The head nurse spotted Jeff on his way back from the maternity ward. She
somehow managed to stop him in his tracks without moving or speaking.
Perhaps it was the look on her face. Perhaps it was the way she held the
dress in her arms--/The dress?/
Jeff let his gaze fall on the nurse's arms. They held a yellow polka- dotted dress. /What's she doin'? Is dat Lucy's dress?/ He hadn't realized he had said the last part aloud.
"Yes, dear. It's her dress."
His head began to spin. "Whadda /you/ doin' wid it?"
"We...thought you might want this...might want to give it to a family member..." She mumbled, handing him Lucy's folded up dress.
He suddenly felt faint. Jeff looked at it for a long time, gripping it between his hands firmly and willing back the tears that longed to be released. He swallowed his sobs that were beginning to well in his throat. With tears in his brown eyes, he violently tore the hem of the dress into two long strips, tying one around each bicep. As silly as yellow polkadots looked against his clothing, he liked it. "Dere...dat's bettah." He looked up at the nurse. "I'll give it ta huh fadda, don'tchu worry." He smiled. He paused, then asked: "An' me muddah?" He was ready for it.
She but nodded.
"The baby?"
She hesitated. "Babies born of infected mothers—"She began.
He help up a hand to stop her. "Thank you. I appreciate dis." He stood, and headed for the front door. He turned, last second. "As for da bill, youse can charge a mister Robert Jefferson."
-----
Jeff folded the remainders of the dress and laid it on a piece of brown mailing paper, tying the string tightly around the package. Within the dress was a note to her father. It read: Dear Mr. Peters, I guess by now that you have heard the awful news about your daughter's untimely death. It grieves me to write this, and even as I do, I weep. I was her best friend...possibly something more, and I wanted you to know that I empathize greatly with your pain. Our loss is great, but she would not want us to stop living. I encourage you to do as she would wish, and continue your life as you have been. This dress is the dress that she was wearing before she passed on. Whether she wears it or another when she is buried is up to you and you alone. I thought you should have the dress either way. I am at a loss for words, which does not happen often, of that I can assure you. I can only say that I shall pray your soul find peace despite the circumstances. My best wishes, sincerely, Jeffery L. Jefferson.
He hadn't returned home; there was no reason for him to. He had wrapped the package at the hospital, reality still having yet to set in. He dropped the dress into the clinic's mailbox on his way out.
He put his hands in his pockets and braced himself once more for the cold of the outside world. He wasn't ready for it, he realized. He wanted to run back inside and climb into his mother's lap, as he did when he was a child. Sighing shudderingly, he stepped into the street and made his way down the street.
-----
Jeffery was ready to drop. He had been walking for three hours now, and while it helped greatly in working off his fear and adrenaline, he was now simply exhausted. He collapsed in the opening to an alleyway, falling flat on his hands and knees. He shut his eyes tight and took a minute to regulate his breathing again. He rolled over onto his back and lay there on an old potato sack. He moved his hands so that they held his head up, his lids drooping heavily. He smiled softly and fell asleep.
His rest lasted the night, but early the next morning, even before the sun was out, he was awoken rudely by a gruff voice.
"I said, get up!"
His eyes fluttered open; every muscle in his body screaming for him to lay back down again. He propped himself up on an elbow and rubbed an eye sleepily. "'Scuse me?" He yawned.
The voice grunted, and suddenly Jeff screamed out in pain as a large object connected with his stomach. He sat up quickly, attempting to scramble to his feet.
His attempts were in vain, and soon he was delivered another kick; this time in his ribcage. He screamed even louder this time, clutching his chest. It felt as though it were breaking in half.
"You're not fit to sleep in this street, ya pile 'a street trash." The voice sneered.
He opened one eye and looked up. His assailant was a well-dressed young man, which caused even more confusion on Jeff's part. He had half a mind to stand up for himself and tell the boy off. After all, he was just as wealthy as--/Oh yeah.../ Years of lost fortunes rushed back to him. He muttered a curse low under his breath.
"What did you call me?!"
Jeff jerked his head up, horrified. "No! I—"
"Beat it!!"
A new voice came from the street side of the alley. While the attacker was distracted, and Jeff took the opportunity to clamber back into the shadows to nurse his wounds. His head throbbed.
He shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Even breathing hurt, he found out.
He could hear the sounds of a struggle, flesh-on-flesh contact, and then running, a few feet away. He opened his eyes again.
The newest voice apparently had feet as well, for it kicked at the retreaters, a cloud of dust coming up from off the street. "Snotty rich kids...t'ink dere so much bettah den me...piss me off..." The voice began to fade as it rounded the corner.
/Why'm I doin' so much cryin' taday?/ He asked rhetorically. Jeff sniffled loudly.
"Somebody dere?" The voice came back around the corner.
"Jus' anudda snotty rich kid." He mumbled bitterly.
The voice came closer. "Youse okay, kid?"
Jeff's temper flared. "I ain't a kid." He called out.
The owner of the voice shrank back a little. "Sorry. Youse okay? /Sih/?"
Jeff bit his tongue and nodded.
"I'll assume dat was a yes. I can barely see ya." He explained. "Where are ya? Keep tawkin'." The sound of rough hands running along brick could be heard.
Jeff climbed painfully to his feet. "No, I'll get up. It's okay."
The noises stopped. "A'rite." Silence filled the alleyway. "I'se gonna pretend for a second dat you don't wanna fight. Would ja like ta play along?" He smiled into the darkness. "I wuddn't wanna hafta hoit ya." The voice said haughtily.
Jeff rolled his eyes. "I don't wanna fight nobody—" /Anybody./ He corrected himself mentally. "Especially right now."
The voice grew louder, and Jeff could make out a figure. "Ya hoit?"
Jeff scowled. /No, I'se fine!/
"Dumb question. 'Coise ya hoit, 'e gotcha good."
Jeff heard what sounded like spitting, and a hand was extended his way. "Jack Kelly, but youse can call me Cowboy. Everyone else does."
Jeff glanced down at the hand, then untangled himself and spit into his own hand awkwardly, shaking the offered one firmly. "Jeffery Jefferson." He mumbled, wincing.
"Huh?"
He rolled his eyes. "Me name's Jeff Jefferson." He repeated.
Jack winced too. "Sorry I ast."
Jeff smiled.
"Ya got a place ta stay, Jeff Jefferson?"
He shook his head.
Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Come wid me. I got a place. I think you'd like it. It's ain't da Waldorf, but I doubt you've seen dat kinda place in a long while anyways."
Jeff wiped his mouth on his sleeve and followed his new friend across the street and around a corner. They climbed the steps, Jeff a bit gingerly, and entered.
Jack spread his arms. "Welcome. My home sweet home." He told Jeff proudly.
"What is dis place?" Jeff straightened, the pain finally beginning to recede.
"Dis is da Lodgin' House. Most 'a da Manhattan newsies live heah. Know what a newsie is, right?"
"Kinda."
"Good enough. Now, foist night's free, aftah dat it's 6 a night. Got it?" He approached a window with a book and pen and turned to him. "Youse know how ta write ya name?"
"No." Jeff lied, gazing around the place with new eyes. /Am I really doin' this? Am I gonna really be a newsie?/
"Alright, jus' guess den. Or do ya want me ta do it?"
He shrugged. "I don't care, youse can."
Jack tilted his head. "Okay, I'll do it." He grabbed the pencil and wrote his own name, then under it, signed "snoddy rich kid." "Come on Snoddy, les' getcha upstairs a'right?"
Jeff smiled tiredly and nodded.
Jack threw an arm around his shoulders and led him up the stairs, to his new life.
-----
Even Angels Fall
Jessica Riddle
You found hope, you found faith,
Found how fast she could take it away.
Found true love, lost your heart,
Now you don't know who you are.
She made it easy, made it free,
Made you hurt 'till you couldn't see.
Sometimes it stops, sometimes it flows,
But baby, that is how love goes.
You will fly, and you will crawl,
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you've lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
It's a secret that no one tells:
One day it's Heaven, one day its Hell,
And it's no fairy tale, take it from me,
That's the way it's supposed to be.
You will fly and you will crawl,
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you've lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
You laugh, you cry, no one knows why,
But oh the thrill of it all.
You're on the rye,
You might as well open your eyes.
