Author's note: This was originally intended to be a one shot. I, in fact, entered it in a few contests as a one shot. But my memory is failing me as to which. Therefore, if you are reading this because I've entered this into your contest, then disregard this chapter. Bitte und danke.
I own nothing. Marion is the soul product of my creativity.
Thank you in advance to anyone who dares to read or comprehend this. I am aware that I have a somewhat twisted mind and that my thinking tends to stray quite a bit from the ordinary.
For Raven, because she would not let this die.
Chapter II
Life does not increase
Only loses itself each day
As the sun gives way to the moon
So I simply close my eyes
And breathless and foolhardy
Ask the moon to try me once more
Jack sat alone on the sill of the open window. The muggy night's damp air wafted in and left its fingerprints on his face and in his hair. Hesitantly, he struck a match against the sole of his worn boot, and raised his hands to shakily light his sixth cigarette of the hour. The small cramped attic of the lodging house was like a haven to the boy. Used primarily for storage, it was the only place that was somewhat his – that musty smelling, dark, damp and cramped space. The northward facing window made for a fine watchtower of sorts. The city was dark and dank, the streets only faintly visible. Jack could usually see a far piece down the road from his perch, but that night, his vision was severely hindered. "Too much damn fog these days," he grumbled and cursed the murky darkness.
"Jack, shouldn't we be callin' the coppers or somethin'?" one of the boys had asked.
Jack curled his lip at the suggestion. "What? You think they care bout street rats like us? Huh? They don't give a damn about us or nothin' that anybody does to us. No, we gotta take care o'this ourselves." He'd lashed out more forcefully than he had intended, but the thought of the truth behind his blatant statement seemed to warrant force. "Sides, if we called 'em, they'd want to blame it on one of us or start some other kind of trouble. No. What goes on here, stays here. Anyone opens their mouth, and they're gonna get a personal soaking from me. Is that clear?"
He heard a light rap at the door and turned his attention to the doorframe in which a solitary figure stood. Dutchy stepped out of the shadows and approached Jack, his blue eyes mournful. "Anything yet, Dutch?" Jack asked.
Dutchy shook his head slowly. "Nothing." He was silent for a moment before biting his bottom lip and hesitantly asking, "Jack, um, what we gonna do about the, uh, the um body?"
Jack looked at the younger boy, his gray brown eyes piercing unseen holes through his friend. He said nothing in return.
"Are we gonna bury him, Jack?"
He laughed. It was a cold mocking snorting laugh through his nose. "We can't do that. We ain't got enough money to buy a plot in any goddamned cemetery in this goddamned city. We'll make do, Dutch. We'll make do…..even if we have to throw him in the river."
Dutchy looked appalled at Jack's solution to his problem.
Jack shrugged as if it were no uncommon occurrence and maintained a stone face. "What do you want me to do Dutch? Huh?" He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his nose. "Anyway, it's only fittin'. He spent so much time on those docks. And we ain't got no other way. We can't just leave him there. There ain't no other option. Get word to Kit in Midtown. They're stiff lipped enough over there. Ask 'im if he wouldn't mind sending over two of his iron stomached ones to make arrangements."
Spot Conlon had joined the world of the newsboys, the poor and orphaned, and the less fortunate when he was eight. From where he had come, no one knew. As though her were a ghost, he had simply appeared on the doorstep of North Brooklyn's lodging house one cold November evening. Since that day no one had ever dared question him about his past, and he had offered no information. Jack, himself, had first started his paper-selling career in North Brooklyn. He had been nine at the time, tall for his age, and had towered over the small wild-eyed boy that went by the name Nathaniel Conlon. In the years following, Jack had joined his friend Kid Blink and taken up residence in Lower Manhattan, but kept close ties with the new boy the others had dubbed "Spot." For years, he had watched him grow from the quiet, plotting young boy to the strong and mighty force as the leader of the toughest territory in all of New York. Yet, something mysterious still remained about the boy. Something oddly unsettling. It was a though a shadow loomed over him. Jack only saw this aura about him from time to time, yet when it did appear, it unnerved him.
Once Spot had pulled Jack aside with worry in his eyes. "You know we been through a lot together," he said. Jack nodded in agreement, uncertain of his friend's intentions by such a statement. "Well, through all of these fights and wars and stupid things, do you ever think you might not make it?"
Jack had shrugged at his comment, obviously confused. "Whaddaya talking about Spot?" he questioned.
"I dunno Jack," Spot said and then turned his way, "Sometimes I just think that since I've managed to come out of so many rough situations alive, that I'm bound to not make it out of one someday."
Jack had only scoffed at his friend's confession. Brushed it off as nonsense. "That's crazy talk," he had told him, "You're Spot Conlon. If anybody can get himself out of a scrape, it's you."
Jack heard a loud bang and clatter downstairs. He and Dutchy both started at the sudden noise. "That sounds like the door," Jack said, leaping up from his perch and pushing past the other boy. He tore out of the door and down the narrow attic stairs with Dutchy following close at his heels. When he reached the first floor, a crowd of anxious boys had already filled the lobby. Jack pushed through them to find two of Spot's best birds, Brix and Skidsy, carrying a limp body. Her left eye was blue and black – violently bruised indigo, her lip bloody, and her long red-brown hair hung down in dirty, matted waves. Her gray pants were torn at the knee and her shirt dirty and stained with blood and filth.
"She's unconscious," Skidsy mumbled through his clenched teeth. "We had to hit 'er in the 'ead pretty hard to get her here. She put up a real good fight." As he spoke, he wiped at a cut on his cheek that was still trickling blood and looked at the blood in disgust. They tossed her onto the hard floor rather roughly, but still she did not wake.
"Don't you wanna put 'er in the bed or something?" Mush piped up, his voice wavering with worry.
Jack looked at Mush. His gray brown eyes burned though him. "What for?" he spat. Mush back down immediately, throwing his hands in the air cautiously and slowly stepping backwards in submission. Turning his attention to the newcomers, Jack reluctantly asked, "So, where'd ya find 'er?"
