Author's Note: Took me long enough, didn't it? Thanks to all of those who actually read this despite the fact that it is painfully strange and almost nonsensical. Thou art brave souls. This chapter has been brought to you with the help of a song called "Famous Blue Raincoat." You may notice that I've stolen some of the lyrics and dispersed them amongst the story's text. Though its content has nearly nothing to do with the story, the mood of the song is perfection. Wistful, dark, melancholic. Yes.
Everything's a songfic now, in some way, shape, or form. I can't help it.
Chapter III
"Jack, you leaving again?"
As he neared the doorway, Jack paused and raised his mournful gaze from the floor to answer the imploring eyes of Mush. "Yeah Mush. I am," he responded in a low voice and pulled his cowboy hat onto his head, placing his other hand on the doorknob.
"But you've been gone every night for the past two weeks or so," Mush replied
Jack shrugged. He sighed and answered in a resigned voice, "What do ya want me to do, Mush?" He stared at his friend forlornly for a moment before adding, "Because I sure as hell can't stay here." When Mush didn't answer his question, Jack nodded a goodbye to the younger boy and turned the doorknob. As he walked out of the door, his parting words were only, "Keep an eye on the girl."
To say Mush was worried about his friend would have been an understatement. In fact, almost every one of the Lower Manhattan newsboys was growing quite concerned over the state of their leader. The once jovial, fun loving boy with the devil-may-care attitude had seemingly been replaced by a solemn, silent, brooding person completely foreign to his friends. Jack was slowly becoming a mere shell of himself and distancing from the rest of his boys in the process. Each night he left the lodging house, the same look of deep thought and concentration plaguing his face. No one ever dared to ask where he was going or when he would be back, but each night, one of the boys would stay up and keep watch for him.
This act of playing sentinel went unbeknownst to Jack. He was far too lost in the troubles of his own mind to notice the careful pains took by his boys look after him. Yet, without fail, each night that he left the lodging house to commune with the streets, one or more of the other newsboys would forgo sleep to faithfully await his return. Jack Kelly had always taken care of them. They now considered it their duty to return the favour. In Jack's absence, they whispered amongst themselves, discussing his health, his poor eating and sleeping habits, and what in could possibly be done to help him.
Jack had taken up the late night walks in order to distract himself. Though they only served to ease his mind a little, they did provide some sort of activity to occupy him. And he welcomed the activity wholeheartedly. He would meander all over Lower Manhattan without a set course or destination in mind. Sometimes taking the same paths twice or three times. Once, on a night in which he was particularly troubled, he found himself in North Brooklyn, but was not clear on how he had arrived there. The walks provided him with a small sense of freedom. When he was out tramping through the city, alone and filling his lungs with the sharply cold air, the burden of his lot of boys was seemingly not so present. Out there he was only responsible for himself and did not need to constantly give thought to how to break up a fight between the little ones or why Snoddy hadn't come back yet, or how Race was going to have enough money for the next day's papers after his bad day at the track. When he was walking, he did not have to think about his captive.
The date of the Raven's trial was rapidly approaching.
"Last time I saw you, you looked so much younger." These words had rung loudly in Jack's ears for days. He'd heard them a week ago in a casual conversation with Bryan Denton over a lunchtime meal that the older man had treated Jack to. Denton knew nothing of the tragedy that had taken place and the dark shadow that had fallen over Jack as a result. "No word of this to anybody on the outside," had been Jack's warning to the rest of the boys. What happened with the newsies stayed inside the ring of newsies. This had always been the unspoken rule they adhered to. They lived and died by it because they had to.
Though his tone had been light and teasing when he uttered them, the truth of his words overpowered Jack and stuck in his mind. The jovial newspaperman certainly had no idea the weight and force of the words he offhandedly spoken in conversation. However, Jack was certain that he indeed did look younger when Denton had last seen him. The past weeks had not been kind to Jack Kelly, and the evidence showed upon his face.
Often he ended up at Grand Central station to stand on the platform for what seemed like hours. Each train that passed he watched with intense interest. He considered hopping one – any one of them. Their destinations did not matter to him. All that mattered was that these trains would carry him to a place that was not New York City. That was not heavy and laden with all of Jack's current worries. This sufficed for him. They were freedom.
The steam from the trains enshrouded him. "Ha," he thought, "Can't get again from the damn fog anyway I try. Even on a clear night, there's damn mist everywhere." You're living for nothing now. The quiet nagging voice presented itself again and was whispering its doubtful messages in Jack's ear. "No," he told it. There was so much to live for. He was only eighteen. Eighteen. A whole life ahead of him filled with wide-eyed dreams. When did he give up on them? Why did he suddenly think them void? "Santa Fe, my old friend," he whispered to himself as he dropped the remainder of his cigarette to the ground and stifled it with the toe of his boot, "I can't spend my whole life hidin'."
