(Author's note: I'd like to send enormous thanks out to Rae Kelly,
Fastdancr, and Hica Lynn for reviewing the first two chapters of this
story. You guys rock! I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far, and I greatly
appreciate your comments.)
Roxy could still taste the slightly bitter, piercingly salty flavor of the large pretzel that had been her lunch as she and Wager walked through the streets of Manhattan. Her stomach moaned as she caught sight of long stalls replete with fresh vegetables, spicy sausages sizzling on grills, and formal restaurants filled with important businessmen dining on sirloin steaks. Beside her, Wager was grumbling just as loudly as her stomach.
"We shoulda waited 'till aftah lunch ta come ta Manhattan," he declared, shaking his head in disdain.
"But you said yourself that this is the best time to come," she reminded her friend. "We'll be able to catch all the newsies in one place while they're eating. I really don't want to go on a wild goose chase that'll take us all day." When Wager's frown only deepened, she piped up, "And besides, maybe we can have something at Tibby's while we're there."
Wager scowled. "No way it's as good as Peg's."
"What place is?"
"Maybe dat's why da Brooklyn newsies are so much beddah," the newsboy pondered as a grin began to suffuse across his lips. "Ya know, aftah our highah intelligence, good-looks, and talent."
"Watch out how you talk around here," Roxy told him, glancing over at a young shoeshine boy. "We're a long way from home."
Wager nodded emphatically. "You'se tellin' me!" he exclaimed and dashed across the street, Roxy at his heels. The two barely missed the ice truck that was barreling across the street, and didn't stop to respond to the driver who bellowed foreign curses at them.
*****
The Manhattan newsies poured into Tibby's, newspapers tucked under their arms and images of roast beef sandwiches in their minds. With headlines of battles in the Philippines, the engagement announcement of the mayor's eldest daughter, and a train wreck in Massachusetts, it had been a profitable morning that had put the newsies into a cheerful mood. A clamor began to develop as more and more newsies rushed into their usual restaurant, chattering about the events of the morning.
"So deah I was," Pocket said, her eyes wide and sparkling as she told her story to a grinning Tornado and a suspiciously smirking Racetrack, "on da cornah of Fifty-Fifth and Third, sellin' my papes as usual. Da skies was filled wid dese huge black clouds- looked like pieces of coal. I knew dat if I didn't sell my last couple of papes soon, not only was I gonna have ta eat da headlines, but I was gonna get more soaked den da Delancies aftah insultin' Jack-"
Racetrack tilted his head curiously. "So dis was all last week, right?" he interrupted.
Her train of thought broken, Pocket paused momentarily before replying, "Yeah, last Monday."
The newsboy turned to Tornado with an inquisitive smirk and asked casually, "Now is my brain playin' tricks on me, or don't I remember dat da most we got last week was a liddle showah, not enough ta drown an ant?"
Tornado adjusted her cap and furrowed her forehead in thought. "Now dat seems ta be what I remembah myself."
Pocket's enthusiastic smile became tightly strained for a split second before she turned to the menu scrawled on the nearby chalkboard. "Well, I'se stahving. I t'ink I'll have a roast beef sandwich." Before anyone could return to the topic of Pocket's usual exaggeration, she whirled around and shouted, "Hey, Jack! You'se gonna ta Medda's new show tahnight?!"
The leader of the Manhattan newsies, who had been involved in a debate about the best improved headline from the morning, raised his head from his conversation. "Not tahnight, 'Ket. I got a date wid Sarah." He grinned roguishly as many around him groaned good-naturedly.
"Again?" Violet sighed and shook her head. "Don't get me wrong, Cowboy, I like Sarah and everything-"
"But you turn into a love-sonnet-spouting, starry-eyed, waltzing mass of sentiment after a good-night kiss," Twink finished with a roll of her bright blue eyes.
As Jack was about to protest, Specs piped up, "It's real tortuah, Cowboy. Da only t'ing woise is hearin' about da latest goil Mush's fallen madly in love wid."
"Yeah," chuckled Mush. He was mid-bite into a hotdog when his eyes flashed with understanding. "Hey!" he exclaimed indignantly, his mouth filled with meat, causing the surrounding newsies to burst into laughter.
"I ain't dat bad," Jack disputed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "But tahnight me and Sarah are gonna go out ta-"
Just as Jack was about to relate the plans of the evening, (a story which most likely would have been met with further petulant eye-rolling and graphic threats from the unromantic Twink) the door to Tibby's swung open and, to the surprise of the Manhattan newises, Roxy and Wager rushed in, a gust of wind and the noise of the streets at their heels.
"Hey, you blokes get lost on your way to Brooklyn Heights?" Aussie called out to the Brooklyn newsies, who were greeted with friendly salutations and invitations to share a glass of sarsaparilla by the older newsies, who had been involved in the strike. Some of the younger set sat in awe of the Brooklyn pair, as they had heard wild tales of the newsies who could sell a thousand a day and bend railroad tracks in two with their bare hands. Jack's expression, however, grew intensely solemn at the sight of the two newsies. A serious frown firmly implanted on his lips, he grabbed his cowboy hat and leapt to his feet to address the duo privately.
"Long way from home," he commented casually as he spit into his palm and extended his hand. "I guess dis ain't jus' a friendly visit or somet'ing."