"Over in the Bronx," Brix spoke up, "We kinda let it out that we was looking for her. Not for anything in particular, you know? But just looking for her. Spot's got a more than few friends around, and well, Menace – that Bronxie with the weird looking, shifty eyes – told Esco that she was there, and Esco sent us over. Who woulda thought that Menace's flapping lips would've even done any good, huh?" Jack offered a small laugh in response. "Yeah, I bet none of the Bronxies had any idea what she was doin'. Running over there the middle of the night like she did….So, uh," Brix continued, "Whaddaya want us to do with 'er?"
Jack looked from Brix to Skidsy. Their stone faces offered him no ounce of help or comfort. He struck another match and lit a cigarette as he stooped down to a squat to think and assess the situation.
"I know what we can do with 'er," a sneering, malicious voice came out of the crowd.
Jack raised his head to see Kid Blink push his way through a group of kids, and come forward. A strange smirk was painted upon his face. Jack had known the boy long enough to know that Kid was not as wholesome as he was commonly made out to be. When provoked to extremes, the one-eyed fellow could be downright dastardly and cruel. This seemed to Jack to be one of those times, indeed. He braced himself for whatever was next to come forth from the sneering boy's mouth.
Blink licked his lips and gestured down to the unconscious Raven with raised eyebrows. His upper lip curled. "I say," he stated, raising his contemptuous gaze to his fellow comrades, "That, we, um, each take a turn with her." He shrugged apathetically, "You know – get her back for what she did to Spot and make ourselves feel a little better about it. It ain't like she'd notice, seein' that she ain't wakin' up for a while." A few of the boys laughed nervously at his comment. Blink snickered back in return and began to unbutton his pants. "And it's not like it'd make a difference to the bitch. It's not too long ago that she whored herself our professionally, ain't it?"
"Put it back in your pants, Kid," Jack commanded loudly, his voice cold and monotone. "Now. What's wrong with ya? Huh? You suddenly got no brains or somethin'? Just cause she made a mess outta Spot don't give us not right to treat her like she's not human. We ain't animals here." He paused and glared at the blonde boy for a moment of tension-laden silence. "Well, you might be, but I sure as hell ain't. And on my watch, ain't nobody doing nothing of the sort."
Blink indignantly buttoned his trousers and sneered at Jack, his pride obviously beyond injured. "So, what then? Huh, Jack? You got some answers for us? Cause we're all waitin'."
He rose calmly from his stooped position, rising to his full six feet of height. His posture was straight, and his voice dignified and authoritative as he spoke. "We'll take turns keeping watch over her till she wakes up. There ain't no chance I'm sleepin' tonight, so I'll take the first shift. Specs, Snoddy – you two take her up to the attic and put her in that old extra bed. The one with the broken leg. Tie her hands behind her head to the bedposts. Make sure they're real tight. We don't want no more trouble tonight. Bumlets, you got with 'em in case they need a hand. Check 'er pockets too. Make sure she ain't carryin' nothing."
True to his word, Jack did not sleep that night. He kept a close vigil on the sleeping suspect, nearly jumping out of his skin with her every slight moan or jerk of the body. He nervously chewed at the quick of his right thumbnail and tried to dismiss the anxious, desperate feeling that tried to overtake his mind. Money in his pocket, a family, Santa Fe - it all seemed so far away. Stability, hope, security, love…freedom. Suddenly it was as though everything he had ever wanted was slipping away from him, and he was doing nothing. Nothing but dying. Each day older meant a day closer to punctuating all of his dreams with the word "never." The infiniteness he had felt the past few days was slowly being swallowed with realizations of his own mortality – the fragility of his existence. And he hated it. He hated finality.
The girl's body began to stir and Jack was jolted from his melancholy reflections by her abrupt movement. He first thought it was only another false alarm, and waited for her to return to her silent, unmoving slumber. However, when she continued to toss restlessly and moan, he watched over her anxiously, growing more convinced that she was coming out of her unconscious state. Soft groans of pain escaped Raven's lips. Her eyes opened and immediately she cringed, her brow furrowing and her mouth twisting into an expression of sickly pain. "Fuck," was the first word to come forth from her mouth. She blinked twice and spotted Jack sitting on the sill across the room. She cast a confused, questioning gaze his way, as though she remembered nothing of the events that had recently taken place.
Jack gazed back at her in silence. When he finally spoke, he was able to manage a civil, "Well, you've looked better Raven."
In response, Raven coughed and winced from the pounding in her head. "Don't flatter me, Jack," she said in a low, pained whisper. "I know I must look like a fucking mess. I feel like a fucking mess, that's damn certain." However, after looking up at her hands and seeing that they were firmly tied to the bedposts, she laughed in spite of herself and her predicament. Jokingly she mused, "Heya Jacky, you got me tied to the bed. You wanna have a go?"
"Wha-" Jack scoffed in utter disbelief at her audacity to say such a thing at such a time. He took a drag from his cigarette and angrily blew the smoke out of his nose. "What the fuck, Raven??? Cut the crap."
"Oh, shut it, Jack. I'm just joking. God. I was only trying to lighten the mood."
He was not on his feet and pacing back and forth."Well, that ain't light Raven. Those ain't no joking words!"
Though he would not hear of any mention of any intimacy between he and Raven, Jack Kelly had at one time given in to her temptation. It had only taken a few days of being in her presence for Jack to begin lusting after her. He was immediately taken with her dark, voluptuous beauty and her brazen ways. Jack felt as though she silently demanded his eyes to look at her. She approached life with a certain bravado and possessed a mouth that was cruder than any hardened man's. He fell hard for her daring and her uninhibited nature. Her rawness. The way she expected so much for him and the way he just had to give it to her.
