Chapter 13
Brooklyn, December, 1903
He hadn't expected Kate to reach out to him in any meaningful way for quite some time following his first sincere apology. Truthfully, he had prepared himself for months of easing back into her good graces, of proving himself worthy of her trust and care again.
And he had been willing to put that time in, knowing full well how impatient he was—how overwhelmed and frustrated he would most likely feel on a weekly basis. Because she was worth it. And he had let her down too many times to count—had hurt her in ways that a person who claimed to care for her should never have even considered.
But most importantly, he'd wait for however long it took because of those eleven days she had been gone. Those had been long, dark hours in a world—a reality—where she had nearly not existed anymore.
And that had been just long enough for him to fully understand the soul-crushing, hollow anguish that was left in her absence.
Spot stared down into the glass of amber colored whiskey before him, the few gas lanterns still burning within Mary's kitchen and living room alighting the liquid with a dull shimmer. It was late—nearly two in the morning, but no matter how many times Spot had tossed and turned on the living room couch—his make-shift bed as of the last several months— he had been unable to quiet his thoughts and settle his body. He and Kate's conversation on the roof had been replaying incessantly within him since it had transpired, a backdrop of emotional turmoil and guilt that had left him troubled, but also, strangely wanting.
Because even as she had screamed at him in the cold dusk, calling him every ugly name she could think of—every awful thing that he had been to her—he hadn't been able to stop himself from relishing in the connection with her, no matter the source. It was something that she had been denying him for so long. And as much as he knew he most likely didn't deserve even her anger, that one interaction had left him craving more.
So much more, he felt like he might go mad with the surging longing that developed shortly thereafter.
Of course, she had done better in acknowledging him over the last week with simple greetings, and polite conversation. But in some ways, it made the ache within his body that much worse. Because they weren't mere acquaintances, and she had never subjected him to idle chatter, and bullshit banter before. He knew her, he had been privy to her innermost thoughts, to the feel of her body next to his. To her horrible jokes, and easy affection. To her trust.
He had even at one time had her love.
But now, all he had was a tiny sliver of hope. That maybe, just maybe, Kate would one day see him as the man she had so openly allowed into her life once before. And with that, everything else—trust, affection, horrible jokes, and all—would naturally follow.
Not this. This drinking alone in the middle of the night, ruing his short-sightedness and pride. Though he had to admit, the two A.M. whiskey shots were offering some reprieve from the mounting insomnia and frustration. Even if he most likely would have to come up with better options soon.
But just as he took another healthy swig from his glass, wondering if this serving would finally do the trick and allow him a few hours' rest, his eyes widened in disbelief.
He heard the slow creaking of his bedroom door opening before he saw the old wooden frame push ajar in the darkness a few feet beyond the living room. Then the flash of a white nightgown and the hesitant shuffle of bare feet within the hallway followed. And there they paced for the next several minutes, unsure and anxious. He sat still, skeptical himself of what he should do—how he should react to Kate's unexpected, almost dream-like presence.
But before he had a chance to make any sort of decision, there she was. As if she had just appeared there, standing before him on the opposite side of the dining room table. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her white nightgown hanging loosely on her too thin frame and her eyes squinting worried and avoidant. He noted how his chest tightened in both apprehension and desire. Because as tired and disheveled as she looked, as ill-fitting and worn as her nightgown was—as chaotic as the curls that hung in her face and rounded just below her jaw were, he was still utterly in awe of her rawness. Her unapologetic, honest humanity.
Her intangible beauty.
"A twilight breakfast of cigarettes and whiskey, huh? Mind if I join?" she whispered, a half-smile flashing on her face as she met his surprised stare.
"I think we could set you up with a better meal," he replied gently, finally recovering from his shock. "But I wouldn't mind the company."
She sat somewhat awkwardly in the chair opposite him, folding her hands atop the table, her eyes darting anywhere but his. He noted her clenching hands, her knuckles turning an eerie shade of white on her already pale skin as she seemed to be working through something she wanted to say.
"Couldn't sleep?" he attempted, deftly rolling a new cigarette, puffing once from it, and then passing it to Kate.
She nodded in thanks, her trembling hand accepting the smoke, their eyes both meeting and widening when their fingers momentarily brushed together. But she quickly recovered, turning away as she shakily inhaled from the cigarette.