Wager, shaking hands with the Manhattan leader, exchanged a sober glance with his fellow Brooklyn newsie. "Not exactly, Cowboy. We'se heah on Brooklyn business- and we'd like ta keep dis business between da t'ree of us, if you'se don't mind." His commanding tone and grave eyes were far less complying than his words.
"You'se should know dat deah ain't no rats in da Manhattan newsies," Jack replied in a similar tone, and gestured to an empty booth in the far corner, where they might have some privacy. Once seated, he folded his hands on the table and leaned slightly forward. "So what's dis about?"
"Well, we were wondering," Roxy began, "if any of the Manhattan newsies have seen anyone unusual walking around here."
Jack eyed them from beneath the rim of his heat. "Anyone in particulah you'se wonderin' about?" he drawled curiously, the image of an anxious Brooklyn leader flashing behind his eyelids.
"Anyone like Spot," Wager replied gravely. He gazed at his companion, who nodded for him to continue. "There's been rumors circlin' about Spot and Brooklyn- dat he's lost his edge, dat he's gone nuts, dat we ain't what we used ta be. And as much as we hate ta admit it, some of dese t'ings are a liddle more true den we'd like 'em ta be."
"Spot hasn't been himself lately," Roxy went on, searching Jack's stony eyes for any trace of knowledge about the subject. "He's been really distracted, going off without telling anybody where he's headed to." She cocked her head towards Wager. "We think that something might be seriously wrong with him. And that could cost us our lodging house."
The Manhattan leader nodded solemnly and pushed back his cowboy hat. "I've been hearin' dose rumors," he admitted, absently twirling a fork between his fingers. "So what are ya doin' in Manhattan? Especially around heah, considerin' I know dat Spot has oddah contacts in dis part of da city."
The newsgirl leaned forward slightly. "We know the two of you are good friends and everything, so we thought hat maybe he had come here. He can't seem to tell anyone in Brooklyn about what's bothering him."
"So we was hopin' maybe you'se could help us shed some light on da subject," Wager finished.
For a moment, the noise of the restaurant seemed to hush in Jack's mind. He recalled only a few days ago when he had caught sight of Spot trekking through the streets of Manhattan at an ungodly hour of the morning. Although he hadn't asked about the purpose of his friend's appearance, he assumed it had been because of Spot's former home. Jack's mind wandered back to days when he and Spot and both been Manhattan boys, helping their mothers carry groceries and playing with marbles on the sidewalks. Spot, driven by his compassionless father, had left Manhattan when he had only been five years old to start a new life in Brooklyn. Now Jack supposed something in Manhattan had called him back.
Jack sighed heavily and shook his head. "I can't help ya much deah." He paused briefl, struggling to continue, "I saw him heah a couple of days ago, real early, befoah even da oddah Manhattan newsies were up. He didn't tell me what he was heah for, dough."
The two Brooklyn newsies glanced at each other and shrugged. It wasn't much, but at least it gave them a starting point.
"Thanks, Jack," Roxy said with a grateful, yet worried smile as she rose from her chair. The two spit-shook with their fellow newsie and said their good-byes. On her way out the door, Roxy whirled around momentarily. "Tell us if you find out anything, will you?"
Jack nodded once and watched the Brooklyn newsies vanish into the sea of pedestrians. He stood silent amid the usual chaos at Tibby's, wondering what could be happening to Spot. He had known the boy even before they had been considered to be the most famous newsies in New York, when they had been two young boys against a world of angry fathers and desolate tenements. Rumors that Brooklyn was soon to be destroyed had been spreading through Manhattan like wildfire. And by the sight of the anxious Brooklyn newsies, Jack was forced to somberly admit to himself that such predictions might be true.
*****
By the time Spot walked on familiar Brooklyn ground again, the sky had darkened to a deep blue. Starlight combined with the glow of the gas lamps, casting cold but comforting light on the boy. He wrapped his arms tightly around his body to contain his warmth. His teeth were clenched tightly so as not to chatter, disturbing the unusual silence of the streets, and his hot breath was dispelled as swirling clouds. He felt his bones trembling behind a blanket of muscle and flesh; he couldn't be quite certain if it were caused simply by the cold evening.
Homeless men huddled in the mouths of alleys, rubbing their cracked, dry hands together. They cast Spot a curious glance as he passed. He didn't appear to have taken notice of them.
As he marched towards the Brooklyn Lodging House, Spot vaguely wondered when he would be able to fulfill the promise he had made to his younger sister. Although he knew that now his father would never be able to scream at him again, he couldn't help wanting to avoid the place he had been born. The sight of his mother's tears and his sibling's wide, hopeful eyes had been too much for him to bear already. How could he simply stroll over to visit them as easily as if he were headed to the Bronx for a poker game? No, it was better to stay in Brooklyn.
I decided ta come ta Brooklyn and nevah ta turn back, Spot reminded himself. The sound of his cane gently tapping against the ground caused his mind to drift back to when he had stood at the edge of a precipice….
~*~
Ethan sipped at a steaming cup of tea, wishing it had been hot chocolate instead. His throat was still tight from holding back an exodus of tears so that no one- not his father, his mother, nor his siblings- could see his weakness. He knew he didn't have to retain that confident veneer for his grandfather, who was currently fixing Ethan a slice of soda bread, slathered with strawberry jam. Ethan had once sobbed into the folds of his grandfather's suit after receiving an unusually harsh verbal and physical assault from his father. Yet, even in the presence of the elderly gentleman, the young boy felt obligated to appear cool and detached.
