The remainder of the night was as torturous a time as Dutchy had ever known. After giving up on worriedly pacing back and forth, he tossed and turned on the narrow cot so recently occupied by Bumlets. It wasn't until near dawn that he finally dropped into a troubled sleep...which was interrupted shortly thereafter when Medda showed up to give Bumlets a meal.
She had been expecting to see sweet, kind Bumlets hopefully sleeping peacefully. Unfortunately, what she received was a polar opposite: a grimy, bruised, exhausted, and frankly terrified Dutchy. When she walked into the room, Dutchy was lying on his stomach, hiding his face against the cot. He'd woken up only moments before, when she had unlocked the theatre door, and wasn't particularly looking forward to giving explanations.
He wasn't even looking forward to finding some explanations for himself either. At some point, all alone in the green room and half blind, he'd numbly categorized his problems in order of importance: no Bumlets, no friends, no family, no money, evil clowns, and no glasses. All in all, he hadn't been so sure that it was worth getting up in the morning.
"Dutchy?" Medda asked cautiously, touching his shoulder. "Is that you?"
"Yeah," he muttered, his voice raspy. He didn't look up at her.
Her voice became concerned. "Are you all right?"
"Just dandy."
This time, she paused before asking the next question. "Where's Bumlets?"
"Gone."
"Gone?!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean, gone?"
Dutchy was getting very tired of this line of questioning, so he flipped over and looked up at her through the eye that wasn't swollen shut. "Gone. Exactly what I said. Can I go back to sleep now?"
Medda gasped at the sight of him, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, my! Dutchy, what happened?"
If there was one thing that Medda was good at besides performing, it was coaxing information out of reluctant boys. Dutchy really didn't want to explain this whole mess again, but somehow, he found himself pouring out the whole sordid tale (with the exception of what had passed between him and Bumlets just before the clowns found them). Unlike Jack and Racetrack, Medda listened quietly, restraining herself to making concerned and supportive noises as he talked wearily.
When he'd finished, Medda sighed. "Oh, Dutchy. What a mess you're in."
"I know," Dutchy burst out. "An' the worst part is that I was jus' tryin' to help."
"Of course you were." She put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "And I'm sure that Bumlets knows that."
"Yeah, if the clowns ain't killed him yet," Dutchy said darkly. "And besides that, try tellin' the other guys I wasn't tryin' to hurt them. I don't think I ever seen Jack and Race so steamed." He stared down at the blurred outline of his hands, hating himself for the stinging in his eyes.
"Well..." Medda paused. "What about the others? You don't know what they think yet."
"'Course I do. They'se all gonna hate me too."
Medda smiled warmly. "They might surprise you, Dutchy." She paused briefly. "Now, I did bring some breakfast for Bumlets, but I'm sure that you need it just as much. After that, you should go and see the other boys. They might be annoyed, but they are your friends, and they won't just desert you."
"But Race said that I shouldn't!" Dutchy exclaimed. "He said that if I sell papes, I oughta show up after they've all left."
"Dutchy," she scolded gently, "how can you fairly judge your friends without knowing if they've judged you or not?"
He looked gloomily at the ground. "'Cause I know them."
"Just try?" she asked. "And when you're done, come back here, and we'll see what we can do to get you all cleaned up and find Bumlets."
Dutchy sighed. "Fine. I'll try. you spot me two bits? I ain't got any money right now."
"Of course," Medda confirmed. "Though you should make it a habit to always keep at least twenty-five cents on your person, Dutchy."
Dutchy managed to hold his tongue long enough for her to dig out a quarter and hand it to him. "Thanks," he mumbled. "I'se gonna be back soon." He stumbled over to the door and reached for where he thought the knob would be.
"Wait!" Medda exclaimed. "Don't you want breakfast? Or to wash up?"
"Nah. Don't need any of that." He trudged out the door, vaguely wondering how he was going to find his way to the Distribution Center.
The sun beat down heavily on his head as he slowly walked towards The World headquarters. With every step he took closer to his destination, the rock in the pit of his stomach grew heavier. He was almost glad that he didn't have his glasses; that way, he wouldn't be able to see the looks of disgust on all of his friends' faces. The only thing he could think of that he wanted more than to be out of this mess was to see Bumlets again.
