Shame and Finch … two young Brooklyn boys who find a world of comfort and friendship in each other. But when a new institution threatens the relative stability of everything they have come to love, they are forced into a world of cruelty much more horrible than anything they could ever have imagined. With the help of the Brooklyn newsboys they have always relied upon and Jack Kelly's Manhattan gang, they are forced to confront the developing carelessness that begins to slowly consume their own New York City.
A better summary for you, then. Hope that interests you and hope you read and review for me! By the way, I can lay claim only to my two boys Shame and Finch -- everyone else belongs to Disney, blah blah blah … enjoy!
BR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R!
What are the machines saying? They are saying, "We are hungry. We have eaten up the men and women (there is no longer a market for men and women, they come too high)--
We have eaten up the men and women, and now we are devouring the boys and girls.
How good they taste as we suck the blood from their rounded cheeks and forms, and cast them aside sallow and thin and care-worn, and then call for more!
-- "The Machines" by Ernest Crosby, 1902
The Blood-Red Streets of Brooklyn
PART ONE: Eternal Shame
ONE
HE WATCHED FINCH SLEEPING SOUNDLESSLY BESIDE HIM. It was very early morning and homesickness for Chicago settled over him like a dark cloud.
Rolling over, he glanced out of the window to see the stars. They were there, as always, shining down on him, but when he made his wish there was only cold, hard, unanswering silence. He turned back to Finch and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Yes, he had known happiness since leaving his home … Finch was his rare glimmer of sunshine, his ray of light in a dark, dark world.
"What's wrong, Shame?"
The voice rumbled up from the bottom of his friend's chest and Shame was startled.
"I didn't think you were awake," Shame said softly, eyeing Finch's muscular back in the light of the moon.
"I am." came the simple answer. "Whaddah yah need?"
"Nothing."
Finch's voice was gentle. "Yah miss Chicago?"
A knot in his throat, Shame nodded. The wordlessness of the reply was not lost on his friend.
It seemed like yesterday that Shame had stepped off the train, his working-class pork-pie hat pulled low over his brow, his brown vest crumpled and stained, a bag in each hand. He had been running from a past that would chase him forever, so eager in his uncertainty to create a new life, and a new future, for himself.
He looked to the sides. In the silver moonlight he could see familiar shapes, chests rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. In the bunk below him was Racetrack, their Brooklyn leader's closest friend and confidante. He peered down at the young face. Sleeping, Racetrack looked angelic and innocent. The smugness was gone. So was the new-placed weariness. Shame loved Racetrack well, and he was sorry now to see so much stress placed upon the little shoulders of the fiery Italian. But Racetrack handled it well, he never complained, never fussed.
He rolled back over. Finch's body was warm next to him, the tall, slimly well-muscled body of a seventeen year old boy who was just beginning to fill his figure in. Mush was across from them, that big sweetheart whose gentleness far exceeded his size. Shame smiled at the sleeping figure. In Mush he had found a good friend, a big protector, and a comforting soul. For that he was glad, but no one could ever equal Finch.
There was Dutchy, and Snitch and Itey, and Skittery, and Boots, Jack, Kid Blink, Crutchy, Snoddy, Pie Eater, Bumlets, Swifty, even little Snipeshooter, and Specs, whose glasses were laying on the ground next to his bunk. Specs without his glasses was like Crutchy without his walking stick. It simply did not work.
"We can't stay late," Finch said quietly. He shifted his weight and the bed creaked. Shame felt his friend's bare chest against his body.
He nodded regretfully. "I know."
"I think Jack's awake." the other boy said. His voice was soft so as not to wake the other boys. "We should talk to him before we go back to Brooklyn."
Shame looked over to Jack's bed. It was empty. "I think he's gone to say good-bye to Davey. Since he's off to school again."
Finch scratched his head, thinking for a moment. "Jack's goin' tah be half a person widout Dave around."
"School is better than the streets, though," Shame said softly, his stomach giving a guilty lurch as he remembered his own past and he was not sure if this statement really was true. At least in Brooklyn he shared a bed with Finch, and a roof was over his head. After leaving Chicago he could ask for nothing more. He had no right to ask for anything more.
Chicago.
He missed it even still.
"I dunno," Finch replied. "S'a fine life. Grand livin'."
Shame curled into Finch's warm body. "Should we talk to Race since Jack isn't here?"
"We gotta talk tah somebody," Finch answered. "Don' care who, long's dey knows we's leavin'."
He was sorry to sit up and away from his friend … he was always so comfortable with Finch, always felt so loved and protected. Wrapped up in that emotion was not a bad place to be. Such a comfort had been a long time in coming for Shame.
