Alright, gotta do this now --
MegabeeAthlete: I made you cry? Seriously, that is one of the highest compliments I have ever been paid. That is wonderful. My whole day just rose a thousand points thanks to you. And about me being a … how'd you say it, an "awesome writer"? THANK YOU a million times over. Keep reading for me!
pretzel: I love when people start reviews out with, "Oh my goodness…". It makes me feel as if I am writing something that is really worth it. I appreciate your review so much and keep following, I need some feedback!
Ivy: You know what I am going to say … thanks, kid. Oh yeah, and DON'T USE MY REVIEW PAGE TO BUG ME! Just kidding. Make some suggestions, I need them.
Kyra: My very first review! Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story and hopefully you have followed through! I was so scared to read my reviews, so thanks for starting this off right and making it a positive one! Keep reading!
So yes, THANKS again for all my reviews and keep telling me if I am going in a good direction … I know how I perceive the newsies, but how about you? How is my characterization compared to what you know of the guys? Let me know! Thanks again!
AND … as I wrote the last half of this chapter and the first part of the next, I was about an hour away from my home (and computer) on the Allegheny river for the weekend. I walked about two miles earlier today to find a nice little spot with a waterfall where no one could find me while I wrote, so I was able to finish up the chapter finally. Sorry for not updating in a while!
(STILL do not own the newsies … don't see when this is going to change, either …)
Just One (New York, New York)
FOUR
DAY FOUR AND SHE STILL HAD NOT BATHED.
The thought of going another day without washing made her sick. Thank God for the deodorant and toothbrush (and travel-size toothpaste!) which had been conveniently stowed in the inside pocket of her purse, thanks to a friend who hadn't had the foresight to leave Starbucks before curfew to drop her off. Thank God they had been able to give her extra toiletries in the morning!
She wrapped her red shirt around her head and sighed, standing exposed in her underwear.
Think.
Think.
Think …
I'm paying enough a night for a room here that I might be able to ask for a washtub … yeah, that's right, she thought with growing confidence. They should be able to give me one, all filled with clean water.
Without bothering to do anything more than brush her teeth and slip on a blouse and skirt to cover herself, and without bothering to remove the red shirt from her head (Let them think of it as a turban if they have to), she strolled briskly downstairs where various travellers were eating an early breakfast. At the desk in the front of the large room sat a man writing records with a dull pencil. One time she cleared her throat and gave him exactly three and a half seconds to respond before she prepared to do it again.
He looked up sharply on the first clearance, however, and she relaxed.
"Can I help you, Miss?"
"I need a washtub," she said, trying not to look, or sound, as uncertain as she felt. "With water."
"A washtub?" The man had a peevish voice. She thought she would slap him if he had decided to follow that with, "With water?" But instead he asked, "A room number, then, Miss?"
"One-hundred nineteen," she told him, relieved. Water was better than nothing. Maybe she could find a specialty shop later that carried shampoos of sorts … did they have shampoo this far back in history?
"It will be right along, Miss," the peevish clerk looked at her as if he were half-asleep or in some kind of drug-induced haze. "Good day to you."
As usual, the first floor was filled with all kinds of dining guests and she watched over a few of them as she slowly, sleepily climbed the stairs to her room. This place was a stopover for the passengers on the trains coming through the city. Naturally, there were frequented tracks by the harbour so that imported goods of all kind could be easily packaged and shipped quickly. It all made sense, and she realised that Mush also must have liked to sell here because of all the travellers staggering through the corner of Manhattan. Just like her they would all be eager for news.
So what now? She should just wait for the tub? Ah, how nice it's going to feel to be clean again …
Sure enough in the matter of a few moments, there was a crisp knock on the door and as she opened it a great iron washtub was rolled inside and a few maids followed, carrying buckets of hot water. The tub was tucked away in a corner and filled and she was supplied with a cotton towel. They left in a hurry after she had tipped them for their services.
Iron washtub? I don't know what I was expecting, but this wasn't this …
She studied it for a moment. If she didn't get in now, the water would soon be cold and it would all be a waste.
Unwrapping the red shirt from her head, she felt the thick golden strands now dark with grease and grime. She shot a glance over to the tiny tube of toothpaste that sat on her tiny sink … yes, toothpaste has grit in it.