As he thought of Bumlets' face the previous night, of Bumlets' hands touching him, he almost smiled. Almost. But before his lips could even begin to curl upwards, he bumped into someone right outside the Distribution Center and almost fell.
Regaining his balance, he said, "Sorry." He blinked hard, trying to see who he'd collided with. He squinted, and as the face staring at him began to come into focus, the apologetic grimace fell away from his face.
Itey was staring at him with an uncharacteristically cold look on his face. Squirming under Itey's glare, the blood began to rise to the back of Dutchy's neck.
"Itey," he said nervously, "I know what you'se prob'ly thinkin', but if you'd jus' let me explain..." He gazed at the dark-haired boy with a feeling of doomed hope.
"I don' think I want to hear anythin' you have to say," Itey replied, crossing his arms.
As Dutchy stared at Itey, feeling his stomach sink into a location right around his feet, another boy came up and stood next to Itey. It was Mush, and he had an expression on his face that Dutchy had never seen him wear before. Rage. Not even when Jack had turned scab had Mush looked so angry.
"What're you doin' here?" Mush asked.
"I—I—I—" Dutchy stammered. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I came to…to sell papes…and to…see you guys."
"Didja stop to think that maybe we didn't want to see you?" Mush replied. His boyish features were hardened.
Dutchy bit his lip hard, only stopping when the salty tang of blood touched his tongue. "I…did, Mush, but I—"
"Then go away," Itey interrupted. "You ain't one of us no more." He paused, giving Dutchy a few seconds to absorb that before he added, "Real newsies look out for each other. They don't lie and hurt each other."
It hurt. Oh god, how it hurt. He was once again outside, alone, while his family went to their destiny without him. They didn't need him and they didn't want him. They just wanted him to go away. Dutchy clenched his fists, his dirty nails digging into his palms. Alone. All alone. It felt like a twisting in his heart.
"Fine," he whispered, his voice a thread of pain. "I'se gonna get my papes, then I'll go."
He didn't look up at the two of them as he passed them. He couldn't. All he could do was take one step in front of the other, his back straight, but his head bowed. As he entered the Distribution Yard, it fell silent. Though he couldn't see details, Dutchy was fully aware of the ovals of the newsies' faces staring at him. He probably shouldn't have bothered buying papers today, especially since he sensed the anger and potential for violence all around him. It didn't matter, though. At this point, he would welcome another soaking. What was the point in being well and healthy if he was all alone and nobody cared? What was the point?
He trudged up the ramp to the window, angry mutters all around him. Boys quickly moved out of his path, as though touching him would contaminate them. Shoving the quarter towards the Distributor, he mumbled, "Fifty, please."
The newspapers were handed to him in silence. He picked them up, his tired body staggering under the weight. Every muscle aching and heavy as lead, Dutchy turned back to the gate and walked down the path that opened for him through the midst of his former friends.
He counted his steps. Ten, fifteen, twenty. He was out of the gate, and no one stopped him. Another thirty. He was around the corner and out of sight. Fifty more. He was in a small, shaded alley. Slowly, as though they would break, he placed the newspapers on the ground, sat down heavily, and gave in to the shakes that wanted to overtake his entire body.
His head in his hands, his mind a terrifying blank, Dutchy sat alone, shaking as though he were freezing to death. Passersby stared at him, whispering to each other, but nobody stopped or spoke to him. And really, that was all right with him. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die; better that than having to face the contempt and hatred. Better that than to live, not knowing where Bumlets was, or if he was all right.
Bumlets was reaching out to him, screaming, as he was dragged away by the clowns.
"No," Dutchy whimpered. "No."
Bumlets was yelling that he'd been an idiot to put his life in Dutchy's hands. His sweet face was twisted into a mask of hate and pain as the clowns punched and stabbed. Blood flew.
"It ain't real!"
Dutchy and Bumlets were kissing. When Dutchy's lips touched Bumlets', he tasted the blood. Slowly, Bumlets' hands drifted up to Dutchy's neck. They encircled it lovingly. With a look of sadness on his face, Bumlets tightened his hands around Dutchy's neck and began to choke the life from him.
Dutchy brought his hands to his throat, unaware that he was gasping for air. He squeezed his eyes closed.