"Here you go," Alexander Williams said brightly as he handed Ethan the blue china plate. A yellow Labrador retriever was at his heels, gazing up at the plate with optimistic eyes. "Give a bit to Spot, too, or he'll whimper all day."
The boy tore off a piece of the bread and held it to Spot's mouth. The dog licked the food from the boy's hand then nuzzled his nose into Ethan's palm as a sign of gratitude. Ethan had to grin at the friendly gesture and the scent of freshly baked soda bread.
"Now," his grandfather began as he settled into his favorite chair (groaning faintly due to severe arthritis), gazing at Ethan and tapping his fingers absently against his gold-tipped cane, "you said you had come to a decision. What would that be?"
Ethan adored the way his grandfather spoke, so eloquently and confidently. The boy felt proud to think that Alexander never spoke down to him or treated him as the 'good-for-nothing' his father constantly referred to him as. He cleared his throat as he sat up a bit taller in his chair. "I'm gonna join da newsies."
Alexander blinked once, but betrayed neither surprise nor discouragement. "How did you come to this decision?" he inquired.
"I wanna get out inta da woild and do somet'ing," he declared decisively, recalling the insulting names his father had lavished upon him. "I wanna make my own way. But I don't wanna join da Manhattan newsies. I'm gonna go ovah ta Brooklyn."
His grandfather cleared his throat and tilted his head inquisitively. "Why Brooklyn, my dear boy?"
"Well, from what I hoid, it's da best place ta sell. Da real newsies are all deah. I figuah I can make about a thousand dollahs by da time I'm ten, and den I can come back and take care of you and Mom and Jesse and Becca." He nodded emphatically and stared at his grandfather solemnly.
"Not that I doubt your abilities in any way, but aren't newsies generally a bit older than you?" Alexander asked.
He shrugged. "Ya gotta start somewheah. And I gotta start making somet'ing of myself, or else…" he trailed off pathetically, waiting for his grandfather to laugh outright and tell him he was a fool.
Instead, the older man sighed lightly and removed his spectacles from his nose. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he began to wipe them meticulously until they sparkled nearly as much as his own blue-green eyes. After what seemed like an eternity to Ethan, he looked up. "I realize how important this is to you, my boy. So I'm not going to stop you from going to Brooklyn. But I would like to tell you this before you go." He paused for a second, and Ethan leaned closer in his chair. "Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things."
For a moment, Ethan felt as though he could take on the world. "Thanks, Granddad," he murmured.
A small, kind smile spread across the elderly man's lips. "If you're so determined, you'd best take Spot with you. Who knows what you'll run into in Brooklyn?
Spot tugged at his leash as he and Ethan marched through the unfamiliar streets of Brooklyn. A wave of fear had washed over the young boy when he had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Now, at the sight of so many strange people, Ethan felt the fierce desire to run back to his grandfather's home and munch on the remaining pieces of bread. Maybe I beddah jus' turn around right now, he thought apprehensively
A fierce voice automatically echoed throughout his mind. "You lazy parasite! Get outta my way! I'd hand ya ovah ta da orphanage if I t'ought dey'd take a worthless troublemakah like you'se."
Clutching the leash so tightly his knuckles paled, Ethan sped up his pace. "Come on, Spot. We'se almost deah," he firmly told his dog, who was darting happily between street vendors.
The Brooklyn Lodging House, surrounded by seemingly enormous newsies all older than Ethan, finally came into view. The young boy's courage wavered only slightly. He drew a deep breath and marched over to the crowd gathered at the doorway, clenching his teeth when he realized the newsies were all studying him with mocking eyes.
"Hey, fellahs," one blonde boy chuckled, "looks like one of da fishing boats left a shrimp on da docks."
Ethan's frown deepened and his eyes flashed with anger as the Brooklyn newsies roared with laughter. "Who's in charge around heah?" he demanded rigidly, his confidence catching the attention of several newsies. "Who do I talk ta about joinin?"
"Ya wanna join da Brooklyn newsies?" a tall girl asked incredulously.
"Why else would I be heah?" he retorted hotly.
Before the girl could reply, a tall young man with flaming red hair stepped to the front of the group. His slightly mocking gaze traveled from Ethan to Spot and back to the boy again. "I'se in charge around heah- name's Dublin," he announced solemnly. "Who's askin'?"
Ethan gulped before answering. "Ethan…and Spot," he said, struggling to keep the essence of strength in his voice.
A slow grin suffused across Dublin's attractive face. "Well, Spot," he said laughingly, "how old are ya? You'se barely tall enough ta meet my knee."
"I'se five," Ethan responded confidently, ignoring the fact that he had just been referred to by his dog's name. He eyed the newsies smirking at him. "And someday I'm gonna be da greatest newsie in Brooklyn- in all of New York, even."
Although this remark served to raise a few eyebrows and bring about a few chortles, Dublin couldn't help noticing the boy's interesting manner. He didn't seem to be merely confident; he appeared to not only honestly believe that someday he would be great, but would be willing to do anything to achieve his goal of greatness. Nodding his head towards the door, the Brooklyn leader laughed. "Come on in, Spot, and bring Ethan deah wid ya. You'se can sign up wid Gellar."
Dis is it, the boy previously called Ethan thought in a combination of relief and anxiety as he took his first steps into his new home. No turnin' back now.
As he trailed behind Dublin to the long, dust-encrusted counter, he felt it somehow fitting that he would have a new name. To Spot, it seemed as though it were a brief moment of rebirth….
