1 Chapter 3
"Is 'e dead?" Runt asked, staring at Specs' prostrate body.
"'Course not, silly, he's just sleepin'!" Dizzy replied, kicking Specs hard in the ribs.
Specs groaned and grabbed his side, rubbing it where Dizzy had kicked him. "What'd you do that for?" he muttered sleepily. Sleeping on the roof in the cold never gets one a goodnight's rest.
"Ya fell asleep up heah," Runt stated, "And we's come up heah ta wake ya up. So wake up!"
"Ok, ok, ok. You two are one lousy excuse for a rooster, you know that?" he snorted.
"What's dat s'posedta mean?" Runt inquired.
"Don't worry about it," Specs grumbled. He ruffled his hair until it stood nearly on end, and forced himself off the ground. Runt clambered onto Specs' shoulders, causing the older boy to let out a stifled groan. "You puttin' on pounds, kiddo?"
"I shoah hope so! It ain't easy bein' so gall durn liddle," Runt chirped.
"Hey, shouldn't you be in Brooklyn?" Specs said suddenly, as Runt snatched his hat and put it on his own head.
"Nah, Skip's here," he said, as the hat fell down over his eyes.
Specs sighed. "Yeah, but does she know you're here?" he asked, setting Runt on the ground, and taking his hat back. From the guilty look on Runt's face, he could tell that she didn't know.
Runt bit his lip and shuffled his feet. "No. But I'll go tell 'er now," he muttered, and scampered downstairs.
"Tell me I wasn't that much trouble, El," Dizzy said, breaking her former silence.
"I could, but I'd be lying."
"Oh come on. No way I caused as much trouble as the 'Little Terror of Brooklyn,' there." She cocked an eyebrow at her brother.
"Ok, so you weren't quite as bad. But you also weren't a little boy growing up in Brooklyn under the supervision of Spot Conlon."
Dizzy rolled her eyes at Specs. He laughed suspiciously, and threw her over his shoulder.
"Hey!" she squealed in protest. "So Tara's forgotten?" she asked. It was obviously the last thing Specs wanted to be asked about.
Setting Dizzy back on the ground, Specs grunted in response. "Don't want to talk about it."
"Don't tell me you're still heading out to the docks," she said, a hint of warning in her voice.
"Shut your face. You wouldn't understand. You're too young," Specs spat in a gruff tone he rarely used.
Offended by his remark, Dizzy huffed, and said a terse, "It's no wonder she left you, Elliot McPherson. You're a horrible pain," before exiting hastily.
"Wait, Dani…" Specs called after her halfheartedly. Her words stung like salt in a cut, but he hadn't meant to upset her so much. It wasn't like him to speak harshly to Danielle, and conversely, it wasn't like her to snap at him.
Mulling over these thoughts, Specs sat on the very edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side, elbows resting on his knees, and hands entwined in his hair.
"DON'T JUMP!" a voice shouted from the roof access door.
Specs nearly jumped out of his skin at that, scarcely holding on to the mortar beneath him. He looked back. Racetrack. If there was one thing he could do without right now, it was the antics of that particular Italian. His good humor wasn't conducive to brooding. Sighing loudly, Specs said dully, "Wasn't going to."
"Just makin' shoa. Didn't take ya for a jumper, anyway. Too easy," he said.
Specs rolled his eyes. "That's some sense of humor, Race. Mock my pain, will you?" he sighed, throwing his legs back on solid ground, and facing his offender.
Race scowled. "Just tryin' ta cheer ya up, ya bum. Don't hafta bite my head off," he said, slightly hurt. He was, after all, just trying to make Specs feel better. Laughter's the best medicine, isn't it? Or was the appropriate turn of phrase "time heals all wounds"? At any rate, it was too complicated for Race to want to deal with. There were papes to be sold, and horses to be bet upon. He turned on his heels, and went back into the lodging house.
Specs sighed heavily. He hadn't really meant to scare Race away. He didn't even really want to be alone anymore. And maybe, if Tara showed up, he wouldn't have to be. He sprung to his feet, showered hurriedly, and set off for the Brooklyn docks.
*******
Runt ambled around the lodging house, half looking for his sister, Skip, and half looking for an opportunity to cause some trouble. He wandered into the girl's washroom, and was immediately pelted by bars of soap and thrown out by his collar by one of the older girls.
