By mid-afternoon, the heat on the streets was all consuming. Ingrid led
Gunnar lazily through Brooklyn, headed nowhere in particular. She soon
found herself facing the Brooklyn Bridge, leading into Manhattan. She
smiled to herself, thinking about the cooling shade of Central Park.
They trudged through the heat a few more blocks before coming on the shady haven of trees hidden among the buildings of Manhattan. Finding a shady spot beside a large oak tree, Ingrid collapsed on to the cool grass. Gunnar wandered off a few feet, playing contently in the fountain with a few other children. She watched him idly, trying in vain to keep her eyes open.
She awoke sometime later. Whether she had been asleep for minutes or hours, she was not sure. Gunnar lay beside her, staring up at the clear blue sky through the leaves of the oak tree.
"Ready to start working?" she asked, the Norwegian rolling off her tongue easily.
In the months since Ingrid took over care of Gunnar, she had devoted her afternoons to teaching him English. However, without the proper materials, the process was very slow moving.
As dusk began to fall in the park, Gunnar began to dose off in the soft grass. Not having the heart to wake him, she decided to spend the night in the park. Leaning back against the trunk of the old oak tree, she fell into a weary sleep.
"Striker!" Spot called across the bunkroom. "Commere will ya?"
The boy in question set down the paper that he was scanning idly and stalked across the room. "Whatta ya need?"
"Keep and eye on the boys tonight, will ya?" Spot pulled out the extra money which he stored in his pillowcase, shoving the coins into his pocket.
"Ya goin to find that girl?" Striker asked, dropping onto Spot's empty bed.
Spot tossed the pillow teasingly at Striker, who caught it easily. Spot smirked. "I ran into Race on his way home from Sheepshead. He invited me to play a few hands of pokah."
Spot regarded his friend with curiosity as his body tensed at the mention of one of the Manhattan boys. For reasons unknown to him, Striker never seemed to like those boys too much.
"Well, good luck, buddy boy," Striker said, relaxing a bit as he rose from the bunk. "I'll keep an eye on things round here."
Spot placed his cap over his sandy brown hair. "I'll be back in da mornin."
After he crossed the bridge into Manhattan, Spot headed for a shortcut through the park. He stopped short when he caught sight of two sleeping forms in the grass just beside the trail. As he tentatively drew nearer to them, he realized that it was in fact Gunnar and Ingrid.
Scanning the area for any sign of danger, Spot knelt beside Ingrid. For a moment, she watched her sleep, loose blond curls handing across her angelically sleeping face. After a moment, he shook her lightly.
Ingrid woke with a start. Her heart was racing as she glanced up at a blurry figure. As her eyes adjusted, she let out a breath that she had been unconsciously holding. She found herself staring up into a familiar pair of grey eyes. "Caleb?"
Spot smiled as he heard his name roll off her tongue, her slight accent giving it a tone that he had never heard before. Glancing down at Gunnar, he brought a finger to his lips and led her to a bench a few feet down the path.
Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, Spot struck a match on the edge of the bench. Taking a long drag, he offered it to her.
Ingrid willingly took the cigarette from him, glancing over at Gunnar before she brought it to her lips.
"I was right about you the other day, wasn't I?" he said after a few minutes of silence. "You two's got no place to sleep."
She nervously thumbed the cigarette in her hand, unwilling to meet his eyes.
"Look, it ain't no problem," Spot assured, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Me and the newsies can give you a place to stay, take care of ya til-"
Ingrid shrugged off his hand and stood in front of the bench. "We do not need your help."
"Come now, don't be like that. We'se pretty good at takin care of people."
Her eyes clouded over in agitation. "Keep your pity."
Ingrid lifted a sleepy Gunnar onto her hip easily and stalked out of sight. Spot groaned, slouching down on the bench.
"Hey Spot, how's life treatin ya?" Jack called across the crowded, noisy bunkroom.
In spite of his encounter with Ingrid, Spot cracked a grin. Whenever he came to Manhattan, he felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. There he had no responsibilities and all the boys looked up to him in awe. Jack was more lenient with his boys, giving them a life filled with laughter and joking. In Brooklyn, things were different. When he inherited the leadership years earlier, the Brooklyn newsies had a reputation that he promised to uphold. Thus was born the "great" Spot Conlon, a rough, heartless leader.
Jack spit into his hand and extended it to Spot, who returned the gesture.
"It's been an interesting few days. Jacky boy."
Jack motioned to a chair beside Race at a table where a poker game had already begun. "Sit down and take a load off."
"Ya got an extra bunk for me tonight, Jack?" Spot asked hours later, his pockets heavier with the Manhattan boy's hard earned money.
"Ya not goin back to be with your boys?"
"Nah, Striker's got it handled."
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Ya sure that's a good idea?"
"I trust him, Jack," Spot replied with a shrug. "He takes good care of me boys when I'm out."
