Chapter V
"I'm not going to make it, Jack."
It was a simple sentence, consisting of only seven words, yet it resounded with as much force as a battle cry or the church bells the knelled in the tower of St. Peter's. An offhand statement as it was, from Raven's mouth it couldn't help but sound anything but bittersweet. Mournful. She wasn't the grieving type - certainly not for herself. Meeting her fate with slight reluctance, yet with bravery. Then again, what did she have to life for? The answer lay in her eyes and it told Jack everything and nothing.
"You sound real calm about that. Too calm," Jack warned.
"Well, it's gonna happen, isn't it? What can I do up against a hundred boys stronger than me? Kick and scream and take a few swings at 'em hoping that I hit one of them? They've got their mind made up and nothing's gonna change 'em. Trying to fight against them...well...that's just stupid. I'm a lot of things, but I ain't that. Don't think that I like this. Don't you be thinking that one minute, Kelly. Don't make me into some martyr, some stupid romantic that lives and dies for the her one true because that's not who I am. There's so much more that I could do with my life. I was gonna get out of this hellhole, Jack. I was. I don't know how I was gonna do it, but I was, even if it killed me. And I guess it killed me after all." She was silent in between breaths: pregnant pauses that punctuated the thoughts that weighed more heavily on her than any proper thoughts rightly plaguing any seventeen year old. She sucked air in raggedly and then grazed her tongue over the cracked and bleeding skin of her worn bottom lip and began to speak softly. "When you boys all leave me alone to do whatever it is that you do and post some dumb, bored kid outside my door, I stay on this ledge for hours lookin' out of my window. I sit in the dark, thinking. I close my eyes. But there's no difference - between eyes open and eyes shut. The dark is still dark, and I'm still awful and miserable in it. Lately, I have to try harder than I ever thought possible to just keep goin' and not let 'em see me break. And I have to realize that one way or another, regardless of what happens, there will be light."
What she was now was a far cry from the way he remembered her to be. In his mind, she was always the too-tough girl with the smart mouth and quick wit. The one who knew it all, did it all, and told about it all. She was never weak and never shrinking. Never the hollowed out being that searched the night for her answers and lived at the mercy of others.
"Hey, Jacky boy!" Ray called up, walking quickly over to Jack's selling spot. She dug her hands into the pockets of her trousers and produced a few crumpled up dollar bills and some quarters. "Give these back to Racetrack, will ya?" she asked, pushing the money into Jack's hands.
"What? Why?" Jack questioned with furrowed brow.
"Because I won it offa him a few days ago. Cards...I got real lucky and he just wouldn't admit defeat...so he kept pushing the money into the center and I kept winnin' it offa him. I found out yesterday that he's been sleepin' in the streets because he don't have the money to afford the lodgin' house. I feel bad, you know? Making another kid sleep in the street because I got on one hell of a lucky streak."
"Um, okay," Jack replied, putting the money into his own pocket and hoping that he'd remember to give it back and not spend it. "But why can't you give it to him?"
"Well, you'll see him before I do. And 'sides, he won't take it back from me. That boy's got too much pride." She took a drag off of her cigarette and then threw it to the ground and smothered it with her toe as she blew out the remaining blue smoke through her nostrils. "Racetrack Higgins don't take no charity from anyone," she mimicked in low, gruff false voice. Returning to her own voice with a knowing raise of her eyebrows she added, "You know how he is."
"Well, you're a real saint, Ray," Jack teased, patting his stuffed pocket and grinning smugly.
"Yeah, I know," she replied. "Just do me a favour and don't tell anyone, would ya Jack? I'd like to keep it just between you and me. Don't even tell Race that I gave it to ya. Just tell 'im that you found some money that was his or somethin'. Make something up – I don't care what you say as long as it doesn't make me look bad, of course."