He began to upon her as a challenge. Winning the affections of such a strong willed woman would do wonders for his image and ego, even if the affections won lasted only one night. Jack was surprised when he discovered how easy it was to earn her trust, and soon he began to imagine that she possibly had possibly wanted him as much as he wanted her. It seemed to him that their friendly banter had begun to border on sexual innuendo, and he began to take notice of the way she looked at him when he walked into the room. For a while, he was able to stifle his ever growing male desires, convincing himself that she was far too good of a friend to intrude upon in such a way. And the closer they became, he also started to sense that there may have been something about her that wasn't exactly whole. That she was broken, betrayed perhaps, and he vowed that would not be one to crush her any further
But liquor will often perform strange alterations to even the strongest of good intentions. Three months into their acquaintance, Jack had gotten his foolhardy hands upon one bottle of scotch and another of wine. He'd chosen Raven to share it with, and the two had spent the night getting intoxicated beyond recognition. He couldn't remember what exactly had triggered it – a look in her eyes, a slight inviting smile, perhaps she had even called him handsome – but soon, he found himself taking her in his arms and undressing her. Kissing every last inch of her skin and laying her in his bed. She allowed him to take what he wanted from her, but as he did, it was not triumph that he felt. Though he was inebriated, he still felt the full weight of his actions and it tore at his heart. As he moved within her, she and his own body became foreign to him. Distant. He was not himself taking pleasure in the having of a beautiful woman, but a stranger, cruelly taking advantage of a woman because he could. However, he knew he must continue. Jack would she would take his retraction to heart as imperfection in herself. No. He could not allow himself to humiliate his friend in such a way. Besides, should he stop now, he knew full well that he would not feel satisfied, and soon his lust would again urge him back to partake in more. So, take her he did. But every motion of his body against hers produced a bittersweet feeling. And when it was finally over, he was only left with a sick feeling in his stomach and the bitter sting of regret.
After that fateful incident, the two once close friends were as two ships passing in the night. Moving past each other in the hallway without speaking. Managing awkward conversation when they found themselves alone in a room together. It was not long before Raven moved on. For reasons she would not disclose, she packed up her few possessions and moved to Brooklyn. Jack had always assumed that the reason was him, but he never dared ask her. Raven came to reside in the Brooklyn Lodging house and shortly after became enamoured by the intoxicating charm and wit of Spot Conlon. Jack was more than happy to give her over to the open arms of his friend. With her living in Brooklyn, he found that he was able to cultivate a better relationship with the wayward girl. He assumed the roll of an older brother – constantly watching out for her best interest, lighting into Spot when he stepped out of line, and fishing her out of the many troublesome situations she seemed to be always falling into. Spot suited her better anyway, he thought. He was a better match to her sharp tongue and her boundless pride. They had fought like two bitter tomcats since meeting, but Jack had always thought they were really happy somewhere down deep inside.
Raven now stared at his cigarette with hunger in her dark eyes. Licking her cracked lips, she asked, "Last cigarette before facing the firing squad, Jacky? For old times' sake?"
Jack laughed at her statement and rolled his eyes.
"Come on now, Kelly. Don't make me beg. You know that's not my style." Her voice was grave and raspy – laden with a sort of sorrow and resignation that he had never before seen in the strong spirited girl. "It's my dying wish," she added somewhat lightheartedly, but became silent once more when she realized the weight of the words she had just uttered.
Jack fished another cigarette out of his pocket. It was his last, but he lit it and pressed it to the girl's lips. She sucked the smoke from it as if she were sucking life itself from the roll of paper. When it had burned down to his fingertips, he threw it to the floor and stifled its flame with the toe of his boot. Sighing, he returned to his post and once again turned his attention out onto the dark streets.
"Jack, don't think I'm not hurt by this." Her voice was small and wavered slightly as it traveled from the other side of the room. "Don't think I don't feel as scared as you do."
After a long pause, he softly asked, "Did you do it, Ray?"
Her response to his question was only silence.
After only an hour and sixteen minutes of restless sleep, Jack awoke at daybreak, groggy and still heavy hearted. Delegating two of his boys to keep watch over their captive, he excused himself from guard duty, citing a pressing need to get out of the house before it suffocated him. So, he goes out to sell his daily papers, buying twenty-five extra than his usual hundred to keep his mind thoroughly occupied.
"What's the matter with you?"
Jack looked up and found himself staring into Marion's dark eyes. Uneager to return to the lodging house, he'd taken a long walk after selling the evening edition in which he'd meandered nearly all over Lower Manhattan. He found himself drawn to the warehouse where Marion had once asked him to meet her. Leaning against a streetlamp in front of the building, he'd waited, in hopes that perhaps she would wander by. Somehow, he knew with an eerie certainty that she would.
Marion. Though he once tried to, Jack could not blame her for the downward falling events that had plagued his recent days. Whatever guilt she might have had was indirect. Besides, she was his only source of distraction. As his eyes traced the outline of her pale face, his only desire was to lose himself in her. He wanted her to take him away from all of the guilt and the anxiety. The pressing sorrow that stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. He wanted her to take it all away from him, even if it could only be for a simple moment. "Nothin'," he lied to her.
She looked at Jack, her eyes questioning. They examined his face as though she were trying to translate his pained expression into spoken words. "C'mere," he said in a resigned voice and pulled her close to him. "Just kiss me and don't ask me questions."
"You seem preoccupied tonight."
In response to her comment, Jack's face betrayed him by forming a semi-startled expression. He was lying amidst a makeshift bed of worn linens and a tattered blanket spread across the worn wooden floor. Marion sat beside him, a single candlestick, the only light in the room, casting oddly shaped shadows upon her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly, "You said no questions."
The room rested on a platform high into the upper recess of the warehouse. Marion had led him through an intricate maze of crates, large pieces of machinery, bared supports of former walls, and other debris, up three flights of rickety and unstable stairs, and under a pile of broken beams into the place that they now occupied. It appeared to Jack to be the remains of some sort of old overseer's office that she had converted into a dwelling space. Linens on the floor as a bed, her dark coat draped across a faded cloth desk chair, a small bag resting on a waist-high table, and several candlesticks were placed among the pieces of old furniture and assorted remains.
These few things were probably all she had in the entire world, Jack thought, and he felt somewhat sorry for her for having so little and being forced to live such a solitary existence. However, she did not seem to want for lack of anything. There had always been a sense of contentment about her – an odd mask of peace. Viewing her living quarters made her seem like less of a phantom. She was grounded. She was human. Like anyone else, she needed a place to stay, a roof over her head. She was not some wandering spirit who only appeared to young men in the night. Her surroundings made her real to Jack and reassured him that she was not a figment of his over active imagination.