Jack shook his head, motioning to the empty bunk below his before lifting himself into bed. "Night, Spot."
"Night."
Spot lay in bed awake, staring up at the springs bowing under Jack's weight. Jack's reaction to the mention of Striker's name was not surprising. Their distaste seemed to be mutual. For months, Spot had been playing referee between his two friends. Trying to hold up the middle ground between them was beginning to put a strain on his nerves.
Agitated by the thoughts keeping him from sleep, Spot fished into his pocket for a cigarette, only to come up empty handed. "Damn."
Then he remembered his last cigarette resting between Ingrid's slender fingers. He ran a hand through his hair, letting it rest under his head on the pillow.
He had successfully blocked her out of his mind all evening as he played poker, but now, lying in bed with the others asleep, there was no chance for distraction.
Why had she refused his help? That had never happened before. Jack and his boys brought back girls who needed help all the time. What made this one any different? Then he thought of Gunnar hovering over his pancakes that morning, his short blond curls falling over his forehead. Was that what made the difference, a little boy who needed her?
She said that they didn't need his pity, but had it been pity? He couldn't answer that question, any more than he could the others. Yes, he felt sorry for them, sleeping on a hard dock when he had a soft bunk. But was it out of pity that he offered his help?
A sinking feeling in his stomach told him otherwise. The real reason for his offer had more to do with the warm feeling which spread through is body whenever he saw her. In her company, all of his cares melted away. The troubles of his boys and the uneasy ground between Jack and Striker faded into the background. All that he could concentrate on was making her laugh to see the dancing of her eyes.
He closed his eyes, trying to shake the thoughts from his head so that he could get some sleep.
Ingrid lay on the grass, staring up at the stars fading into morning light. It seemed as though she never got much sleep anymore. Rubbing her burning eyes, she sighed. After her confrontation with Caleb, she had found a more secluded part of the park in which to pass the night. For the hundredth time in a matter of hours, she replayed the argument in her head.
What made him think that he could save them? Better yet, what made him think that they needed saving? Her father once told her that pity was saved for the weak and helpless. She was neither and resented the implication that she was incapable of caring for herself and Gunnar. Refusing to resign herself to a life based on the pity bestowed by other, she decided that they would have to be more careful with whom they associated.
For some reason, this last thought made her heart sink slightly. Caleb had been the first person that she had really spoken with in months, besides Gunnar of course. Before that afternoon, she had not smiled genuinely in months.
Determined to push those thoughts from her mind, Ingrid concentrated instead on a strategy to steer clear of Caleb and the other newsies.
They trudged through the heat a few more blocks before coming on the shady haven of trees hidden among the buildings of Manhattan. Finding a shady spot beside a large oak tree, Ingrid collapsed on to the cool grass. Gunnar wandered off a few feet, playing contently in the fountain with a few other children. She watched him idly, trying in vain to keep her eyes open.
She awoke sometime later. Whether she had been asleep for minutes or hours, she was not sure. Gunnar lay beside her, staring up at the clear blue sky through the leaves of the oak tree.
"Ready to start working?" she asked, the Norwegian rolling off her tongue easily.
In the months since Ingrid took over care of Gunnar, she had devoted her afternoons to teaching him English. However, without the proper materials, the process was very slow moving.
As dusk began to fall in the park, Gunnar began to dose off in the soft grass. Not having the heart to wake him, she decided to spend the night in the park. Leaning back against the trunk of the old oak tree, she fell into a weary sleep.
"Striker!" Spot called across the bunkroom. "Commere will ya?"
The boy in question set down the paper that he was scanning idly and stalked across the room. "Whatta ya need?"
"Keep and eye on the boys tonight, will ya?" Spot pulled out the extra money which he stored in his pillowcase, shoving the coins into his pocket.
"Ya goin to find that girl?" Striker asked, dropping onto Spot's empty bed.
Spot tossed the pillow teasingly at Striker, who caught it easily. Spot smirked. "I ran into Race on his way home from Sheepshead. He invited me to play a few hands of pokah."
Spot regarded his friend with curiosity as his body tensed at the mention of one of the Manhattan boys. For reasons unknown to him, Striker never seemed to like those boys too much.
"Well, good luck, buddy boy," Striker said, relaxing a bit as he rose from the bunk. "I'll keep an eye on things round here."
Spot placed his cap over his sandy brown hair. "I'll be back in da mornin."
After he crossed the bridge into Manhattan, Spot headed for a shortcut through the park. He stopped short when he caught sight of two sleeping forms in the grass just beside the trail. As he tentatively drew nearer to them, he realized that it was in fact Gunnar and Ingrid.
Scanning the area for any sign of danger, Spot knelt beside Ingrid. For a moment, she watched her sleep, loose blond curls handing across her angelically sleeping face. After a moment, he shook her lightly.