~*~
Spot drowned in his memories as he stood in front of the Brooklyn Lodging House. Twisting the cane between his hands, he gazed at the only home he had known since that first day- the dull brick walls, the windows caked with grime, the sounds of friendly voices wafting from within. As he had vowed, he had become one of the most famous newsies to saunter the streets of New York. T'ings are great, he attempted to assure himself as he strode through the front door. Yet a faint, malicious voice resonated throughout his mind and shattered his calm thoughts:
Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy.
"You okay, Spot?" Gellar's raspy, concerned voice brought the boy back to reality.
"What do ya mean?"
Over his newspaper Gellar's forehead furrowed in confusion. "It's just that for a split second you turned white as a ghost and shuddered like you was thrown into ice water."
He swiftly shook his head and adopted his common aura of internal strength. "No, I'm fine," he replied indifferently. "Jus' a liddle cold outside tahnight, dat's all." Before Gellar could say another word, Spot bolted up the staircase that moaned like a poltergeist with each of his quick footsteps.
The usual clamor was evident in the boy's bunkroom, as Smoke was demonstrating the proper way to roll a cigarette to a few of the younger newsies and as an uncommonly lucky Leap was beating Port in poker. Spot's body automatically hesitated before entering the room. He drew several deep breaths to gather his courage and attempted to adopt his confident demeanor, but found it quite difficult. What's da maddah wid me? he demanded silently, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to bury his emotions, but images of his father remained. Memories of Spot's father screaming at him for no apparent reason, or coughing so hard that Spot had imagined his lungs would collapse, or lying still in a coffin, flashed through his mind.
"Hey," a friendly voice piped up, shattering the Brooklyn leader's thoughts. He stood erect, his face like granite. Peach and Gull, having just exited the bunkroom, didn't appear to have noticed his momentary lapse in control. "We'se headed ovah ta Peg's for a liddle while. Wanna come?" suggested Gull breezily.
Spot shook his head and murmured, "No, t'anks." He walked passed the duo and entered the room, not giving a backward glance to see the confusion firmly implanted on their faces.
He did catch sight of the dozens of eyes casting him worried or inquisitive stares. I can't deal wid dis, he thought harshly and began to stalk through the crowd of newsies to his bed. Halfway there, however, he was intercepted by Wager, solemn concern illuminating his eyes.
"Spot, I need ta talk ta ya about somet'ing," he began in a low whisper.
The leader of the Brooklyn newsies shook his head and narrowed his eyes. "Wagah, can't dis wait 'till tahmarrah? I'll be sellin' den, so ya can talk all ya want. But right now ain't exactly da best time." Without waiting for a response, Spot pushed passed his second-in-command and marched towards his bed.
Wager was immediately at his heels. "It's about Roxy."
He paused and then turned slowly to face his fellow newsie. "What about her?" he asked worriedly.
Seeing that he had Spot's utmost attention, Wager swiftly continued. "Da oddah day, when she was out sellin', Bulldog from da Deblah Street Lodgin' House attacked her." Spot opened his mouth to question about Roxy's well-being, but Wager- guessing beforehand what the inquiry would be- shook his head. "She's not dat hoit or anyt'ing- her arm's pretty bruised, but Smoke says it looks woise den it is- but she coulda been really hoit if Grin hadn't come along ta help her." He sighed lightly, as though in defeat. "Spot, ya know da Deblah Street newsies always wanted our territory. I don't t'ink dis is jus' gonna go away. More newsies could get hoit, or woise."
Spot seemed as silent and solid as a marble statue. He paused for only a moment before replying, "Tell ev'rybody ta get a sellin' partnah tahmarrah, and ta spread out ovah da territory- I don't want any Deblah Street newsies walkin' around heah."
The other newsie nodded solemnly, but as he watched Spot stride to his bunk, Wager predicted that things would never be the same in Brooklyn.
*****
The starlight was dim in Brooklyn that evening, hidden behind lacy cloud that drifted across the immense sky. The icy air bore the promise of winter and pierced Spot's unprotected hands, but he made no move to cover them. From his position on the fire escape, he stared up at the sky, listening to the sound of the breath spilling out into the air and forming clouds of silent thought.
Even though he couldn't hear the soft snores and occasional murmurs of the newsies, he knew they were all fast asleep. It seemed as though tonight he wasn't able to afford such a luxury. Echoes of the past wafted around his mind like smoke.
Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things.
Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all-mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy.
And someday I'm gonna be da greatest newsie in Brooklyn- in all of New Yawk, even.
Spot scowled softly and leaned his head against the icy bricks behind him. Some greatness you'se got, Spot, a vicious voice snapped inside of him. What would your granddad t'ink of ya now? You'se not'ing but a newsie, a street urchin dat ain't nevah gonna be any beddah. Ya know who ya gonna end up like, right?
"No," he told himself firmly, but the voice inside his mind continued slyly. Your faddah knew all along dat you'se was nevah gonna make it. He was right all dis time. Even now ya don't have not'ing. Da woild may see ya as 'da great Spot Conlon' but what is dat really? Ya can't even protect your own newsies- your friends- against assholes from Deblah Street.
Although it pained Spot, he knew that was more right than he would have liked to admit. What did he honestly have in Brooklyn, anyway? He couldn't even stop a lousy so-called newsie from attacking one of his own. What could he possibly achieve as a newsie? What if his grandfather had been wrong and- more importantly- what if his father had been right?