Silence fell down around, thick as the night air outside of Ray's window. Jack groped within his mind and the sights of the room around him in order to think of something, of anything to say to her – to assuage whatever heavy sickness she could be feeling, but nothing came. He opened his mouth to say something likening to "What do you mean?" However, when he tried, all that came out was exhaled breath in the absence of his usually strong voice, so he closed his mouth, pursing his lips tightly and decided it best just to keep quiet. Jamming his hands into the folds of his arms, he brushed the toe of his boot across the floor in a backwards and forwards sweeping path, taking an overly attentive amount of interest in the path that it made into the dust and grime.
From the heavy darkness came a low, "Well...did he, Jack?"
Jack lifted his head to see Raven hunched over on her sill-perch, head hanging low and finger tracing an awkward, shaky pattern in the condensation on the window's pane. "Did he what?" Jack asked, almost knowing what the answer would be and not wanting to hear it.
"You know," came the reply. "Did he sneak around with that slut girl while still playing nice with me? Did he betray me?"
"I thought you already knew the answer to that."
Ray didn't look away from the scene outside her window, but Jack could just make out her reflection smile weakly in the glass. "Come on, Jack. Don't play dumb with me. Don't patronize. I've been through enough. I don't need you makin' fun of me. I got the wool pulled over my eyes and I feel damn stupid for it. Plus, you boys really know how to do some damage to a girl." She shifted her gaze to Jack's face, raising her eyebrows quizzically as she rubbed the burns around the circumference of her wrist where the newsboys had bound her with harsh rope any time she exited the dank, dark confines of her makeshift attic prison. She tried to laugh, but it only came out weak sounding and hollow as her face quickly fell back into the sordid, sullen expression she had taken to wearing constantly. Subconsciously, she rubbed the brown-red burn that cut across her wrists – a memento of the ropes the boys used to crudely bind her whenever they needed to move her.
Jack sucked in a ragged breath, mentally preparing for the truth that, although small and insignificant as it was, would deal her world a blow and send it crashing down around her. He wished he had a cigarette to calm his nerves and sort out his thoughts into something more stable and clear. However he had foolishly smoked the last one hours ago during a weak moment when all the heavy build-up of the last two weeks constricted his chest and made it hard to breath. "As far as I know," he began slowly, watching her face for any slight flinch or sign of sensitivity. "He did kiss her. But he swore to me that he was drunk and that it was an accident. It was a surprise to me. I didn't expect it at all. I thought they didn't have anything goin.' I, mean, I knew they talked and all, but I thought they were just close like that and you know...when you're drunk you do stupid things. And well...that's all I know about.
Without tearing her sight away from the window, Ray mumbled, "Yeah, that's cheating." Then, unexpectedly, she merely shrugged and laughed softly. Ironically. "Guess it doesn't matter much now," she said.
Though she was unwilling to speak about it or even mention it without a laughing or brushing it off as something trivial, her hurt radiated through the room, and once again, Jack felt as though he were unable to breathe. He slowly crossed the room, moving toward her post on the window. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand and placed it comfortingly upon her shoulder. In response, she shirked away, slumping her shoulders and huddling close to her window. Lifting her own hand, Raven brushed his gesture of comfort and friendship off, unwilling to accept help from anyone.
The display before him suddenly became too much for Jack to handle. Too much for him to have to endure maturely and impartially. He ran both hands through his hair...angrily shoving back any loose strands that dared to touch the skin of his face. And then he exploded. "God! Spot was MY FRIEND. You're MY FRIEND! I shouldn't have to do this. I can't do this. I can't...I can't do this."
"You're right," Raven said simply. "You can't. You've proven that." She sighed deeply, but still kept her eyes off of his figure, instead choosing to cling to the window as her only solace. "You're so selfish, Jack. You only think about how you feel about this. What it's all doing to you. I know Spot was your friend and you're sad because he's gone. But don't forget - he was...mine too. More than that. You know how I felt about him." Her words had come out choked and halting, as though speaking them broke off chunks of her crumbling heart. "Now he's dead...and I'm sitting here like a God damn prisoner. They tie me up and point fingers at me and spit on me for killing 'their leader.' Their leader. Like he was never anything to me. I couldn't even go to the funeral. How do you think I feel? Don't tell me what you can't do."