Ingrid woke with a start. Her heart was racing as she glanced up at a blurry figure. As her eyes adjusted, she let out a breath that she had been unconsciously holding. She found herself staring up into a familiar pair of grey eyes. "Caleb?"
Spot smiled as he heard his name roll off her tongue, her slight accent giving it a tone that he had never heard before. Glancing down at Gunnar, he brought a finger to his lips and led her to a bench a few feet down the path.
Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, Spot struck a match on the edge of the bench. Taking a long drag, he offered it to her.
Ingrid willingly took the cigarette from him, glancing over at Gunnar before she brought it to her lips.
"I was right about you the other day, wasn't I?" he said after a few minutes of silence. "You two's got no place to sleep."
She nervously thumbed the cigarette in her hand, unwilling to meet his eyes.
"Look, it ain't no problem," Spot assured, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Me and the newsies can give you a place to stay, take care of ya til-"
Ingrid shrugged off his hand and stood in front of the bench. "We do not need your help."
"Come now, don't be like that. We'se pretty good at takin care of people."
Her eyes clouded over in agitation. "Keep your pity."
Ingrid lifted a sleepy Gunnar onto her hip easily and stalked out of sight. Spot groaned, slouching down on the bench.
"Hey Spot, how's life treatin ya?" Jack called across the crowded, noisy bunkroom.
In spite of his encounter with Ingrid, Spot cracked a grin. Whenever he came to Manhattan, he felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. There he had no responsibilities and all the boys looked up to him in awe. Jack was more lenient with his boys, giving them a life filled with laughter and joking. In Brooklyn, things were different. When he inherited the leadership years earlier, the Brooklyn newsies had a reputation that he promised to uphold. Thus was born the "great" Spot Conlon, a rough, heartless leader.
Jack spit into his hand and extended it to Spot, who returned the gesture.
"It's been an interesting few days. Jacky boy."
Jack motioned to a chair beside Race at a table where a poker game had already begun. "Sit down and take a load off."
"Ya got an extra bunk for me tonight, Jack?" Spot asked hours later, his pockets heavier with the Manhattan boy's hard earned money.
"Ya not goin back to be with your boys?"
"Nah, Striker's got it handled."
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Ya sure that's a good idea?"
"I trust him, Jack," Spot replied with a shrug. "He takes good care of me boys when I'm out."
Jack shook his head, motioning to the empty bunk below his before lifting himself into bed. "Night, Spot."
"Night."
Spot lay in bed awake, staring up at the springs bowing under Jack's weight. Jack's reaction to the mention of Striker's name was not surprising. Their distaste seemed to be mutual. For months, Spot had been playing referee between his two friends. Trying to hold up the middle ground between them was beginning to put a strain on his nerves.
Agitated by the thoughts keeping him from sleep, Spot fished into his pocket for a cigarette, only to come up empty handed. "Damn."
Then he remembered his last cigarette resting between Ingrid's slender fingers. He ran a hand through his hair, letting it rest under his head on the pillow.
He had successfully blocked her out of his mind all evening as he played poker, but now, lying in bed with the others asleep, there was no chance for distraction.
Why had she refused his help? That had never happened before. Jack and his boys brought back girls who needed help all the time. What made this one any different? Then he thought of Gunnar hovering over his pancakes that morning, his short blond curls falling over his forehead. Was that what made the difference, a little boy who needed her?
She said that they didn't need his pity, but had it been pity? He couldn't answer that question, any more than he could the others. Yes, he felt sorry for them, sleeping on a hard dock when he had a soft bunk. But was it out of pity that he offered his help?
A sinking feeling in his stomach told him otherwise. The real reason for his offer had more to do with the warm feeling which spread through is body whenever he saw her. In her company, all of his cares melted away. The troubles of his boys and the uneasy ground between Jack and Striker faded into the background. All that he could concentrate on was making her laugh to see the dancing of her eyes.
He closed his eyes, trying to shake the thoughts from his head so that he could get some sleep.
Ingrid lay on the grass, staring up at the stars fading into morning light. It seemed as though she never got much sleep anymore. Rubbing her burning eyes, she sighed. After her confrontation with Caleb, she had found a more secluded part of the park in which to pass the night. For the hundredth time in a matter of hours, she replayed the argument in her head.
What made him think that he could save them? Better yet, what made him think that they needed saving? Her father once told her that pity was saved for the weak and helpless. She was neither and resented the implication that she was incapable of caring for herself and Gunnar. Refusing to resign herself to a life based on the pity bestowed by other, she decided that they would have to be more careful with whom they associated.
For some reason, this last thought made her heart sink slightly. Caleb had been the first person that she had really spoken with in months, besides Gunnar of course. Before that afternoon, she had not smiled genuinely in months.
Determined to push those thoughts from her mind, Ingrid concentrated instead on a strategy to steer clear of Caleb and the other newsies.