Author's Note
.｡｡*ﾟ 💖🌈🌷 🌻 .｡｡*ﾟ
••• HELLO EVERYONE. I HOPE YOU'RE ALL DOING AMAZING, SPECTACULAR. ALL OF THE LOVE.
Hope you enjoy
MANHATTAN, 1897
A few days after the Refuge fire, a loud knock came at the door of the Duane Street Lodging House around 4:30 in the morning.
"Mr. Kloppman?" Called a distant voice from outside.
The abrupt knock first awoke Kloppman's wife, Ellen, with a sharp gasp.
One more hour of sleep before another long day, Kloppman stirred in bed, figuring whoever it was would go away.
He turned over on his side, pulling the sheets further, trying to hold onto his dream.
Another knock, this time with more authority, followed by, "Mr. Kloppman? Are you there?"
"Lawrence!" Ellen hissed. "What in God's name is going on? Who could that be?"
Kloppman could make out her face in the dark, her breathing frantic, her eyes frightened.
More frantic pounding on the door was punctuated by, "Mr. Kloppman! Please!"
"Damn those boys," Kloppman retorted after a beat. "No one is let in after midnight. They know the rules."
Ellen rustled out of bed, and Kloppman sighed, deciding it would be best if he answered the door rather than her.
He hoisted himself up and dressed into a white cotton robe, pushed his grey hair flat on his head, and opened the bedroom door as Ellen stumbled through the room.
"It's alright, Ellen," Kloppman said, kicking over a book in the darkness. "No cause for concern. I'm sure it's one of the boys."
"Lawrence!" Ellen shouted, but she nodded in uncertainty. "Are you sure?"
"I don't know, Ellen," Kloppman said, scurrying past her down the thin woolen rug in the corridor. "Perhaps it's Jack the Ripper himself, deciding he'd like to give Americans a go."
She followed behind him and pulled at his arm, making him stop.
Kloppman gave her a peck on the forehead.
"I'm serious, Lawrence. You're much too old for these games, I mean honestly." Ellen's smile faded. "I can't think of any respectable person who would be calling on us at this ridiculous hour. Whoever it is, he cannot be up to anything reputable."
"It's one of the boys, I'm sure," he said, trying to assure his wife.
"One of the boys?" Ellen said. "I suppose I have nothing to worry about."
Kloppman moved to the front hall, where he realized he didn't know the voice as belonging to any of his charges.
"Mr. Kloppman!" The voice begged again, combining a couple strong twists to the locked doorknob to the blows. "Mr. Lawrence Kloppman, are you home!"
Kloppman remained on the wooden floor of the foyer. "Who is it?" he said, one finger on the chain lock.
"It's Roundsman Maloney, sir!"
Kloppman breathed out sigh of relief and unlocked the chain and the knob.
He cracked open the door and met the face of a man in a policeman uniform, outside, standing in the dim light of an overhead gas lamp.
In the past, he'd apprehended the newsboys of Duane Street for charges of vagrancy, petty theft, or public intoxication, as well as several other things.
Instead of hauling them to the station, like others of his kind, Maloney would escort them back to Kloppman.
He was a man of mercy in that sense and was one of the reasons Kloppman's boys hadn't been thrown in prison, save for an unlucky few.
Maloney rested against one of the black railings outside the door, holding his hat in his hands, and took deep breaths—something had alarmed the unflappable man.
"Roundsman Maloney," Kloppman said, mortified to be seen in his nightclothes. He noticed Maloney's cropped jet-black hair was disheveled in sweat. "What is it?" Looking past him, he saw the precinct's wagon, the platform drawn by a horse called Louis, whom the boys were found of. The horse was, like Maloney, soaked in sweat, which vapored in the air.
Kloppman knew his newsies were far from saints, but authorities hadn't showed up in the middle of the night to cart one of them off to jail.
"Something's happened," Maloney replied, his voice returning to its normal tone. "You need to come with me, sir, right now."
"What are you talking about? It's the middle of the night."
"Right now, sir," Maloney repeated, looking impatient.
Immediately, Kloppman knew something had happened to one of his boys.