She squeezed just the tiniest dot of the gritty blue stuff on her index finger and rubbed it suspiciously with her thumb, considering …
But would it come out of my hair then, too?
She frowned, looking at it, feeling it between her fingers. She needed something to really scrub the grime from her hair, and this could work … argh, but that's sick, toothpaste as shampoo …
What else is there to do, though?
With a new tightened resolve and a hardened determination she pulled the curtains shut and stripped down. The water was still hot and she flinched slightly as she stepped in. The toothpaste lay open on the floor …
Now or never, she thought, and squirted a glop into her palm.
Afterwards she wrapped the towel around herself and brushed her long hair. It felt lighter, cleaner, much smoother, although she still felt unhappy at having used something so unconventional to clean herself. Well, no shame, she thought and mentally shook her finger at anyone who dared to criticize. You come here with the things I have and you do better.
She hummed a bit of a song as she combed her hair and dried herself off. The noise of the city was already growing louder with the passing of the morning and she regretted that she would miss Mush selling his morning papers, although a day to herself was nice and now she was clean. But she only had two real outfits and as she laid them out, she felt a surge of self-consciousness and decided to switch the skirts and tops. There, two more outfits and the problem solved.
Her hair was still wet and hanging free as she stealthily made her way down the stairs to the dining parlour below. Most of the tables had cleared and only one or two remained occupied, so she sat and quietly opened the menu. Nothing looked appealing, but because she knew she needed to eat, she dutifully swallowed some breads and cold breakfast meats. After a glass of milk, she put some coins down on the table and left.
A pleasant blast of heat struck her upon leaving the front doors -- she was always cold and the warmer, the better. And the heat would dry her hair for her. Now, though, all she looked forward to was seeing some familiar faces.
And it wasn't long before she found one. He was leaning back against the pole of the street lamp, hugging his knees, his head back and his eyes shut, relaxing in the warmth of the noon sun. She crouched down next to him and moved close to his ear.
"Heya there, sweetface," she said in a quietly teasing voice and when he opened his eyes she stood and laughed.
"Who else would talk tah me like dat?" His eyes crinkled with his smile. "Thought yous was nevah comin' outtah dere."
"I had some stuff to do," she explained simply.
"Ain't yer aunt here yet?"
She shook her head. Now that she was here and independently established, there seemed to be a list of truths to reveal. But all of this was laughable -- who would really believe such a stupid story as one that began, "I've come back in time from two-thousand three …"? No one sane, that was for sure. And from what she had seen thus far of him, Mush was sane.
His face took on a worried look. "Ain't she comin' fer yah?"
She loved the concern in his eyes, that look of simple worry. To herself she thought, No because she does not exist but aloud she only answered. "Maybe."
"I don' like dah sound'a dat," he confirmed as if his word would change the situation. As if he were Jack Kelly. "Maybe ain't good enough in dis city."
"It's all I've got to offer." she replied evenly and looked him straight in the eye.
He seemed intimidated by her boldness and fidgeted as he stood there, then finally turned his eyes down and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'se done sellin' now. Yous was takin' so long I t'ought yous was not comin' tah see me."
Her smile softened. "Of course I was coming to see you. Why would I not?"
He fidgeted again. "Got somet'in' bettah tah do? I dunno. Figured yah just got tired a'dah same t'ing every day."
"Oh, no," she shook her head. "I still haven't met all your friends. And I have no one else to talk to." Her voice grew softer. "I'm lonely."
There. I said it.
His eyes widened. "Oh, I had no idea. I'm sorry, I wouldn't' a left yah alone so early yesterday."
"No, no, it was time to myself well spent." she told him. It was partly true -- she had had time to reflect on his words, and she knew now that she would never be able to so much as raise her voice to him, ever.
He smiled in relief. "Good. But since I didn' think yous was comin' tahday, I told Jack I'se would take a message to Brooklyn fer him. Tah Spot Conlon."
"That's alright," she said lightly. She failed to see the problem at which he was subtly trying to hint. "I'll come too."
"No, I don' think yous understands." He appeared very ill at ease. "I'm goin' tah Brooklyn. Tah see Spot Conlon." He gestured with his hands, as if trying to say something without speaking it.
She repeated the gesture with the sarcasm of frustration. "So?"
"So? Dis is Spot Conlon I'se talkin' about."