On his way back home, Jack came across a poor boy sitting aside the streets, rattling a dented tin cup in his hand. He could not have been any more than eight, and his stature was so small and diminutive that Jack had nearly tripped over him while walking by. "Any spare change ya can spare mistah?" the boy asked in a cockney accent, raising his wide, hopeful eyes to Jack. His voice was small and weak, and his body hopelessly thin.
Jack stood silent for a moment, looking down at the pitiful sight before him. In all honesty, did not have any spare change. The concept of something being spare was completely foreign to him in fact. He thought of the trains at the station, and felt his own stomach growl and lurch. He had not eaten that day. Every penny he could spare was being put in a small cigar box hidden under a loose floorboard behind his bed. He was saving up. Yet, as he looked into the wide eyes of the frail and dirty boy, he found himself unable to resist taking pity on him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. It was a good deal – Jack could have eaten three meals on it at least and it would have served as a nice addition to his savings.
Therefore, he stooped down and placed the entire handful into the beggar's cup. The boy's eyes widened even further. Small as it was, Jack doubted that the kid had ever seen that much money in one place before – much less in his possession. He ruffled the urchin's hair. "You remind me of me friend Les," he said feeling the sorrow lift from his heart for a brief moment as he thought of the younger boy. "Hey, do somethin' good with that okay?" The boy enthusiastically bobbed his head up and down, the gratitude apparent in his expression, and Jack stood to leave.
"Thank ya, mistah! Thank ya!" the boy called out after him.
"Life's too short to be greedy," Jack reminded himself. He turned and gave the kid a tight-lipped smile and then strode off. Marion would be proud, he thought. Spot would have been also. Spot. "No, don't think about Spot," he told himself. "Keep thinking about the girl. At least she's still alive."
Jack watched the sun as it dipped below the river on the horizon…a blistering ball of hot orange fired being squelched beneath the dark waters. The air smelled of heat, dirty, and burning wood, but he still inhaled the cleanest breaths he had ever taken. Dusk was settling in and flecks of stars began to pepper the violet gray sky. The pungent aroma of beans and a handful of sausages being cooked over the open fire filled his nostrils as his horse approached the campsite. He petted its blonde mane, released the reins and slid down from the saddle. His boots hit the ground with the clinging of his spurs and he began to beat the dry dust from his pant legs. Jack offered a lopsided, but content smile to the older man tending to the pot, who tipped his hat in return and said, "Snipes, give me back my shooter. You know that's my best one! I had to trade Tiny three o'my others for that one. You're just jealous cause I got it and you don't. Gimme it back now!"
Jack groaned. He held both hands to his ears and tried to drown out the sounds of the other boys. He had been sitting in the square for about half an hour, leaning against the base of Horace Greeley with his eyes closed and thinking about Santa Fe more than he should have. "Snipes, give him back the damn marble!" he muttered and clamped his eyes shut more tightly, trying to make the fanciful images of Santa Fe appear before his eyes once more.
"How are you, Jack?"
Jack opened one eye to a squint and raised his head toward the voice. "Like you care Lizzie," he said to the girl standing before him.
"What?" she responded, the tone of her voice sounding a bit incredulous. Her blue eyes searched his for a moment, looking for some explanation or reason for his careless comment. When she found none, her voice dropped to a whisper. "You know, you're not the only one suffering. Spot was my friend also. This hurts me too, Jack."
"Yeah, yeah. That's what everybody keeps sayin'. Why the hell does everybody keep sayin' that?" Jack shook his head in disbelief.
"I don't know," Lizzie returned in a quiet voice.
"Yeah, anyway, you didn't care. I think you just wanted Spot to prove that you could have him. You're so aloof and cool, Liz. You think nobody notices, do you? Well, I can see right through ya. You're so fake. That's just a show. And now, look's what's happened." The words fell from Jack's mouth like an un-dammed river, and he spat them out like they disgusted him. Lizzie's face fell a bit more with each sentence, but he paid no mind. "I gotta give you credit though….I believed you were innocent. I was told that you and Spot had something going, but I said, no, that's not possible. They been friends forever. They're just close like that. But then I shoulda listened to what they said, huh? You made me look like a fool. A real dumbass. Did you even come to the funeral, huh? Cause I didn't see you there. I don't think you cared about anything. Ray…well, Ray mighta killed him. She mighta killed him in cold blood, but she did care about him – I know that. Hell, she might be a bitch and a fucking killer, but she cared about him. You? Well, I dunno bout you."
