Next part is up. And Finals are over! Thank you, GOD! You have no idea how
much I have been waiting for this. I need this break! Need! Anyway, here's
the story and I'm working on others.
T.H, I am very glad to hear from you, and I really hope you are not dead, because that would just be weird and a little creepy. Anyway, I can't wait till these ideas start coming again, but now my boyfriend is calling, so I must go.
He awoke to hear a strange click in the door, as the knob turned but did not open. Race was across the room in a flash, yanking on the knob and feeling it refuse to turn.
"Let me out!" he yelled, pounding on the door.
"You will stay in there until you learn some manners!" his Uncle's hard voice came to him through the layer of thick dark wood. For an instant, Race stopped hitting his fist against the door. He was too shocked.
They weren't locking him in! They were not! This was not a prison! They had no right to keep him locked away like this! He began to pound on the door harder, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"Let me out! Ya can't do dis! Ya ain't got no right! Let me out!"
"If you are loud and uncooperative, you will stay in there longer." Race paused, frowning. Then he backed away, letting go, until he heard his Uncle walk away. Then he took a running leap and leapt against the door, throwing all of his light weight against it. The door held, but he did it again, yelling this time.
He pounding on the door, hitting, kicking, pulling, shouting, until his voice was hoarse and he lacked the strength to stand. Instead, he slumped on the floor next to his bed and sighed.
He closed his eyes and laid his head back, feeling helpless and alone. He had lost his friends today, and he had lost his family today as well. They would never look on him as one of them. He would always be that "charity case, that street rat, the boy who would never be like us," that was all.
He glanced outside and saw that it was dark. The sun had set while he attacked the door and he had no light. The light switch was next to the door, but he lacked the energy to get up and turn it on.
As he closed his eyes again, he heard the click in the door and his grandmother entered, holding a plate of soup. She frowned at the darkness and turned on the light, eyeing him sitting on the floor. She set the bowl down on the table and went to him, helping him to his feet. She led him to the desk and handed him a spoon.
"Eat." He dropped it and looked mournfully at the food before him. Any appetite he might have had was gone, and he only stared at the food. She put the spoon back into his hands.
"Eat, for Rosie." She said. That did it, Race took a slow bite, not tasting, only swallowing. But at least he was eating. She sighed and touched his hair, just as his Uncle walked by.
"Mother, leave the boy be." He ordered, walking in for a moment with his keys in his hands. He latched the window and locked it. Race had no reaction, only sipping his soup. Then he motioned for her to leave and she did so, glancing back at the boy as her son closed and locked the door again.
"You will leave the boy alone, mother." He hissed. "He needs to be taught a lesson." She glared at her son, wishing to God her daughter had lived.
"You are teaching him the same thing his father did." She said, and swept off to her own room, leaving her confused son in her wake.
The warm weather faded and the cold air came from the north, causing people to pull their winter coats from the back of their closets, and go about, bundled in scarves and hats, chins pressed firmly against heir chests in attempts to block out the cold.
The first frost came before the door was unlocked, and even then, Race was allowed only to eat in the kitchen, with no contact to the other children, only with the lower servants. Race cared little, keeping his temper that he had never lost, and fighting at any opportunity, perhaps wishing his Uncle would make good his threat and throw him out into the street. But perhaps the old man sensed that was what Race wanted and refused, saying his mother would never allow it.
He could not understand the bond that was growing between them, though he tried to stop it. Forbidding him to even speak to anyone, forbidding them to speak to him, and yet still she defied him. but she was his mother and there was little he could do. He still honored her. For traditions sake, if not his own.
Race closed his eyes that night, not wanting to see the cold white prison walls anymore. His world had gone from endless freedom on the streets to these four walls. Spot had been right, this place was a prison. He should have stayed, should have never left the lodging house, should have been happy where he was, Rosie was happy.
He sighed and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, breathing in the stale smell of the sheets. What he wouldn't give for a breath of fresh air, but the windows were shut, locked, and bordered.
"Anthony," he looked up to see his grandmother, silhouetted in the doorway, holding tonight's supper, a roll and a small plate of pasta. He sighed and dropped his head again.
"Anthony, get up, eat something. You're worrying Rosie." Race sighed and took the roll, leaving the pasta. His appetite had dwindled in the past few months, leaving him as thin as before.
His grandmother sat on his bed and eyed him. He didn't look at her, feeling tired and sore, even though he'd done nothing, but stare at the ceiling for most of the day.