"There's just a lot on my mind these days," Jack finally managed to explain. She nodded her head, seeming to understand, and asked no more from him. Leaning over, she brushed his forehead with her lips. As she did so, a small chilling draft whistled through the room, causing the candle's flame to flicker under its breath. Jack was still a bit on edge, and looked slightly startled at the sudden cool gust of air. Marion, seeking to ease his mind said, "It isn't the most sound of buildings. There are holes everywhere. It leaks most terribly when it rains." She sighed and lifted Jack's head to rest on her lap.
"Ssh,, go to sleep now," she murmured. "You are very weary. You need to rest." She ran her cool fingers through his hair and brushed the back of her hand against his forehead in a gesture of comfort. He wanted to open his mouth to protest. To tell her that sleep had not come to him in some time, and would not that night either. However, he soon felt his eyelids grow heavy and begin to fall. "Sleep," he heard her whisper once more before his eyes shut completely, and Jack became utterly lost to the world.
When he next opened his eyes, he found himself in his own bunk. Sunlight streamed in through the nearby windows and after several blinks, Jack could make out three familiar faces staring at him. "Wha? What the?" he asked, "How did I get back here?"
Mush shrugged. "You walked, I guess. You came in real late last night. Told us you were going to bed. We figured that we shouldn't bother you since you hadn't been sleepin' much lately."
"What time is it?" Jack asked, severely disoriented and confused by Mush's explanation of the previous night's events. He did not remember walking to the lodging house or talking to anyone there. He did not remember climbing into his own bed and falling asleep. The last thing he remembered clearly was Marion's soft smile as she stroked his hair and whispered to him to go to sleep.
"It's eleven thirty four," Dutchy answered.
Jack shot up to a sitting position. Flustered, he ran his hands through his hair talked in stuttered phrases. "You let me sleep all day! What about sellin'? What about Raven? Who's watchin' her? How the hell could you let me sleep all day???" He clawed at the sheets, madly throwing them from his body.
"Relax Jack," Specs piped up. "It's all under control. Bumlets and Snoddy are watching Raven. And we all know you got enough money stashed away that you don't have to worry about missing one measly day of sellin'."
"Yeah," Mush added with a worried look plaguing his eyes, "Sides, you ain't been lookin' so great these days. We figured a little extra sleep could do you some good."
Spot Conlon was laid in his final resting place that afternoon. Kit, the leader of Midtown, had sent two of his older, hardened newsboys over to "take care of things" as Jack had requested. Spot's body was placed in an old burlap sack and tied tightly. Nearly all of the boys under Jack's leadership, several others from Midtown, Harlem, Queens, and the Bronx, and every last one of North Brooklyn's newsboys' arrived at the docks to pay their last respects to the fallen leader. Not a tear was outwardly shed by any of the boys.
Many words of respect and glorification were said in honor of the once mighty Spot Conlon, but the short speech delivered by Jack was especially moving. So much so that he had a hard time stumbling through it. His inspired words only made his heart ache with remorse for his friend, and he still could not shake the feeling that his own life hung by a fragile thread. So, as he tripped and fumbled through the lionizing commemoration and grandeur, the awful gnawing pain returned. It twisted his insides as he listened to the mournful words of the other speakers. It ate him alive at the two Midtowners lifted the sack, and nearly finished him when Spot's body was offered to the river with one last, resounding splash. "Such a waste," he thought as he watched the last of the ripples in the water dissipate into nothingness.
Jack stood in that same place on the docks staring down into the murky water for what seemed like hours after. The group had disbanded, each boy going his own separate way. One by one they parted company, patting Jack on the back or offering him words of consolation or comfort. "Sorry, Jack." "Hang in there, Jack." "He's in a better place, Jack." All of them were more than eager to escape the mournful cloud that hung over those docks. But Jack had lingered behind. He did not know what kept him riveted to that spot, but something rendered him unable to move. It was as though he had a mission to complete - a promise to fulfill. Perhaps his heart or his soul was transmitting something incommunicable to Spot through the river. An explanation. An apology, maybe. He knew not what it was that the river or his friend wanted from him, but he could not tear himself away until the unseen force was finished with him. "What do you want?" he asked the gray-green ripples, but they offered back no answer.
Jack slept fitfully that night. His sleep was littered with dreams that were oddly real, but made no sense. Only one did he remember. It happened after he woke for what seemed like the hundredth time. He opened his eyes, groggily looked through the haze at the clock and saw that it read three fifty four. When he shut his eyes and fell back into a shallow slumber, Jack dreamt something that seemed more like a recollection than a product of his unconscious mind. Almost as though it were a memory.
In his dream, he envisioned Spot sitting at the end of his favourite pier at sunset, Pier #6. Spot acknowledged Jack as he approached, but just as quickly turned his attention back to the horizon. He looked the same as he always had – gray cap pulled down low over his eyes, sleeves rolled up the elbow, faded red suspenders dangling carelessly from his pants, slingshot in his right back pocket. Except not a mark hindered his smooth appearance. Not a cut or a scratch or a bruise from a scuffle marred his skin. Jack thought this a bit odd, but did not question the boy. He simply sat down beside him.
"If I had money, that's what I'd buy," Spot said, still intently gazing out onto the water.
"The river?" Jack asked him, a bit confused.
"No," Spot said, shaking his head and gesturing with his right hand, "The place where the sun touches the water. I'd buy a place out west where I could have some land and a lake or something. Then I could watch the sun hit the water everyday and say, 'Yeah, that's mine. I own it.' And then I'd finally own something that mattered. Something worth having. Something that wouldn't ever go away…." Spot's voice trailed off. "So, what'd you want to talk to me about?"
Jack did not know why he had come, much less what he had come to discuss. "I don't know, Spot," he said, furrowing his brow.
Spot shrugged. "Yeah, me neither…You know we been through a lot together," he said.
Jack nodded in agreement
"Well, through all of these fights and wars and stupid things, do you ever think you might not make it?"
"Sometimes," Jack responded. He had heard this speech before. Previously he had responded differently. Foolishly. Now, he knew better than to repeat his first mistake.
"The street don't give, but it sure does take."
Jack nodded once more. "Ain't that the truth, Spot."
Spot turned to him at that instant and looked at Jack as though he were staring into his very soul. His blue gray eyes were ablaze with intensity. "When you gonna let it stop taking from ya, Jack?" He the stared out onto the water once more. "Life's ticking away, Jacky-boy. We ain't getting no younger. Might as well make the best of it while we're still sucking air."