Jack spoke quickly, unloading all of his pent up anger on the poor girl. In truth, the verbal lashing he so readily dispensed may have been quite unprovoked by the girl, but at the moment Jack did not care. He would latter mull over his actions and regret speaking so forcefully and hastily, he was sure. But at the moment, she was present and therefore, a perfect scapegoat. The pain just had to go somewhere, it seemed. Disgusted, Jack rose and stormed, leaving Elizabeth Connors sputtering in his wake.
"You see her over there, Jack?" Spot had asked, his gray blue eyes glinting with amusement. "She wants me something awful. She does, but she's just playin' hard to get." He winked at Jack and then called out to the fair, copper-haired girl standing across the room, "Ain't that right, Lizzie?"
"Isn't what right, Spot Conlon?" she called back.
"That you can't resist me!" Spot returned with amused sarcasm in his voice.
Lizzie Connors rolled her eyes as she lazily sauntered over to where Jack and Spot were standing. "Oh, please Spot. You've been telling me that for years. Do you think that if you keep saying it, that I'll one day change my mind? If you do, you can just stop right now. Because it's never going to happen."
"Oh, Lizzie," Spot said, nudging Jack and playfully clutching his chest as though it ached with a pain he could not describe. "You're breakin' my heart. My poor little heart – you keep stompin' all over it. When are you gonna stop? When are you gonna realize that you can't live without me?" At that, Jack had clapped Spot on the back and the two broke out into laughter.
Lizzie only sighed with resignation and gave both boys a look of amused disdain. "Yes, Spot," she returned in mocking monotone, "I cannot live another day without you by my side. Please, please leave your girl and run away with me. Now. Because I fear my poor heart shall burst should you not this very moment." She rolled her eyes once more and shook her head at him before walking away.
"Lizzie!" Spot yelled out after her, "You're such a tease. When will you realize that you are my one true love?!?" When she said nothing and continued walking away, Spot issued one more plea.
"Elizabeth Connors, I'm so in love with you that I might just die from it!"
He continued laughing along with Jack as Jack showered him with praise. "That's your best one yet Spot! Ha ha!" Jack had told him, laughing so hard that he could hardly catch his breath. "Your best one!"
It was well after midnight when Jack spent the last two bits in his pocket on his fifth whiskey. He drank it down with slow determined swallows and wiped the excess off of his top lip when he had finished. He sighed deeply. He was drunk – terribly so and glad for it. The room shifted a little when he stood up and slid the coins over to the barkeep to pay his tab.
As he opened the thick door of the tavern, and stepped outside, Jack was greeted by a downpour. Rain. More goddamn rain. The rain seemed to have been coming down unceasingly for days. There was so much of it that Jack thought that perhaps he should just let it drown him. But though he considered this alternative once more, he instead slipped the cowboy hat onto his head, and stepped out into the sheets of driving water. He walked a bit aimlessly – not sure exactly where he was headed, but somehow found himself at the warehouse where Marion kept house. He looked up at the structure and saw a light in the window. Though it was dim, it was to Jack like a beacon driving him onward. He could not tell whether or not it was the alcohol impairing his judgment, but the light somehow called out to him, and bid him to go to her in a way that he could not refuse.
So, go he did. Between the mists and rain he lumbered, walking slowly to the building. His steps were clumsy and laden with the effects of the liquor. He chose the back door of the warehouse to crawl through for it was easy to pry open and was also the entrance that she herself had used when inviting him inside that one time. He picked his way though the rubble and debris of the failed business and climbed up to her loft on the second floor. However, upon reaching room, he found it empty. Yet, he still walked inside and stood beside her makeshift pallet of linens on the floor.
"What are you doing here?" he heard a voice say behind him, it's tone laced with anger. He whipped his head around as quickly as his intoxicated state would allow him and stared at Marion though half lidded eyes.
"Nothin'" he responded, his tongue catching inside of his mouth as the word came out in a lazy slur.
"Nothing?" she questioned curtly, stepping inside the door, her displeasure evident in her tone, yet her guarded expression was unreadable. A heavy silence pieced the air before she began to speak again. "I don't remember inviting you in, Jack Kelly." She stated deliberately as she walked toward him, her dark eyes dense and clouded, but never breaking with his. "What was it that gave you the notion that you should simply stumble in for a visit? Do you not respect the privacy of another? Have you never learned any manners?"
