories. My situation - and my personality - is nothing like his, and it's unlikely anyone would want to take me on as a selling partner.

"I don't think the newsies would bother with a new kid who knows almost nothing about selling papers," I say aloud.

"Aw, give those bummers a little more credit!" my neighbor insists. "Newsies ain't half as bad as they look, as long as you ain't tryin' to toe in on their turf. You tell 'em you's new on the job, and they'll take you on real quick. Why, me and my pals took in strays all the time! Most of 'em was kids who was orphaned or ran away from home before comin' to live at the lodgin' house, but there was one time we joined up with a couple of brothers who had a home and a family, kinda like you."

This surprises me. "You let them sell with you?"

"Sure did."

"Well…" I grasp for an explanation, "they were probably a lot better at it than me."

He guffaws, and I can hear the fondness in his voice as he answers, "The younger one took to it like a duck to water, but the older one couldn't sell a story to save his life, at least not right away."

"And you still helped him out?" I can't shake my disbelief, "even though it didn't benefit you at all?"

"Well, startin' off we only teamed up 'cause his brother was a cute little kid whose face could move a thousand papes a week. We figured we'd just cut our losses with the older one…but you know what? It turned out he had somethin' to teach us, too; it just weren't about hawkin' headlines." He seems amused by the irony. "So I guess you could say that takin' him under our wing did benefit us after all, even if we didn't know it startin' out."

Again, I'm struck by the feeling that there's a story here he isn't telling, but before I can figure out how to prompt some elaboration, he changes the subject.

"Look, I gotta get goin' - Bella's waitin' for her lunch - but you keep carryin' the banner, kid. I know it ain't easy, but it'll grow on ya, and you's gonna be a decent newsie in no time!"

Grinning, he claps me on the back. "I'll see ya around."

And then he's off, sauntering down the street in the direction of the apartment.

I glance down at my still-full bag of papers and sigh, unenthused at the remaining task of having to move them all. It had been a nice break to have a conversation, and I wish that my neighbor had stayed a little longer, for I would have liked to hear more of his stories about newsboy life.

He's gone, however, and there's nothing to do now but try to sell the next edition.

The next time I run into him, it's Christmas Eve. Mama and I are just getting back to the apartment with the groceries, and he's at the door of his own unit, looking like he's about to enter in. The skunk is with him, snuffling around the cracks in the floorboards, and both of them look at us curiously as we approach.

"Heya, kid!" the man greets me, recognition lighting up his face. "Didn't think I'd be seein' you again so soon. I guess we's neighbors, huh?"

Seeing Mama, he gives her a little nod, touching his cap respectfully. "Mornin', Ma'am."

"Good morning," she replies. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister…"

"Higgins," he says, extending a calloused hand. "Anthony Higgins, but 'Tony''ll do just fine."

"I'm Eleanor," Mama replies, shaking his hand, "and this is my son, Silas, though it sounds like you two are already acquainted."

"Ran into each other on the street a few days ago," Anthony Higgins winks at me. "We got somethin' in common it turns out."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Mr. Higgins used to be a newsboy," I tell her. "He sold The World and was part of a strike that shut down the whole city."

"I see." I can tell that Mama isn't sure whether this is a commendable thing or not.

"He gave me some tips on selling," I add, wanting her, for whatever reason, to have a positive impression of our new neighbor. "They helped me move my papers a little faster."

"That was kind," Mama smiles. Turning to our neighbor, she asks, "How are you liking your new apartment, Tony?"

"Oh, it's real nice, Ma'am," he enthuses. "Clean and plenty warm, and far enough from the fire station where the sirens don't keep me up at night. Couldn't ask for a better place for Bella and me."

"Is Bella your skunk?" I ask curiously.

"That she is," Anthony Higgins grins, reaching down to scoop up the furry creature. "The fifth Bella in a long line of upstandin' skunks of the same name." Holding her up so that she's facing us, he prompts, "Hey Bella, say 'hello' to our neighbors!"

I can tell that Mama is still uncomfortable with a skunk being in such close proximity, but her hesitation does nothing to ruffle our neighbor's aplomb.

"Can I pet Bella?" I ask.

"Sure you can!" Anthony Higgins seems pleased. "Just be gentle and don't make any sudden movements, and she'll take to you right quick. In fact…" he shifts the skunk so that he's holding her with one arm, then digs into his pocket with the other, pulling out a cigar which he quickly returns to its place before locating what he is looking for.

"Here," he says, holding out a slightly-linty nutcake to me. "No better way to Bella's heart than through her stomach."

I take the nutcake in my fingers and offer it to Bella, who sniffs it for only a moment before taking a nibble. Then the nutcake is gone in four bites, and I reach out to tentatively stroke her fur.

"That's right," Anthony Higgins encourages me. "She likes a little scratch behind the ears, too."

"Can I hold her?"

He glances at Mama for permission, and she gives a terse nod, but he must sense the uneasiness underlying her agreement, for he says, "Probably better we wait on that, Silas, but you's doin' a real fine job of makin' Bella's acquaintance, and I can tell she likes ya real well."

It's such a positively-put brush off that I find myself hardly even disappointed at his refusal.

Eventually Bella gets antsy, and Anthony Higgins sets her down on the ground, then reaches into his pocket again, withdrawing a small paper package.

"If your ma says it's all right, you's welcome to have one of these for bein' so nice to Bella," he says with a wink.

The package is full of brightly colored candy, and I eagerly turn to Mama, who nods her permission easily this time.

