"A strong mind always hopes,
and always has cause to hope."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Snoddy watched form a distance as his comrades got ready for another day of work. His mind was not on selling papers, but he had somehow forced himself up and out of bed, forced himself to get dressed, forced himself to make halfhearted attempts in joining the usual rowdy banter that went on, and forced himself to sit still while the last few of his friends ran combs through their hair, tied on bandanas and pocketed the money they intended on using for buying their papes.
The newsie watched as Mask and Jack strode out, throwing playful punches at each other, then gave a small grin as Crutchy snatched the hat from the girl's head, hid it behind his back, then ducked behind Mush.
Snoddy's thoughts were quickly turned in another direction, however, when Blink came striding by, looking very irritated, very tired, and in no mood to be tampered with.
Snoddy grabbed his arm anyway, pulling him aside.
"Hey, Blink," he said uncertainly. Blink gave him a sharp glance, then a hasty reply.
"I'd love ta stop and chat, Snoddy, but I'se gotta go."
"No, ya don't," Snoddy shot back. "Now stop bein' angry and start bein' sensible."
"What was dat? A threat?"
"No. Logic. Now siddown and shuddap."
Something, perhaps the authorative snap in the newsboy's tone caused Blink to do exactly what he was told to. aking a seat in front of his friend, he fixed a penetrating gaze upon Snoddy, who stared evenly back.
"Foist, I wanted ta apologize for what I did...ya know, punchin' you out and everythin'. It was wrong, and I regret it. I regret a lot of things I do when I get angry."
The tension seemed to drain out of Blink, and he gave a genial smile and a nod of acceptance. Snoddy seemed more relaxed now as well.
"Da second t'ing: dis war ovah who gets rights ovah what goil is makin' me sick, okay? I'll give dat to ya straight. May I also point out dat we nevah once stopped ta wonder what it was dat she wanted?"
Blink seemed to realize this for the first time, and sat up a bit straighter, nodding in agreement.
"Yeah, I...I guess I nevah really looked at it dat way," he admitted rather grudgingly. "But you're right."
"So," Snoddy continued, "I don't know about you, but I'se just gonna leave it where it is right now, and see how t'ings toin out." He paused for a second, then went on. "An' no mattah what happens...we're still friends, right?" hd added hesitantly.
The duo rose, and Blink gave Snoddy a gentle clap on the shoulder. "Of course. We've had our fights before...but we'se still heah, still friends, ain't we? And dat's da way it's gonna be."
And both left the Lodging House, stepping out into another chill winter's day, the snow crisp and fresh and shining brilliantly in the sunlight.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Spot Conlon reclined on a stack of old crates, gazing out at the water as night dawned. The Brooklyn leader was something of an enigma to his followers, and he preferred to keep it that way. There were times, however, when he wished for the closeness that Jack had with his newsies.
Ah well. Dat's da way it's always been, dat's da way it's gonna stay.
Moonlight danced on the tide, creating shapes and patterns over the waves, and the newboy's eyes glistened in the darkness, not with tears, but with a sudden flood of memories and emotions that came streaming back to him.
So, Key had chosen to leave him far behind. A closing door was nothing new to him, and he was very ready to accept that.
Still, something felt wrong.
Picking up the gold-tipped cane, the Brooklyn leader leaped nimbly from the crates and strode off into the darkness, becoming one with the shadows.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"EXTRA, EXTRA! Read all about it! Whorehouse harbouring pack of thieves and murders stormed by police! Read all about it!"
Mask's throat was getting dry, and every single muscle in her body felt as though it was ready to simply throw itself down on a warm, comforting bunk and fall asleep.
Can't stop now. I shouldn'ta taken dis many papes, she thought, regret washing over her like high tide over sand. She crossed her fingers and hoped that this headline would work. It was a far cry from the truth, and she anticipated having to run from any angry customers who realized that they had been scammed.
Slowly, people started paying attention to her as she built on the story little by little, melding various headlines together, conjuring up past headlines off the top of her head. Her hard work paid off. After twenty minutes, she was down to her last fifteen papes, an improvement from the thirty that she had originally taken. Trying not to crow with glee, the girl pocketed the cash and threw down her papers hard, laughing in triumph as they hit the dust.
Been wantin' ta do dat all day. Take dat, ya stinkin' papes, lousy headlines...take dat, Pulitzer! Dat's what I t'inks of your dumb paper.