"I feel like I haven't really slept in years," she murmured, laughing hollowly to herself. "But now—" she grimaced, her lips quivering as smoke slowly seeped out of her mouth. "I'd take a shitty night's sleep over whatever the hell this is any day. I didn't know it could get worse than the nightmares I used to have—I didn't—"
She cut herself off, shaking her head and closing her eyes tightly for a moment, as if pulling her sudden vulnerable words back within and clamping down on them tightly, lest she accidentally allow herself another free moment to just be.
To be Kate—the girl he so desperately wanted to talk to, to touch. To help.
Her eyes opened again, red-rimmed and darkened as she stared at him. "Why can't you sleep?"
He sighed, taking a quick sip of his drink before meeting her gaze. "Are we tradin' questions right now?"
A small smirk appeared on her lips as she shrugged, blowing out smoke a little less erratically. "Sure."
And after a heavy sigh and a few moments' pause, he muttered, "Because I'm a bastard." He ran a hand through his hair as he saw her brows knit together in question. "Because I lied to you, about a lot of things. And now—" he huffed, shaking his head in frustration. "And now here we are. And I fuckin' hate it."
She nodded, inhaling slowly from her cigarette, her eyes distant and somewhat disturbed. He saw the same tremor pass through her hand once more as he gently added, "My turn then."
He waited for her dark gaze to turn his way, and once he had secured her slow nod, he posed, "Why can't you sleep tonight?"
She licked her lips after taking one last drag off her dwindling smoke, passing it to Spot to put out in his now empty glass of whiskey. And then her face paled, her head turning to the side as she murmured, "I can't stop hearing the water. The lapping at the deep part of the docks on the river."
Spot's eyes involuntarily narrowed at her words, confusion and concern filling his chest. But he remained silent as he saw her bite her lip, her eyes searching the wall behind him. "I knew you said all those terrible things to me because I hurt you. I—I betrayed you and you were angry. I lied to you. Over and over again for months. About everything—absolutely everything."
Her eyes caught his shocked stare only momentarily, a tear overflowing from the well of her eyelid and traveling slowly down her cheek before she looked away again. "I knew you didn't love me. Because—really—what the hell do two people like us know about love anyway?" she smirked sadly, shaking her head. "But I—I kept thinking that if I could just—just finish this one last thing. Just live through this last bit of what I had to do and finally be free of…of him forever. Then maybe, just…maybe…I could come back and—and finally tell you the truth. About everything."
More tears spilled down her face, her lips quivering a little more forcefully as she sniffed in, attempting to better contain her emotions. But all Spot could do was stare on, seemingly frozen in a moment he wasn't sure he was comprehending at all.
She shook her head, passing a hand over her face. "Because if I did that, then maybe we—we could fix things—and—and finally both start telling each other the truth. Fill in all the holes we had purposefully left in our stories. All the things that we—that we had left unsaid."
She paused, finally raising her pained gaze to meet his. "But for that to happen, I had to make sure he never knew who you were—never found out about you. And then I had to stay alive through that—that one last thing."
"You did, though" Spot said before he even realized the words had formed within his head. "You're alive right now, Kate. You survived. And I'm safe. So…" he paused searching her tearful gaze. "Can we start to fix this?"
But more tears dripped down her cheeks, her face remaining unchanged. "It's not your turn," she whispered, her eyes falling away from his.
She wiped her face roughly with her palms, standing and grabbing his whiskey glass as she moved toward the kitchen. "So, here's my question. A simple one—wanna have one last glass of whiskey with me?"
"Okay," he muttered, not following her abrupt change in subject. He watched her momentarily as she placed his old cup in the sink, opening up a few cabinets, glass clinking against glass before she returned with two full cups of amber liquid.
She took a large gulp from her glass, shuddering somewhat as she swallowed. "Your question then."
He stared hard at her, steadily reiterating, "Can we start to fix this?" He tipped back his own drink as she mulled over his question. "Kate, you said you were planning to come back and tell me everything if you made it through—if I was okay and you made it through. So, here we are now. Why can't we just start with that?"
But his stomach began to rapidly sink as her head slowly shook in dissent. Her hands shakily brought her glass to her lips as she took one swig. And then a few heftier swallows before taking a deep breath.
"Because I—I made a mistake. A really really horrible mistake, Spot. I—I didn't think—I didn't—didn't see—I didn't—when I—I went to Manhattan that—that morning," she whispered, almost choking on her words as her eyes darkened even further in haunted panic. "And then—then everything went off the rails."
Her eyes were wide as more tears fell onto her face, her body shaking as she drank another large mouthful. She studied him for a moment before posing, almost desperately, "So, now you see, don't you? How it's not about fixing anything with us—with you and me? Because of—of that day. Of everything—all the things that went wrong. Because of me."