I can't let it happen like dat, he thought bleakly.
For the first time, it seemed to Spot that he would have to leave Brooklyn.
Roxy could still taste the slightly bitter, piercingly salty flavor of the large pretzel that had been her lunch as she and Wager walked through the streets of Manhattan. Her stomach moaned as she caught sight of long stalls replete with fresh vegetables, spicy sausages sizzling on grills, and formal restaurants filled with important businessmen dining on sirloin steaks. Beside her, Wager was grumbling just as loudly as her stomach.
"We shoulda waited 'till aftah lunch ta come ta Manhattan," he declared, shaking his head in disdain.
"But you said yourself that this is the best time to come," she reminded her friend. "We'll be able to catch all the newsies in one place while they're eating. I really don't want to go on a wild goose chase that'll take us all day." When Wager's frown only deepened, she piped up, "And besides, maybe we can have something at Tibby's while we're there."
Wager scowled. "No way it's as good as Peg's."
"What place is?"
"Maybe dat's why da Brooklyn newsies are so much beddah," the newsboy pondered as a grin began to suffuse across his lips. "Ya know, aftah our highah intelligence, good-looks, and talent."
"Watch out how you talk around here," Roxy told him, glancing over at a young shoeshine boy. "We're a long way from home."
Wager nodded emphatically. "You'se tellin' me!" he exclaimed and dashed across the street, Roxy at his heels. The two barely missed the ice truck that was barreling across the street, and didn't stop to respond to the driver who bellowed foreign curses at them.
*****
The Manhattan newsies poured into Tibby's, newspapers tucked under their arms and images of roast beef sandwiches in their minds. With headlines of battles in the Philippines, the engagement announcement of the mayor's eldest daughter, and a train wreck in Massachusetts, it had been a profitable morning that had put the newsies into a cheerful mood. A clamor began to develop as more and more newsies rushed into their usual restaurant, chattering about the events of the morning.
"So deah I was," Pocket said, her eyes wide and sparkling as she told her story to a grinning Tornado and a suspiciously smirking Racetrack, "on da cornah of Fifty-Fifth and Third, sellin' my papes as usual. Da skies was filled wid dese huge black clouds- looked like pieces of coal. I knew dat if I didn't sell my last couple of papes soon, not only was I gonna have ta eat da headlines, but I was gonna get more soaked den da Delancies aftah insultin' Jack-"
Racetrack tilted his head curiously. "So dis was all last week, right?" he interrupted.
Her train of thought broken, Pocket paused momentarily before replying, "Yeah, last Monday."
The newsboy turned to Tornado with an inquisitive smirk and asked casually, "Now is my brain playin' tricks on me, or don't I remember dat da most we got last week was a liddle showah, not enough ta drown an ant?"
Tornado adjusted her cap and furrowed her forehead in thought. "Now dat seems ta be what I remembah myself."
Pocket's enthusiastic smile became tightly strained for a split second before she turned to the menu scrawled on the nearby chalkboard. "Well, I'se stahving. I t'ink I'll have a roast beef sandwich." Before anyone could return to the topic of Pocket's usual exaggeration, she whirled around and shouted, "Hey, Jack! You'se gonna ta Medda's new show tahnight?!"
The leader of the Manhattan newsies, who had been involved in a debate about the best improved headline from the morning, raised his head from his conversation. "Not tahnight, 'Ket. I got a date wid Sarah." He grinned roguishly as many around him groaned good-naturedly.
"Again?" Violet sighed and shook her head. "Don't get me wrong, Cowboy, I like Sarah and everything-"
"But you turn into a love-sonnet-spouting, starry-eyed, waltzing mass of sentiment after a good-night kiss," Twink finished with a roll of her bright blue eyes.
As Jack was about to protest, Specs piped up, "It's real tortuah, Cowboy. Da only t'ing woise is hearin' about da latest goil Mush's fallen madly in love wid."
"Yeah," chuckled Mush. He was mid-bite into a hotdog when his eyes flashed with understanding. "Hey!" he exclaimed indignantly, his mouth filled with meat, causing the surrounding newsies to burst into laughter.
"I ain't dat bad," Jack disputed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "But tahnight me and Sarah are gonna go out ta-"
Just as Jack was about to relate the plans of the evening, (a story which most likely would have been met with further petulant eye-rolling and graphic threats from the unromantic Twink) the door to Tibby's swung open and, to the surprise of the Manhattan newises, Roxy and Wager rushed in, a gust of wind and the noise of the streets at their heels.
"Hey, you blokes get lost on your way to Brooklyn Heights?" Aussie called out to the Brooklyn newsies, who were greeted with friendly salutations and invitations to share a glass of sarsaparilla by the older newsies, who had been involved in the strike. Some of the younger set sat in awe of the Brooklyn pair, as they had heard wild tales of the newsies who could sell a thousand a day and bend railroad tracks in two with their bare hands. Jack's expression, however, grew intensely solemn at the sight of the two newsies. A serious frown firmly implanted on his lips, he grabbed his cowboy hat and leapt to his feet to address the duo privately.
"Long way from home," he commented casually as he spit into his palm and extended his hand. "I guess dis ain't jus' a friendly visit or somet'ing."
Wager, shaking hands with the Manhattan leader, exchanged a sober glance with his fellow Brooklyn newsie. "Not exactly, Cowboy. We'se heah on Brooklyn business- and we'd like ta keep dis business between da t'ree of us, if you'se don't mind." His commanding tone and grave eyes were far less complying than his words.