You will fly and you will crawl,
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you've lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
Even angels fall.
Even angels fall.
Jeff let his gaze fall on the nurse's arms. They held a yellow polka- dotted dress. /What's she doin'? Is dat Lucy's dress?/ He hadn't realized he had said the last part aloud.
"Yes, dear. It's her dress."
His head began to spin. "Whadda /you/ doin' wid it?"
"We...thought you might want this...might want to give it to a family member..." She mumbled, handing him Lucy's folded up dress.
He suddenly felt faint. Jeff looked at it for a long time, gripping it between his hands firmly and willing back the tears that longed to be released. He swallowed his sobs that were beginning to well in his throat. With tears in his brown eyes, he violently tore the hem of the dress into two long strips, tying one around each bicep. As silly as yellow polkadots looked against his clothing, he liked it. "Dere...dat's bettah." He looked up at the nurse. "I'll give it ta huh fadda, don'tchu worry." He smiled. He paused, then asked: "An' me muddah?" He was ready for it.
She but nodded.
"The baby?"
She hesitated. "Babies born of infected mothers—"She began.
He help up a hand to stop her. "Thank you. I appreciate dis." He stood, and headed for the front door. He turned, last second. "As for da bill, youse can charge a mister Robert Jefferson."
-----
Jeff folded the remainders of the dress and laid it on a piece of brown mailing paper, tying the string tightly around the package. Within the dress was a note to her father. It read: Dear Mr. Peters, I guess by now that you have heard the awful news about your daughter's untimely death. It grieves me to write this, and even as I do, I weep. I was her best friend...possibly something more, and I wanted you to know that I empathize greatly with your pain. Our loss is great, but she would not want us to stop living. I encourage you to do as she would wish, and continue your life as you have been. This dress is the dress that she was wearing before she passed on. Whether she wears it or another when she is buried is up to you and you alone. I thought you should have the dress either way. I am at a loss for words, which does not happen often, of that I can assure you. I can only say that I shall pray your soul find peace despite the circumstances. My best wishes, sincerely, Jeffery L. Jefferson.
He hadn't returned home; there was no reason for him to. He had wrapped the package at the hospital, reality still having yet to set in. He dropped the dress into the clinic's mailbox on his way out.
He put his hands in his pockets and braced himself once more for the cold of the outside world. He wasn't ready for it, he realized. He wanted to run back inside and climb into his mother's lap, as he did when he was a child. Sighing shudderingly, he stepped into the street and made his way down the street.
-----
Jeffery was ready to drop. He had been walking for three hours now, and while it helped greatly in working off his fear and adrenaline, he was now simply exhausted. He collapsed in the opening to an alleyway, falling flat on his hands and knees. He shut his eyes tight and took a minute to regulate his breathing again. He rolled over onto his back and lay there on an old potato sack. He moved his hands so that they held his head up, his lids drooping heavily. He smiled softly and fell asleep.
His rest lasted the night, but early the next morning, even before the sun was out, he was awoken rudely by a gruff voice.
"I said, get up!"
His eyes fluttered open; every muscle in his body screaming for him to lay back down again. He propped himself up on an elbow and rubbed an eye sleepily. "'Scuse me?" He yawned.
The voice grunted, and suddenly Jeff screamed out in pain as a large object connected with his stomach. He sat up quickly, attempting to scramble to his feet.
His attempts were in vain, and soon he was delivered another kick; this time in his ribcage. He screamed even louder this time, clutching his chest. It felt as though it were breaking in half.
"You're not fit to sleep in this street, ya pile 'a street trash." The voice sneered.
He opened one eye and looked up. His assailant was a well-dressed young man, which caused even more confusion on Jeff's part. He had half a mind to stand up for himself and tell the boy off. After all, he was just as wealthy as--/Oh yeah.../ Years of lost fortunes rushed back to him. He muttered a curse low under his breath.
"What did you call me?!"
Jeff jerked his head up, horrified. "No! I—"
"Beat it!!"
A new voice came from the street side of the alley. While the attacker was distracted, and Jeff took the opportunity to clamber back into the shadows to nurse his wounds. His head throbbed.
He shut his eyes and tilted his head back. Even breathing hurt, he found out.