"Yes, you have made that clear." The irritability was growing in her voice. "I'd like to meet this infamous newsie."
He shifted his weight and looked down at the ground. "Listen, I don' think it'd be so good an idea to come with me. Spot ain't one who's very patient or very polite."
"I'm going," she said with a tone that settled the matter. She knew that he would think her spoiled now, but she would have climbed straight over him to meet this Mr. Conlon of whom they were all so fond. "If he doesn't have a gun, I'm not scared."
It was plain by the look on his face that the whole argument offended him but he would not disagree now. "Suit yourself," was all he could say, and, "Follow me."
She hurried to climb across the docks after him, dodging her way through moorings and giant cargo boxes. The smell of sea salt was strong in the air and the breeze stung at her eyes, but this was invigorating, more excitement and adventure than she had been given the chance at in several days. Even when she had gone to New York before, she had not ventured into Brooklyn, preferring the sights and sounds of downtown Manhattan, and the trip to Ellis Island. Her Serbian grandfather had entered the country by way of Ellis Island and she had been awed to stand in the same courtroom in which he had been declared fit to enter the country. He had died before she was born, but she had heard nothing but the best of stories about him and was very fond of the few things she owned that had once been his. She was very fond of her self-made, collective image of him.
"Dis Spot, he ain't one tah offer yah a seat or listen tah yer talk or nothin' like dat." Mush warned after a few moments of what was perhaps angry silence. But because he was otherwise so sympathetic, so kind, his anger had no more impact than an unimportant whispered sound.
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Most guys don't."
"Maybe not in Pittsburgh but yous in New York now an' dat's dah way t'ings are run in dis part'a dah world. An' dere's no one here who don't do dat 'cept fer Spot and maybe Race."
She almost felt shy to ask. "Can I see him again sometime, Race, that is?"
The look on his face was unfamiliar to her … it wasn't a scowl, was it? "Yeah, maybe." But after that he fell to silence.
This is unlike him, huh? she asked herself in a slightly sarcastic way. But it was probably nerves at seeing Spot Conlon that mellowed him out, she knew without overmuch thought. If Spot Conlon so much as looks at Mush the wrong way, I'll let him know about it, she thought with a sudden fierce protectiveness. Someone else, maybe, but there was no reason in the wide world to intimidate poor Mush. No reason at all. And I swear, if he does, I'll hit him.
"So what's this Spot Conlon like?" she asked as they walked along. Maybe if he talked it over with her, he would see there was no reason to be nervous. Or maybe he would talk his nerves right off.
His face was set intently on the long pier before them. With his growing anxiety, it seemed that the gears of his mind had to work that much harder to formulate a reply. "Well, he ain't one tah take no nonsense, an' he don' fool around wid matters concernin' Brooklyn. He's fierce, an' he's honest."
"How did he get to be leader of Brooklyn?"
"Oh, he won Brooklyn when he was fourteen or so, but he don' tell us nothin'a wha' happened. We's hoird dah stories but wid newsies nothin' can be taken as truth." He smile in spite of himself, and she thought, That's him, that's the smile I love. "An' he'd pro'lly say somet'in' like he killed a couple'a guys fer it."
"I thought you said he didn't lie."
"I said he's honest, and dere are ways'a improvin' dah truth widout lyin', see?"
For every stride of his she was forced to take two. Come to think of it, she preferred not to know what the stories were. "So how old is he now?"
"On dah verge'a seventeen."
"That's it?" And with that answer she began to form a mental likeness of Spot Conlon.
He would be tall, and his build would be very broad, a good definition of strength to it. His eyes would be like cold steel with a brutality that shone out like an unnatural light. There could be nothing but the finest clothing adorning his lean body and to both of this sides, of course, would stand the thickest-necked enforcers in his district. Typical tough guy, right down to the shining chrome revolver he carried, probably.
But within the half-hour (and thankfully, because the sun was now hot in a way she had never thought it could be), the boundaries of Manhattan had faded away and the boys of Brooklyn were scowling at them.
Panting, she looked at the boy next to her. "Mush--"
But Mush had stopped dead. A shadow fell over his face and his mouth was gaping open in a half-frightened, half-awestruck kind of way. For the first time she felt real fear and moved closer to him.
"Well, well, well," came a voice with deathly softness. "It's Jacky-boy's friend and confidante, and it seems he's brought me a gift."
