*************************
"You see that, Anthony? That's New York, that's our new home." Four-year- old Anthony looked up over the railing of the ferry that was bringing him and his mother to the city.
There, they would see his father for the first time in two years. He would pick his son up and swing him around like he used to. He would take them home to the apartment that would be bigger than their old one had been, back in Naples.
He peered over the railing, standing on his tiptoes, his dark hair blowing on the Bay breeze. He could see a large expanse of wire and steel, stretching across the river. He frowned and narrowed his eyes.
Was this one of the wonders of the New World Mama had told him about? It lined the water, from one side to the other and he could see little tiny people moving on it, if he looked hard enough.
"Mama, what's that?" he asked, pointing. She frowned, obviously not knowing what to call the huge structure in English. And she insisted that her son learn English. She did not mind that he was not speaking it now; he was too excited, too anxious to remember the language of his father.
"Excuse me," she asked a passing sailor, " what is that called?" she pointed to the bridge. The man paused and spotted little Anthony. He knelt by the boy and pointed to the large metal working in from of them.
"Dat's da Brooklyn Bridge, kid. Largest one in da woild." Anthony turned from the interesting man to the bridge, his eyes wide and filled with wonder. The man smiled. " Now look, one of da foist tings ya gotta do in New Yawk, is go out ta da bridge, lean ovah da side and yell. It's one a da best feelin's evah." Then he patted the child's head and went on his way.
Little Anthony still stared at the bridge, until they rounded the curve on the island and he could see it no more. Instead, he saw large buildings and busy streets, carriages and horses, people rushing here and there, and everywhere. And he instantly felt at home.
"New Yawk." He whispered, imitating the sailor. "Mi casa."
"In English, Anthony."
"My home."
**************************************************************
"Anthony, what did I tell you?" Mama sighed as she took in the sight of her son, his lip bloody and his eye black. But he held his head high and she knew who had come out of the fight a winner.
"Sorry, Mama. But I had ta. He called me a lousy greaser." The boy of only six protested. She sighed. Two years in this country and already, he talked, walked, and acted like he'd been born here. Only at home, when his father was gone, did they speak Italian.
"Am I to assume that Frankie went home to his mother in the same state?" she asked, referring to the boy downstairs and her son's best friend in the whole world. Anthony nodded and she went about cleaning him up.
Just as she dipped the warm rag into the water, a cry came from the other room and Mama sighed. She replaced the cloth on his eye and got to her feet.
"You keep that there, alright?" he nodded. Then she hurried into the other room to comfort the new baby. Anthony sighed and held the cloth to his sore eye. He wished it could go back to the time when it was only Mama, and Papa, and him. When Papa would take him down to the races just for the evening, and they would watch the races, laughing and cheering, and sneak home.
Just then, Papa walked in, throwing his hat down on the table. He spied his son and sighed.
"Whudcha do dis time?" he asked, eyeing his son's beaten face.
"He called me a lousy greasa, Papa. I had to." Papa frowned and sat down, running his fingers through his dark red hair. Mama came out of the bedroom, the baby in her arms.
"Owen." She said, bending down to kiss him. Papa did not smile or kiss her back. "What's wrong?" he sighed.
"I lost me job taday, Maria. Dey fired me." Anthony frowned, not knowing what that meant. But Mama did. She gasped and put her free hand over her mouth.
"Fired you? Why?" he shrugged.
"Said dey was cuttin' back, and dey didn't need me no more." His father seemed so sad, Anthony didn't know what to do.
"Don't worry Papa. You'll get a new job." He said, trying to make his father smile at him again. Instead, his father stared at him, almost as if he'd never seen him before in his life. And then he got to his feet and stumbled out.
"Owen! Where are you going?" Mama called. Papa didn't answer as he hurried out into the street.
It was late when he came home. Far too late for Anthony to be up, but he was. Mama was sitting at the table, rocking the baby, and Anthony was seated at the table, doing his homework his mother had set out for him.