Dutchy was standing outside his family's house, watching it burn, but this time, Bumlets was there too. Bumlets calmly turned to Dutchy as though to ask a question over the screams from inside. Before Bumlets could speak, though, Dutchy shoved him forward as hard as he could. As Bumlets stumbled forward, he craned his neck around to stare at Dutchy uncomprehendingly. Realizing what he'd done, Dutchy reached out, to try to grab Bumlets, but it was too late. Bumlets tumbled into the flames and disappeared without even a cry of shock.
"He ain't dead," Dutchy moaned, his good eye wide open in shock. "He's all right, he's all right…"
Racetrack was standing next to him now. Dutchy couldn't look at him. His hands were still outstretched, as though to grab Bumlets and deliver him from fiery death.
"It's all your fault," Racetrack commented pleasantly. "You know that."
"It ain't!"
"It is. All of it."
"All of it?" Dutchy whispered. His hands clasped each other. "All of it. It's all my fault. All of it. All of it. All of it. My fault."
He rocked back and forth, repeating the words to himself. It was all his fault. He was no longer aware of people around him. All that mattered was that it was his fault, his fault, his fault. He was a failure. He'd failed everyone who cared about him, who needed him. They were all gone, and they didn't want him anymore. Nobody did.
The hours passed, but Dutchy couldn't move. He sat, rocking, eyes fixed on some invisible point, trapped in a nightmare of his own making. Failing, failed, failure. He was a failure, and he was alone. If he sat in this spot until he died, no one would care. No one would come to see him, no one would take care of him. No one would touch him until he was a stinking corpse, and no one would touch him then anyway. He could waste away right here and people would simply sniff and step over his emaciated body.
It would probably be for the best anyway. One less poor boy to pollute the city. One less boy with a sad story. One less boy to mess everything up and fail and make everyone hate him.
Slowly, so slowly, Dutchy's body began to lean to the side. It was so gradual that he didn't even notice. He just sat and rocked and leaned. Finally, his body couldn't stay sitting up anymore. He didn't even wince as he landed on his side, and his head bounced against the ground hard enough for him to see stars whirling behind his eyes. One hand reached out, searching for something, but there was nothing there. His blank eyes focused on his hand, and there he lay, silent and still.
……
It was cold.
That was the first thing he noted as he began to emerge from wherever it was he had been.
It was cold all around him, and he was shivering.
He coughed and blinked, his eyelids sliding roughly over his burning eyes. On his left side, there was a sudden pink blur that moved to bend over him. It gestured at him wildly, and he vaguely figured that it was trying to say something to him, but he couldn't hear a thing.
He knew that something was wrong, but he was too tired to try to remember what it was. Every last ounce of energy and hope had been leached out of him, and he lay quietly, nothing more than a blond rag doll.
Again closing his eyes to the figure that was trying to communicate with him, he sighed and let the warm darkness again envelop him.
……
The next time consciousness returned, his head almost immediately felt a little clearer. Opening his eyes, he again saw the same pink blur sitting next to him.
He made a sound somewhere between a moan and a question. The noise rattled oddly in his head.
"Dutchy?" the pink blur asked quietly. "Can you hear me?"
He frowned. Much was still very fuzzy in his head, but he was sure of one thing. "My name…ain't Dutchy," he croaked.
"What are you talking about?" the blur asked in concern. When he concentrated, he remembered that her name was Medda, and that she had always been kind to him. "I've known you for six years, and I've never called you anything else."
"I ain't Dutchy," he repeated, his voice slightly stronger. "Not…not anymore. My name's Kristoff."
Medda sighed, and brushed the shaggy hair back from his forehead. "All right. If you want to be called Kristoff, Kristoff it is. How are you feeling?"
"Not good." He let his eyes drift closed against the harsh light. "Where am I?"
"You're at Irving Hall." She paused, as if reluctant to tell him more. "You've been here for over a week."
"A week?" He frowned. How could that be? Last thing he remembered… Searching his brain, he found with a twinge of pain that he remembered being cast out by the newsies, but after that…nothing. Had he been soaked? "What…?"
Medda understood. "I don't know exactly what happened, Du—Kristoff. A week ago yesterday, Jack showed up, dragging you. He asked me to look after you."