I all but pounce on the bag. It's been a while since I've had any sweets, and there's a tempting array of confections: Tootsie rolls and saltwater taffy and lemon drops and Necco Wafers…

Necco Wafers are Dad's favorite. Mama would always take me to the candy store a few days before Christmas so that I could buy him a roll as a gift.

I guess we won't be buying a roll this year.

Brushing the thought aside as best as I can, I keep digging through the bag. There's a larger variety than I expected, and it takes me several moments before I decide on a red and green sugar candy squiggle.

"Pick one for your ma, too," Anthony Higgins bids me.

"Thanks, Mr. Higgins." I reach for a second piece.

"Just 'Tony' is fine," he reasserts. "Ain't no need to get all formal about it. Or you can call me 'Racetrack' if that's more your style - from one newsie to another."

"Is that what they called you?" I leave off rummaging long enough to give him a curious look.

"Sure was," he grins. "Lots of us went by nicknames instead of our birth names. The fellas called me Racetrack 'cause I was always down at Sheepshead Bay playin' the ponies in my spare time."

Racetrack. It seems to suit him.

"Good choice," he remarks as I withdraw my hand from the bag, having made my selections. "The ribbon candy's my sister's favorite, too."

"Does she live nearby?" Mama asks.

"No Ma'am, I'm afraid she don't anymore. She was livin' over on Baxter Street for a while, but a few years ago, her husband took a job in Philly, so they's livin' out there now. Only see 'em once in a blue moon."

"And the rest of your family…?"

He shrugs, tucking the paper bag back into his pocket. "Ain't got much of it, least not flesh and blood kin, but I got a few friends here who's more like family, and I count myself a lucky fella that way."

"Will you be spending Christmas with them?" I ask, kneeling down to pet Bella again.

"Not this year. They usually have me over, but they got a lot goin' on right now, so I figured I'd lay low and stay out of their hair this time around. Told 'em I was gonna be busy these next few days and wouldn't be available."

"So you lied to your friends?"

Mama is about to chide me for my pertness, but Racetrack doesn't seem offended in the slightest. "It weren't lyin' - just puttin' a little spin on the truth," he says. "I have been busy. Busy puttin' the finishin' touches on my new apartment and unpackin' the last of my boxes, then stoppin' by the confectionery to pick up this bag of candy for a little Christmas treat. Bella and me are fixin' to have a nice quiet celebration in our new place, so it's better we ain't runnin' around makin' social calls."

He says it with a jovial air, but I can tell that he's the kind of man who doesn't really relish being alone, and Mama must sense it too, for she's quiet for a moment, probably weighing the pros and cons of inviting an unexpected guest to dinner and mentally calculating whether or not she can stretch our already-modest menu to accommodate another mouth to feed.

Hospitality eventually wins out, and after only a moment of contemplation, Mama smiles at our neighbor and says, "A quiet Christmas day sounds pleasant, but if you're not opposed to company beforehand, would you like to join Silas and me for Christmas Eve dinner tonight? It's only going to be roast chicken with onions in cream and cranberry relish, but you - and Bella - are welcome to join us."

The last part is a stretch for her, I can tell, but Mama's too polite to exclude a neighbor, even if that neighbor is only a skunk.

Racetrack's face lights up at her invitation. "That'd be real swell of you, Ma'am," he says, bobbing a little bow. "Long as it wouldn't be imposin', me and Bella would love to come. I'll stop by the grocer's and pick up some pears and oranges to go with the meal, too, if you don't mind me contributin' somethin' to the card."

"That's not necessary," Mama objects. "It's only a simple dinner, and fresh fruit is expensive. You're our guest, and we wouldn't want to put you out."

"Ain't nothin' but a few nickels and dimes, Ma'am," Racetrack replies firmly, "and I'd rather spend it on celebratin' with some kindly neighbors than let it stay sittin' all useless and hidden away at home. If there's one thing I've learned in my time, it's that bein' all flush with the coin'll only get'cha so far. You don't need money - least, not loads of it - when you got good folks around ya. You got that, you got everythin' you need, full stop."

"Well, if you insist," Mama capitulates. "Silas and I both enjoy fruit, so it will be a welcome addition at the table."

"Bella and me'll find you the best fruit Manhattan's got to offer," our neighbor promises. He reaches down to scoop up the skunk. "Come on, Bella," he says cheerfully. "We's on a mission now, and the clock's tickin'."

Giving Mama a respectful nod and me a two-fingered salute, he starts down the hall. "I'll be back soon for some of that chicken and cranberry sauce you was tellin' me about," he adds with his boyish grin. "Lookin' forward to the company, too!"

"We're in apartment twenty-four," Mama calls after him. "Dinner will be ready by five-thirty."

Racetrack acknowledges her with a wave, then disappears down the stairs, Bella in hand, whistling a tune as the sound of his footsteps quickly fades away.

Silence descends, and Mama and I look at each other.

"It's going to be a different Christmas, Silas," she says. And there's a wealth of unspoken meaning in her words.

Different, indeed, I agree as we make our way down the hall to our own apartment. More sober and simple than in years past. More sad, too, now that Dad's not here. There's no way around that fact, and there's no use pretending like our idiosyncratic neighbor with his pet skunk can fill even a part of the hole that's been left behind…

But if there's some solace that we can gain by inviting this stranger into our tiny, fractured family, and if there's some comfort that we can offer him in return, then maybe this Christmas won't be completely devoid of joy. Mama's always told me that there are times to be sad and times to celebrate, and this feels like a little bit of both.

Maybe that's how life is going to be for a while.

Following Mama into our apartment, I take one last glance at the door across the hallway…but only for a moment. Our new neighbors will be back soon, and we've got a dinner to prepare before their arrival.

A/N: Merry (belated) Christmas to those who celebrate!