Then, under the odd gaze of bystanders staring at the strange girl who seemed to be gloating over inanimate objects, Mask reached down, gathered up her papes and began heading off towards Tibby's.
Hmmm. I ain't dat hungry...gota about thoity...thoity five cents in me pocket...don't wanna gamble it all away...ah hell. I might as well head down to da racetrack, just to watch, she told herself. Taking several sharp turns, she observed as the street grew broader, and people seemed to flock in one general direction: the track.
As always, it was a noisy, crowded place, and she would have to wait about fifteen minutes before the next event began. Edging in to the nearest seat she could find, the girl felt previously knotted muscles loosen, her spirits lift. Turning, a foolish grin pasted onto her sharp, angular features, she froze when she found herself right beside an old enemy: Racetrack Higgins, gambler extrodinaire.
Her smile vanished almost instantly, and she considered finding another seat, and most likely would have had it not been for the unusual forlorn expression on the newsboy's face. Biting her lip, she hesitated a moment, then reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.
Jeez. I know I'se gonna regret dis later on.
Race jumped, startled, and then ran a hand through curly hair at the sight of his opponent.
"Stop sneakin' up like dat," he snapped, "and whaddaya want?"
Mask fought down the almost overwhelming urge to ball her hand up into a fist and let it fly straight into his face. Instead, she plastered on a falsely sympathetic smile and gave a polite reply. "I'se just wonderin' why you'se lookin' so down," she said. Race considered a moment, then, in an unexpected flash of trust, decided to spill his story to her.
"It's been gettin' hard, y'know?" he mumbled. "Not shoah if you was heah for da last event, but I just put da last of me money on da line, and lost it."
Mask could see the obvious distress he was fighting, and her heart went out to him. "I'se real sorry Race. Hey, how 'bout I buy ya lunch at Tibby's?"
He turned to her. "You feelin' okay?"
"What?" she shot back offended. "I'se just bein' nice, dat's all!"
"Huh. Dat's what worries me."
"Well, I buyin' ya lunch or not?"
Race seemed to hesitate, then broke into a smile. "Shoah."
"Hey. Dat's what friends...especially if deir newsies, are for." Pause. "So, how's your goil?"
Race's grin turned bitter. "She ain't mine anymore. Well, least I ain't shoah. I got dis suspcion she's-"
"Cheatin' on ya?"
"Yeah." He blushed. "But when I asked her, she gets angry at me!" He shook his head. "Women."
Mask chuckled. "Your goil...what's her name? Da one dat woiks down at da inn?"
"Cathrine. But everyone calls her 'Fingers,' 'cause, well..." he blushed. "But I'se shoah she wouldn't try anythin'...she said...well, I'se shoah she ain't..." he trailed off, then looked as though he were about to say something more.
Mask cut him off, stifling the urge to break into laughter. She hadn't expected naievety from Racetrack!
"C'mon, Race. Since ya got no more money left ta spend, let's get outta heah. Take a walk. Talk about life's problems before headin' down ta lunch."
Race narrowed his eyes in suspicion, then saw the honesty glinting in the seas of green. Smiling, he nodded. "Dat's a plan."
"Shoah is."
And the two enemies left the track that day, perfectly content to gripe and groan about life's small, petty details, firm friends.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was night at the Lodging House, and boredom had taken a firm grip on the place. Swifty lounged around on his bunk, doing nothing but trading tired glances with Boots, who finally stopped the staring contest to toy with the marbles he kept in his pocket. Mask sat staring into empty space, having half talked herself to death with Racetrack. Race in turn, absolutely no money left to gamble, gazed listlessly at his toes.
Snoddy believed that he would slowly go insane if this kept up any longer. He was accumstomed the place having a lively atmosphere, games of keep away taking place in abundance, Race's voice presiding over any card games going on, the newsboys convincing Mask to join in their fun and games. Sitting up a it straighter, he cast eyes on the newsgirl.
"Hey, uh, Mask. Dat accent of your's ain't pure New Yawk," he said teasingly. "Ya got some Socttish mixed in dere."
She grinned right back. "Yeah? Well lemee tell ya somethin'. My folks ain't always lived in Virginia. Dey came dere from Scotland, wheah me pop and mama was born and raised. Me faddah had a very strong Scottish accent, guess I picked it up."