"Look," Jack began, trying desperately to conjure up some excuse that would justify him being there. However, no retort or explanation came forth. His eyes searched the room for an answer to her question. The answer she was waiting for expectantly. He looked at her and sniffled, thumbing his nose before continuing. "I didn't know you'd get so touchy about. I didn't think it was no big deal."
"Well, you were entirely wrong."
He sighed heavily. He knew that he had lost – that he had been beat. In truth, he had no right to be standing there. He had no right to intrude. "Marion, I just…"
His voice had broken when he uttered her name and she picked up on the subtle nuances that the change in tone had provided. The anger fell from her face momentarily and was replaced by a softer expression as she asked, "Jack, why are you here?"
"I don't know," was his resigned reply. He shrugged and pushed the hat off of his head.
Jack and Marion had remained sitting on the windowsill in the abandoned office space for hours, looking out upon the wet streets before them. It had stopped raining and the entire city was soaked in silver; the moonlight reflecting off of the water adorning the buildings and pavement. Marion had squelched the light of the candles and lamps. As she blew out their flames, she claimed the illumination from the moon was far more pleasing to the eye than any man-made light.
"The fog should be rolling in soon," she had said to Jack, her gaze still directed out of the window and her voice slightly wistful.
"Damn fog," Jack had remarked in response. "That's all we get these days is fog. Fog and rain. I, m'self, have certainly had my fill of it." He lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips. "So, you can take the damn fog if you want it. But I don't. It makes everything look so dismal. It makes the world seem so miserable. More than it already is."
Marion looked at Jack and gave him a crooked smile. "Well," she said, exhaling and tilting her head to one side, "It is a sad and beautiful world, Jack."
Jack blew smoke from his nostrils and shook his head in dissent. "No," he said assuredly, "It's only sad."
"How would you know?" Marion asked. "You haven't seen enough of it to form such an opinion. You don't know anything of the world. You're too young."
Jack's eyes rose to meet hers as he dared to speak questioningly, "And you're not?"
She had at first seemed to allow this question to go unanswered. She remained silent for a few moments before whispering, "Remember, Jack. You barely know me."
He watched as she continued to gaze somewhat forlornly out onto the streets of Manhattan. He took another drag from his cigarette and thrust his hand toward her, the palm upturned. "Read it again," he said to her. She turned her attention to him, and stared into his eyes for a minute, the look in her own still somewhat obscure to him. Then she shook her head in refusal.
"No," she said.
Jack was confused and began to protest. "But why not?" he asked.
"No," she said once more. "You don't want to know what's there. You ask, but you don't really want to know. Do you?" Her eyes remained on his face for a silent moment. "I thought not," she said, and turned back toward the window, "Besides, I rather like the fog. It's comforting. It's constant."
Jack was silent as he mulled this bold statement over in his head. Did he want to know? Did he really? Perhaps she was correct. The more he thought about it, the more it became apparent that he was, in fact, better off being ignorant. So, with her decision, he remained content and spoke not one more word of it to her. He closed his eyes and took another drag from the burning cigarette in his right hand. Then, he leaned his head against the cold pane of the window to fight back the dull ache that had spread across his brow. Marion began to sing…a soft lilting melody that Jack had never heard before. He was content to trust in her wisdom fully. He was content to trust in Marion. He never considered how strange it was to place so much faith in someone he practically nothing about. Yet, he did it so readily. So quickly. He did it without a second though. And he didn't even know her last name.
Jack sat stiff in his high backed chair. To his left and right sat seven others. Kit Nellwyn of Midtown and one of his boys – Cully Thom. Lamp of the Bronx. Mac and Deuce from Queens. Charlie Mulready out of Staten. Esco sitting in from Brooklyn. All friends of Spot, except for Lamp. But Lamp never could keep his nose out of anyone's business and had insisted that he be invited in due to his status as "leader of one of the most influential territories in the city." They had all gathered in the back room of the Brooklyn Lodging House for a singular purpose.
Jack was barely listening to the buzzing of anxious voices around him. His palms were sweating, and his eyes were shiftily moving around the room. It all seemed so out of context to him – every bit of it. It felt unsettling and downright wrong to be sitting in Spot's house, at Spot's table, but it was neutral ground, and it was also the scene of the crime. And then, what had seemed right these days? He could almost hear Spot's voice and laughter resounding off of the old paneled walls.
"Hey, Jacky boy. How's it rollin? I heard a little somethin' the other day that'll knock your socks off. Listen to this…Ha ha.."