"Hold on a moment," Kloppman said, closing the door and hurrying to dress himself in the dark.
He didn't notice the handful of younger boys who had awoken and gathered on the stairs to see what the commotion was about.
A few leaned over the banister, trying to catch a glimpse of who was outside.
Ellen ranted as Kloppman stumbled around that it was undignified for a person to be dragged from their house at such an hour without word of explanation.
Kloppman lit a lamp in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.
The wrinkles pulling at his eyes and lips were shadowed in the dim light.
He was now dressed in the same clothes he wore the day before, if not a bit rumpled.
"Damn it," was all he muttered, knowing something awful had happened.
He felt light-headed, almost intoxicated by anxiety.
Kloppman came back into the bedroom and opened the curtains to reveal a grey New York morning outside.
He stepped into one shoe, hunting for the other.
He shook a white pill from a vial, spotting a cup from the prior evening on the dresser with a little bit of cold coffee still left inside.
He put the little cup to his lips, swallowed the pill, and drained the contents before grabbing his other shoe.
Ellen settled back under the covers, continuing her plea to ignore whoever was at the door.
Paying her no heed, Kloppman left the building, still pulling on his hat and gabardine jacket, and hopped into the passenger seat of the wagon.
And like that, they took off down the street.
"Maloney," Kloppman called over the clamor of the wagon wheels beating the frayed ends of the sandstone pieces, "who is it? Is everything all right?" He was going over all the boys he'd counted before bedtime, feeling as though he hadn't missed any of the usuals. There were a few boys who'd disappear for days, returning unannounced in a bunk bed several nights later. But on such winter nights, every bed in the place was full.
"Bellevue," was all Maloney shouted back over the noise.
"So, are we stopping by the precinct as well?" Kloppman yelled.
Maloney didn't reply.
Inside the hospital, Kloppman hurried Maloney down the hall to a grand staircase.
He held his hat in one hand, running the other over his vest, smoothing the wrinkles the best he could.
Kloppman scurried down the stairs, passing a woman holding the hand of a little boy on the way up.
The little boy stared up at Kloppman as they passed.
Kloppman crossed the ornate lobby, heading for another quiet hallway, pausing in front of a large pair of doors, and taking off his coat.
After a moment, he pushed through the doors into a giant waiting room.
A dozen or so heads turned toward him.
While the room was bustling with reporters, nurses, and police, it was silent.
They appeared to have been waiting for him.
And he heard one sound: the whir of cameras.
A handful of photographers and journalists gathered at the entrance snapped his picture.
The crowd parted to reveal Dr. Fuller at the very center.
Kloppman found him to be a frightening figure in white physician suit, all eyebrows and frown.
Kloppman approached, shaking the doctor's outstretched hand.
"Lawrence Kloppman?" Dr. Fuller presumed. "Superintendent of the Duane Street Newsboys Lodging House?"
"That's right," Kloppman said, eyes darting around. "I apologize, but I don't understand what's going on. I was told to come straight here. Is there something I should know about? Has something happened?"
Dr. Fuller nodded, saying nothing. A few more reporters snapped photos and then silence.
Kloppman watched Dr. Fuller pick up a stack of documents, and then gestured for Kloppman to follow him.
Before the fire, Jack had wished for the Refuge to implode in some way.
Stormed by Teddy Roosevelt and his army of reform, tearing the place down brick by brick. Or a great hurricane would destroy every broken glass window, every soot-filled chimney, every rusted cell door, and wash it all away into the river until the island was obliterated.
He'd recited that prayer and made that wish more times than he could count.
Removing the bandages, Jack ran his fingers over the litany of cuts and bruises on his arms, curtsey of the Warden and his staff.
There were other scars, too, under his clothes, and more in his memory, where they couldn't be healed over with gauze and iodine.
He plopped back onto the narrow hospital cot, staring into Bellevue's long, dark dormitory. Remaining frozen for a long moment, breathing, Jack dropped his head. The other boys from his ward were asleep, but Jack couldn't bring himself to relax.
His eyes drifted off into space as he stared at the floor. For a second, he felt like crying.