I own nothing. Marion is the soul product of my creativity.
Thank you in advance to anyone who dares to read or comprehend this. I am aware that I have a somewhat twisted mind and that my thinking tends to stray quite a bit from the ordinary.
For Raven, because she would not let this die.
Chapter II
Life does not increase
Only loses itself each day
As the sun gives way to the moon
So I simply close my eyes
And breathless and foolhardy
Ask the moon to try me once more
Jack sat alone on the sill of the open window. The muggy night's damp air wafted in and left its fingerprints on his face and in his hair. Hesitantly, he struck a match against the sole of his worn boot, and raised his hands to shakily light his sixth cigarette of the hour. The small cramped attic of the lodging house was like a haven to the boy. Used primarily for storage, it was the only place that was somewhat his – that musty smelling, dark, damp and cramped space. The northward facing window made for a fine watchtower of sorts. The city was dark and dank, the streets only faintly visible. Jack could usually see a far piece down the road from his perch, but that night, his vision was severely hindered. "Too much damn fog these days," he grumbled and cursed the murky darkness.
"Jack, shouldn't we be callin' the coppers or somethin'?" one of the boys had asked.
Jack curled his lip at the suggestion. "What? You think they care bout street rats like us? Huh? They don't give a damn about us or nothin' that anybody does to us. No, we gotta take care o'this ourselves." He'd lashed out more forcefully than he had intended, but the thought of the truth behind his blatant statement seemed to warrant force. "Sides, if we called 'em, they'd want to blame it on one of us or start some other kind of trouble. No. What goes on here, stays here. Anyone opens their mouth, and they're gonna get a personal soaking from me. Is that clear?"
He heard a light rap at the door and turned his attention to the doorframe in which a solitary figure stood. Dutchy stepped out of the shadows and approached Jack, his blue eyes mournful. "Anything yet, Dutch?" Jack asked.
Dutchy shook his head slowly. "Nothing." He was silent for a moment before biting his bottom lip and hesitantly asking, "Jack, um, what we gonna do about the, uh, the um body?"
Jack looked at the younger boy, his gray brown eyes piercing unseen holes through his friend. He said nothing in return.
"Are we gonna bury him, Jack?"
He laughed. It was a cold mocking snorting laugh through his nose. "We can't do that. We ain't got enough money to buy a plot in any goddamned cemetery in this goddamned city. We'll make do, Dutch. We'll make do…..even if we have to throw him in the river."
Dutchy looked appalled at Jack's solution to his problem.
Jack shrugged as if it were no uncommon occurrence and maintained a stone face. "What do you want me to do Dutch? Huh?" He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled the smoke through his nose. "Anyway, it's only fittin'. He spent so much time on those docks. And we ain't got no other way. We can't just leave him there. There ain't no other option. Get word to Kit in Midtown. They're stiff lipped enough over there. Ask 'im if he wouldn't mind sending over two of his iron stomached ones to make arrangements."
Spot Conlon had joined the world of the newsboys, the poor and orphaned, and the less fortunate when he was eight. From where he had come, no one knew. As though her were a ghost, he had simply appeared on the doorstep of North Brooklyn's lodging house one cold November evening. Since that day no one had ever dared question him about his past, and he had offered no information. Jack, himself, had first started his paper-selling career in North Brooklyn. He had been nine at the time, tall for his age, and had towered over the small wild-eyed boy that went by the name Nathaniel Conlon. In the years following, Jack had joined his friend Kid Blink and taken up residence in Lower Manhattan, but kept close ties with the new boy the others had dubbed "Spot." For years, he had watched him grow from the quiet, plotting young boy to the strong and mighty force as the leader of the toughest territory in all of New York. Yet, something mysterious still remained about the boy. Something oddly unsettling. It was a though a shadow loomed over him. Jack only saw this aura about him from time to time, yet when it did appear, it unnerved him.
Once Spot had pulled Jack aside with worry in his eyes. "You know we been through a lot together," he said. Jack nodded in agreement, uncertain of his friend's intentions by such a statement. "Well, through all of these fights and wars and stupid things, do you ever think you might not make it?"
Jack had shrugged at his comment, obviously confused. "Whaddaya talking about Spot?" he questioned.
"I dunno Jack," Spot said and then turned his way, "Sometimes I just think that since I've managed to come out of so many rough situations alive, that I'm bound to not make it out of one someday."
Jack had only scoffed at his friend's confession. Brushed it off as nonsense. "That's crazy talk," he had told him, "You're Spot Conlon. If anybody can get himself out of a scrape, it's you."
Jack heard a loud bang and clatter downstairs. He and Dutchy both started at the sudden noise. "That sounds like the door," Jack said, leaping up from his perch and pushing past the other boy. He tore out of the door and down the narrow attic stairs with Dutchy following close at his heels. When he reached the first floor, a crowd of anxious boys had already filled the lobby. Jack pushed through them to find two of Spot's best birds, Brix and Skidsy, carrying a limp body. Her left eye was blue and black – violently bruised indigo, her lip bloody, and her long red-brown hair hung down in dirty, matted waves. Her gray pants were torn at the knee and her shirt dirty and stained with blood and filth.
"She's unconscious," Skidsy mumbled through his clenched teeth. "We had to hit 'er in the 'ead pretty hard to get her here. She put up a real good fight." As he spoke, he wiped at a cut on his cheek that was still trickling blood and looked at the blood in disgust. They tossed her onto the hard floor rather roughly, but still she did not wake.
"Don't you wanna put 'er in the bed or something?" Mush piped up, his voice wavering with worry.
Jack looked at Mush. His gray brown eyes burned though him. "What for?" he spat. Mush back down immediately, throwing his hands in the air cautiously and slowly stepping backwards in submission. Turning his attention to the newcomers, Jack reluctantly asked, "So, where'd ya find 'er?"
"Over in the Bronx," Brix spoke up, "We kinda let it out that we was looking for her. Not for anything in particular, you know? But just looking for her. Spot's got a more than few friends around, and well, Menace – that Bronxie with the weird looking, shifty eyes – told Esco that she was there, and Esco sent us over. Who woulda thought that Menace's flapping lips would've even done any good, huh?" Jack offered a small laugh in response. "Yeah, I bet none of the Bronxies had any idea what she was doin'. Running over there the middle of the night like she did….So, uh," Brix continued, "Whaddaya want us to do with 'er?"
