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Home

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It took me six days nonstop to get back to New York. After going by ship down to California I went home in almost exactly the same way as I had left it, tracing perfectly my escape route-straight on across from San Francisco through the mountains and the fields and the plains. That huge rolling thunderous country I didn't think I would ever get tired of, going from the loose salty sweetness of the pacific through mountains as big as a century, through the green forests and the sad sprawling farms. And so back to the dusty packed-in east coast, expecting to find it just as it had been that day, years ago, when I had left. That day when I had heard my name spoken in winds that came from halfway around the world, when I had felt that primal urge--go west young woman, the call had sounded. And following it, I went.

And now, returning to all I had left behind, what did I think of? What did I think of, when my mind was not filled with departure times and ticket prices and most of all the thought that my brother might lie dying at that very moment-the thought that I tried hardest to banish from my mind? I thought of the place I had called home for so long. I thought of what my life had been, and I remembered.

Nostalgia is the most deadly weapon that time can use against us, and I realized somewhere between Omaha and Akron that I was in danger of sinking into it clear up to my waist. So I did my best, on that long sleepless journey, to remind myself of all the things I was glad I had left behind. And honestly, it wasn't that hard. There were the long hours and the never- ending race to sell the next edition, out there every day, and then back to the lodging house, that permanent temporary home. I had been raised almost entirely by boys, and people often make use of the familiar saying: "what were you, raised by wolves?"-but I think those people have never chanced to meet one of the Brooklyn newsies. Growing up between the constant squalor and the dirty jokes-how can you tell a goil from da Bronx is gettin' her period? She's only wearin' one sock! Ha! Ha! Ha!--coupled with the complete lack of exposure to females, it was no wonder I didn't know what to do with myself once the impossible happened and I fell for Jack. But then, maybe no one in that situation would really know what to do.

And so the list went on. I spent sleepless nights counting the things I hoped to never experience again, the things I was glad to have gotten away from in one piece, but I knew it was a pointless endeavor. What was I trying to do, anyway? Convince myself that I didn't want to come home? That I was lucky to live in a rootless existence, to drift from town to town and never settle? To go years at a time without seeing the people I loved? Whatever I was aiming for, I failed miserably. I could go on for as long as I liked about all the hardships I had gone through, but in the end I had to admit that I missed my old life. There was something to be said about being part of something, about having someone always there to watch your back, hide you from the bulls and spot you two bits on a bad day. I missed being 'one of the boys', I missed the lodging house, I missed the docks. I missed Spot. I was going home, and at that moment there was no place I would rather be.

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When I finally got back, I went to the only place I could think of-the old lodging house. I couldn't think of any other place to go. It was early in the morning, and I had no idea what was going to happen-lucky for me, though, someone was waiting for me. Sitting on the stairs, resting his head against the banister reading the morning edition. There were a thousand thins I could have thought then, things I could have remembered about him, but all I could think was how I had known he would be there. It didn't seem like anything else could have happened.

"Wolf," I called. He looked up at me with his soft brown eyes, raised his head and smiled. He was a big guy, as tall and as strong as a mountain, although he had seemed bigger before I left. No one ever bothered him or tried to pick a fight because of his size, and it was just as well, because he would never hurt a fly. He had taken care of Spot and I when we were still out on the streets, made sure we had food and a place to stay. He told me later that day that he was married now, a steelworker. It made me wonder what had happened to the others, to Dainty and Shanghai and Mince and everyone else-were they all going quietly about the business of being grown-ups now? Had everything I had known changed?

But at that moment, I didn't have to worry about it. As Wolf got up and came down the steps and said my name, almost disbelieving, I smiled. I had arrived.

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Thank you thank you THANK YOU to all who reviewed. A nice long chapter in this epic saga will be up soon if you give me another-love, birth, death, sex, betrayal, happiness, grief and Max Casella. How can you say no? TBC....