Jill stood stock-still. She felt the coolness of the shadow now and the voice wove its way delicately around her. Slowly, she raised her head to follow Mush's gaze and the light shone on her face.
Her jaw dropped.
"You're Spot Conlon?" she demanded before remembering some semblance of manners.
"Yeah, dat's right," and this time the voice was firmer, had more ice to it.
His eyes were steel blue, but even then she had been wrong because mixed in there were flecks of green. Nor was he very tall. At all. His ridiculously wiry frame stood no taller than hers. He only equals me in height, she thought. I know it.
He hopped down from the platform and she heard iron-bottomed shoes hit the wooden planks.
"Good tah see yah, Mushy," the boy said and spit in his hand. Mush spit in his own palm and shook the extended hand. "Yous comin' from Jacky-boy, I suppose?"
"Dat's right, Spot." Mush answered but his voice was struck through with confidence and relief. "He says his hellos an' everyt'in' like dat. Come from him tah ask yah'a favor."
Spot looked over Mush with criticizing eyes that pierced. Then his gaze flickered to Jill and he looked her up and down.
"I see somet'in' funny, Mushy," Spot narrowed his eyes and Mush recoiled slightly. Mush absolutely towered over the other boy, but even Spot's presence demanded so much respect that physical prowess obviously meant nothing.
"Dis is Jill, Spot," Mush said hastily.
Spot's eyes narrowed even more. "An' so? I don' need no one holdin' up my business dealin's, Mushy."
"She ain't gonna hold up not'in'," he assured the Prince of Brooklyn. "She don' even hafta hear dis if yah don' wah'ner tah --"
"She can stay," Spot interrupted and she knew better than to question his reasoning. Then the Brooklynite cocked his head to the side. "So Jacky-boy's got somet'in' tah say?"
Mush jumped quickly back on track. "Yeah, told me dis mornin' he needed tah talk tah yah. He needs tah know if yous'll meet 'im tahmorrah night in dah old warehouse on the --"
"I know where it is," Spot said. "But what's dis all about, eh, Mushy? What's Jacky-boy hidin' in 'is sleeve dis time?"
"He's askin' all dah leaders from all ovah dah city tah meet. I'se don' know if yous seen it, but widout dah strike tah keep everyone busy, t'in's is goin' back tah dah way deys used tah be." Mush told him. "So's we's is gonna try tah figyah somet'in' out so's no one's gettin' soaked fer no reason."
"Yah mean dah districts ain't gettin' along?" Spot asked. He has sly eyes, Jill thought as she watched him. Very intelligent, this one.
And gorgeous.
Mush seemed to hesitate, then nodded. "Dey's all gettin' ready tah fight again. Dere's nothin' else fer dem tah do. Dat's why Jack's so keen on gettin' dah leaders tahgeddah tah talk. Yah gonna be dere, Spot?"
"Yous knows I always side wid Jacky-boy." Then his eyes flashed. "Longs I know Jacky ain't gonna stir up any funny business an' he ain't gonna do nothin' stupid neither."
"He sent dese," Mush said, digging deep into his pocket. When he pulled his hand back up his fingers were wrapped around two highly polished, painted stones like medium-sized pebbles. "Dey's real fine, Spot."
Rocks? But Spot smiled indulgently and took them greedily, as if he had been waiting for something of the sort. He held them up for a minute to examine them in the sunlight, then tucked them away in his own pocket. "Yous can tell Jacky-boy dey's keepahs. An' tell 'im dat Brooklyn will be dere tahmorrah. Ain't no one gonna push Brooklyn aroun'."
Mush smiled. "Alrigh', Spot. I'se'll tell Jack fer yah. He needs all dah friends 'e can get tah help out wid dis."
Spot did not disagree with Mush's terminology of friend, she noticed. On the contrary he seemed ever-prouder, and when he smiled he looked intimidating, although his smile made him very … beautiful. Strange, she thought, that a boy can be so beautiful.
She went back to the Lodging House with Mush and Jack Kelly was waiting for them. Kid Blink was at his side, Racetrack at the other. She smiled at Racetrack. He, too, she had sorely missed.
"Heya, kid," the charming Italian greeted with his half-smile as Jack and Mush and Blink stepped to the side. It was kind of Racetrack to pay attention to her when everyone else thought matters too complicated for her ears. "Howyah been?"