Jack looked from Brix to Skidsy. Their stone faces offered him no ounce of help or comfort. He struck another match and lit a cigarette as he stooped down to a squat to think and assess the situation.
"I know what we can do with 'er," a sneering, malicious voice came out of the crowd.
Jack raised his head to see Kid Blink push his way through a group of kids, and come forward. A strange smirk was painted upon his face. Jack had known the boy long enough to know that Kid was not as wholesome as he was commonly made out to be. When provoked to extremes, the one-eyed fellow could be downright dastardly and cruel. This seemed to Jack to be one of those times, indeed. He braced himself for whatever was next to come forth from the sneering boy's mouth.
Blink licked his lips and gestured down to the unconscious Raven with raised eyebrows. His upper lip curled. "I say," he stated, raising his contemptuous gaze to his fellow comrades, "That, we, um, each take a turn with her." He shrugged apathetically, "You know – get her back for what she did to Spot and make ourselves feel a little better about it. It ain't like she'd notice, seein' that she ain't wakin' up for a while." A few of the boys laughed nervously at his comment. Blink snickered back in return and began to unbutton his pants. "And it's not like it'd make a difference to the bitch. It's not too long ago that she whored herself our professionally, ain't it?"
"Put it back in your pants, Kid," Jack commanded loudly, his voice cold and monotone. "Now. What's wrong with ya? Huh? You suddenly got no brains or somethin'? Just cause she made a mess outta Spot don't give us not right to treat her like she's not human. We ain't animals here." He paused and glared at the blonde boy for a moment of tension-laden silence. "Well, you might be, but I sure as hell ain't. And on my watch, ain't nobody doing nothing of the sort."
Blink indignantly buttoned his trousers and sneered at Jack, his pride obviously beyond injured. "So, what then? Huh, Jack? You got some answers for us? Cause we're all waitin'."
He rose calmly from his stooped position, rising to his full six feet of height. His posture was straight, and his voice dignified and authoritative as he spoke. "We'll take turns keeping watch over her till she wakes up. There ain't no chance I'm sleepin' tonight, so I'll take the first shift. Specs, Snoddy – you two take her up to the attic and put her in that old extra bed. The one with the broken leg. Tie her hands behind her head to the bedposts. Make sure they're real tight. We don't want no more trouble tonight. Bumlets, you got with 'em in case they need a hand. Check 'er pockets too. Make sure she ain't carryin' nothing."
True to his word, Jack did not sleep that night. He kept a close vigil on the sleeping suspect, nearly jumping out of his skin with her every slight moan or jerk of the body. He nervously chewed at the quick of his right thumbnail and tried to dismiss the anxious, desperate feeling that tried to overtake his mind. Money in his pocket, a family, Santa Fe - it all seemed so far away. Stability, hope, security, love…freedom. Suddenly it was as though everything he had ever wanted was slipping away from him, and he was doing nothing. Nothing but dying. Each day older meant a day closer to punctuating all of his dreams with the word "never." The infiniteness he had felt the past few days was slowly being swallowed with realizations of his own mortality – the fragility of his existence. And he hated it. He hated finality.
The girl's body began to stir and Jack was jolted from his melancholy reflections by her abrupt movement. He first thought it was only another false alarm, and waited for her to return to her silent, unmoving slumber. However, when she continued to toss restlessly and moan, he watched over her anxiously, growing more convinced that she was coming out of her unconscious state. Soft groans of pain escaped Raven's lips. Her eyes opened and immediately she cringed, her brow furrowing and her mouth twisting into an expression of sickly pain. "Fuck," was the first word to come forth from her mouth. She blinked twice and spotted Jack sitting on the sill across the room. She cast a confused, questioning gaze his way, as though she remembered nothing of the events that had recently taken place.
Jack gazed back at her in silence. When he finally spoke, he was able to manage a civil, "Well, you've looked better Raven."
In response, Raven coughed and winced from the pounding in her head. "Don't flatter me, Jack," she said in a low, pained whisper. "I know I must look like a fucking mess. I feel like a fucking mess, that's damn certain." However, after looking up at her hands and seeing that they were firmly tied to the bedposts, she laughed in spite of herself and her predicament. Jokingly she mused, "Heya Jacky, you got me tied to the bed. You wanna have a go?"
"Wha-" Jack scoffed in utter disbelief at her audacity to say such a thing at such a time. He took a drag from his cigarette and angrily blew the smoke out of his nose. "What the fuck, Raven??? Cut the crap."
"Oh, shut it, Jack. I'm just joking. God. I was only trying to lighten the mood."
He was not on his feet and pacing back and forth."Well, that ain't light Raven. Those ain't no joking words!"
Though he would not hear of any mention of any intimacy between he and Raven, Jack Kelly had at one time given in to her temptation. It had only taken a few days of being in her presence for Jack to begin lusting after her. He was immediately taken with her dark, voluptuous beauty and her brazen ways. Jack felt as though she silently demanded his eyes to look at her. She approached life with a certain bravado and possessed a mouth that was cruder than any hardened man's. He fell hard for her daring and her uninhibited nature. Her rawness. The way she expected so much for him and the way he just had to give it to her.