He thought back to the ferry ride and the wagon there, pulled by Roosevelt's carriage. He thought about the looks they received from the physicians and nurses.
Jack thought it might have been a mix between pity, alarm, and curiosity. Even a bit of why bother? Nevertheless, they were given baths to rinse off the grime and soot. The water had turned murky from all the filth, in part from the fire, but also from the lack of bathing that went on.
The underclothes they were provided with were crisp and clean – a welcome change from the ragged, lice-infested uniforms they'd become accustomed to. The hospital cots were nothing like the beds in the Refuge. There were no flee-ridden, tattered blankets and blood-soaked mattresses. In fact, the sheets were so clean and soft that Jack spent considerable time just feeling them.
Muggs had pulled his knees to his chest, numb to it all as Dr. Fuller inspected his singed toes and fingers.
"It's not bad," Dr. Fuller said, wrapping the boy's fingers in bandages. "You're lucky you didn't burn your entire hand."
"Am I gonna lose 'em?" Muggs asked, giving the doctor a deadpan look.
The mustached man shook his head. "No, nothing so extreme. A few minor burns that should heal with time. But you'll need to stay off that foot for a week," he said. "Can you do that?"
Muggs shrugged. "Don't think so."
Dr. Fuller gave him a stern look. "Well, you ought to try."
He inquired as to the occasions Mr. Whalen and Warden Snyder gave the boys chloral and for how long they'd done this. Were there doctors present for this? And the nature of the results? Bad? Effective? What was the tendency to the formation of a habit? The boys indicated the chloral was given in medicinal doses as far as they knew, used as a sedative and a narcotic.
After Roosevelt toured the island a year ago, its use was stopped, without any ill effects. But the practice returned a month later.
Little by little, it was revealed that Snyder was giving No Name thirty grains of chloral three times a day, in combination with potassium bromide, for three months to control his psychosis – though he hadn't ever been properly diagnosed.
Beyond slight conjunctivitis following withdrawal, No Name was back to the way he was. Flat in affect, but no longer a shell of a person.
Jack eyed him now, asleep in a clean bed, fresh bandages wrapped around his wrists.
A heavy rain fell over the hospital that morning, lulling Jack into drowsiness. Little sheets of rain from the window outside reflected over his face.
Kloppman's shadow passed over him, jolting him awake. Jack's expression displayed pure shock at the sight of Kloppman standing over him. He stared at Kloppman for a long time, unsure if he was dreaming.
"What are you doing here?" Jack whispered.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Kloppman replied, keeping his voice as quiet as Jack's. "I got here an hour ago. The doctor said I had to wait out there, but I needed to check on you."
Jack just stared at him. Slowly propping himself up in bed, he looked toward the door. "Dr. Fuller?"
"That's right."
Jack tried to roll over a bit but winced, clearly still in pain.
"Are you hungry? Maybe you should eat something," Kloppman offered. "They let me bring you soup. Hold on…"
Kloppman walked around the bed, grabbing a small bowl of soup he left on the small end table and handed it to Jack.
"Thank you," Jack mumbled.
He sat up further, still staring in disbelief at Kloppman. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to wake up. In the Refuge, a part of him thought he'd never see Kloppman again.
"I thought you wanted nothing to do with me," Jack said after a beat.
Kloppman looked a bit taken aback, as if he didn't expect Jack to say that. "I never said that," Kloppman replied. "You did a bad thing. That doesn't make you a bad person."
"Not a bad person?" Jack repeated. "I stole your money to buy laudanum. That's something a bad person would do."
"Well that aside," Kloppman said with a low sigh, "you didn't deserve…this."
"Maybe I did deserve it."
Kloppman shot him a sideways look. "Who told you that?"
Jack didn't speak for a moment.
"You know, when you got sent up, I did everything I could to get you out," Kloppman admitted. "Ellen kept reminding me you were fine, that you were always a brave young man. And the charities I talked to spoke so highly of the Refuge. They said it was the best reformatory in the east," Kloppman let out a disdainful breath. "Reformatory..."
Jack listened, his face unreadable, his eyes unfocused.