"You are not happy here." It was not a question. Race sighed.
"Are ye?" he asked, looking at her for the first time. She frowned. "Ya know, at least wid me Pop, I could leave, go an play in da streets wid Jack or Spot. At least den, I could get away. I ain't even seen da sky in weeks." He looked at the barred windows as if one glance at the sky might make all the difference. And she made a choice.
"Anthony, if you could leave, would you?" Race nodded.
"In a second." She frowned.
"And Rosie?" he paused. Then he bit his lip.
"I'd leave her." He said after a long minute, "Leave her heah. She's got all she needs, a warm bed, food, a roof ovah her head, what moah could she want?"
"What about you?" she asked, wondering how the child would take it if her brother left her in this place.
"What about me?" he asked, shrugging as if his own existence had been an afterthought his whole life.
"Do you think she would miss you?" he shrugged again.
"Don't madda, she's gonna have all da tings I can't. Food, money, an education. She don't gotta keep goin' back ta da races, trying' ta keep up wid da monthly bills.' He stared at her. "Didcha know dat's how I kept her in dat place? It costed money, foah bucks a month, and I couldn't make dat by bein' a newsie, not wid me own lodgin' and food. So I went ta da races and I made bets, I played pokah and I had moah luck dere, but dat's how I did it. Nobody knows dat. Me friends, dey jist thought I liked ta gamble, but it was foah her."
His voice was soft and tender as he thought of his sister. She sighed and pulled him close. He clung to her and she couldn't believe that three months ago, she had not been aware this kind, sweet boy, who had been hurt so much that he was forced to hide that boy inside, even existed. And she could not believe that only two months ago, she had hated the sight of him. Now she held him close.
"Anthony, listen to me." she said, as she stroked his hair. A sigh showed he was listening, "do something for yourself for a change. Leave this place, go back to where you were if it makes you happy. Take care of yourself for once in your life. Do what you want." Race stared at her as if the concept of doing things for himself, and not for his sister was completely alien to him.
"Do not make me repeat myself. " she said, getting up, " You do what you feel is right, is that understood?" Race nodded slowly. She reached out and touched his shaggy black hair, caressing it softly, and whispered something, something Race remembered from so long ago. "Maggio Dio va con tu." It was almost like a blessing. Maybe, somewhere deep inside him, he knew it was.
"Pack your things and give them to me." she told him, quickly, keeping her voice down. Race nodded and hurried around the room, ripping the pillow case off of one of the pillows and stuffing his belongings into it, his clothes, the rare book, and the few other knick-knacks he owned, like the harmonica his father had given him, the only present the man had ever given his son, aside from the rare trips to the tracks. His most valuable possessions, he'd thrown at Jack, that day so long ago.
He winced as he thought of the gold watch, given to him by his mother, the pack of cards, Jack had given him when his father had taken his old pack away, and his cigars, he longed for just one. But that was forbidden, how dare he even think of taking one of his Uncle's cigars? And yet, he longed for something to smoke, something to roll between his fingers and calm him down.
When he had everything, which wasn't much, his grandmother kissed his head and took it. "When you go down for dinner, slip out the back door. There, behind the trash cans, I will leave your bag and a small bag of food." Race nodded and she slipped out the door.
It seemed like forever before the door was unlocked again, and his Uncle glared down at him, standing his arms crossed.
"Get down to the table and you mind your manners." He said harshly. Race frowned as he hurried downstairs and made to go into the kitchens. His Uncle took his shoulder and steered him into the dining room.
He shook his head, no, this wasn't right! He'd never get away now! But he was forced into the chair and told to stay there. He did so, not looking up from his plate the whole time. He ate as much as he could, knowing he would need it later. His aunt commented on his appetite and he shrugged.
After he had finished, he politely asked to be excused and his Uncle nodded. Race was up in a flash running down the hall and through the kitchens, to the surprise of the cook and the housemaids, and snatched his bags off the ground as he threw the back door open, not even slowing down. He slung them over his shoulders and took a running leap at the fence.
His old habits won out and he cleared the fence, suddenly finding himself in a dirty alley, eyeing the carriage house where the horses were kept. He thought about taking one, but decided against it, more trouble than he needed.
He could hear voices being shouted behind him, his uncles, and the cook. And he took off, running down the street, dodging people and horses as he ran. He knew which was to go and was headed south, towards lower Manhattan.