"What?" he said innocently. "I w's just lookin' fer Skip." He giggled as he descended the stairs to the main sitting room. Skip was sitting on a ratty old couch, having an animated discussion with Dodger about baseball.
"Baseball's noffin' compared te' rugby," she said, pounding her fist on the table.
"Baseball takes skill, finesse. As I understand it, rugby is just burly, sweaty men, fighting over an oblong ball," he retorted.
"Baseball's fer little girls," Skip snorted. She looked up, and saw Runt. "What in the name a God's green earth are you doin' here? Thought I toldja ter go back with Smoke an' th' rest?"
"Ya did. I din't want to," he said. "I like it here."
Skip rolled her eyes. "Ye like it here b'cause there's new thing's fer ya to get in trouble fer. Come on, I'll be takin' ye home now. An' don' think yer gettin' off the hook on this baseball business, Dodger," she said, her Irish brogue carrying a slightly threatening tone. Dodger sighed, and slightly grimaced.
Runt snorted a quick laugh. As he did so, a folded piece of paper fell from his shirt pocket. Skip noticed it, and picked it up. "What's this then?" she asked, holding the paper in his face.
Runt's jaw dropped. It was Specs' letter. He'd been too wrapped up in the fact that someone gave him an important task that he simply forgot to carry it out. 'Now y' know why they dunna trust you,' he chided himself.
He looked up helplessly at Skip. Skip read his face like she read a book. "The letter. Oh faith an' begora, tell me tha' t'isn't Specs' letter," she pleaded in a hushed voice.
Runt chewed on his lower lip. He couldn't bring himself to actually say the words. He nodded.
Skip's face fell. Her face paled, making her freckles stand out twice as much as usual. Her voice dropped to less than a whisper. "Ye know wha' ye must do. Go. Find Tara now. Give her tha' letter," she said, crouching so her face was level with his.
Runt took the letter from her hands, and sprinted out the door. Skip tried to regain some composure, and made a hasty exit a few moments later. Dodger eyed them both strangely, and decided that he would find out what had the O'Gradys in such a tizzy.
*******
Plunk.
Plunk.
Plunk.
It seemed utterly fitting to Specs that he should be tossing rocks into the river, as they sunk like his spirits with the passing minutes. Half an hour he had been sitting on Pier 13. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
Not a soul that passed even vaguely resembled Tara. Tara with her golden, flowing hair, that curled in delicious tendrils as it lay perfectly on her shoulders. Her immaculate, pale skin, without blemish or scar. Her soothing blue pools of eyes he could gaze into for hours. Her full, pouting lips, once eager for the touch of his. Her slight figure, from her slender legs to her round, pert bre-
"Elliot!"
He looked around angrily at the culprit who tore him from the flight of his imagination. "Scott," he said, drolly.
Smoke ran to the edge of the dock, where Specs was seated, trying to catch his breath. "El. Don't. Do. This." Huff, huff, huff. "You." Huff. "Deserve better." Huff, huff.
"If you must lecture me, don't lecture me one word at a time, Scott," Specs deadpanned.
"Someone hasn't lost his bitter sense of humor, has he?" Smoke retorted.
"Spare me your 'clever' comments," Specs snapped.
"Look what she's done to you, Elliot. She's turned you into a brooding, cranky prat that no one wants to be around. If you aren't careful, you might burn some important bridges," he warned.
"How would you know how it feels? You don't. You can't. I loved her, Scott. Love. Can you say you've loved anyone besides yourself?" Specs growled, dangerously serious.
"If you think what you had with Tara was love, than you've got an even more skewed definition of love than I do. You're like a brother to me, and Danielle, a sister. What I feel for you is a kind of love. It's true. It's not sullied with lies, selfishness or deceit, and if you can't see that, then we've no business together."
"You can't possibly be giving me an ultimatum. I will not choose between my best friend and true love."
"If you'd only come to your senses, you'd see that what you shared with Tara was not true love, but true infatuation. She merely tired of it before you did. It was fun while it lasted. Now pack up your emotional baggage, and get on with your life, as she's obviously already done." He put his hand on Specs' shoulder, who was no longer facing him.
A single tear ran down Specs' cheek to his chin, where it hung for a moment, until dropping into the river. He removed his glasses, and wiped his reddening eyes with the corner of his shirt. He turned around to face Smoke.