Papa came stumbling in, his footsteps uneven, his words slurred. Mama got to her feet.
"Owen Higgins, where have you been? I've been so worried!" he glared at her.
"Don't you sass me, woman!" he growled. She frowned.
"I'm not, Owen. I just want to know where you've been." Anthony frowned. He'd seen Mr. Sullivan act like this, all slow and angry. He did that when he hit Frankie, and Jamie. And he did it in front of Anthony, not even worried about what the boy might say. He'd gone as far as to threaten his son's friend before, but he'd never hit him.
But it was his own father that hit his mother this time. He slapped her full across the face, making her cry out and stumble. Anthony raced to her side and was instantly shoved away.
Mama dropped the baby and Anthony held onto her, rocking her gently as Papa kicked out at Mama. Mama cried out, and Anthony wanted to cry too from the cries of pain that were coming from Mama, and the words of hate that streamed from Papa's lips.
He rocked the baby, ignoring the pain in his own head as he shut his eyes and tried to shut his ears. It was the first time his father had hit him. It would not be the last.
**********************************************
Anthony spent the night at Frankie's apartment one night. He was so very frightened to go home and Mrs. Sullivan did her best to take care of her friend's son. She knew all too well what her friend was going through. Back before her husband's arrest, she had gone through it too. Now she was left with her two sons to raise alone.
Mama had gone to work at the factory soon after Papa had gotten fired. They needed the money, and all they had was quickly being used up by Papa with his drink. Mama was working that night and Anthony was afraid to go home.
He curled up next to Frankie on the bed and was about to fall asleep when there came a knock on the door.
Mrs. Sullivan opened it and was startled to see Owen Higgins.
"My son, where is he?" she motioned inside. Papa grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him upstairs, ignoring his cries of pain.
"You lazy little brat!" he hollered, tossing Anthony inside and slamming the door behind him. He punched Anthony, sending him to the floor when the boy tried to explain.
"I don't wanna heah none a yer excuses!" he shouted, slamming Anthony's head into the table corner, causing him to cry out. He kicked at the boy and slapped him until Anthony was a small ball, curled up on the floor to get away from the painful blows and words of the man who had once called himself father.
From the bedroom, Rosie cried and his father growled.
"Make dat brat stop cryin'!" Anthony painfully uncurled himself and got to his feet, wincing. He pulled the little one-year old baby into his arms and held her tight. Papa only glared at him, then stormed out of the apartment again.
Anthony held his little sister close, rocking her as the tears fell. She leaned up and kissed his cheek, wrapping her small pudgy arms around his neck as he cried.
****************************************
"Papa?" Anthony rubbed his eyes? But wasn't his father. It was his mother, coming home tired and dirty from the factory. She dropped into a chair by the table and laid her head down on the table.
Anthony stepped up and poured her a glass of water. She took it gratefully.
"Thank you, baby." She said, sighing and sitting back. Then she looked around, frowning.
"Where's your Papa?" Anthony shrugged, trying to move so that his dark bangs covered the bruise on his cheek, but Mama saw. Mama always saw.
"Oh, Tony. Did he hit you again?" Anthony nodded. She held out her hands and he ran into them.
"Love you, Mama.' He whispered. She nodded.
Papa didn't come home that night. In fact, they never saw or heard from him again. And money became tighter. The landlord raised the rent, the owners at the factory lowered the wages. And Anthony was forced to spend more time alone with his little sister.
Mama had to work, that was all there was, and she refused to let him work.
"Someday you'll be a man, Tony. Stay my little boy for a little while more." He was to grow up far quicker than she or anyone else might have wished.
****************************************
Anthony laughed as Frankie tripped, then began to laugh too. The boys were playing tag on the street in front of their apartment house. Two-year old Rosie and six year old Jamie were sitting on the steps, laughing at their brothers.