"Es, you shouldn't be here," Jack spoke up suddenly.
Esco looked over to him, his confusion made evident by his furrowed brow. His lip curled, and he ran a hand through his messy blonde hair before shaking his head. "And why not, Jack?" he asked.
"Cause you're partial."
"What?"
"You heard me. You're partial," Jack reiterated. "You're one of Spot's boys so there ain't no way you don't have it in for this girl. You're looking for someone to blame, so there's no way you're gonna be doing anything but seekin' revenge and that ain't right."
Esco opened his mouth to refute Jack's comment, but he was abruptly cut off by Kit. "Jack's right," Kit said.
"No," Esco insisted. "I ain't leaving."
"No one says you gotta leave," Kit responded, shrugging and casually tilting his head to the side, all the while steel gray eyes revealing his deathly seriousness, "but you just keep your mouth shut, you hear? Listen all you want, but you don't say a thing that influences anybody here. You got that?" Esco begrudgingly nodded his head in affirmation and Kit swung his gaze over to Jack, who had begun to fidget with his collar and wring his hands under the table. "Hey Kelly," he asked, the faintest trace of concern appearing in his voice, "You alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. It's just hot in here, that's all." Wiping the sweat from his brow, he rose from his chair and strode toward the window. After he had put a crack in it, he lingered a moment and stared down on the streets below. If he tried hard enough, his memory could make out three familiar figures in the streets below.
"Lemme go," Spot had slurred. "I can walk."
"Sure Spot. Sure ya can walk," Raven had said with a laugh. She and Jack were each under one of Spot's arms, supporting him so that his face would not make an unhappy acquaintance with the sidewalk. It was about two in the morning and they were returning from a night out in a tavern on the west side. Spot had already downed one two many beers when an unlucky fellow had asked Raven to dance. She had accepted, unable to resist another opportunity to get the best of Spot and make him insanely jealous. Spot took the bait, and marched up to the lad and greeted him with a right hook to his jaw. Seconds later, the two were on the floor, throwing wild punches at one another. Spot had quickly taken the upper hand and straddled the young man. He was steadily and gracefully pounding away at his opponent's flesh when Jack and Raven grabbed him and dragged him out onto the streets. They then, slowly but surely escorted him home to Brooklyn.
"Spot, you're so stupid," Raven said, releasing her hold on him and letting him fall onto the steps of the lodging house. "So stupid," she repeated once more, shaking her head.
"Ray, I've gotta go," Jack had told her and looked toward Spot. "Think you can handle him?"
"When can I not?" Raven responded with a smile. "Have a good night Kelly."
Jack kissed her on the cheek and as he walked away heard her say, "Alright Conlon, get your sorry ass up and into that house right now. I'm tired, and I ain't standing here all night waiting on you."
But the pleasant picture was all a figment of Jack's imagination. A brief bit of bitter nostalgia that now left his heart cold and aching. It was a product of his grief, he was sure. The door swung open and Jack turned toward it. Raven was being led into the room by Brix and Skidsy, her hands still bound. They released her and the impact of their force caused her to fall to the ground and land on her knees. Jack started to sweat once more upon sight of her. He returned to his chair and uttered not a word. The others' eyes were upon her. Jack need not look at them to know with what intensity they were glaring at her. Jack tried to catch her eye, to look into the eyes of his friend, to tell her that he was sorry for what was happening to her. However, she would not raise her gaze from the floor. Perhaps it was best for her to appear so placid. Jack knew that she stood no chance in the world of convincing the others to not lay blame on her. They would believe exactly as they wished and would not be moved. Another lamb going to the slaughter, he thought.
Kit was the first to speak up. He lit a cigarette and then looked at the girl challengingly and deliberately. "Well," he began slowly and licked his lips, "What have you got to say for yourself?"
Raven slowly looked up from the floor and into the eyes of the Midtown leader. The expression on her face is still proud, but somewhat defeated. Jack watched as she slowly began to open to spit out something nasty and biting, yet she stopped before a sound passed through her split lips. No. She would not give them that satisfaction. Even now, they would not get the better of her. Turning her head, she looked over to Jack and caught his eye. He felt helpless as he met her pleading stare, and opened her mouth to say something to her…anything to perhaps offer comfort…yet he could not make a sound come forth. Feeling helpless and suddenly sickened, he could only close his eyes and heave a deep sigh. In his ears rang a lilting melody and a haunting refrain…the words of the song Marion had sung the night before.
And as you walk through death's dark vale. Those who hunt thee down will fail. Asleep inside death's cold mouth you lay. Close your eyes, here comes the storm.