"You'se should know dat deah ain't no rats in da Manhattan newsies," Jack replied in a similar tone, and gestured to an empty booth in the far corner, where they might have some privacy. Once seated, he folded his hands on the table and leaned slightly forward. "So what's dis about?"
"Well, we were wondering," Roxy began, "if any of the Manhattan newsies have seen anyone unusual walking around here."
Jack eyed them from beneath the rim of his heat. "Anyone in particulah you'se wonderin' about?" he drawled curiously, the image of an anxious Brooklyn leader flashing behind his eyelids.
"Anyone like Spot," Wager replied gravely. He gazed at his companion, who nodded for him to continue. "There's been rumors circlin' about Spot and Brooklyn- dat he's lost his edge, dat he's gone nuts, dat we ain't what we used ta be. And as much as we hate ta admit it, some of dese t'ings are a liddle more true den we'd like 'em ta be."
"Spot hasn't been himself lately," Roxy went on, searching Jack's stony eyes for any trace of knowledge about the subject. "He's been really distracted, going off without telling anybody where he's headed to." She cocked her head towards Wager. "We think that something might be seriously wrong with him. And that could cost us our lodging house."
The Manhattan leader nodded solemnly and pushed back his cowboy hat. "I've been hearin' dose rumors," he admitted, absently twirling a fork between his fingers. "So what are ya doin' in Manhattan? Especially around heah, considerin' I know dat Spot has oddah contacts in dis part of da city."
The newsgirl leaned forward slightly. "We know the two of you are good friends and everything, so we thought hat maybe he had come here. He can't seem to tell anyone in Brooklyn about what's bothering him."
"So we was hopin' maybe you'se could help us shed some light on da subject," Wager finished.
For a moment, the noise of the restaurant seemed to hush in Jack's mind. He recalled only a few days ago when he had caught sight of Spot trekking through the streets of Manhattan at an ungodly hour of the morning. Although he hadn't asked about the purpose of his friend's appearance, he assumed it had been because of Spot's former home. Jack's mind wandered back to days when he and Spot and both been Manhattan boys, helping their mothers carry groceries and playing with marbles on the sidewalks. Spot, driven by his compassionless father, had left Manhattan when he had only been five years old to start a new life in Brooklyn. Now Jack supposed something in Manhattan had called him back.
Jack sighed heavily and shook his head. "I can't help ya much deah." He paused briefl, struggling to continue, "I saw him heah a couple of days ago, real early, befoah even da oddah Manhattan newsies were up. He didn't tell me what he was heah for, dough."
The two Brooklyn newsies glanced at each other and shrugged. It wasn't much, but at least it gave them a starting point.
"Thanks, Jack," Roxy said with a grateful, yet worried smile as she rose from her chair. The two spit-shook with their fellow newsie and said their good-byes. On her way out the door, Roxy whirled around momentarily. "Tell us if you find out anything, will you?"
Jack nodded once and watched the Brooklyn newsies vanish into the sea of pedestrians. He stood silent amid the usual chaos at Tibby's, wondering what could be happening to Spot. He had known the boy even before they had been considered to be the most famous newsies in New York, when they had been two young boys against a world of angry fathers and desolate tenements. Rumors that Brooklyn was soon to be destroyed had been spreading through Manhattan like wildfire. And by the sight of the anxious Brooklyn newsies, Jack was forced to somberly admit to himself that such predictions might be true.
*****
By the time Spot walked on familiar Brooklyn ground again, the sky had darkened to a deep blue. Starlight combined with the glow of the gas lamps, casting cold but comforting light on the boy. He wrapped his arms tightly around his body to contain his warmth. His teeth were clenched tightly so as not to chatter, disturbing the unusual silence of the streets, and his hot breath was dispelled as swirling clouds. He felt his bones trembling behind a blanket of muscle and flesh; he couldn't be quite certain if it were caused simply by the cold evening.
Homeless men huddled in the mouths of alleys, rubbing their cracked, dry hands together. They cast Spot a curious glance as he passed. He didn't appear to have taken notice of them.
As he marched towards the Brooklyn Lodging House, Spot vaguely wondered when he would be able to fulfill the promise he had made to his younger sister. Although he knew that now his father would never be able to scream at him again, he couldn't help wanting to avoid the place he had been born. The sight of his mother's tears and his sibling's wide, hopeful eyes had been too much for him to bear already. How could he simply stroll over to visit them as easily as if he were headed to the Bronx for a poker game? No, it was better to stay in Brooklyn.
I decided ta come ta Brooklyn and nevah ta turn back, Spot reminded himself. The sound of his cane gently tapping against the ground caused his mind to drift back to when he had stood at the edge of a precipice….
~*~
Ethan sipped at a steaming cup of tea, wishing it had been hot chocolate instead. His throat was still tight from holding back an exodus of tears so that no one- not his father, his mother, nor his siblings- could see his weakness. He knew he didn't have to retain that confident veneer for his grandfather, who was currently fixing Ethan a slice of soda bread, slathered with strawberry jam. Ethan had once sobbed into the folds of his grandfather's suit after receiving an unusually harsh verbal and physical assault from his father. Yet, even in the presence of the elderly gentleman, the young boy felt obligated to appear cool and detached.
"Here you go," Alexander Williams said brightly as he handed Ethan the blue china plate. A yellow Labrador retriever was at his heels, gazing up at the plate with optimistic eyes. "Give a bit to Spot, too, or he'll whimper all day."