Anthony glanced up at the first siren, then frowned as another joined the first one and the two friends watched as the fire engines, drawn by two white horses, rushed past them to the cause of the fire.
At first they didn't think much of it. Fires were common in these crowded cramped tenements and they always saw them. But today, it felt different. People were running and shouting. Someone mentioned a factory.
Anthony scoped up Rosie and began to run. He knew Frankie had done the same and was right behind him. He followed the noise to a crowd, two streets over. There in front of him, was the factory in which both their mothers worked, and it was on fire.
No, it was no longer on fire. It was a giant inferno, consuming everything around it. Women were still stumbling through the gates, coughing, covering in soot and ash. But neither mother was among them.
Anthony put Rosie down and stared, his heart in his throat. Then he began to run, dodging firemen until he had almost run straight into the blaze. A man stopped him, dragging him backwards, back to Frankie, back to Rosie. All the while, Anthony was crying.
Rosie wrapped her arms around him and he held her tight, rocking her tight. She didn't know why he was so upset, but she knew she didn't like the fire and the people and the noise.
Anthony held her tight, not looking at the fire, not wanting to hear the crackle of the flames and the shouting as people struggled to put it out. He knew his Mama was in those flames. And he knew she wasn't coming out.
**********************************
Anthony took a deep breath, then began to dig. He leaned his eight-year- old frame over the garbage can and tried not to think of what exactly he was digging through. Instead, he pawed his way through old newspapers and cans until he found a half eaten roll and a rotten apple.
Both he handed to his little sister, who tucked them into her skirts. Then he moved on, this time, finding more luck with a trash can just outside a restaurant. As a few wealthy patrons exited, he pushed his sister forward.
"Please mista, I ain't had nuttin ta eat, me sistah, she's starvin'. Please?" he begged, keeping Rosie behind him in case the man decided to kick out like they did so often.
The man frowned and moved to turn away, but the woman stopped him. "Oh, Albert. Look at the poor dears, give them something." Anthony clenched his teeth. He hated begging, hated it more than anything in the world. But he had to feed Rosie, he had to. And digging through trashcans was hardly enough for her. He took the nickel the man offered and thanked him, darting away.
He took in the rather large crowd in the street and ducked into an alley, telling Rosie to stay there. He needed more money, a nickel, roll and a rotten apple were hardly enough food. Besides, it was almost time to move on to another street, another area.
He slipped into the crowd and spotted an open pocket, perfect. He wound his way through the crowd and managed to slip his hands into the man's pocket. He found the wallet easily and pulled it out, moving backwards into the crowd. The man didn't even stop.
Anthony moved back into the alley and dug into the wallet. Inside were a dollar and forty cents. Enough. He put the money into his own bag, his bag that held all his possessions in the world, his harmonica his father had given him, his gold watch Mama had given to him when they left Naples, the cards Frankie had given to him just before the fire, and the little money he had.
He took Rosie's hand and led her off into the street. He sighed as the sun dipped behind the buildings. He needed to find someplace to sleep tonight, someplace a little more comfortable than that alley they'd been using for the past week. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Extry! Extry!" the newsboy's voice echoed through the street. And there was something familiar about it. Anthony shrugged it off and pulled Rosie off, but she struggled against him, pulling in the other direction.
"Rosie!"
"Tony!" she shouted, her hand wrenched from his as the crowd surged forward, separating them. Anthony fought the tide and pushed through the crowd, calling his sister's name. Suddenly there was a clearing and he went for it, finding himself so very alone.
"Rosie!" he called again. She didn't answer him. He hurried around, shouting for her, and pleading with God to let her be alright.
"Tony!" he spun around just in time for his little sister to hurl herself into his arms. He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight.
"Tony?" the voice was different. Anthony looked up and his jaw dropped. It was the newsie from before. The newsie who looked very familiar.
"Frankie?" he launched himself at his old friend, who laughed and patted his friend on the back.