He began to upon her as a challenge. Winning the affections of such a strong willed woman would do wonders for his image and ego, even if the affections won lasted only one night. Jack was surprised when he discovered how easy it was to earn her trust, and soon he began to imagine that she possibly had possibly wanted him as much as he wanted her. It seemed to him that their friendly banter had begun to border on sexual innuendo, and he began to take notice of the way she looked at him when he walked into the room. For a while, he was able to stifle his ever growing male desires, convincing himself that she was far too good of a friend to intrude upon in such a way. And the closer they became, he also started to sense that there may have been something about her that wasn't exactly whole. That she was broken, betrayed perhaps, and he vowed that would not be one to crush her any further
But liquor will often perform strange alterations to even the strongest of good intentions. Three months into their acquaintance, Jack had gotten his foolhardy hands upon one bottle of scotch and another of wine. He'd chosen Raven to share it with, and the two had spent the night getting intoxicated beyond recognition. He couldn't remember what exactly had triggered it – a look in her eyes, a slight inviting smile, perhaps she had even called him handsome – but soon, he found himself taking her in his arms and undressing her. Kissing every last inch of her skin and laying her in his bed. She allowed him to take what he wanted from her, but as he did, it was not triumph that he felt. Though he was inebriated, he still felt the full weight of his actions and it tore at his heart. As he moved within her, she and his own body became foreign to him. Distant. He was not himself taking pleasure in the having of a beautiful woman, but a stranger, cruelly taking advantage of a woman because he could. However, he knew he must continue. Jack would she would take his retraction to heart as imperfection in herself. No. He could not allow himself to humiliate his friend in such a way. Besides, should he stop now, he knew full well that he would not feel satisfied, and soon his lust would again urge him back to partake in more. So, take her he did. But every motion of his body against hers produced a bittersweet feeling. And when it was finally over, he was only left with a sick feeling in his stomach and the bitter sting of regret.
After that fateful incident, the two once close friends were as two ships passing in the night. Moving past each other in the hallway without speaking. Managing awkward conversation when they found themselves alone in a room together. It was not long before Raven moved on. For reasons she would not disclose, she packed up her few possessions and moved to Brooklyn. Jack had always assumed that the reason was him, but he never dared ask her. Raven came to reside in the Brooklyn Lodging house and shortly after became enamoured by the intoxicating charm and wit of Spot Conlon. Jack was more than happy to give her over to the open arms of his friend. With her living in Brooklyn, he found that he was able to cultivate a better relationship with the wayward girl. He assumed the roll of an older brother – constantly watching out for her best interest, lighting into Spot when he stepped out of line, and fishing her out of the many troublesome situations she seemed to be always falling into. Spot suited her better anyway, he thought. He was a better match to her sharp tongue and her boundless pride. They had fought like two bitter tomcats since meeting, but Jack had always thought they were really happy somewhere down deep inside.
Raven now stared at his cigarette with hunger in her dark eyes. Licking her cracked lips, she asked, "Last cigarette before facing the firing squad, Jacky? For old times' sake?"
Jack laughed at her statement and rolled his eyes.
"Come on now, Kelly. Don't make me beg. You know that's not my style." Her voice was grave and raspy – laden with a sort of sorrow and resignation that he had never before seen in the strong spirited girl. "It's my dying wish," she added somewhat lightheartedly, but became silent once more when she realized the weight of the words she had just uttered.
Jack fished another cigarette out of his pocket. It was his last, but he lit it and pressed it to the girl's lips. She sucked the smoke from it as if she were sucking life itself from the roll of paper. When it had burned down to his fingertips, he threw it to the floor and stifled its flame with the toe of his boot. Sighing, he returned to his post and once again turned his attention out onto the dark streets.
"Jack, don't think I'm not hurt by this." Her voice was small and wavered slightly as it traveled from the other side of the room. "Don't think I don't feel as scared as you do."
After a long pause, he softly asked, "Did you do it, Ray?"
Her response to his question was only silence.
After only an hour and sixteen minutes of restless sleep, Jack awoke at daybreak, groggy and still heavy hearted. Delegating two of his boys to keep watch over their captive, he excused himself from guard duty, citing a pressing need to get out of the house before it suffocated him. So, he goes out to sell his daily papers, buying twenty-five extra than his usual hundred to keep his mind thoroughly occupied.
"What's the matter with you?"
Jack looked up and found himself staring into Marion's dark eyes. Uneager to return to the lodging house, he'd taken a long walk after selling the evening edition in which he'd meandered nearly all over Lower Manhattan. He found himself drawn to the warehouse where Marion had once asked him to meet her. Leaning against a streetlamp in front of the building, he'd waited, in hopes that perhaps she would wander by. Somehow, he knew with an eerie certainty that she would.
Marion. Though he once tried to, Jack could not blame her for the downward falling events that had plagued his recent days. Whatever guilt she might have had was indirect. Besides, she was his only source of distraction. As his eyes traced the outline of her pale face, his only desire was to lose himself in her. He wanted her to take him away from all of the guilt and the anxiety. The pressing sorrow that stabbed him repeatedly in the chest. He wanted her to take it all away from him, even if it could only be for a simple moment. "Nothin'," he lied to her.
She looked at Jack, her eyes questioning. They examined his face as though she were trying to translate his pained expression into spoken words. "C'mere," he said in a resigned voice and pulled her close to him. "Just kiss me and don't ask me questions."
"You seem preoccupied tonight."
In response to her comment, Jack's face betrayed him by forming a semi-startled expression. He was lying amidst a makeshift bed of worn linens and a tattered blanket spread across the worn wooden floor. Marion sat beside him, a single candlestick, the only light in the room, casting oddly shaped shadows upon her face. "I'm sorry," she said softly, "You said no questions."
The room rested on a platform high into the upper recess of the warehouse. Marion had led him through an intricate maze of crates, large pieces of machinery, bared supports of former walls, and other debris, up three flights of rickety and unstable stairs, and under a pile of broken beams into the place that they now occupied. It appeared to Jack to be the remains of some sort of old overseer's office that she had converted into a dwelling space. Linens on the floor as a bed, her dark coat draped across a faded cloth desk chair, a small bag resting on a waist-high table, and several candlesticks were placed among the pieces of old furniture and assorted remains.
These few things were probably all she had in the entire world, Jack thought, and he felt somewhat sorry for her for having so little and being forced to live such a solitary existence. However, she did not seem to want for lack of anything. There had always been a sense of contentment about her – an odd mask of peace. Viewing her living quarters made her seem like less of a phantom. She was grounded. She was human. Like anyone else, she needed a place to stay, a roof over her head. She was not some wandering spirit who only appeared to young men in the night. Her surroundings made her real to Jack and reassured him that she was not a figment of his over active imagination.
"There's just a lot on my mind these days," Jack finally managed to explain. She nodded her head, seeming to understand, and asked no more from him. Leaning over, she brushed his forehead with her lips. As she did so, a small chilling draft whistled through the room, causing the candle's flame to flicker under its breath. Jack was still a bit on edge, and looked slightly startled at the sudden cool gust of air. Marion, seeking to ease his mind said, "It isn't the most sound of buildings. There are holes everywhere. It leaks most terribly when it rains." She sighed and lifted Jack's head to rest on her lap.