"But looking at you now," Kloppman went on, "good God, how wrong I was. How foolish I was to believe it. Jack, I didn't mean to let you down."
"You didn't. I'm fine."
"You've always been good at that," Kloppman shook his head, looking away.
"At what?"
"Oh, hiding your feelings. Pretending you're untouchable. You've done that since you first came to the lodging house."
Jack paused, as if he'd never given it much thought. "Not always."
Kloppman nodded, taking it in. Jack shifted in discomfort.
"I was a lot like you," Kloppman admitted. "When I was your age, that is."
"You were like me?"
"I didn't feel like I deserved love, or help, or whatever it is we need to live," Kloppman continued. "I pushed everyone away. Went through life's worst battles alone. All the emptiness you feel, I know it well."
Jack was expressionless for a long time, until out of nowhere, he began to cry, completely confusing Kloppman.
"Jack," Kloppman breathed, horrified by the image before him. "What happened in there? I'm not moving until I get an answer."
Jack just stared through his tears, barely able to speak. Kloppman looked so concerned, not knowing what to say exactly.
"Jack, talk to me," Kloppman continued, echoing Sophie's pleas in Jack's mind. "What have they done to you?"
Silence passed with Kloppman totally frozen as Jack gradually seemed to regain himself. His hand fell along the top of the bed, with Kloppman's eyes looking toward it. Neither of them said a word. Jack sniffled, staring off.
Kloppman's compassionate eyes began to well, and he reached over on instinct to gently hold Jack's hand.
In a spontaneous, knee jerk reaction, Jack immediately yanked his hand away.
Kloppman was about to say something before a nurse walked in. "We must let the boys rest now," the nurse said, looking toward Kloppman suspiciously.
"I'll be right outside," Kloppman assured Jack, moving to pat his shoulder when Jack visibly cringed and pulled away out of habit. This did not go unnoticed by Kloppman. The old man was shocked and speechless and deeply uncomfortable.
Jack looked a bit disappointed. "Kloppman," he whispered.
Kloppman looked down at him.
"Will you tell Sophie where I am?" Jack said softly.
"Would you like me to?"
Jack nodded shakily. "Yeah."
Kloppman gave him a sad smile.
Jack gradually laid his hand back down. Slowly, tentatively, he inched his burned and bruised fingers across the fabric to touch the edges of Kloppman's frail ones. Without looking, Kloppman too gradually allowed his hand to hold Jack's, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Jack watched him leave, already feeling quite alone again.
With his head sideways on the pillow, Jack's eyes flickered across the room where the nurse was straightening Alexei's sheets. Jack watched for a moment, oddly fascinated. The nurse turned and Jack looked away immediately.
"Try to get some sleep," the nurse advised.
"I can't."
The nurse huffed. "Well, you look better now than you did earlier. How are you feeling?"
"Good, I think."
"Are you in any pain?"
Jack didn't reply.
"Do you want me to help you change out of your underclothes? You've been wearing them for a few days," the nurse continued.
Jack suddenly appeared panicked. It was a strange question that he wasn't quite sure how to respond to. "Oh, um, that's okay, I can manage."
A look of understanding flashed in the nurse's face, and she nodded, seeming guilty. She went to a closet to find a fresh cotton undershirt and long johns, and then handed them to Jack.
Jack slid off the old long underwear and put on the new pair all beneath the sheets. He turned his back, and did the same with his undershirt, displaying the amount of bruises and scars along his torso. "How did you get those?" The nurse asked after a moment of silence.
Jack looked caught off guard and more than a little embarrassed, still in the process of putting on the new undershirt.
"I apologize, you don't have to talk about it just now," the nurse said hurriedly. She sat on the edge of his bed.
"It's okay," Jack replied. "They don't hurt much."
The nurse just looked at him curiously. "But they must've at one point."
Jack was speechless for a moment. Had they? He couldn't even remember. "Yeah, probably."
"I didn't mean to upset you-"
"You didn't. I'm...still sort of...processing all this," Jack replied weakly, looking around the room. "I've never stayed somewhere so..."
"Clean?" The nurse guessed.
Jack looked at the floor for a moment and then back up at the nurse. "Kind."