"Ya know anythin' about da Scottish culture?"
Mask snorted in derision. "A course!"
Most of the boys had turned at the sound of some semblance of conversation. The corner of Snoddy's mouth quirked upwards.
"So, ya wanna sing us a song or somethin'?"
Mask protested, but the others, clearly desperate for some kind of distraction, insisted. Shooting Snoddy a withering glare, she fidgeted nervously a few times, then broke into song.
Tae the braes o' Balquhidder,
Whar the blueberries grow
'Mang the bonnie Hielan heather
Whar the deer and the rae
Lichtly bounding thegither,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhidder.
"I will twin thee a bow'r
By the clear silver fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er
Wi' the flooers o' the mountain
I will range through the wilds And return wi' their spoils
Tae the bow'r o' my dearie."
"Whe the rude wintry win'
Idly waves roun' oor dwellin'
And the roar o' the linn
On the night breeze is swellin'
So merrily we'll sing
As the storm rattles o'er us
Till the dear sheilin' ring
Wi' the light liltin chorus."
Mask stopped, breaking off abruptly and shaking her head. "I'se real sorry, can't remembah da last few verses."
Snoddy gazed at her, fascinated. Her voice wasn't spectacular, but it was pleasant enough, a lusty alto, belting out the tune loud and long. "Wow. You're faddah teach ya dat or somethin'?"
"Yeah."
She was silent for a moment, the proceeded to rattle off a string of information on Soctland and it's history, allowing some bits and pieces of her previous life to slip, but keeping her guard up. The room dissolved into chatter, discussion flying freely back and forth. Mask slid into subdued silence, echoes of the Highlands her father had known ringing in her ears.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Roof entered Tibby's, glancing hesitantly around. Brooklyn, Harlem, and Queens were known for their abundance of female newsies. Manhattan had a grand total of one girl at the moment, and the Harlem newsie wasn't sure how they'd react to the prescence of another one being thrust in their midst.
The waiter gave her a genial grin and a friendly wink, and allowing this to embolden her, the girl stepped forwards, finding herself under the cynical gaze of none other than Jack Kelly.
"You a newsie or somethin'?" he asked bluntly, not bothering to smile. She nodded nervously, and would have been subject to further questioning had Snoddy not risen from one of the back tables and given her a nod and a grin.
"Hey, ease off dere, Jack. I know dis goil. A newsie from Harlem, and Mask's friend."
Mask threw a few playful punches in Snoddy's direction. "Let me do da tawkin' round heah." Drawing herself up, the newsgirl gestures towards the blonde. "Okay fellas, dis heah is Rooftop, but we calls her Roof for short. If she feels like it, she'll explain how she got dat nickname."
Mush glanced at Roof, taking note of the waistlength blonde hair, full figure, inviting lips and sparkling blue eyes and instantly lost his heart.
Mask rolled his eyes as Mush launched into another spurt of sickeningly sweet words and phrases, then shoved him aside, trading significant glances with her friend.
"Mush, I don't t'ink she came heah ta see weather or not you'd win her heart."
"Well, she's won mine," Mush replied smoothly. Mask rolled her eyes once more and glanced at Roof again.
"Dere's somethin' ya wanna tell me. Get ovah heah."
Roof, used to her comrade's bluntness followed her, each finding a seat in an empty booth.
Not wasting any time on formalities or greetings, Mask slammed a hand down on the table for emphasis. "So, what is it dis time, Roof?"
Roof hesitated, looking totally insecure. "Uh...well..."
"Out wit it."
"It's Gambler."
The words fell like stones, and Mask strugled to keep her composure. Nonchalantly, she chewed on her bottom lip. "Yeah? What about dat bastard?"
"Mask, dis is more serious den ya t'ink," Roof hissed, drawing a bit closer. "Mask, I know dis sounds crazy, but I t'ink dat boy's a bit insane. He tawks ta shadows, Mask, he talks ta shadows!"
Mask shuddered, but said nothing. Roof went on.
"Mask. I don't t'ink I can take livin' dere any longer! It's a nuthouse, it really is."
"So stay heah in Manhattan."
Roof looked weary, running a hand through her hair. "Naw. I couldn't leave Handle, and ya knows dat. I..." she hesitated. "I loves him."