"Ssh,, go to sleep now," she murmured. "You are very weary. You need to rest." She ran her cool fingers through his hair and brushed the back of her hand against his forehead in a gesture of comfort. He wanted to open his mouth to protest. To tell her that sleep had not come to him in some time, and would not that night either. However, he soon felt his eyelids grow heavy and begin to fall. "Sleep," he heard her whisper once more before his eyes shut completely, and Jack became utterly lost to the world.
When he next opened his eyes, he found himself in his own bunk. Sunlight streamed in through the nearby windows and after several blinks, Jack could make out three familiar faces staring at him. "Wha? What the?" he asked, "How did I get back here?"
Mush shrugged. "You walked, I guess. You came in real late last night. Told us you were going to bed. We figured that we shouldn't bother you since you hadn't been sleepin' much lately."
"What time is it?" Jack asked, severely disoriented and confused by Mush's explanation of the previous night's events. He did not remember walking to the lodging house or talking to anyone there. He did not remember climbing into his own bed and falling asleep. The last thing he remembered clearly was Marion's soft smile as she stroked his hair and whispered to him to go to sleep.
"It's eleven thirty four," Dutchy answered.
Jack shot up to a sitting position. Flustered, he ran his hands through his hair talked in stuttered phrases. "You let me sleep all day! What about sellin'? What about Raven? Who's watchin' her? How the hell could you let me sleep all day???" He clawed at the sheets, madly throwing them from his body.
"Relax Jack," Specs piped up. "It's all under control. Bumlets and Snoddy are watching Raven. And we all know you got enough money stashed away that you don't have to worry about missing one measly day of sellin'."
"Yeah," Mush added with a worried look plaguing his eyes, "Sides, you ain't been lookin' so great these days. We figured a little extra sleep could do you some good."
Spot Conlon was laid in his final resting place that afternoon. Kit, the leader of Midtown, had sent two of his older, hardened newsboys over to "take care of things" as Jack had requested. Spot's body was placed in an old burlap sack and tied tightly. Nearly all of the boys under Jack's leadership, several others from Midtown, Harlem, Queens, and the Bronx, and every last one of North Brooklyn's newsboys' arrived at the docks to pay their last respects to the fallen leader. Not a tear was outwardly shed by any of the boys.
Many words of respect and glorification were said in honor of the once mighty Spot Conlon, but the short speech delivered by Jack was especially moving. So much so that he had a hard time stumbling through it. His inspired words only made his heart ache with remorse for his friend, and he still could not shake the feeling that his own life hung by a fragile thread. So, as he tripped and fumbled through the lionizing commemoration and grandeur, the awful gnawing pain returned. It twisted his insides as he listened to the mournful words of the other speakers. It ate him alive at the two Midtowners lifted the sack, and nearly finished him when Spot's body was offered to the river with one last, resounding splash. "Such a waste," he thought as he watched the last of the ripples in the water dissipate into nothingness.
Jack stood in that same place on the docks staring down into the murky water for what seemed like hours after. The group had disbanded, each boy going his own separate way. One by one they parted company, patting Jack on the back or offering him words of consolation or comfort. "Sorry, Jack." "Hang in there, Jack." "He's in a better place, Jack." All of them were more than eager to escape the mournful cloud that hung over those docks. But Jack had lingered behind. He did not know what kept him riveted to that spot, but something rendered him unable to move. It was as though he had a mission to complete - a promise to fulfill. Perhaps his heart or his soul was transmitting something incommunicable to Spot through the river. An explanation. An apology, maybe. He knew not what it was that the river or his friend wanted from him, but he could not tear himself away until the unseen force was finished with him. "What do you want?" he asked the gray-green ripples, but they offered back no answer.
Jack slept fitfully that night. His sleep was littered with dreams that were oddly real, but made no sense. Only one did he remember. It happened after he woke for what seemed like the hundredth time. He opened his eyes, groggily looked through the haze at the clock and saw that it read three fifty four. When he shut his eyes and fell back into a shallow slumber, Jack dreamt something that seemed more like a recollection than a product of his unconscious mind. Almost as though it were a memory.
In his dream, he envisioned Spot sitting at the end of his favourite pier at sunset, Pier #6. Spot acknowledged Jack as he approached, but just as quickly turned his attention back to the horizon. He looked the same as he always had – gray cap pulled down low over his eyes, sleeves rolled up the elbow, faded red suspenders dangling carelessly from his pants, slingshot in his right back pocket. Except not a mark hindered his smooth appearance. Not a cut or a scratch or a bruise from a scuffle marred his skin. Jack thought this a bit odd, but did not question the boy. He simply sat down beside him.
"If I had money, that's what I'd buy," Spot said, still intently gazing out onto the water.
"The river?" Jack asked him, a bit confused.
"No," Spot said, shaking his head and gesturing with his right hand, "The place where the sun touches the water. I'd buy a place out west where I could have some land and a lake or something. Then I could watch the sun hit the water everyday and say, 'Yeah, that's mine. I own it.' And then I'd finally own something that mattered. Something worth having. Something that wouldn't ever go away…." Spot's voice trailed off. "So, what'd you want to talk to me about?"
Jack did not know why he had come, much less what he had come to discuss. "I don't know, Spot," he said, furrowing his brow.
Spot shrugged. "Yeah, me neither…You know we been through a lot together," he said.
Jack nodded in agreement
"Well, through all of these fights and wars and stupid things, do you ever think you might not make it?"
"Sometimes," Jack responded. He had heard this speech before. Previously he had responded differently. Foolishly. Now, he knew better than to repeat his first mistake.
"The street don't give, but it sure does take."
Jack nodded once more. "Ain't that the truth, Spot."
Spot turned to him at that instant and looked at Jack as though he were staring into his very soul. His blue gray eyes were ablaze with intensity. "When you gonna let it stop taking from ya, Jack?" He the stared out onto the water once more. "Life's ticking away, Jacky-boy. We ain't getting no younger. Might as well make the best of it while we're still sucking air."