"Jack?" Now that got his attention. "Why would the Cowboy do that? They all hate me." How bleak those words were.
"They don't hate you," she said softly. "They were just hurt, Kristoff."
"They told me I wasn't one of them no more," he replied, eyes still closed against the pity in her face.
"Friends do and say silly things sometimes in anger, but they forgive each other."
"Why should I believe you?" he asked, bringing one limp hand up to rest atop his eyes.
"If Jack didn't care about you, he wouldn't have come to visit you every day while you were here. I suppose you don't remember any of this, but he talked to you and told you to feel better and to come back." Medda leaned a little closer. "…Where were you?"
"I was…" He frowned, trying to make sense of her words. Medda wasn't a liar, but he didn't believe her for one second that he'd been forgiven. "I was…I don't know." He licked parched lips. "Jack really…came here?"
The blob that was her face bobbed up and down in a nod. "Not only that, but Specs came too."
"…Huh?"
"Apparently, he talked to Kloppman, who figured that you might be wanting these." She reached out and picked something up from a table. He gaped uncomprehendingly until she set the glasses on his face and the world suddenly became crystal clear.
"Are these…" He cleared his throat, which was suddenly suspiciously clogged. "Are these new glasses?"
"Of course." Now that he could actually see her clearly, he saw the lines of exhaustion on her face. Guiltily, he realized that she must have been staying awake all this time to keep an eye on him. "Now tell me. What is your name?"
"I…" He sniffled miserably. "I don't know."
Before she could say anything comforting, there was a soft knock at the door. He twisted his head nervously to see who it was, and gaped as Jack entered the room, clearly ill-at-ease.
"Hey, Medda," Jack said, shifting his weight from one foot to another, "how's he doin'?"
"You can ask him yourself, Kelly," she said, but her tone was gentle. "He woke up."
Jack looked down at him, his brown eyes filled with trepidation. Slowly, he walked over to the cot and sat down next to Medda.
"Hey, Dutchy," he said softly. "How're you feelin'?"
He didn't feel like being honest, so he asked a question of his own instead. "What happened to me?"
"I don't really know." Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "I was getting' ready to sell my papes, and I saw you sittin' on the street corner, and you was…" He shook his head. "You was actin' real strange. Kinda rockin' back an' forth and mutterin' to yourself. I tried to talk to you, but it was like you didn't even see I was there. An' then you kinda fell over and…" He gestured. "Well, you didn't move. I was scared, so I brought you here."
"Why didn't you leave me there?" The words came out more flatly than he'd intended.
Jack gaped down at him. "Leave you? You could've gotten hurt!"
"You ain't gotta take care of me no more, Jack," he said bitterly. "I ain't a newsie no more. They said so."
"What? Who said that?" Jack exclaimed. Before he could respond, Jack continued, "You'se still one of us, an' you always will be."
"But…" he stammered. "But…you said…"
Jack shrugged. "I say lots of things when I'se cheesed off, Dutchy. And I'se still kinda steamed, but I'se also been real worried 'bout you."
"What about Bumlets? You worried about him too?" he asked sharply.
"'Course I am," Jack said. "But the difference is that I know you'se here, an' I can check on you. No one knows where Bumlets is yet."
He nodded, biting his lip. "And the others? They still steamed?"
"Yeah," Jack said. "Most of 'em's still steamed, but that's just 'cause they'se worried."
"See, Dutchy?" Medda broke in warmly. "They care about you. And they'll forgive you."
Jack seemed to comprehend the importance of this point. "Dutchy," he said urgently, "I ain't never been so scared as I was when I saw you fall an' not get up again. I didn't know what had happened, and I couldn't fix it. You'se real dumb sometimes, but you'se still my friend."
"Can I…" The words stuck in his throat. "Can I be alone for a minute?"
After Jack and Medda quietly left the room, closing the door behind them, Dutchy stared at the ceiling, trying to force back the tears that were flooding his eyes. He would be forgiven, or so Jack said. Maybe he'd even be able to go back to the Lodging House soon. And maybe he could find Bumlets. The odds weren't great, but it was possible.
Maybe his life wasn't over after all.
Worn out, he closed his eyes and slept again, but this time, he knew that he would wake up again, and he drifted off with a whisper of hope in his heart.
And perhaps he smiled. Just a little.