Mask was surprised. She had known that fact for quite a while now, it was just that Roof wasn't prone to saying things like that. The newsgirl blushed, then went back on track.
"He's tracked ya down. He knows you're stayin' at da Lodging House, he knows wheah it's located. My God, Mask, he even knows wheah ya sell your papes, wheah Tibby's is, da name of da man runnin' da Lodgin' House...Floppman, right?"
Mask didn't bother cracking a smile at the mistake. "Kloppman," she corrected mirthlessly.
"Whatevah. I don't know how he got dat information, I honestly don't...he. Mask. You'se in ovah your head!"
Mask was frozen in place. She stared numbly at Roof, who glared back. "Do ya understand what I'se tryin' ta tell ya?"
"Yeah, I get it. Now go have fun. Flirt wit da boys while Handle's not around," she retorted, making an attempt to lighten the situation.
Roof shook her head, then began sauntering over to where Mush sat. Suddenly, she turned back.
"Mask?"
"Yeah?"
"Spot me two bits, will ya?"
"I'se broke."
"Yeah. Right."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Swifty turned back, hands on his knees, panting hard just in time to see Mask come tearing around the corner after him. Gasping for breath, sweat glistening on her brow, she threw herself down in the shade of the boardwalk. Winter had come and gone, and now, all the newsies were enjoying the abundance of good weather and clear skies spring had to offer.
Thew newsboy strode over to her, grinning triumphantly, hands on hips. From seemingly out of nowhere, Crutchy, Boots, Bumlets and Snoddy seemed to materialize, all wearing a smile similar to the one on Swifty's face.
Snoddy laughed. "So, I guess ya owe Bumlets heah ten cents. Toldja he ain't named Swifty for nothin'. No one outruns him, and he's damn good at pickin' his way through a crowded street."
"All right, I admit," Mask managed to get out between breaths, "it was a stupid bet. I shoulda nevah put my mouth and my money togetha."
"Comin' for you, dat's a pretty spectacular phrase," Bumlets intoned. "So, what's next? Ya gonna try ta out-talk Racetrack?"
"It's already been done."
"By who?"
"Me, genuis."
"Wanna be-"
Before he could get the word out, Crutchy broke in. "Naw. Dat's enough bettin' for taday," he chortled. "Hey, Bumlets, ya interested in splittin' da ten cents two ways?"
"Yeah. Half goes ta me, and da odder half goes ta myself."
The banter and chatter grew and extended, and soon, Mask found herself a bit irked at not being included in it. Snoddy reached over and gave her a playful shove.
"Hey, whatcha lookin' so glum for, huh? It's spring. No more havin' ta sell in bitin' cold."
"Yeah," she replied mournfully, "just havin' ta sell in swelterin' heat."
"Stop bein' so pesscimistic," Soddy admonished. "Anyway, ya headed down ta Tibby's or to da track?"
"Depends on wheah you'se headed," she relied smoothly. Snoddy laughed.
"Tibby's it is."
"So Snoddy, why are you da height ya are?"
Snoddy shrugged self-conciously. He knew he was tall, knew it very well, and Mask, being Mask, enjoyed bringing it further to his attention. The newsboy glanced down at her.
"Guess it just runs in da family. At least I've got some muscle undah all dis flesh. Look at you, you're all limbs."
"Bettah a walkin' scarecrow wit brains den a muscle bound ape wit air between his ears."
This kind of contest of wits had become a usual event for the duo. It helped take their minds off life in the streets, helped take their minds of reality.
"Well, dis is one muscle bound ape who's very happy ta have you for a goilfriend," he said teasingly. The girl's arched brows pinched together slightly, recalling Roof's comment and she and Snoddy being a pair.
"I ain't your goilfriend," she replied, her mood suddenly darkening.
Snoddy stopped suddenly, not caring about the irate comments of passery-bys who's way had been blocked. A curious expression on his face, he cocked his head to one side and smiled.
"Ya know, I'se made a lota wrong choices in life. I...I nevah was da one who wanted ta stand up and be noticed, just da one dat was dere, sittin' in a corner unnoticed. I nevah really excelled at anything, not even hawkin' da headlines. Nevah had ta fight da women off wit a stick."
This drew a halfhearted grin from Mask, but other than that, she kept silent, wating for him to finish whatever it was he wanted to say.
"And...I dere are prob'ly a lotta things in life I still don't know about." He paused. "But I do know one t'ing."