"Where ya been, Higgins?" he asked, still laughing. Anthony frowned and shrugged.
"I been around." Frankie looked him up and down and frowned.
"Ya don't look so good, Tony. Ya been eatin'?" Anthony nodded, but Frankie could tell he was lying.
"Look, why don'tcha come wid me? Ya can be a newsie." Anthony frowned. A newsie? Did they make good money? He sighed, anything was better than these streets. Anything. He nodded and turned to follow his friend.
"Oh, and Tony? It's Jack now. Jack Kelly."
************************
"Jack?" David's voice was the first to speak in hours. Jack glanced up from Race's bunk where they had put the boy after his fever broke. He was no longer mumbling incoherently, or worse, calling out the names of those long passed. Instead, Race slept, and Jack did not leave his side.
"Yeah, Dave?"
"Brought you something." He held out the roll, which Jack took gratefully.
"Tanks." He mumbled, eating it slowly. David sighed as he watched Jack glance at the sleeping Race.
"So how's he doing?" Jack shrugged.
"Bedda, not callin' out no morah. He's sleepin now." He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
"What I want to know is, why was Race wandering around on Christmas eve, looking half starved when he had a home?" Jack shook his head.
"I dunno. I tawked ta some kids from uptown and dey said Race ain't been dere foah months."
"What do you mean? You think he ran away?" Jack nodded.
"I do. I tink he couldn't take it dere no morah and he ran away." David sighed and looked at his sleeping friend. Race's face was still pale, still thin and hollow, his cheeks sunken in and still flushed from the fever.
"But if he ran away, why didn't he come home?" Jack didn't look at him, couldn't look at him. It was his fault Race was in this condition. If he had kept his temper that day, Race would have known that he could come home.
"Cause, Dave, he didn't' tink he'd be welcome heah." He took a deep breath and smoothed the hair out of Race's eyes, checking his forehead for signs of fever. David swallowed hard.
"You see that, Anthony? That's New York, that's our new home." Four-year- old Anthony looked up over the railing of the ferry that was bringing him and his mother to the city.
There, they would see his father for the first time in two years. He would pick his son up and swing him around like he used to. He would take them home to the apartment that would be bigger than their old one had been, back in Naples.
He peered over the railing, standing on his tiptoes, his dark hair blowing on the Bay breeze. He could see a large expanse of wire and steel, stretching across the river. He frowned and narrowed his eyes.
Was this one of the wonders of the New World Mama had told him about? It lined the water, from one side to the other and he could see little tiny people moving on it, if he looked hard enough.
"Mama, what's that?" he asked, pointing. She frowned, obviously not knowing what to call the huge structure in English. And she insisted that her son learn English. She did not mind that he was not speaking it now; he was too excited, too anxious to remember the language of his father.
"Excuse me," she asked a passing sailor, " what is that called?" she pointed to the bridge. The man paused and spotted little Anthony. He knelt by the boy and pointed to the large metal working in from of them.
"Dat's da Brooklyn Bridge, kid. Largest one in da woild." Anthony turned from the interesting man to the bridge, his eyes wide and filled with wonder. The man smiled. " Now look, one of da foist tings ya gotta do in New Yawk, is go out ta da bridge, lean ovah da side and yell. It's one a da best feelin's evah." Then he patted the child's head and went on his way.
Little Anthony still stared at the bridge, until they rounded the curve on the island and he could see it no more. Instead, he saw large buildings and busy streets, carriages and horses, people rushing here and there, and everywhere. And he instantly felt at home.
"New Yawk." He whispered, imitating the sailor. "Mi casa."
"In English, Anthony."
"My home."
**************************************************************
"Anthony, what did I tell you?" Mama sighed as she took in the sight of her son, his lip bloody and his eye black. But he held his head high and she knew who had come out of the fight a winner.