His chest tightened in greater concern as he saw her body tremble even more violently, her arms wrapping tightly around her thin form when she choked back a sob, murmuring, "And now all I can hear is the water—the water lapping behind Julia's voice. Every day. Every night. Every hour—every goddamn minute. All the fucking time. All the time, Spot. All the….fucking…time…all...the...time..."
Spot stood worriedly, making his way over to kneel beside her. But before she devolved into the panicked sobbing that he was certain was about to all but explode from within her, she grabbed her head with her hands and forcefully pushed her fingers into her scalp until she regained control of her breathing.
Then she lifted her head, her eyes—now substantially less chaotic—meeting his still troubled ones. "My turn," she whispered, the ghost of a smile that appeared on her lips not reaching her eyes. "It's not fair of me to ask this, but," she took a deep breath and exhaled warm whiskey with a hint of smoke back out. "I don't want to be alone tonight. Will you—will you stay with me? Please?"
Her eyes were pleading with him, desperation creasing within her face. And as much as he had wanted to revel in the fact that she had just uttered the words he had been longing to hear for weeks now—to just focus on all the things she was saying and doing that he had considered only slim possibilities hours before, there was a knot in his stomach—a feeling he could not shake.
That Katherine Moore was not at all ok.
But all his insomnia and alcohol addled brain could think to do was to stay with her—keep her safe for the night at the very least. Then deal more seriously with the strange nagging feeling in his gut after a few hours' sleep.
So, he nodded slowly in response, offering his hands to aid her in standing. And they quietly meandered back into his room as he clicked the door closed softly behind them. Kate silently went to the bed, lying down on her back to the far side by the wall. Then she turned her head expectantly toward his still form.
But he stood near the door, deep in another strange thought that had suddenly occurred to him.
Kate had said a lot of things to him in the dining room over the last half hour, but everything had been indistinct, nonspecific. Everything except for one detail—one name. A person she hadn't mentioned in months and months. Someone he had been too fearful to bring up for the triggering effect they could have on Kate's nightmares and panic episodes.
The one person he had sought out when Kate had gone missing but had never been able to find.
His eyes found hers in the darkness as he went to sit down beside her form on the bed, quietly posing, "Kate, do—do you know where Julia is?"
Her face paled immediately, her eyes seeming to contract in sudden, intense pain. And just as Spot laid down next to her, gently taking her hand in preparation for the apology on the tip of his tongue, she shakily whispered, "No. Not anymore. We-we missed lost causes day this year."
And that was all she said about it.
He didn't press her further either. He simply pulled her back against him, wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and covered them both with the blankets lining the edge of the bed.
He hadn't pushed her or insisted upon answers about anything she had said to him. None of the strange, disturbing things she had brought up. Not one of the topics she had evaded. And as Spot had sat up suddenly in a panicked sweat hours later, seeing both the empty space next to him in the bed and the horrible sleet storm raging on outside, he knew he had made a huge—perhaps irreparable—mistake.
"Fuck," he muttered, holding his head as he stumbled out of the bed, noting in heightened distress that the open drawers of his dresser were missing a pair of his trousers and a shirt, and his hat no longer sat on the hallway hutch.
As he clumsily plodded into the kitchen and living room area, looking for any sign of her, his hazy stare caught something else wholly alarming. Their glasses of whiskey still sat atop the table from the night before, her nearly empty glass shining light amber, but his half-drunk one a much darker, muddier color. He ran a hand down his face as he made his way to the table, lifting the glass and sniffing it.
He groaned as the bitter smell of laudanum clashed unpleasantly with the normal spice of the whiskey.
She had spiked his drink. She had fucking drugged him.
What the hell was she thinking? What could she possibly be hoping to do—to accomplish with this set up?
He sat in the chair, running his hands through his hair as he tried to muddle through her actions the night before, slowly and coherently.
She had been acting strangely—vacillating between two versions of herself that he had barely been able to keep up with. She had been too erratic, too avoidant. She had said important things, but in strangely concocted riddles that he knew no one was meant to understand, especially not him. She had been so angry with him not even a few days before, needing more time to sort through her thoughts and feelings on everything, but now, suddenly, she could put it aside for a night?
And then his heart nearly stopped in his chest.
She had shared one last cigarette with him. One last drink.
One last night.
"Oh my God," he whispered, feeling suddenly sick to his stomach.
She had been telling him that she was starting to remember the pieces—that they were coming to her, bit by bit. But she wasn't putting them back together. She wasn't facing them or building herself back up. And she had been admitting to him that she wasn't going to.