Mask stopped and stared, the kiss, falling asleep in his arms, the harbour, all coming back to her. She braced herself for anything.
"I'se in love wit ya," he said simply, then a blush spread over his cheeks. "I...I ain't shoah if you return da feelin', but I just wanted ta let ya know. It didn't start out like dis, believe me," he inisted, sounding as though he had just commited a crime punishable by death and was trying to deny it. "It was just...somethin' about ya. A curiosity, mostly. You ain't like other goils, ya know dat?"
"Yeah. I do," she replied immodestly.
Snoddy chuckled. "Anyway, enough of dat. Let's get lunch?"
Suddenly, Mask's appetite deserted her. The turmoil that she had been pushing down for the longest of times surfaced once more, and she shook her head.
"No," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "You go ahead. I'll be...I'll be down at da racetrack wit Racetrack."
Snoddy looked dissppointed, but consented and went on his way.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"...so, he says he's in love wit me."
Racetrack hadn't even looked like he was so much as vaguely comprehending her words, but by the time she was finished, he spit out a curse, tore his eyes away from the horses on the track and turned to Mask.
"Uh-huh. And what about you?"
"Wha-?" Mask gaped foolishly.
Race looked annoyed. "I mean, what about you? Wheah do you stand?"
"I-don't know."
"Well, you'se in trouble. See, sometimes, ya gotta forget about what odder people are feelin' and start thinkin' for yourself."
Mask smirked. "Comin' from a swell-headed underfed wisecrackin' insensitive rude newsboy wit bad taste in vests-" she drew a breath, "-dat was very deep."
Race looked truly offended. "What are ya tawkin' about? Foist off, I'se got a right ta be swell headed. Second, dis vest is just fine. Thoid, I gotta right ta be rude as I want."
"Shoah. Whatevah ya say."
"And fourth," he added, turning his face away from Mask and suddenly going tense, "I'se gotta get outta heah."
Racetrack started making his way through the sea of people, elbowing through, shoving, shoving hard if needed. Mask followed, bewildered, throwing out questions like a gun throws out bullets.
"Hey, what's goin' on heah? Why do ya need ta leave? Someone chasin' ya?"
Racetrack, face set in a determined expression barely heard her.
"Hey, Mask. Cheese it. Dis is trouble. Get back ta Tibby's or your sellin' spot or where ever."
"Just a minute young man!"
Racetrack turned, the blood draining out of his face. The person standing above him was a young man, immaculately dressed, hair combed, probably a fat wallet hidden away somewhere in his pocket, wearing the most furious expression Mask had ever seen in her entire life. She squinted, then turned her face away when she recognized him as a the person she had sold a paper to, the paper with the phony headline "Mayor's daughter runs off with local bartender."
Race turned, looking for some sort of escape, but the man caught his shoulder and held it. "All right, boy," he spat, "we made a bet awhile back. On a whim of mine. I want the money."
It hit Mask, and she realized what was going on. The girl couldn't stop an amused grin from forming. Racetrack was Racetrack, and he would not change, come wind or high weather.
Race held up his hands. "Whoah dere, easy now. Don't get so riled up about it, mistah. It was six cents, and dat was a day ago."
The man exploded. "You idiot! That wasn't six cents, it was sixty dollars, and it happened a year ago!"
Mask gasped half mockingly, half genuinely surprised. She turned to the man. "You must be pretty rich ta lay down sixty dollars. And when da kid heah-" she jerked her head towards Race, who glared in return.
"Who you callin' "kid"?"
"-when da kid heah claims somethin' like dat, ya shouldn't believe him. Ya stupid or somethin'?" she asked insolently.
Racetrack sighed. "It's a long story, and yes, it involves alchohol. But it's not what'cha think. I'll tell ya latah; for now, just let me deal wit dis goon."
Race turned, flung the man's hand from his shoulder and faced him. Mask half expected a punch to be thrown, and was surprised when Race gave a nod of consent. "Okay, you win. Ya get da money back right now."
The man looked just as surprised as Mask, but stupidly enough took the "opportunity" when it arose.
"All right, kid. Cough up the cash."
Race dug around in his pockets so convincingly, Mask began to wonder weather or not he had robbed a bank. Suddenly, the newsboy looked up, an expression of wonder on his features.