"Alive," she answered, and laughed. It was so true it sounded stupid. "And you, Racetrack?"
"Please, don' be propah no more." His half-smile was wonderfully warm and friendly. "We's knows eachuddah now, so yous can call me Race. T'ought yous aunt was comin' in tah take care'a yah."
"She will, just not yet," she said with a growing unease. "Do you want me to leave? I will, if you ask."
"No, no, kid," and his sincerity was obvious. But he seemed very tired now. Unlike him, she thought, but how would she really know otherwise? "Dis city ain't a place tah be by yousself."
"Jack already told me, and Mush, too." Did everyone think she was incompetent?
But he gave a long sigh and seemed to anticipate her anger. "Don' t'ink I'se offendin' yous or not'in', but it ain't no easy place tah live."
"What's wrong, Race?"
He sighed again. There was a look in his black eyes that she could not recognise. "I'se just a lil'tired, dat's all."
She had nothing else to do but believe him. Changing the subject, she said, "I met Spot Conlon today."
His smile was wearily affectionate. "One of'a kind, Spot is."
"Do you know him?"
"Well." He yawned lazily. "He's friends wid Jack but me an' Spot has gots a lotta history tahgeddah. I don' know wha' would happen if I'se left Manhattan, 'cause see, Spot an' Jack get along but even when dey don' I'se can us'ally help Spot tah see some sense."
She looked curiously at him. "How'd you get to know him?"
"Dat's anuddah story fer anuddah time," he said and although she would have persisted, there was a hint of iron behind his words. "Dat's Jack callin' me. Sorry, Jill. Come an' see me again sometime." That familiar half-smile flickered on his face and she saw the old Racetrack, the charmer to whom she had shyly been introduced by Mush.
The words suddenly came blurting from her mouth. "Tell Spot to lighten up, will you?"
"Spot ain't had no easy life, but I'se'll shoah givem dah message from yah." Race smiled one last time before disappearing behind the corner.
SOMETIMES SHE FELT RIGHT AT HOME IN NEW YORK, in early September of eighteen ninety-nine, although sometimes, when she was alone, she remembered the things she had left behind.
She sat on the corner of her bed with her hands folded meekly in her lap. The curtains were drawn shut, although it was Sunday and the street below was much quieter than usual. In the quiet darkness, she involuntarily saw her home.
Was she sorry to be away from it? There were beautiful friends that she missed, for sure. Her lifestyle had been lived in such a way that she had learned to treasure every moment with her friends, every word, every breath. There was no one in the world she loved more than her friends. Too many times they had saved her from drowning in her own black void, and everyday they made her so proud. Not for anything, any price, any article of anything, would she trade so much as a moment with them. She loved them deeply, completely, truly. They were her sun, her moon, and her stars.
Her family? She had never gotten along with her younger sister, so time away from her was very much welcome. Her mother she loved profusely, and at the thought of that comfort she felt pained, but as the face of her father flashed through her mind, she turned her head aside. Spot may have had no easy life, but after all the things she herself had endured, all the sadness and anger and abuse, she knew she was floating in the same boat. Maybe not sitting in the same seat, but in the same boat. Did she still love her father? She was not sure … he was her father, after all, and a daughter's first duty was to love her parents … but when she thought of the yelling, the belittlement, the hitting … the familiar knot of dread tightened in her stomach. It was a secret she kept from the world, a secret that festered in its misery, its own silent pain. It was a secret blacker than hell.
She was glad to be away from his confused hatred.
And here, in this place and time, however usual it was that she had been thrown a lifeline to it, she had found something new, something wonderful. Here she had found comfort and protection and blissful simplicity. Life here was so … simple. Sooner or later she would be given the option to go home, and of course she would choose to do so. But she would be sorry to leave. Not yet, though, not yet.
It was a hot night and she pulled on her red shirt. Her hair was soft and all dried now, and she felt ready for a good, long sleep on a comfortable mattress of downy goosefeathers. A nice room, she thought as she looked around at the dimly-lighted furniture. And sometimes quiet is good, but not too often. She preferred the chatter of her friends, the constant low noise of easily relaxed conversation.
But my father, my father …
And as the image of his murderous face arose in her mind, she stuffed her head into her pillow and stifled the thought. Rather she wished she could see the protective, reassuring smile of Mush …