So, she was saying goodbye instead.
He looked toward the clock in the living room, a cold sweat building all over his body. It was just past six-thirty in the evening and for once he was fucking grateful he hadn't finished his whole glass of whiskey.
How long had she been gone? And more importantly—where the hell was she going?
He pushed himself up, trying his hardest to ignore the dizzying effect that the drug still had on him. He could hear Mary's voice downstairs, most likely directing the younger boys to get a move on for the evening edition, but he was hopeful that he could still snag a few of the older ones left in the bunkroom who had made enough earlier on in the day.
He made his way out of the apartment, across the landing and somewhat haphazardly into the bunkroom, steadying himself against the wall behind him.
"Oy!" he said a little more loudly than he intended, holding his spinning head in his hand.
He saw four surprised stares turning toward him, knowing full well the right mess he must look. But he ignored their expressions of worry, stating quickly, "I need some help, boys. I know you got sellin', but I'll wave your lodgin' house fees for the rest of the week if you're able to swing it."
"Yeah a' course, Spot," a brawny fifteen-year-old named Boxer, the appointed leader of sorts, immediately volunteered, shooting looks at the other three boys in turn. "Whatcha got for us?"
"It's a sensitive subject," he said sternly, his eyes icily meeting all four boys' with a threatening edge that secured quick assertions of understanding.
"You got a Brooklyn lock an' key on it, boss," Boxer said solemnly as the other boys murmured in agreement.
"Good," Spot muttered, sighing. "Alright. You know the girl stayin' with me an' Mary—Katherine?"
He ran a hand through his hair as he noted their nods. "Well, it ain't nobody's business, but she's been through some real bad shit lately. And she was holdin' it together, but—but she—" Spot searched for the words, a terror building in his chest as the actuality of what was going on became that much more real just by saying it aloud.
"She's trapped down in that deep pit ain't nobody gets out of by themselves," Flit offered quietly, eyes strangely knowing.
Spot nodded, pushing down the raging wave of fear and sickness threatening to take over him. "So, I need help pullin' her out." All four boys appeared thankfully empathic about what he had shared. Or at the very least, concerned about his feelings on it.
"I think she left this mornin'. Flit, I need you to check in with all the birds an' see if they've seen 'er. Tell 'em she's wearin' my brown pants and blue shirt and hat. Boxer, I need you to run over to Rummy's and tell 'im what happened. He'll know what ta do. Tops, check with your contacts on the Queens border. Give 'em the description and see if anyone's seen anything. And Alby, I need you to check the docks and the beach by the East River. Every nook and cranny you can think of."
Each newsie shook with Spot as they headed out to complete their tasks, Boxer pausing momentarily to add, "We'll find 'er, Conlon. We'll spread the word as fast as possible."
Spot smiled sadly as he thanked the younger boy. And when the door to the bunkroom clicked closed and he stood there, alone once more, he could feel his legs slowly giving out from under him until he had slid onto the floor, a sweaty, shaking mess.
This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be opting for this. She was strong—stronger than anyone else he had ever known. She had made it through months of painful recovery, of withdrawal from an opiate. She had survived years of neglect and cruelty at the hands of the people that should have cared for her the most. She had always struggled, but she had also always persevered.
So, what was different this time? What had pushed her over the edge?
He thought again on all the things she had said the night before. The strange wording she had used to describe the day she had been taken and the bothersome noises that kept her up at night.
"…the water lapping behind Julia's voice…"
And when he had asked her about Julia…she had said she didn't know where she was. But she had mentioned something else too. Something that didn't make sense.
"…we missed lost causes day this year…"
And that made Spot stand up suddenly, dizzy but also purposeful.
"Holy shit," he breathed as he rushed clumsily back to the apartment to throw some clothes on before heading out again.
He actually might know where Kate was going after all.
But getting there would be no easy feat. Especially because Kate was the only one who had been there sober before.
He frowned, buttoning up his shirt, his thoughts becoming exceedingly more worrisome as every second passed. If that was really where she was intending to go, trapped in the current dark spiral she was in, then she was in a far more dangerous state than he had initially thought.
A precarious edge for her to be off balance on, with only him to convince her that she could trust everything was going to be okay. That he was going to help her make it okay.
Well, that just what he would fucking do then.
And as he pulled on his jacket, hurrying down the back exit of the lodging house and out into the cold, he yanked out the saint medallion that he always wore from beneath his shirt, saying a short, pleading prayer before kissing the metal pendant and then hurrying off into the gray dusk.