Once he got to Central Park, he knew he was safe. He slowed to a fast walk, chest still heaving from his run, and took in his surroundings. He was thinly dressed, with no coat, even in the early winter chill. He shivered and pulled his shirt closer.
As he walked, and the sun set, he grew colder. He knew he had to find a place to sleep and the park was as good as any. He looked around. Not a bench, too open, too unsafe.
He soon found a small thicket, just off the path that would do well. There he sat down and rummaged in his bag. He found a small loaf of bread, a lump of cheese and three decent sized apples, along with a tin of coffee, cooling now, and some water. There was a small knife, and some matches, along with three cigarettes.
Race grinned at the cigarettes. They weren't cigars, but they were close. But he couldn't light them now, not here in the dark. It would be a waste of matches and someone might see him.
And there was something else. He reached into the bottom of the bag and pulled out a long beaded chain. There were several beads, all in the same order, repeating themselves. He knew what it was.
He hadn't seen one in years, much less used one. It was a rosary, with beautiful red beads, each one glimmering in the setting sunlight. For an instant, he only stared. Then he closed his eyes, and knelt, intertwining the piece of jewelry in between his fingers, and the words fell from his lips, hesitant at first, much like the language of his mother had before, and then they came from, unbidden by memory.
"Hail Mary, Full of grace, Da Lord is wid dee. Blessed art Dou among women, and blessed is da fruit a dy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mudda a God, pray foah us sinnah's now, and at de hour of death. Amen." His prayer came next, silent this time as he closed his eyes, speaking to someone he hadn't spoken to in a long time. It felt like coming home.
Maybe She was listening that night, maybe She could take a moment to listen to the prayer of a sixteen year old street rat who had never asked Her or Her Son for anything in his life, but he asked now. For the first time, he asked for something for himself, not his mother, not his sister, but for himself.
"Please, Mary, lemme go home."
Maybe no one was listening to him that night, but he needed to say it, and he did, closing his eyes tight and wrapping the rosary in his hands. Maybe no one was listening, but himself. But as the stars twinkled at him, he knew someone heard him. Maybe it was Mary, mother of God, but maybe it was Maria who whispered soft words of comfort on the wind that night.
Here, in this small thicket, a boy made his peace with the Powers That Be, and slept peacefully for the first night in many years.
T.H, I am very glad to hear from you, and I really hope you are not dead, because that would just be weird and a little creepy. Anyway, I can't wait till these ideas start coming again, but now my boyfriend is calling, so I must go.
He awoke to hear a strange click in the door, as the knob turned but did not open. Race was across the room in a flash, yanking on the knob and feeling it refuse to turn.
"Let me out!" he yelled, pounding on the door.
"You will stay in there until you learn some manners!" his Uncle's hard voice came to him through the layer of thick dark wood. For an instant, Race stopped hitting his fist against the door. He was too shocked.
They weren't locking him in! They were not! This was not a prison! They had no right to keep him locked away like this! He began to pound on the door harder, yelling at the top of his lungs.
"Let me out! Ya can't do dis! Ya ain't got no right! Let me out!"
"If you are loud and uncooperative, you will stay in there longer." Race paused, frowning. Then he backed away, letting go, until he heard his Uncle walk away. Then he took a running leap and leapt against the door, throwing all of his light weight against it. The door held, but he did it again, yelling this time.
He pounding on the door, hitting, kicking, pulling, shouting, until his voice was hoarse and he lacked the strength to stand. Instead, he slumped on the floor next to his bed and sighed.
He closed his eyes and laid his head back, feeling helpless and alone. He had lost his friends today, and he had lost his family today as well. They would never look on him as one of them. He would always be that "charity case, that street rat, the boy who would never be like us," that was all.
He glanced outside and saw that it was dark. The sun had set while he attacked the door and he had no light. The light switch was next to the door, but he lacked the energy to get up and turn it on.
As he closed his eyes again, he heard the click in the door and his grandmother entered, holding a plate of soup. She frowned at the darkness and turned on the light, eyeing him sitting on the floor. She set the bowl down on the table and went to him, helping him to his feet. She led him to the desk and handed him a spoon.
"Eat." He dropped it and looked mournfully at the food before him. Any appetite he might have had was gone, and he only stared at the food. She put the spoon back into his hands.
"Eat, for Rosie." She said. That did it, Race took a slow bite, not tasting, only swallowing. But at least he was eating. She sighed and touched his hair, just as his Uncle walked by.