She had him. Whatever words he might have previously planned on saying stuck in his throat and silenced him. It was just as well. They were all useless at this point. Jack could not lift one word to challenge anything she had just said. So he remained unspeaking and forward facing, trying hard not to shine his shoes with his eyes.
But Raven was no content with simply stopping there. She was on a roll and had every intention of continuing on. "Was I really your friend, Jack? Or did you just use me for a fuck and then feel back about it so you thought that keeping me around would make up for it?"
Jack could feel the heat rising up the back of his neck. He clenched his jaw and balled his hands into tight fists, utterly seething. Without warning or reason, he charged at her, raising his voice to a volume he was sure the entire house could here. But Jack could not have cared less at that moment. "Shut up, Ray," he commanded, using a tone that many had always expected he was capable of, but few had actually ever heard. "Shut the fuck up! You've gone too far!" Words were being spat out between his teeth, carrying rage and malice that cut sharply through the tension thick air. It was almost a relief for Jack to be screaming, for something inside of him had been inwardly shrieking for weeks. It felt right for it to finally all pour out like water from behind a damn. Without a second thought as to what he was doing, Jack raised his right hand and reared it back as if preparing to strike her.
But surprisingly, Raven did not move out of the way or show signs of a flinch. "Hit me," she said to him, her eyes still not meeting his. "It won't hurt. Nothing hurts anymore. Hit me if it makes you feel better. At least it will do one of us some good."
Shocked by her indifferent tone and his violent gesture, Jack held back. He let his hand drop to his side and slowly backed away before turning on his heel suddenly and storming out of the room. From her perch, Raven could still hear his angered shout perfectly: "Snoddy, it's your turn to watch the bitch."
Following his orders, Snoddy wandered inside, a bewildered look ablaze in his blue eyes. "What..." he started to ask, but stopped short at the site of her shadowed silhouette in the window. Her presence was subdued and drooped. Hunched over she sat, knees pulled up to her chest and hugged close, head hanging, not speaking. Not moving, the only quake in her was the gentle fall and rise of her back that marked consistent breaths. The only sign that there was life still left her bedraggled, disparaged mass besides the discreet tears sliding down her face.
Down the stairs and out of the lodging house Jack fled. He took to the streets as was his custom. They were his streets and he knew them well. It was a strange notion though. That one would prefer the mean streets of Lower Manhattan to the security and comforts of the safe-house the lodging house had come to represent. Though most nights he took to wandering aimlessly, this night Jack set off alight with a purpose. He parted night's thick veil and sought out Marion – the one remaining comfort he had to walk him through the war that raged outwardly and inside of him. The division of his loyalties. And how ironic it was. Jack had lived a lifetime in which to make friends, and make them he had. Parents, acquaintances, girlfriends, best friends, boys that would live and die for you if you asked them to – he'd had them all. Yet the only soul he trusted to give rest to his own was a veritable stranger.
Spot had always talked of loyalty. The fact that all a guy had out there in the streets among the poor orphans and runaways was his friends. It wasn't a hard thing for an early orphaned boy who'd been on the streets his entire life to realize. Friends became family and family was everything. Jack knew that secretly Spot had even come to regard Raven as the very best of his makeshift family. The other half of himself. Now, in adherence to his own philosophy of sticking together and defending each other, Spot's boys, the same rag tag group of boys, was seeking to murder his family...for murdering him. It was a cruel and twisted joke that fate had played upon them all and try as he may, Jack could not find the humour. He could not find much in it at all, besides dreariness, guilt, and sickening grief. He held his stomach as he walked, trying to ward off an oncoming bout of nausea. In all of these thoughts of grief and darkness, he strangely recalled what Raven had mentioned in the upper room. His version was probably not as well said as she had placed it...not as poetic. But it clung to his heart and head in the language Jack knew best and he struggled to keep it close to his heart during those dark hours: You have to realize that one way or another, despite what happens, there will be light.