He could hear the sounds of a struggle, flesh-on-flesh contact, and then running, a few feet away. He opened his eyes again.
The newest voice apparently had feet as well, for it kicked at the retreaters, a cloud of dust coming up from off the street. "Snotty rich kids...t'ink dere so much bettah den me...piss me off..." The voice began to fade as it rounded the corner.
/Why'm I doin' so much cryin' taday?/ He asked rhetorically. Jeff sniffled loudly.
"Somebody dere?" The voice came back around the corner.
"Jus' anudda snotty rich kid." He mumbled bitterly.
The voice came closer. "Youse okay, kid?"
Jeff's temper flared. "I ain't a kid." He called out.
The owner of the voice shrank back a little. "Sorry. Youse okay? /Sih/?"
Jeff bit his tongue and nodded.
"I'll assume dat was a yes. I can barely see ya." He explained. "Where are ya? Keep tawkin'." The sound of rough hands running along brick could be heard.
Jeff climbed painfully to his feet. "No, I'll get up. It's okay."
The noises stopped. "A'rite." Silence filled the alleyway. "I'se gonna pretend for a second dat you don't wanna fight. Would ja like ta play along?" He smiled into the darkness. "I wuddn't wanna hafta hoit ya." The voice said haughtily.
Jeff rolled his eyes. "I don't wanna fight nobody—" /Anybody./ He corrected himself mentally. "Especially right now."
The voice grew louder, and Jeff could make out a figure. "Ya hoit?"
Jeff scowled. /No, I'se fine!/
"Dumb question. 'Coise ya hoit, 'e gotcha good."
Jeff heard what sounded like spitting, and a hand was extended his way. "Jack Kelly, but youse can call me Cowboy. Everyone else does."
Jeff glanced down at the hand, then untangled himself and spit into his own hand awkwardly, shaking the offered one firmly. "Jeffery Jefferson." He mumbled, wincing.
"Huh?"
He rolled his eyes. "Me name's Jeff Jefferson." He repeated.
Jack winced too. "Sorry I ast."
Jeff smiled.
"Ya got a place ta stay, Jeff Jefferson?"
He shook his head.
Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Come wid me. I got a place. I think you'd like it. It's ain't da Waldorf, but I doubt you've seen dat kinda place in a long while anyways."
Jeff wiped his mouth on his sleeve and followed his new friend across the street and around a corner. They climbed the steps, Jeff a bit gingerly, and entered.
Jack spread his arms. "Welcome. My home sweet home." He told Jeff proudly.
"What is dis place?" Jeff straightened, the pain finally beginning to recede.
"Dis is da Lodgin' House. Most 'a da Manhattan newsies live heah. Know what a newsie is, right?"
"Kinda."
"Good enough. Now, foist night's free, aftah dat it's 6 a night. Got it?" He approached a window with a book and pen and turned to him. "Youse know how ta write ya name?"
"No." Jeff lied, gazing around the place with new eyes. /Am I really doin' this? Am I gonna really be a newsie?/
"Alright, jus' guess den. Or do ya want me ta do it?"
He shrugged. "I don't care, youse can."
Jack tilted his head. "Okay, I'll do it." He grabbed the pencil and wrote his own name, then under it, signed "snoddy rich kid." "Come on Snoddy, les' getcha upstairs a'right?"
Jeff smiled tiredly and nodded.
Jack threw an arm around his shoulders and led him up the stairs, to his new life.
-----
Even Angels Fall
Jessica Riddle
You found hope, you found faith,
Found how fast she could take it away.
Found true love, lost your heart,
Now you don't know who you are.
She made it easy, made it free,
Made you hurt 'till you couldn't see.
Sometimes it stops, sometimes it flows,
But baby, that is how love goes.
You will fly, and you will crawl,
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you've lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
It's a secret that no one tells:
One day it's Heaven, one day its Hell,
And it's no fairy tale, take it from me,
That's the way it's supposed to be.
You will fly and you will crawl,
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you've lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
You laugh, you cry, no one knows why,
But oh the thrill of it all.
You're on the rye,
You might as well open your eyes.
You will fly and you will crawl,
God knows even angels fall.
No such thing as you've lost it all.
God knows even angels fall.
Even angels fall.
Even angels fall.