And he was sorry to leave these Manhattan boys whom he loved deeply. All this loyalty, all this strength … he loved being able to wake to it every morning. It was more than he had ever been given before. There was a love in his heart for them that could not be justly expressed in words. Even in Shame's words, because Shame was a writer and his art was the way he used his language.
His worn shoulder bag sat on the ground next to the bunk. Stuffed in it were mounds of paper he had bound together using a needle and some tough thread. He eyed the bag, then looked regretfully at the sleeping Manhattan boys. "I'm so tired, Finch."
"I know," came the answer in a perfectly soft tone. "I know."
The sun was no where near risen yet but the sky had turned that dull gray that the pending morning always dragged kicking and screaming behind it. On the street below there seemed to be sitting a silent, unmoving blandness. It lifted Shame's heart in an odd, inexplicable way -- it was another day with his closest companion in this wonderful city of New York.
Was it wrong to love New York when Chicago was his home?
"Come on, they'll be awake soon," Finch urged gently. He quietly slipped down from the high bunk and suddenly Shame felt cold and alone without the beautiful presence of his friend. Head reeling with early morning, he watched as Finch slipped on a pair of sagging trousers over his white underwear and donned a dirty white button-up shirt. The last part of his attire consisted of a gray pork-pie hat and an old pair of boots that ran a size too small for the boy who wore them.
"I hear Mr. Kloppman," Shame said into the room filled only with the sounds of deep sleep. He watched Racetrack's little chest rise and fall, that dark tiny face erased of all stress, of all frustration, of all sorrow. Of all the Manhattan boys, Racetrack's past was probably easily the most horrid, the most frightening. Shame felt a deep pity-struck love well up in his heart as he looked on the sleeping Racetrack, whose little hands were balled up under his face.
And now, more than ever, Racetrack was helpless against his own fate.
"Come on, Shame, and be quiet," Finch said gently, urging his friend down. He gave Shame a hand to help him from the bunk and the young boy's feet made only the softest patter as they hit the ground.
He dressed quickly and quietly, pulling on the shirt Finch had lent him (it was several sizes too big but he tucked it into his own pair of trousers) and slipped on his pork-pie hat. His shoulder bag across his body, he followed Finch from the room, throwing one last sorrowful glance back at the sleeping Manhattan boys.
The lobby was still dark and deserted as they made their way down the stairs. Finch knew which stairs creaked, which groaned in complaint under the weight of growing boys, and Shame nimbly leapt past them to the next one. He was not a big fellow although he was lean and well muscled for one his size. He did not know the ethnicity of his blood, but his short-shorn hair was very very dark and his eyes had the colour of a brown so deep they were almost black. His lashes were long and when he blinked slowly, it gave him almost a feminine appearance, one that Finch was good never to tease him about. He did not know the ethnicity of his blood, but when his tanned olive skin was matched beyond that even of Racetrack, he had no doubt that he shared some obvious tie of country with the little wiseguy Italian.
He knew which window it was that Mr. Kloppman left broken for the boys to use at night. Mr. Kloppman was always considerate of their insomnia or of their masculine needs, and now Shame had learned to come and go as he pleased. They could catch an early breakfast and return to tell the boys good-bye, maybe take Racetrack back to Brooklyn if he wanted to go. Their young leader and Racetrack were very close, very secretive, almost, in their affairs. But Shame did not begrudge Spot Conlon his friendships where they were strong. Spot Conlon was very different than most other newsboys, he was always so very much alone. It seemed to Shame that Spot Conlon needed Racetrack in a certain way and that Racetrack was glad to give relief to his closest of companions.
"Breakfast?" Shame asked as they crawled through the window to the street outside. Not even the street vendors had started to set up yet, but the little place frequented by newsboys would stay open all night for those boys who ate on a different schedule than the rest of New York City.
Finch nodded. "Just a little. Then it's back here before we leave for home again."
Home. Home was not Brooklyn for Shame. Home was Chicago.
"We'll talk to Racetrack," the smaller boy replied. "He'll tell Jack. Is Race coming to Brooklyn with us?"
"If he wants," Finch shrugged. "Spot never said tah bring him."
He was content with that answer. Racetrack's presence would be a comfort to him, but if he wasn't coming, oh well to that too. They walked along the dark streets, their shoulders touching. His stomach rumbled hungrily. Being a young writer sure was grand, but since no one wanted to buy his stuff … he rubbed his stomach. One day, one day the publishers and the papers would be interested, they would all want to hear what he had to say.