Yeah, but it won't be damn well soon enough coming. Jack calculated in his mind the years he thought it'd take before he didn't think about Spot's demise every day.
Pushing his way through the old door that barely held onto its hinges, Jack held his breath as it creaked in lonely desperation. As quietly as he could manage, he tiptoed through the open lobby of the old warehouse, creeping past the familiar parts of machinery and prosperity now left to rubble and ruin. She told him to never come there without invitation. That thought weighed heavily on his mind as he trod the path through her abode's construction. But he needed to find her. He needed her...to talk to him. To comfort him. To do something other than be a reminder of the harrowing events of days recently passed. She was the only one he knew that was not somehow entangled in the mess that the realm of New York's finest paper pushers had become. His entire life, it seemed, and everything and everyone it in were involved. She was the only one free of it – his only means of momentary escape.
As he made his way up the stairs, he wondered what would be awaiting him at the top. Jack pictured Marion's surprised face turning toward the door and furrowing into a scowl of disappointment. He tried to imagine what he would say to her that would convince her to be merciful, though he'd directly broken a promise. However, when he crossed the threshold of the small attic office that she called her flat, he found nothing. Not even the smoldering traces or sent of a necessary night fire. She'd obviously not been there for some time. Jack sat down on her straw and woolen, moth eaten pallet and wondered where she could have roamed to. He was somewhat thankful that she had not caught him showing up unexpected and without good reason, yet he was moreso remorseful at her absence.
The foggy mist had not yet overtaken the streets and Jack was glad for it. But one inhale, one sniff of the wet night air told him that consumption of the city to the fog was not a far off event. Though it was darker and the air usually more muddled and murky, Jack found that he could see more clearly in the gentle throes of nighttime. The moon cradled him like his dead mother had. In its pale shadow, the solitude of his nocturnal walks brought him comfort and time away from the oppressive nature of the lodging house and the boys that inhabited it.
The boys.
More and more, Jack was beginning to realize that this war was unlike no other that he had seen in his time. They did not know how to behave, so therefore, they behaved in the only way they were taught. All they knew of the world was cruelty and hardness, therefore it was right that these were the predominant traits reflected in their actions.
They had always been quick tempered boys set on beating each other with sticks or words...but this time, their enemy was not another gang from Harlem or the Battery. Though they thought it was this girl...this mere girl...it was really themselves that they fought. All of the suspicions and the truths that they did not want to admit. Those ugly little seeds of revenge, violence, and hatred that sprung up within them all...that when hurt, lashed out at the closest thing touchable.
He didn't understand it. He didn't understand any of it. What he understood least was why Ray would have reacted as she did. The pieces of the puzzle were all there. Raven had a jealous streak that raged like mad whenever slightly provoked. She also had the temper and strong will to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She was volatile enough...easily provoked enough. And then there was that knife...that cut across Spot's throat. Ray had a knife that could do such work. She pulled it out quite a bit in a threatening manner, but Jack had never seen her use it except to cut an apple or carve something into a tree. She was an easy target yes – a likely candidate for the boys to point fingers at. She had ever motive to do it. But something did not add up. The unsettling truth of the matter...a truth perhaps only Jack and Raven herself knew was that Spot was her world...the only thing she had within a thousand mile radius. She needed him. She'd never admit it, but she did. Raven depended upon Spot for her very life. It made no sense to Jack why she, however angry she was at being betrayed, would have just cut the thread of her life so simply, so hastily.