"Sorry, Mama. But I had ta. He called me a lousy greaser." The boy of only six protested. She sighed. Two years in this country and already, he talked, walked, and acted like he'd been born here. Only at home, when his father was gone, did they speak Italian.
"Am I to assume that Frankie went home to his mother in the same state?" she asked, referring to the boy downstairs and her son's best friend in the whole world. Anthony nodded and she went about cleaning him up.
Just as she dipped the warm rag into the water, a cry came from the other room and Mama sighed. She replaced the cloth on his eye and got to her feet.
"You keep that there, alright?" he nodded. Then she hurried into the other room to comfort the new baby. Anthony sighed and held the cloth to his sore eye. He wished it could go back to the time when it was only Mama, and Papa, and him. When Papa would take him down to the races just for the evening, and they would watch the races, laughing and cheering, and sneak home.
Just then, Papa walked in, throwing his hat down on the table. He spied his son and sighed.
"Whudcha do dis time?" he asked, eyeing his son's beaten face.
"He called me a lousy greasa, Papa. I had to." Papa frowned and sat down, running his fingers through his dark red hair. Mama came out of the bedroom, the baby in her arms.
"Owen." She said, bending down to kiss him. Papa did not smile or kiss her back. "What's wrong?" he sighed.
"I lost me job taday, Maria. Dey fired me." Anthony frowned, not knowing what that meant. But Mama did. She gasped and put her free hand over her mouth.
"Fired you? Why?" he shrugged.
"Said dey was cuttin' back, and dey didn't need me no more." His father seemed so sad, Anthony didn't know what to do.
"Don't worry Papa. You'll get a new job." He said, trying to make his father smile at him again. Instead, his father stared at him, almost as if he'd never seen him before in his life. And then he got to his feet and stumbled out.
"Owen! Where are you going?" Mama called. Papa didn't answer as he hurried out into the street.
It was late when he came home. Far too late for Anthony to be up, but he was. Mama was sitting at the table, rocking the baby, and Anthony was seated at the table, doing his homework his mother had set out for him.
Papa came stumbling in, his footsteps uneven, his words slurred. Mama got to her feet.
"Owen Higgins, where have you been? I've been so worried!" he glared at her.
"Don't you sass me, woman!" he growled. She frowned.
"I'm not, Owen. I just want to know where you've been." Anthony frowned. He'd seen Mr. Sullivan act like this, all slow and angry. He did that when he hit Frankie, and Jamie. And he did it in front of Anthony, not even worried about what the boy might say. He'd gone as far as to threaten his son's friend before, but he'd never hit him.
But it was his own father that hit his mother this time. He slapped her full across the face, making her cry out and stumble. Anthony raced to her side and was instantly shoved away.
Mama dropped the baby and Anthony held onto her, rocking her gently as Papa kicked out at Mama. Mama cried out, and Anthony wanted to cry too from the cries of pain that were coming from Mama, and the words of hate that streamed from Papa's lips.
He rocked the baby, ignoring the pain in his own head as he shut his eyes and tried to shut his ears. It was the first time his father had hit him. It would not be the last.
**********************************************
Anthony spent the night at Frankie's apartment one night. He was so very frightened to go home and Mrs. Sullivan did her best to take care of her friend's son. She knew all too well what her friend was going through. Back before her husband's arrest, she had gone through it too. Now she was left with her two sons to raise alone.
Mama had gone to work at the factory soon after Papa had gotten fired. They needed the money, and all they had was quickly being used up by Papa with his drink. Mama was working that night and Anthony was afraid to go home.
He curled up next to Frankie on the bed and was about to fall asleep when there came a knock on the door.
Mrs. Sullivan opened it and was startled to see Owen Higgins.
"My son, where is he?" she motioned inside. Papa grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him upstairs, ignoring his cries of pain.
"You lazy little brat!" he hollered, tossing Anthony inside and slamming the door behind him. He punched Anthony, sending him to the floor when the boy tried to explain.