But now there was a different story in his bag, one much darker than the rest, one much more brutal in its truth … and still it was unfinished …
Spot Conlon paid him well enough for his work, however, and he was glad to do it. Writing letters, reading columns in the papes, that sort of thing. The Brooklyn newsboys could speak well enough, there was no doubt, and a few could read more than simple headlines, but fewer still could write. And those that could write were often too wary of hand, too unsure of letters and spelling and even the most basic of mechanics. Shame had learned, he had learned long ago in Chicago, and the fact made him proud. Most often, though, Spot would dictate messages while Shame wrote, and then he himself was sent to deliver them. It was what separated him from New York's newsboys, from the orphans, the talent which made him unique.
Shame was devastatingly intelligent.
"It's gonna be a cool day," Finch said quietly at his side, voice still soft. It was a voice that almost had a texture, it was so filled with humanity and gentleness. Shame nodded.
"I wish winter would hold back, though," he replied. "Toughest season. Makes everyone desperate to survive."
He could see the outline of the tiniest of smiles on Finch's handsome face. "We's always desperate tah survive, Shame."
There was a light burning in the window of the restaurant and Shame was glad for the familiar scene. Through the grimy pane of glass he could see a yawning waitress behind the front desk. Oh well, he was tired too, but for he and Finch it was move or die in times like this.
The little bell knocked against the door as they opened it and Shame was first in. He pushed his hat forward off of his head and held it in his clutches as he waited for the presence of an employee before he seated himself. The same yawning waitress re-entered from the bathroom and Finch led the smaller boy to the table by the window they occupied every time they ate here. It seemed to be reserved exclusively for them.
Shame picked up the menu and opened it, but Finch did not bother. Finch was not like Shame, he could not read, although he was every bit as intelligent. "S'just a differn' kind of intelligent," he had once said, a finger lightly on his temple as if to emphasize his point. And it was true, Shame had long ago realised. Finch was very smart, and despite his tall size, he was very agile too.
"Just a coke fer me, thanks," came Finch's voice through Shame's thoughts. The other boy quickly folded his menu again and looked up.
"Eggs and a coke, please." he said and smiled. He had a nice smile, a sweet little thing, shining white in a tan face with such dark hair and eyes. Like a little child his skin was smooth and untarnished as of yet by any sign of impending manhood. It was convenient not to have to shave every morning like the other boys.
"Someone's hungry." Finch smiled with a tone that was mocking in a friendly manner.
"Yeah, and don't you ever eat?" Shame said, trying to be irritated. It did not work.
"Me?" the other boy questioned. "Nah. Got a pack'a smokes I made meself tah get me t'rough dah day." After a moment of fishing around in his pocket he produced a cardboard flap lined with hand-rolled cigarettes and a box of matches with which to light them. Cigarettes were expensive. They were easier to make than to buy … or to steal, Shame thought with a wry smile.
He and Finch had never been above stealing to live.
But sometimes it was stupid to steal, dumb in situations where they were watched or they had not planned an escape. Stealing was an action for things much grander, much larger and much more expensive than cigarettes. Money, or clothes, things like that. And why not? Everyone had a place, a designated slot in life. Shame and Finch were bottom of the pack, the lowest of the low. Shame looked out the window to hide the angry color rising in his cheeks. Who had decided to take his comfort and deal it to someone else?
He heard the sound of a plate being set before him and he saw his eggs and coke awaiting his hunger. Finch was smoking, leaning back in his chair, contemplating whatever was running through his head. Shame pulled his seat in closer. The food here was surprisingly good, for such a cheap price at least. Did he not deserve to fill his stomach a little every now and then? Ah, but he didn't know what he deserved anymore …
The food seemed to be gone in seconds, the little plate emptied of its two fluffy, scrambled eggs. Had Shame not hated the sound of silverware scraping ceramic plates he would have done it just to see that even the last traces of the food was gone, but he threaded together some dignity and set the plate aside. The coke was sweet and seemed to give him an added burst of energy as he drained the tall cup. Not everyday could they afford to eat like this and he cherished it when they did splurge. Spot cared well for them, though. Spot made sure his boys never went to bed with an empty stomach when they slept in the old Brooklyn warehouse by the Bridge.
The first rays of a not-yet-risen sun crept through the clouds above. The air seemed to groan with the changing gears the pending day always brought along with it, and Shame sighed. He dared a glance at his shoulder bag seated on the floors. It was time to be off, now that he had done business as usual. Mr. Kloppman hadn't even charged them for their stay in the Lodging House, he was so kind and sympathetic. A good man, truly, in a day and age where greed and exploitation ruled all.
"Done?" Finch seemed to have awoken from his moment of silent contemplation. The legs of his chair made a small clicking sound as they touched the floor. His glass of cola sat half empty before him.