As he walked onward and mulled things over, Jack found it less and less easy to believe that Ray guilty of such condemning sins. But, as she had also said before, what could he do against the wills of a hundred boys fighting in opposition? Therefore, he set his mind to considering other possibilities. Spot had died, had been killed by the hand of another human. A human bearing a knife. Raven had a knife and a hot temper. She also would have not been happy had she found out that Spot was flitting around with another girl behind her back. This was all that any of them knew – the only evidence. Everything else was speculation. Would Ray be blinded with anger upon finding out? Would she be blind enough to purposely kill? Even accidentally kill? And if not Ray, then who? Jack ran though every person he could think of that had any conflict with or access to Spot Conlon. The Brooklyn boys weren't likely to let an outsider in through their doors and Spot wouldn't have let just any random stranger in through his window. Esco looked up to Spot like a brother and had a strong alibi – all of the boys had seen him in the bunkroom for the questionable time. Lizzie was a possibility, but what reason would she have? Who was left? Manhattan? Jack supposed it was possible, but again, didn't really see any reason. Manhattan had no beef with Brooklyn and knew very well the consequences any of them could run into should they mess with any Brooklynite, especially the leader. The only others that came to mind were other newsboys around town or perhaps someone from Spot's past. But finding one guilty part in that lot was like fishing for one little red fish with no bait in a lake a mile wide. He sought answers, yet with any avenue of thought that he took, Jack seemed to only slam up against another wall.
Nothing made any sense. Maybe there was no sense left in the world – only absurdity. And we merely had to abide by it and never question it because there weren't any answers. It was frightening possibility that almost made sense in itself...if there were any to be had.
As Jack stepped out of the dank darkness and back into the dim, yellow light of the Lower Manhattan Lodging House, he was immediately greeted by the sight of Kid Blink. He was hunched over, jaw resting on the back of his closed fist, leaning upon the front desk – the last awake, left waiting up long after Kloppman had gone to bed. Jack nodded a hello to him, knowing that of the boys left behind in Manhattan, he'd been the lucky one elected to keep watch out for him that night. Though, by the looks of it, it didn't seem that he'd been doing much watching. The sheen in Kid's eye was dull and foggy, as though he'd been sleeping only to be rudely awakened by the open and shut of the front door.
There was no real greeting between them. "Coffee, Jack?" was all that Blink asked as Jack had come through the door with fog and rain still in his hair. "Kloppy got it the other day," he explained further. His voice was raspy and slow, but making effort to quicken and seem lively. "You weren't here though. It's the real stuff. Not that strained dirt they sell for real cheap around the corner. I can pour you a cup if you want."
"Um, sure Kid," Jack replied with a shrug, too tired and too preoccupied to think of a good reason to refuse. If it was indeed the "real stuff" as Blink had claimed, then Jack could use the jolt and comfort it would offer him. He watched as the promise cup was prepared and then poured, the sound of the liquid trickling against the old chipped porcelain nearly echoed through the half empty quiet. When it was held out to him, Jack accepted it readily, burning his fingertips a bit when he absentmindedly wrapped both hands around the cup. He flinched a bit, but quickly endured the searing feeling in exchange for the warmth that filled his insides when his two sips taken filtered down his throat and into his gut.
As Blink curiously watched Jack suck down the coffee intently and methodically, he wanted more than anything to ask what had been taking place down in Brooklyn. Yet, he knew it was still a very sore subject for the downtrodden Manhattan leader, so he refrained and busied himself with pouring his own cup of the black liquid. However, he felt that he had to fill the awkward silence between them with talk of something, so he instead offered, "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."
Jack stopped drinking and looked at Blink with confused interest. His sudden statement had broken Jack's concentration – jolting him back into the reality from his thoughts. "Huh?"
"Oh, sorry. I was just talkin' off the top of my head. A guy named Plato said that. I read it in this book that Davey let me borrow the other day. I was thinkin' about it just before you walked it. I thought it sounded pretty true – 'specially for street rats and bummers like us."
"You read?" the question was more calm surprise than shock, and Jack delivered it as such, taking another sip from his cup. The quotation had struck a particular chord in him. However, since he could not identify or describe it, he had pushed it to the back of his mind.
"Yeah..." Blink's voice trailed off into the distance and his gaze followed. "Don't do it much. But sometimes, when there ain't much goin' on around here, I pick up a book to pass the time. It helps."