"I don't wanna heah none a yer excuses!" he shouted, slamming Anthony's head into the table corner, causing him to cry out. He kicked at the boy and slapped him until Anthony was a small ball, curled up on the floor to get away from the painful blows and words of the man who had once called himself father.
From the bedroom, Rosie cried and his father growled.
"Make dat brat stop cryin'!" Anthony painfully uncurled himself and got to his feet, wincing. He pulled the little one-year old baby into his arms and held her tight. Papa only glared at him, then stormed out of the apartment again.
Anthony held his little sister close, rocking her as the tears fell. She leaned up and kissed his cheek, wrapping her small pudgy arms around his neck as he cried.
****************************************
"Papa?" Anthony rubbed his eyes? But wasn't his father. It was his mother, coming home tired and dirty from the factory. She dropped into a chair by the table and laid her head down on the table.
Anthony stepped up and poured her a glass of water. She took it gratefully.
"Thank you, baby." She said, sighing and sitting back. Then she looked around, frowning.
"Where's your Papa?" Anthony shrugged, trying to move so that his dark bangs covered the bruise on his cheek, but Mama saw. Mama always saw.
"Oh, Tony. Did he hit you again?" Anthony nodded. She held out her hands and he ran into them.
"Love you, Mama.' He whispered. She nodded.
Papa didn't come home that night. In fact, they never saw or heard from him again. And money became tighter. The landlord raised the rent, the owners at the factory lowered the wages. And Anthony was forced to spend more time alone with his little sister.
Mama had to work, that was all there was, and she refused to let him work.
"Someday you'll be a man, Tony. Stay my little boy for a little while more." He was to grow up far quicker than she or anyone else might have wished.
****************************************
Anthony laughed as Frankie tripped, then began to laugh too. The boys were playing tag on the street in front of their apartment house. Two-year old Rosie and six year old Jamie were sitting on the steps, laughing at their brothers.
Anthony glanced up at the first siren, then frowned as another joined the first one and the two friends watched as the fire engines, drawn by two white horses, rushed past them to the cause of the fire.
At first they didn't think much of it. Fires were common in these crowded cramped tenements and they always saw them. But today, it felt different. People were running and shouting. Someone mentioned a factory.
Anthony scoped up Rosie and began to run. He knew Frankie had done the same and was right behind him. He followed the noise to a crowd, two streets over. There in front of him, was the factory in which both their mothers worked, and it was on fire.
No, it was no longer on fire. It was a giant inferno, consuming everything around it. Women were still stumbling through the gates, coughing, covering in soot and ash. But neither mother was among them.
Anthony put Rosie down and stared, his heart in his throat. Then he began to run, dodging firemen until he had almost run straight into the blaze. A man stopped him, dragging him backwards, back to Frankie, back to Rosie. All the while, Anthony was crying.
Rosie wrapped her arms around him and he held her tight, rocking her tight. She didn't know why he was so upset, but she knew she didn't like the fire and the people and the noise.
Anthony held her tight, not looking at the fire, not wanting to hear the crackle of the flames and the shouting as people struggled to put it out. He knew his Mama was in those flames. And he knew she wasn't coming out.
**********************************
Anthony took a deep breath, then began to dig. He leaned his eight-year- old frame over the garbage can and tried not to think of what exactly he was digging through. Instead, he pawed his way through old newspapers and cans until he found a half eaten roll and a rotten apple.
Both he handed to his little sister, who tucked them into her skirts. Then he moved on, this time, finding more luck with a trash can just outside a restaurant. As a few wealthy patrons exited, he pushed his sister forward.
"Please mista, I ain't had nuttin ta eat, me sistah, she's starvin'. Please?" he begged, keeping Rosie behind him in case the man decided to kick out like they did so often.