"Is 'e dead?" Runt asked, staring at Specs' prostrate body.
"'Course not, silly, he's just sleepin'!" Dizzy replied, kicking Specs hard in the ribs.
Specs groaned and grabbed his side, rubbing it where Dizzy had kicked him. "What'd you do that for?" he muttered sleepily. Sleeping on the roof in the cold never gets one a goodnight's rest.
"Ya fell asleep up heah," Runt stated, "And we's come up heah ta wake ya up. So wake up!"
"Ok, ok, ok. You two are one lousy excuse for a rooster, you know that?" he snorted.
"What's dat s'posedta mean?" Runt inquired.
"Don't worry about it," Specs grumbled. He ruffled his hair until it stood nearly on end, and forced himself off the ground. Runt clambered onto Specs' shoulders, causing the older boy to let out a stifled groan. "You puttin' on pounds, kiddo?"
"I shoah hope so! It ain't easy bein' so gall durn liddle," Runt chirped.
"Hey, shouldn't you be in Brooklyn?" Specs said suddenly, as Runt snatched his hat and put it on his own head.
"Nah, Skip's here," he said, as the hat fell down over his eyes.
Specs sighed. "Yeah, but does she know you're here?" he asked, setting Runt on the ground, and taking his hat back. From the guilty look on Runt's face, he could tell that she didn't know.
Runt bit his lip and shuffled his feet. "No. But I'll go tell 'er now," he muttered, and scampered downstairs.
"Tell me I wasn't that much trouble, El," Dizzy said, breaking her former silence.
"I could, but I'd be lying."
"Oh come on. No way I caused as much trouble as the 'Little Terror of Brooklyn,' there." She cocked an eyebrow at her brother.
"Ok, so you weren't quite as bad. But you also weren't a little boy growing up in Brooklyn under the supervision of Spot Conlon."
Dizzy rolled her eyes at Specs. He laughed suspiciously, and threw her over his shoulder.
"Hey!" she squealed in protest. "So Tara's forgotten?" she asked. It was obviously the last thing Specs wanted to be asked about.
Setting Dizzy back on the ground, Specs grunted in response. "Don't want to talk about it."
"Don't tell me you're still heading out to the docks," she said, a hint of warning in her voice.
"Shut your face. You wouldn't understand. You're too young," Specs spat in a gruff tone he rarely used.
Offended by his remark, Dizzy huffed, and said a terse, "It's no wonder she left you, Elliot McPherson. You're a horrible pain," before exiting hastily.
"Wait, Dani…" Specs called after her halfheartedly. Her words stung like salt in a cut, but he hadn't meant to upset her so much. It wasn't like him to speak harshly to Danielle, and conversely, it wasn't like her to snap at him.
Mulling over these thoughts, Specs sat on the very edge of the roof, his legs dangling over the side, elbows resting on his knees, and hands entwined in his hair.
"DON'T JUMP!" a voice shouted from the roof access door.
Specs nearly jumped out of his skin at that, scarcely holding on to the mortar beneath him. He looked back. Racetrack. If there was one thing he could do without right now, it was the antics of that particular Italian. His good humor wasn't conducive to brooding. Sighing loudly, Specs said dully, "Wasn't going to."
"Just makin' shoa. Didn't take ya for a jumper, anyway. Too easy," he said.
Specs rolled his eyes. "That's some sense of humor, Race. Mock my pain, will you?" he sighed, throwing his legs back on solid ground, and facing his offender.
Race scowled. "Just tryin' ta cheer ya up, ya bum. Don't hafta bite my head off," he said, slightly hurt. He was, after all, just trying to make Specs feel better. Laughter's the best medicine, isn't it? Or was the appropriate turn of phrase "time heals all wounds"? At any rate, it was too complicated for Race to want to deal with. There were papes to be sold, and horses to be bet upon. He turned on his heels, and went back into the lodging house.
Specs sighed heavily. He hadn't really meant to scare Race away. He didn't even really want to be alone anymore. And maybe, if Tara showed up, he wouldn't have to be. He sprung to his feet, showered hurriedly, and set off for the Brooklyn docks.
*******
Runt ambled around the lodging house, half looking for his sister, Skip, and half looking for an opportunity to cause some trouble. He wandered into the girl's washroom, and was immediately pelted by bars of soap and thrown out by his collar by one of the older girls.