"You smell like smoke now," Shame pointed out. "Like cigarettes."
Finch pressed the hand-rolled butt into the ashtray on the table and a thin gray cloud rose in protest, then faded. "Yeah, an' I smell like a lotta uddah things too an' dey ain't half so pleasant."
"You forget yourself, Finch. I do, too."
The tall boy smiled. "I pay, you leave dah tip."
"Fair enough." With that, Shame took out a handful of things which had collected in his pocket and he carefully picked out two pennies. The rest he stuffed back in.
By the time they paid and passed beyond the peeling golden letters that read "Tibby's," the sun was just beginning to rise over the Hudson. Every day Shame swam in the river.
In Chicago he had swam in the lake.
"Time for our good-byes," Shame said quietly. "I feel like a coward running to hide in Brooklyn."
Finch was never anything less than complete understanding. He sensed his friend's pain. "Remembah what I told yah, Shame, courage --"
"Courage is saying good-bye." Shame broke in softly. So many times had Finch told him that.
He loved Finch. Would he have to be brave, one day, and tell Finch good-bye, too?
The uncertainty killed him, though, it made him think long into the night, hoping, praying for the safety of his friends. He did not pray often, but when he did, it was not for an easy life, rather for the courage to endure a difficult one.
Courage is saying good-bye.
It was one form of courage Shame did not have.
"Yah all packed?"
Shame nodded. "Packed last night. Just have my bag," he replied, patting the worn thing slung across his shoulder. His papers rustled.
He had been told many times of the Strike just months ago … now they had a different mission in mind, one that scared him senseless. The newsboys had stopped the World; now they would stop the Crusade.
How many times had he heard the tales of disappearing friends, of stolen orphans? The stories were horrible, cruel, terrifying. He heard them whispered from boy to boy on the streets, or repeated in anger when confrontations arose. At the thought of the words, "Stop causin' trouble or dey'll send yah out on dah Children's Crusade," he shivered. So many boys went into the factories and came out missing fingers, hand, even entire arms -- or they simply did not come back out at all.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Finch swore softly at his side.
"Didn' think dah storm was gonna hit tahday, of all days," the taller boy explained quietly. "Ah, well, we're expected back in Brooklyn eidder way."
"Maybe it'll just pass," Shame said hopefully. "Just go right over us."
"No, me leg hurts," Finch shook his head. He reached down subconsciously to rub his shin where it had once been shattered in a vicious fight. "Been hurtin' all night but I thought it might just be dah cold settin' in."
"Let's hurry, then. We don't want to be stuck on the Bridge when it hits."
Their pace quickened and in just moments their respective gaits brought them through the doorway of the Lodging House. Mr. Kloppman was whittling a pipe at his desk and he looked up and waved to them as they passed.
"Hello, boys," he greeted. "Better hurry -- heard some thunder out there."
"Hello," Shame returned the greeting in a warm manner.
"Just gotta say good-bye," Finch said as they bustled up the stairs. The noise of readying boys came to their ears.
Upon their entrance there was a flurry of noise and welcomings. Shame felt someone pat him on the back and when he turned he saw a smiling Mush, washing his face with a towel.
"Come tah tell us yous're leavin'?" Racetrack was always the one to see through any situation.
Finch nodded. "We're expected back in Brooklyn any day. I'm shoah Spot wants tah see us."
"Jack ain't heah so I'se'll show yous off. Didn't leave no lettah fer Spot, Jack didn't." Racetrack shrugged. His black eyes pierced, although Shame had known him long enough to see the overpowering warmth in them. Shame smiled.
"Do you want to come back with us?" he asked. "Spot always has a place for you."
Racetrack smiled. "Can't, kid, dough tell 'im I wish 'im all dah best. An' tell 'im I miss 'im an' will come soon."
"Of course, Race," Shame said and they embraced momentarily. The factories seemed to pull boys right from the streets; how long would it be before one of their own Manhattan friends was sent on the Children's Crusade?
"Come back real soon," Mush said and his smiling face didn't seem to shine with the usual child-like optimism. "Take care'a yousselfs."
"We'll miss yah, Mushy," Finch said. Then, more softly, "God keep you."
Shame did not know how much religion Mush had in him, but the bigger boy smiled with true conviction, genuine affection. "An' you too, Finch. Stay safe, Shame."
Shame looked around one last time. The Manhattan boys were all smiling cheerily to show them out, and at last, when the two young Brooklyn boys turned and went, Shame couldn't help but to think that all those smiles were slightly tarnished with fear and a new, ever-present weariness.