The boy tore off a piece of the bread and held it to Spot's mouth. The dog licked the food from the boy's hand then nuzzled his nose into Ethan's palm as a sign of gratitude. Ethan had to grin at the friendly gesture and the scent of freshly baked soda bread.
"Now," his grandfather began as he settled into his favorite chair (groaning faintly due to severe arthritis), gazing at Ethan and tapping his fingers absently against his gold-tipped cane, "you said you had come to a decision. What would that be?"
Ethan adored the way his grandfather spoke, so eloquently and confidently. The boy felt proud to think that Alexander never spoke down to him or treated him as the 'good-for-nothing' his father constantly referred to him as. He cleared his throat as he sat up a bit taller in his chair. "I'm gonna join da newsies."
Alexander blinked once, but betrayed neither surprise nor discouragement. "How did you come to this decision?" he inquired.
"I wanna get out inta da woild and do somet'ing," he declared decisively, recalling the insulting names his father had lavished upon him. "I wanna make my own way. But I don't wanna join da Manhattan newsies. I'm gonna go ovah ta Brooklyn."
His grandfather cleared his throat and tilted his head inquisitively. "Why Brooklyn, my dear boy?"
"Well, from what I hoid, it's da best place ta sell. Da real newsies are all deah. I figuah I can make about a thousand dollahs by da time I'm ten, and den I can come back and take care of you and Mom and Jesse and Becca." He nodded emphatically and stared at his grandfather solemnly.
"Not that I doubt your abilities in any way, but aren't newsies generally a bit older than you?" Alexander asked.
He shrugged. "Ya gotta start somewheah. And I gotta start making somet'ing of myself, or else…" he trailed off pathetically, waiting for his grandfather to laugh outright and tell him he was a fool.
Instead, the older man sighed lightly and removed his spectacles from his nose. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he began to wipe them meticulously until they sparkled nearly as much as his own blue-green eyes. After what seemed like an eternity to Ethan, he looked up. "I realize how important this is to you, my boy. So I'm not going to stop you from going to Brooklyn. But I would like to tell you this before you go." He paused for a second, and Ethan leaned closer in his chair. "Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things."
For a moment, Ethan felt as though he could take on the world. "Thanks, Granddad," he murmured.
A small, kind smile spread across the elderly man's lips. "If you're so determined, you'd best take Spot with you. Who knows what you'll run into in Brooklyn?
Spot tugged at his leash as he and Ethan marched through the unfamiliar streets of Brooklyn. A wave of fear had washed over the young boy when he had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Now, at the sight of so many strange people, Ethan felt the fierce desire to run back to his grandfather's home and munch on the remaining pieces of bread. Maybe I beddah jus' turn around right now, he thought apprehensively
A fierce voice automatically echoed throughout his mind. "You lazy parasite! Get outta my way! I'd hand ya ovah ta da orphanage if I t'ought dey'd take a worthless troublemakah like you'se."
Clutching the leash so tightly his knuckles paled, Ethan sped up his pace. "Come on, Spot. We'se almost deah," he firmly told his dog, who was darting happily between street vendors.
The Brooklyn Lodging House, surrounded by seemingly enormous newsies all older than Ethan, finally came into view. The young boy's courage wavered only slightly. He drew a deep breath and marched over to the crowd gathered at the doorway, clenching his teeth when he realized the newsies were all studying him with mocking eyes.
"Hey, fellahs," one blonde boy chuckled, "looks like one of da fishing boats left a shrimp on da docks."
Ethan's frown deepened and his eyes flashed with anger as the Brooklyn newsies roared with laughter. "Who's in charge around heah?" he demanded rigidly, his confidence catching the attention of several newsies. "Who do I talk ta about joinin?"
"Ya wanna join da Brooklyn newsies?" a tall girl asked incredulously.
"Why else would I be heah?" he retorted hotly.
Before the girl could reply, a tall young man with flaming red hair stepped to the front of the group. His slightly mocking gaze traveled from Ethan to Spot and back to the boy again. "I'se in charge around heah- name's Dublin," he announced solemnly. "Who's askin'?"
Ethan gulped before answering. "Ethan…and Spot," he said, struggling to keep the essence of strength in his voice.
A slow grin suffused across Dublin's attractive face. "Well, Spot," he said laughingly, "how old are ya? You'se barely tall enough ta meet my knee."
"I'se five," Ethan responded confidently, ignoring the fact that he had just been referred to by his dog's name. He eyed the newsies smirking at him. "And someday I'm gonna be da greatest newsie in Brooklyn- in all of New York, even."
Although this remark served to raise a few eyebrows and bring about a few chortles, Dublin couldn't help noticing the boy's interesting manner. He didn't seem to be merely confident; he appeared to not only honestly believe that someday he would be great, but would be willing to do anything to achieve his goal of greatness. Nodding his head towards the door, the Brooklyn leader laughed. "Come on in, Spot, and bring Ethan deah wid ya. You'se can sign up wid Gellar."
Dis is it, the boy previously called Ethan thought in a combination of relief and anxiety as he took his first steps into his new home. No turnin' back now.
As he trailed behind Dublin to the long, dust-encrusted counter, he felt it somehow fitting that he would have a new name. To Spot, it seemed as though it were a brief moment of rebirth….