"Mother, leave the boy be." He ordered, walking in for a moment with his keys in his hands. He latched the window and locked it. Race had no reaction, only sipping his soup. Then he motioned for her to leave and she did so, glancing back at the boy as her son closed and locked the door again.
"You will leave the boy alone, mother." He hissed. "He needs to be taught a lesson." She glared at her son, wishing to God her daughter had lived.
"You are teaching him the same thing his father did." She said, and swept off to her own room, leaving her confused son in her wake.
The warm weather faded and the cold air came from the north, causing people to pull their winter coats from the back of their closets, and go about, bundled in scarves and hats, chins pressed firmly against heir chests in attempts to block out the cold.
The first frost came before the door was unlocked, and even then, Race was allowed only to eat in the kitchen, with no contact to the other children, only with the lower servants. Race cared little, keeping his temper that he had never lost, and fighting at any opportunity, perhaps wishing his Uncle would make good his threat and throw him out into the street. But perhaps the old man sensed that was what Race wanted and refused, saying his mother would never allow it.
He could not understand the bond that was growing between them, though he tried to stop it. Forbidding him to even speak to anyone, forbidding them to speak to him, and yet still she defied him. but she was his mother and there was little he could do. He still honored her. For traditions sake, if not his own.
Race closed his eyes that night, not wanting to see the cold white prison walls anymore. His world had gone from endless freedom on the streets to these four walls. Spot had been right, this place was a prison. He should have stayed, should have never left the lodging house, should have been happy where he was, Rosie was happy.
He sighed and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, breathing in the stale smell of the sheets. What he wouldn't give for a breath of fresh air, but the windows were shut, locked, and bordered.
"Anthony," he looked up to see his grandmother, silhouetted in the doorway, holding tonight's supper, a roll and a small plate of pasta. He sighed and dropped his head again.
"Anthony, get up, eat something. You're worrying Rosie." Race sighed and took the roll, leaving the pasta. His appetite had dwindled in the past few months, leaving him as thin as before.
His grandmother sat on his bed and eyed him. He didn't look at her, feeling tired and sore, even though he'd done nothing, but stare at the ceiling for most of the day.
"You are not happy here." It was not a question. Race sighed.
"Are ye?" he asked, looking at her for the first time. She frowned. "Ya know, at least wid me Pop, I could leave, go an play in da streets wid Jack or Spot. At least den, I could get away. I ain't even seen da sky in weeks." He looked at the barred windows as if one glance at the sky might make all the difference. And she made a choice.
"Anthony, if you could leave, would you?" Race nodded.
"In a second." She frowned.
"And Rosie?" he paused. Then he bit his lip.
"I'd leave her." He said after a long minute, "Leave her heah. She's got all she needs, a warm bed, food, a roof ovah her head, what moah could she want?"
"What about you?" she asked, wondering how the child would take it if her brother left her in this place.
"What about me?" he asked, shrugging as if his own existence had been an afterthought his whole life.
"Do you think she would miss you?" he shrugged again.
"Don't madda, she's gonna have all da tings I can't. Food, money, an education. She don't gotta keep goin' back ta da races, trying' ta keep up wid da monthly bills.' He stared at her. "Didcha know dat's how I kept her in dat place? It costed money, foah bucks a month, and I couldn't make dat by bein' a newsie, not wid me own lodgin' and food. So I went ta da races and I made bets, I played pokah and I had moah luck dere, but dat's how I did it. Nobody knows dat. Me friends, dey jist thought I liked ta gamble, but it was foah her."
His voice was soft and tender as he thought of his sister. She sighed and pulled him close. He clung to her and she couldn't believe that three months ago, she had not been aware this kind, sweet boy, who had been hurt so much that he was forced to hide that boy inside, even existed. And she could not believe that only two months ago, she had hated the sight of him. Now she held him close.
"Anthony, listen to me." she said, as she stroked his hair. A sigh showed he was listening, "do something for yourself for a change. Leave this place, go back to where you were if it makes you happy. Take care of yourself for once in your life. Do what you want." Race stared at her as if the concept of doing things for himself, and not for his sister was completely alien to him.
"Do not make me repeat myself. " she said, getting up, " You do what you feel is right, is that understood?" Race nodded slowly. She reached out and touched his shaggy black hair, caressing it softly, and whispered something, something Race remembered from so long ago. "Maggio Dio va con tu." It was almost like a blessing. Maybe, somewhere deep inside him, he knew it was.