"Look! Lookit dat, wouldja just lookit dat Mask!" he gaped. "Not shoah of da name...dat horse from down south, California...she's runnin' taday! Can't lose."
The man turned to look for the "dream steed," and in that moment of time, Race made his escape, dragging Mask along with him.
Mask shook her head, halfway between amusement and pity. "Dat's da lamest excuse I've evah hoid. It wouldn'ta fooled a guy just a bit smarter den da moron back dere."
"I wouldn't tawk," he replied coolly. "It's somethin' a picked up from you."
The two of them paused in the doorway of a local bakery, Racetrack lightening a cigar and taking a long drag.
Mask paused, watching as the smoke from his cigar floated into the bright afternoon sun, fascinated with it for no apparent reason. Finally, Race turned to her, quizzical expression on his face.
"I asked ya before. I'll ask ya again," he said teasingly. "Who are ya, and wheah ya from?"
Mask was surprised that she felt no anger, only contentment. And she proceeded to spill her entire story to him, finding the going easier and easier as she went along. When she was finished, Race's eyes were just about the size of the horshoes on the hooves of a Belgian draft horse.
"Ya catchin' flies or somethin'?" Mask asked, nodding towards his open mouth. Race shut it instantly.
"Naw...it's just dat...dat I nevah expected ya ta spill your guts just like dat," he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis.
She laughed easily and held something up for his personal inspection.
"Dat's my cigar!" he yelped. "How'dja...don't tell me you was a pickpocket along wit bein' a lockpick!?"
"You betcha. Now c'mon. Let's see how fast dose legs of yours can carry ya," she replied, darting off with the stolen item. Race hurtled after her, both heading in the general direction of Tibby's.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Snoddy was more than surprised when Racetrack blew into the diner, laughing uproariously, then slamming a few coins down on the counter and managing to order a meal between gasps and fits of laughter.
Snoddy cocked an eyebrow at Bumlets. "He been drinkin' or somethin'? Pullin' Mask inta his web of corruption?"
Pie Eater snorted in derision. "Race? I wouldn't be surprised," he said affectionately. Mask entered, seconds behind Race, laughing, though not as uproariously.
In a single, fluid motion, the newsgirl flung off her hat, stole a drink from an annoyed Specs' cup, slid into the booth beside Snoddy, then gave him a kiss, their lips locking almost instantly. He didn't object, just leaning into the gesture, savouring it.
She finally broke away, oblivious to the catcalls and comments assaulting her ears. Normally, arrogance and pride wouldn't have allowed her to so much as say "I love you," but something had washed it away in her. The kiss, in front of everybody, claimed the boy she now considered 'her's.'
Smiling, she lowered her voice.
"Ya got plans tanight?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Snoddy and Mask very quickly joined the flow of people headed towards Irving Hall. Medda Larkson had a show on tonight, and Mara Charlotte Delancey was anxious to see what was going on, how an friend of her's was faring, and to spend a little more time with the boy she had now given her heart to.
Snoddy and Mask quickly found their seat, jostled by other members of the audience and both regretting the heavy clothing they had chosen to wear. It now came as a disadvantage due to the immense body heat.
Mask turned towards Snoddy as he addressed her, a contented and mirthful smile on her face, made sweet by trust.
"Hey Mask," Snoddy inquired, "you're Scottish. 'Delancey' ain't a Scottish name."
Mask blushed and ducked her head shyly. "I know. I ain't told anybody me real last name. Ya see, when I was runnin' frmo da orphanage, when I came heah ta New Yawk, I changed it for security reasons, in case anybody wanted ta track me down and bring me back ta dat hellhole."
"So, what is you're real last name."
"Swear not ta breathe a woid ta anyone?"
He didn't say anything; the smile that played over his lips was enough.
"McKeary. Mara Charlotte McKeary."
"Dat sounds more like it," Snoddy replied appreciatively.
"Well, guess it's time ta shut up and start listenin'" Mask grinned as the curtains parted and Medda Larkson walked onstage.
Mask's breath caught int ehr throa.t The songstress was just as she had remembered her, same fiery orange hair, and still, after all these years, able to attract and command the full attention of the men.
As the night wore on, Mask found herself dropping out of the songs and into banter with Snoddy, trying to outdo and outthink him at each turn. Finally, the music ceased and Medda took a bow, gazing out appreciatively at her audience.