Jack wanted to ask him "with what?", however, instead it swirled the thick, dark drink around and watched the steam twist up from it. "I, uh, didn't know you read books, Kid," he said, paying more attention to his cup that he gently set on the table than to his friend. He was still preoccupied, his mind running circles around possibilities that were could condemn or acquit Raven.
Blink shrugged as though the idea of him reading books were really nothing to think or speak of. "You should get some sleep," he told his friend. "You look beat. It ain't good for a man to keep goin' like that. You could get sick or somethin'..'specially round this time a year when it rains a lot."
"Yeah, you're right. Thanks, Kid: I'm glad you care and all. The world needs more people that care. But you shouldn't worry 'bout me. I'm no one to worry about." Jack lifted his hand to point upward, in the direction of the stairs. "I'm gonna go get some sleep. You should turn in too. Ain't good for a guy to be sittin' up all night either. Take your own advice." With that, Jack parted ways with his friend and set about climbing up the stairs. His step was slow, but his mind still fired off thoughts at a rapid pace. Esco...no not likely. Lizzie, but how? When? Why? Who did Spot know? He was always friends with Kit, but they never done each other wrong. Midtown and Brooklyn's always been tight – just like 'Hattan and Brooklyn. Hmm...maybe a guy from around here. Race didn't like Spot too much when they played cards...or if he was drinkin'. But Race wouldn't kill nobody. 'Sides, Race was here that night. Wasn't he? Jack's mind tripped over that thought – he, himself, wasn't at the lodging house that night to verify whether Race was. Where had he been? Oh...the alley...the rain...Marion. No, can't think about Marion. No time for that. Who else? Some jilted girl that Spot had screwed for all she was worth and then threw away when he was tired of her? He racked his mind, trying to compile a list of girls that Spot had left in his wake before Ray had come along. It had been a long time previous – too long to remember. Jack had yet again backed into another corner.
By this time, he had reached the doorway of the bunkroom and passed through. Kicking off his shoes and tying his dirty red bandanna around the bed post, he threw his hat to the floor and stripped down to the dingy longjohns he wore under his clothing. As he settled into this bed, he felt his eyelids start to droop with a vengeance, heavy with a week of insomnia's cruel aftermath. But no – he couldn't fall asleep just yet. He still had not come to any trace of a conclusion. Each moment passed was one closer to an unpleasant consequence. Each moment lost with the question still unanswered only managed to seal Raven's fate further. Jack was angry. Angry that his friend was dead, angry that another was about to die...angry that he still had no redemption for either of them. He battled with himself to stay awake, to press further and get somewhere. However, it was a vain battle that he fought with fatigue as the strong and likely victor. One of the last avenues that he explored before shutting his eyes tight and surrendering was Lamp. Lamp from the Bronx...the Bronx. Jack fell asleep for one brief second, but suddenly awakened with a start.
The Bronx.
Wasn't that where Raven was originally from? And...more importantly...didn't she have a brother there? Jack remembered Ray speaking of her brother – how he wasn't the nicest fellow a guy could run into on the street...how she wouldn't advise anyone running into him on the street. She had been very flippant and forthcoming in her honesty when she spoke bluntly of his temper and jealousy...of his cold-heartedness. Jack knew that Ray wasn't even sure that her brother was still alive. But if he were – if he were and found out about how Spot was hiding her away in his Brooklyn abode, far away from the clutches of a jealous brother... The notion of it seemed to fit and fit well. Almost too perfectly. Why hadn't Jack thought of it before? He mulled it over. There was nothing he could do that moment. He'd have to wait until daybreak to investigate further. So, with the slight comfort that his hint of a discovery brought him, Jack would have to be content. At least until sunrise. Therefore, with nothing left to do, he laid back in his bed, resting his weary, aching head on the thin, lumpy pillow underneath and licked his chapped lips as he succumbed to the siren call of sleep.