Valentine met Pinky Falconetti on New Year's Eve. Factory girls wanted
Brooklyn boys with the same strong and unstinting passion that rich girls
wanted husbands. Valentine's best friend, Katie Finnegan, was one of those
most determined to snag a Water Street newsie. ("The toughest, most rough-
and-tumble boy of them all," Katie had said dreamily, in the same tone that
a girl might use to talk about cornflower eyes and arms strong enough to
hold you forever.) Every year there was a party, down at a cheap tavern
called the Fiddler's Green, and Katie was determined to go. After three
days of wheedling, Valentine reluctantly agreed to come along. So Katie
brushed Valentine's dark hair out, and Valentine brushed Katie's red, and
on New Year's Eve they went down to Brooklyn, hoping luck was on their
side.
Katie wasn't as pretty as Valentine, but she was twice as bold, and within a half an hour of her arrival she was up at the bar, sharing a gin fizz with a green-eyed boy named Shrug Weber. Which left Valentine back up against the wall. She wasn't an awful dancer and rhythm wasn't lost on her, but the music being played tonight suggested some kind of complicated reel or highland fling, which led her to the eventual conclusion that she was just about the only Italian girl in the place. (A true friend's work is never done.)
But you can't stay still long in the Fiddler's Green without somebody taking notice. And someone noticed Valentine. She saw him as he was walking over to her, a slight boy with dark hair and darker eyes, a scar scored across one cheek. (Katie Finnegan would have swooned.) He had coarse hands, callused and rough, but beneath that—Valentine saw even then—he had beautiful fingers, long and fast. He came over to where Valentine was standing, said hello, and asked for her name.
"Do you want my real name, or my dance hall name?"
"Your real name." He looked at her in the eyes, taking her in, and she looked back. His eyes were the color of whiskey.
"Valentine."
Don't go anywhere with someone you don't know; don't go out late with strange boys. But Pinky wasn't strange. Valentine knew him. She knew his eyes and his deep and broken voice that made her turn, she knew his hands. He led her down underneath the bridge, wondering all the while why he didn't bring her back to the room in the lodging house where he brought the other girls. She sat with him in the quiet and didn't fill the space with talk; they shared nips from a flask and she taught him how to count the stars. And while they were sitting in the dark as he measured her breaths and tried to pick a moment to lean in and kiss her, she kissed him: just lightly, on the mouth, soft as a fluttering of wings.
When they got back, of course, Katie Finnegan was gone. So he walked her home, all the way up through lower Manhattan. When they got to her door it was nearly dawn. And he kissed her again, and in her ear, his face buried deep in her neck, he said again her name, just softly: Valentine. Valentine. Valentine. And then he was gone.
At six o' clock in the morning on New Year's Day, it began, very softly, to snow. Valentine knew which window was Anthony's. She tossed up pebbles against the glass, and when finally the window opened wide, and a sleepy face stuck out, she half-whispered, half-shouted to him: "come down."
When he emerged from the building Valentine was flushed with cold, but not shivering. Snow was falling like the feathers of heavenly birds, falling into her dark curls and touching his face as pinpricks. He didn't know what was going on with his sister but he knew that she was smiling, and that was enough somehow. She held him close to her, looking up at the sky, and told him just one thing, barely above a whisper: "remember this." And he did.
Katie wasn't as pretty as Valentine, but she was twice as bold, and within a half an hour of her arrival she was up at the bar, sharing a gin fizz with a green-eyed boy named Shrug Weber. Which left Valentine back up against the wall. She wasn't an awful dancer and rhythm wasn't lost on her, but the music being played tonight suggested some kind of complicated reel or highland fling, which led her to the eventual conclusion that she was just about the only Italian girl in the place. (A true friend's work is never done.)
But you can't stay still long in the Fiddler's Green without somebody taking notice. And someone noticed Valentine. She saw him as he was walking over to her, a slight boy with dark hair and darker eyes, a scar scored across one cheek. (Katie Finnegan would have swooned.) He had coarse hands, callused and rough, but beneath that—Valentine saw even then—he had beautiful fingers, long and fast. He came over to where Valentine was standing, said hello, and asked for her name.
"Do you want my real name, or my dance hall name?"
"Your real name." He looked at her in the eyes, taking her in, and she looked back. His eyes were the color of whiskey.
"Valentine."
Don't go anywhere with someone you don't know; don't go out late with strange boys. But Pinky wasn't strange. Valentine knew him. She knew his eyes and his deep and broken voice that made her turn, she knew his hands. He led her down underneath the bridge, wondering all the while why he didn't bring her back to the room in the lodging house where he brought the other girls. She sat with him in the quiet and didn't fill the space with talk; they shared nips from a flask and she taught him how to count the stars. And while they were sitting in the dark as he measured her breaths and tried to pick a moment to lean in and kiss her, she kissed him: just lightly, on the mouth, soft as a fluttering of wings.
When they got back, of course, Katie Finnegan was gone. So he walked her home, all the way up through lower Manhattan. When they got to her door it was nearly dawn. And he kissed her again, and in her ear, his face buried deep in her neck, he said again her name, just softly: Valentine. Valentine. Valentine. And then he was gone.
At six o' clock in the morning on New Year's Day, it began, very softly, to snow. Valentine knew which window was Anthony's. She tossed up pebbles against the glass, and when finally the window opened wide, and a sleepy face stuck out, she half-whispered, half-shouted to him: "come down."
When he emerged from the building Valentine was flushed with cold, but not shivering. Snow was falling like the feathers of heavenly birds, falling into her dark curls and touching his face as pinpricks. He didn't know what was going on with his sister but he knew that she was smiling, and that was enough somehow. She held him close to her, looking up at the sky, and told him just one thing, barely above a whisper: "remember this." And he did.