Then, her eyes settled on one figure, and she froze.
Mask returned the stare, penetrating green eyes spilling forth a lifetime of memory, opening up.
Snoddy seemed to notice the exchange, and so, wasn't surprised when Medda stopped Mask and called her over at the end of the show.
It was dim, even onstage, but Mask could still make out Medda's facial features. The performer cocked an eye at her and allowed a gentle grin to play over her lips.
"I see ya made it out of the orphanage, kid," she said softly, placing both hands on the table in front of her. Mask nodded.
"Adopted? Or run away?"
"Take a wild guess," came the reply. It would have sounded disrepectful had it not been for the soft tone and disarming posture. Medda's grin grew a bit wider.
"Haven't changed, have ya, kid?"
"Oh yes, I have," Mask replied softly. "I have changed. And for the worst."
"But you're still a craftty one," Medda pointed out, then lifted the lid of the table, which turned out not to be a table at all, but a heavy oaken trunk, inlaid with brass. With great care, the songstress pulled something from within the trunk and held it up, lamplight glittering from it.
"Mara, you remember this?"
Mask's eyes narrowed.
"...really? I can?"
"Yeah, it's all yours," Medda replied, beaming at the small child that stood before her. The stage was empty now, the performance over, but the rush that came from actually performing in the play hadn't left Mara. She reached for the mask.
Medda snatched it away at the last second, eyes dancing with amusement. "But, you have to promise to be a good girl and not give your mama such trouble!"
"I promise...I promise! I really do!"
Slowly, Mask came back to reality, reaching out and taknig the object. It was noting special, made of cheap material, the edges bordered with brass that had once sparkled brightly enough to pass for gold, faded feathers attatched to the top, their original color washed out.
"Here ya go, kid," Medda said, laughter in her voice. "If you remember, you fell asleep on the stage and your father had to come pick you up. You forgot it. I saved it for you."
Mask's vision had turned blurry with tears, and she set the object aside and reached out to embrace Medda.
"My God, Medda dere's so many t'ings...I'se forgotten," she said, voice breaking. Her eyes seemed to mist over. "I miss dem, ya know," knowing Medda did know. "Martin. I miss him lots. Me muddah. Me faddah. Hell, he got on me noives sometime, but I even miss Francis!"
Medda seemed surprised. "What in the world do you mean, you miss Francis? Ya see him every day." She allowed a short laugh. "I should think you'd be sick of him by now. Hasn't changed, you know? Same oversized ego, same blonde hair, same ability to charm the girls out of their pants. Or skirts. Trust me, that kid is far from a saint, but we love him anyway."
Mask nodded knowingly. "I know. But da kid you describe now ain't da kid dat I knew before."
"Yes, he's changed, hasn't he?" Medda winked. "Ya know, he needs somebody. A girl to keep him in line?"
"Sorry, Medda. I'se wit Snoddy heah," Mask said, half jokingly.
"T'anks...for lettin' me have da mask and everythin'."
"No need to thank me. No need to thank me at all. I was just returning what originally belonged to you."
The two gazed at each other for awhile, then, unsure of what to say, the newsgirl mumbled a farewell and tramped awkwardly out the door. Medda called her name before she could vanish into the darkness.
"Mara?"
"Mask. I'se called Mask now."
"Mask." Medda formed the word on her tongue as though it were from a foreign new language. "Mask. you're parents...what's there to say? They were good people. They'll be missed."
"I know."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The journey back to the Lodging House was a silent one. The duo walked, huddled together for warmth, saying nothing, but understanding each other full well. Finally, Mask broke the silence.
"Ya know, it's funny. Here I am, ready ta let go of da past, when I realize, I'll probably nevah fully let go."
Snoddy glanced at her, puzzled. "Huh?"
"What I mean is, I'se ready ta start again, start a new life," she said, gazing up at him, eyes brilliant in the moonlight. "Ready ta move on. But da things dat've happened ta me, deir what make me, me. Deir a part of me, and I'll nevah forget dem, good and bad."
"I'se glad ta heah dat," he replied, and Mask gazed at him, loving his easy manner and warm, quirky humor. "Like dey say, strength for taday, hope for tomorrow. And if you'se loined dat much, you'se halfway dere."
"Yeah."
And they entered the Lodging House, echoes of their laughter hanging in air so heavy and warm, you could almost taste it.