"Pack your things and give them to me." she told him, quickly, keeping her voice down. Race nodded and hurried around the room, ripping the pillow case off of one of the pillows and stuffing his belongings into it, his clothes, the rare book, and the few other knick-knacks he owned, like the harmonica his father had given him, the only present the man had ever given his son, aside from the rare trips to the tracks. His most valuable possessions, he'd thrown at Jack, that day so long ago.
He winced as he thought of the gold watch, given to him by his mother, the pack of cards, Jack had given him when his father had taken his old pack away, and his cigars, he longed for just one. But that was forbidden, how dare he even think of taking one of his Uncle's cigars? And yet, he longed for something to smoke, something to roll between his fingers and calm him down.
When he had everything, which wasn't much, his grandmother kissed his head and took it. "When you go down for dinner, slip out the back door. There, behind the trash cans, I will leave your bag and a small bag of food." Race nodded and she slipped out the door.
It seemed like forever before the door was unlocked again, and his Uncle glared down at him, standing his arms crossed.
"Get down to the table and you mind your manners." He said harshly. Race frowned as he hurried downstairs and made to go into the kitchens. His Uncle took his shoulder and steered him into the dining room.
He shook his head, no, this wasn't right! He'd never get away now! But he was forced into the chair and told to stay there. He did so, not looking up from his plate the whole time. He ate as much as he could, knowing he would need it later. His aunt commented on his appetite and he shrugged.
After he had finished, he politely asked to be excused and his Uncle nodded. Race was up in a flash running down the hall and through the kitchens, to the surprise of the cook and the housemaids, and snatched his bags off the ground as he threw the back door open, not even slowing down. He slung them over his shoulders and took a running leap at the fence.
His old habits won out and he cleared the fence, suddenly finding himself in a dirty alley, eyeing the carriage house where the horses were kept. He thought about taking one, but decided against it, more trouble than he needed.
He could hear voices being shouted behind him, his uncles, and the cook. And he took off, running down the street, dodging people and horses as he ran. He knew which was to go and was headed south, towards lower Manhattan.
Once he got to Central Park, he knew he was safe. He slowed to a fast walk, chest still heaving from his run, and took in his surroundings. He was thinly dressed, with no coat, even in the early winter chill. He shivered and pulled his shirt closer.
As he walked, and the sun set, he grew colder. He knew he had to find a place to sleep and the park was as good as any. He looked around. Not a bench, too open, too unsafe.
He soon found a small thicket, just off the path that would do well. There he sat down and rummaged in his bag. He found a small loaf of bread, a lump of cheese and three decent sized apples, along with a tin of coffee, cooling now, and some water. There was a small knife, and some matches, along with three cigarettes.
Race grinned at the cigarettes. They weren't cigars, but they were close. But he couldn't light them now, not here in the dark. It would be a waste of matches and someone might see him.
And there was something else. He reached into the bottom of the bag and pulled out a long beaded chain. There were several beads, all in the same order, repeating themselves. He knew what it was.
He hadn't seen one in years, much less used one. It was a rosary, with beautiful red beads, each one glimmering in the setting sunlight. For an instant, he only stared. Then he closed his eyes, and knelt, intertwining the piece of jewelry in between his fingers, and the words fell from his lips, hesitant at first, much like the language of his mother had before, and then they came from, unbidden by memory.
"Hail Mary, Full of grace, Da Lord is wid dee. Blessed art Dou among women, and blessed is da fruit a dy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mudda a God, pray foah us sinnah's now, and at de hour of death. Amen." His prayer came next, silent this time as he closed his eyes, speaking to someone he hadn't spoken to in a long time. It felt like coming home.
Maybe She was listening that night, maybe She could take a moment to listen to the prayer of a sixteen year old street rat who had never asked Her or Her Son for anything in his life, but he asked now. For the first time, he asked for something for himself, not his mother, not his sister, but for himself.
"Please, Mary, lemme go home."
Maybe no one was listening to him that night, but he needed to say it, and he did, closing his eyes tight and wrapping the rosary in his hands. Maybe no one was listening, but himself. But as the stars twinkled at him, he knew someone heard him. Maybe it was Mary, mother of God, but maybe it was Maria who whispered soft words of comfort on the wind that night.
Here, in this small thicket, a boy made his peace with the Powers That Be, and slept peacefully for the first night in many years.