"What?" he said innocently. "I w's just lookin' fer Skip." He giggled as he descended the stairs to the main sitting room. Skip was sitting on a ratty old couch, having an animated discussion with Dodger about baseball.
"Baseball's noffin' compared te' rugby," she said, pounding her fist on the table.
"Baseball takes skill, finesse. As I understand it, rugby is just burly, sweaty men, fighting over an oblong ball," he retorted.
"Baseball's fer little girls," Skip snorted. She looked up, and saw Runt. "What in the name a God's green earth are you doin' here? Thought I toldja ter go back with Smoke an' th' rest?"
"Ya did. I din't want to," he said. "I like it here."
Skip rolled her eyes. "Ye like it here b'cause there's new thing's fer ya to get in trouble fer. Come on, I'll be takin' ye home now. An' don' think yer gettin' off the hook on this baseball business, Dodger," she said, her Irish brogue carrying a slightly threatening tone. Dodger sighed, and slightly grimaced.
Runt snorted a quick laugh. As he did so, a folded piece of paper fell from his shirt pocket. Skip noticed it, and picked it up. "What's this then?" she asked, holding the paper in his face.
Runt's jaw dropped. It was Specs' letter. He'd been too wrapped up in the fact that someone gave him an important task that he simply forgot to carry it out. 'Now y' know why they dunna trust you,' he chided himself.
He looked up helplessly at Skip. Skip read his face like she read a book. "The letter. Oh faith an' begora, tell me tha' t'isn't Specs' letter," she pleaded in a hushed voice.
Runt chewed on his lower lip. He couldn't bring himself to actually say the words. He nodded.
Skip's face fell. Her face paled, making her freckles stand out twice as much as usual. Her voice dropped to less than a whisper. "Ye know wha' ye must do. Go. Find Tara now. Give her tha' letter," she said, crouching so her face was level with his.
Runt took the letter from her hands, and sprinted out the door. Skip tried to regain some composure, and made a hasty exit a few moments later. Dodger eyed them both strangely, and decided that he would find out what had the O'Gradys in such a tizzy.
*******
Plunk.
Plunk.
Plunk.
It seemed utterly fitting to Specs that he should be tossing rocks into the river, as they sunk like his spirits with the passing minutes. Half an hour he had been sitting on Pier 13. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.
Not a soul that passed even vaguely resembled Tara. Tara with her golden, flowing hair, that curled in delicious tendrils as it lay perfectly on her shoulders. Her immaculate, pale skin, without blemish or scar. Her soothing blue pools of eyes he could gaze into for hours. Her full, pouting lips, once eager for the touch of his. Her slight figure, from her slender legs to her round, pert bre-
"Elliot!"
He looked around angrily at the culprit who tore him from the flight of his imagination. "Scott," he said, drolly.
Smoke ran to the edge of the dock, where Specs was seated, trying to catch his breath. "El. Don't. Do. This." Huff, huff, huff. "You." Huff. "Deserve better." Huff, huff.
"If you must lecture me, don't lecture me one word at a time, Scott," Specs deadpanned.
"Someone hasn't lost his bitter sense of humor, has he?" Smoke retorted.
"Spare me your 'clever' comments," Specs snapped.
"Look what she's done to you, Elliot. She's turned you into a brooding, cranky prat that no one wants to be around. If you aren't careful, you might burn some important bridges," he warned.
"How would you know how it feels? You don't. You can't. I loved her, Scott. Love. Can you say you've loved anyone besides yourself?" Specs growled, dangerously serious.
"If you think what you had with Tara was love, than you've got an even more skewed definition of love than I do. You're like a brother to me, and Danielle, a sister. What I feel for you is a kind of love. It's true. It's not sullied with lies, selfishness or deceit, and if you can't see that, then we've no business together."
"You can't possibly be giving me an ultimatum. I will not choose between my best friend and true love."
"If you'd only come to your senses, you'd see that what you shared with Tara was not true love, but true infatuation. She merely tired of it before you did. It was fun while it lasted. Now pack up your emotional baggage, and get on with your life, as she's obviously already done." He put his hand on Specs' shoulder, who was no longer facing him.
A single tear ran down Specs' cheek to his chin, where it hung for a moment, until dropping into the river. He removed his glasses, and wiped his reddening eyes with the corner of his shirt. He turned around to face Smoke.