~*~
Spot drowned in his memories as he stood in front of the Brooklyn Lodging House. Twisting the cane between his hands, he gazed at the only home he had known since that first day- the dull brick walls, the windows caked with grime, the sounds of friendly voices wafting from within. As he had vowed, he had become one of the most famous newsies to saunter the streets of New York. T'ings are great, he attempted to assure himself as he strode through the front door. Yet a faint, malicious voice resonated throughout his mind and shattered his calm thoughts:
Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy.
"You okay, Spot?" Gellar's raspy, concerned voice brought the boy back to reality.
"What do ya mean?"
Over his newspaper Gellar's forehead furrowed in confusion. "It's just that for a split second you turned white as a ghost and shuddered like you was thrown into ice water."
He swiftly shook his head and adopted his common aura of internal strength. "No, I'm fine," he replied indifferently. "Jus' a liddle cold outside tahnight, dat's all." Before Gellar could say another word, Spot bolted up the staircase that moaned like a poltergeist with each of his quick footsteps.
The usual clamor was evident in the boy's bunkroom, as Smoke was demonstrating the proper way to roll a cigarette to a few of the younger newsies and as an uncommonly lucky Leap was beating Port in poker. Spot's body automatically hesitated before entering the room. He drew several deep breaths to gather his courage and attempted to adopt his confident demeanor, but found it quite difficult. What's da maddah wid me? he demanded silently, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes and tried to bury his emotions, but images of his father remained. Memories of Spot's father screaming at him for no apparent reason, or coughing so hard that Spot had imagined his lungs would collapse, or lying still in a coffin, flashed through his mind.
"Hey," a friendly voice piped up, shattering the Brooklyn leader's thoughts. He stood erect, his face like granite. Peach and Gull, having just exited the bunkroom, didn't appear to have noticed his momentary lapse in control. "We'se headed ovah ta Peg's for a liddle while. Wanna come?" suggested Gull breezily.
Spot shook his head and murmured, "No, t'anks." He walked passed the duo and entered the room, not giving a backward glance to see the confusion firmly implanted on their faces.
He did catch sight of the dozens of eyes casting him worried or inquisitive stares. I can't deal wid dis, he thought harshly and began to stalk through the crowd of newsies to his bed. Halfway there, however, he was intercepted by Wager, solemn concern illuminating his eyes.
"Spot, I need ta talk ta ya about somet'ing," he began in a low whisper.
The leader of the Brooklyn newsies shook his head and narrowed his eyes. "Wagah, can't dis wait 'till tahmarrah? I'll be sellin' den, so ya can talk all ya want. But right now ain't exactly da best time." Without waiting for a response, Spot pushed passed his second-in-command and marched towards his bed.
Wager was immediately at his heels. "It's about Roxy."
He paused and then turned slowly to face his fellow newsie. "What about her?" he asked worriedly.
Seeing that he had Spot's utmost attention, Wager swiftly continued. "Da oddah day, when she was out sellin', Bulldog from da Deblah Street Lodgin' House attacked her." Spot opened his mouth to question about Roxy's well-being, but Wager- guessing beforehand what the inquiry would be- shook his head. "She's not dat hoit or anyt'ing- her arm's pretty bruised, but Smoke says it looks woise den it is- but she coulda been really hoit if Grin hadn't come along ta help her." He sighed lightly, as though in defeat. "Spot, ya know da Deblah Street newsies always wanted our territory. I don't t'ink dis is jus' gonna go away. More newsies could get hoit, or woise."
Spot seemed as silent and solid as a marble statue. He paused for only a moment before replying, "Tell ev'rybody ta get a sellin' partnah tahmarrah, and ta spread out ovah da territory- I don't want any Deblah Street newsies walkin' around heah."
The other newsie nodded solemnly, but as he watched Spot stride to his bunk, Wager predicted that things would never be the same in Brooklyn.
*****
The starlight was dim in Brooklyn that evening, hidden behind lacy cloud that drifted across the immense sky. The icy air bore the promise of winter and pierced Spot's unprotected hands, but he made no move to cover them. From his position on the fire escape, he stared up at the sky, listening to the sound of the breath spilling out into the air and forming clouds of silent thought.
Even though he couldn't hear the soft snores and occasional murmurs of the newsies, he knew they were all fast asleep. It seemed as though tonight he wasn't able to afford such a luxury. Echoes of the past wafted around his mind like smoke.
Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things.
Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all-mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy.
And someday I'm gonna be da greatest newsie in Brooklyn- in all of New Yawk, even.
Spot scowled softly and leaned his head against the icy bricks behind him. Some greatness you'se got, Spot, a vicious voice snapped inside of him. What would your granddad t'ink of ya now? You'se not'ing but a newsie, a street urchin dat ain't nevah gonna be any beddah. Ya know who ya gonna end up like, right?
"No," he told himself firmly, but the voice inside his mind continued slyly. Your faddah knew all along dat you'se was nevah gonna make it. He was right all dis time. Even now ya don't have not'ing. Da woild may see ya as 'da great Spot Conlon' but what is dat really? Ya can't even protect your own newsies- your friends- against assholes from Deblah Street.
Although it pained Spot, he knew that was more right than he would have liked to admit. What did he honestly have in Brooklyn, anyway? He couldn't even stop a lousy so-called newsie from attacking one of his own. What could he possibly achieve as a newsie? What if his grandfather had been wrong and- more importantly- what if his father had been right?
I can't let it happen like dat, he thought bleakly.
For the first time, it seemed to Spot that he would have to leave Brooklyn.