The man frowned and moved to turn away, but the woman stopped him. "Oh, Albert. Look at the poor dears, give them something." Anthony clenched his teeth. He hated begging, hated it more than anything in the world. But he had to feed Rosie, he had to. And digging through trashcans was hardly enough for her. He took the nickel the man offered and thanked him, darting away.
He took in the rather large crowd in the street and ducked into an alley, telling Rosie to stay there. He needed more money, a nickel, roll and a rotten apple were hardly enough food. Besides, it was almost time to move on to another street, another area.
He slipped into the crowd and spotted an open pocket, perfect. He wound his way through the crowd and managed to slip his hands into the man's pocket. He found the wallet easily and pulled it out, moving backwards into the crowd. The man didn't even stop.
Anthony moved back into the alley and dug into the wallet. Inside were a dollar and forty cents. Enough. He put the money into his own bag, his bag that held all his possessions in the world, his harmonica his father had given him, his gold watch Mama had given to him when they left Naples, the cards Frankie had given to him just before the fire, and the little money he had.
He took Rosie's hand and led her off into the street. He sighed as the sun dipped behind the buildings. He needed to find someplace to sleep tonight, someplace a little more comfortable than that alley they'd been using for the past week. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Extry! Extry!" the newsboy's voice echoed through the street. And there was something familiar about it. Anthony shrugged it off and pulled Rosie off, but she struggled against him, pulling in the other direction.
"Rosie!"
"Tony!" she shouted, her hand wrenched from his as the crowd surged forward, separating them. Anthony fought the tide and pushed through the crowd, calling his sister's name. Suddenly there was a clearing and he went for it, finding himself so very alone.
"Rosie!" he called again. She didn't answer him. He hurried around, shouting for her, and pleading with God to let her be alright.
"Tony!" he spun around just in time for his little sister to hurl herself into his arms. He wrapped his arm around her and held her tight.
"Tony?" the voice was different. Anthony looked up and his jaw dropped. It was the newsie from before. The newsie who looked very familiar.
"Frankie?" he launched himself at his old friend, who laughed and patted his friend on the back.
"Where ya been, Higgins?" he asked, still laughing. Anthony frowned and shrugged.
"I been around." Frankie looked him up and down and frowned.
"Ya don't look so good, Tony. Ya been eatin'?" Anthony nodded, but Frankie could tell he was lying.
"Look, why don'tcha come wid me? Ya can be a newsie." Anthony frowned. A newsie? Did they make good money? He sighed, anything was better than these streets. Anything. He nodded and turned to follow his friend.
"Oh, and Tony? It's Jack now. Jack Kelly."
************************
"Jack?" David's voice was the first to speak in hours. Jack glanced up from Race's bunk where they had put the boy after his fever broke. He was no longer mumbling incoherently, or worse, calling out the names of those long passed. Instead, Race slept, and Jack did not leave his side.
"Yeah, Dave?"
"Brought you something." He held out the roll, which Jack took gratefully.
"Tanks." He mumbled, eating it slowly. David sighed as he watched Jack glance at the sleeping Race.
"So how's he doing?" Jack shrugged.
"Bedda, not callin' out no morah. He's sleepin now." He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.
"What I want to know is, why was Race wandering around on Christmas eve, looking half starved when he had a home?" Jack shook his head.
"I dunno. I tawked ta some kids from uptown and dey said Race ain't been dere foah months."
"What do you mean? You think he ran away?" Jack nodded.
"I do. I tink he couldn't take it dere no morah and he ran away." David sighed and looked at his sleeping friend. Race's face was still pale, still thin and hollow, his cheeks sunken in and still flushed from the fever.
"But if he ran away, why didn't he come home?" Jack didn't look at him, couldn't look at him. It was his fault Race was in this condition. If he had kept his temper that day, Race would have known that he could come home.
"Cause, Dave, he didn't' tink he'd be welcome heah." He took a deep breath and smoothed the hair out of Race's eyes, checking his forehead for signs of fever. David swallowed hard.