The dark silhouettes of two newsies huddled together against the cold were barely visible through the thick fog. They seemed to be the last two people on the sidewalks that evening, save the homeless children who clustered together in the corners of alleys and the occasional policeman who whistled absently as he strolled. The newsies spoke quietly as they moved, intent on their direction and imagining the mugs of hot coffee that might await them.
"Cold?" Duck inquired as Stormy blew into her cupped hands.
She cast him an irritated stare. "No, I'se jus' shiverin' for fun."
"Ye know," he commented casually," I don't think that Spot had te worry about everybody pairin' up; the Debler Street newsies wouldn't attack ye, if they knew what was good for 'em."
Stormy adopted an affronted expression. "Are ya suggestin' dat I'm ovahly emotional or aggressive?"
"No, jus' that ye're absolutely insane."
She was prepared to reply that she was perfectly sensible and only reacted in a hostile manner when provoked by stupid questions. However, she had only opened her mouth when she found herself sprawled on the sidewalk, her pants torn at the knee and her palms sliced by pebbles.
"Are ye all right?" her companion inquired with a wry grin. "My looks and charm finally got the better of ye?"
"I'se fine," she mumbled embarrassedly as she swiftly rose to her feet. Surveying the slight damage, she brushed her bloodied hands off on her corduroy pants. "Some'ting tripped me." She scowled and drew her leg back to kick whatever had been in her way- an old crate or piece of garbage, she assumed.
Duck stared at the ground, trying to see through the thick fog, and his eyes widened to the size of soup tureens. "Stormy, wait!" he exclaimed and yanked the girl backwards by her suspenders, causing her kick to miss its mark.
"What's you'se problem?" she demanded, eyes narrowing.
The newsboy ignored her question and instead knelt on the pavement. He reached into his pocket, finding a slightly damp match that otherwise would have been put to use lighting a cigarette later that evening. He struck the match, which sputtered into a flame and gave off the faintest glimmer of lights. It only served to illuminate the obstacle for a moment before burning down to Duck's fingertips (he cursed, though the phrase was practically incoherent through the Irish accent that thickened with anger); a moment, however, was all that was necessary to pale both newsies.
"Oh, God," Stormy muttered and clutched her stomach for fear of its reaction to the sight of Grin's still body. The newsboy was barely recognizable. Long gashes stretched across his face, which was stained crimson, while his eyes were blackened and sunken in. Bruises and cuts decorated his unusually pale skin. A streak of red in his hair was as vibrant as Cardinal's tresses. His clothing was torn and his leg was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Hands shaking despite efforts to control them, Duck reached forward to press his fingers against Grin's neck. "Hey," he said with forced cheerfulness, "he's still there. He's still breathin', jus' real faint."
The newsgirl vaguely wondered how anything so abused could still be alive. "Let's get him to da lodgin' house- Gellar'll know wheah ta find da doctah."
Duck nodded solemnly as he slid his hand behind Grin's nape and under his knees. "Come on, help me carry him. We haven't got much time."
Spot stalked the sidewalks on his way back to the lodging house, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the occasional gust of icy wind. Fog enveloped him like the cloud of thought he had been suffocated by for the last several hours. His stomach churned as he considered the decision he had come to at last.
Wagah'll be a good leadah, he assured himself. He's faih, loyal, and knows what ta do in a tough situation. And it ain't like he's been gettin' no practice lately. Spot's train of thought was broken when the gentle tapping of his cane against the street distracted him. And he ain't got nobody dependin' on him.
He scowled and swung his cane as though to hit an oncoming attacker. What do dey expect of me, anyway? Dublin and Gospel and Reason and all da oddah Brooklyn leadahs left sometime. Dey can't t'ink I'm gonna stay around heah forevah.
He was so immersed in his thoughts as he approached the familiar lodging house that he didn't notice the uncommon quiet that had shrouded the building. Drawing a deep breath and mentally rehearsing what he'd say to Wager, he rushed through the doorway with the wind wailing at his back.
"Heya Gellar," he muttered, distracted as he started to march towards the staircase. Halfway there, however, he halted in his tracks at the high-pitched voice that had greeted him in response.
"Imp," he said and took a step towards the counter, which dwarfed the small girl behind it. "Wheah's Gellar?"
She blinked at him for a moment. "Upstairs," she mumbled while biting the end of a pencil. "I'm checkin' ev'rybody in instead."
"Why?" he grilled.
She shrugged. "I dunno. I was jus' comin' in when he was talkin' wid Roxy, and dey looked at me and he told me ta stay heah and make shoah dat ev'rybody comes in- ya know, like he usually does. Den dey ran upstaihs and ain't been down since. It's real borin'."
He eyed her soberly for a moment, wondering what could have caused Gellar (whose feet seemed permanently adhered to the floor behind the counter) to leave his nightly chore. "T'anks, kid," he replied and dashed up the staircase that moaned with each step he took.
Solemn murmurs, rather than the typical spirited conversations, were emitted from the boys' bunkroom. No one was hurrying in, excited to relate an exaggerated tale of that morning's misadventure. The floorboards creaked softly as those in the bunkroom moved with caution. The air bore the potent aromas of perspiration, various medicines, and blood. Spot's face was grave as he stepped into the room, causing the congregation of newsies gathered around a single bed to turn.
"What happened?" he demanded, his tone identical to his countenance. When no one offered an answer, he walked to the bed, newsies carefully stepping out of his way as though he were Moses parting the waters.
Spot's stomach gripped violently when he gazed upon Grin's still body. Through all the years he had been a newsboy, he had never seen anyone beaten this badly. He could barely make out his friend's familiar features through the dark bruises and soiled bandages that covered his skin. Spot's knuckles matched Grin's sickly pale flesh as his fingers tightened around his cane.
"He…well…Duck and Stormy," Roxy began by way of explanation, "they found him in an alley on their way back here. Gellar got a doctor- a friend of his- to come. He's lucky to be alive…that's what the doctor said. Even now, he might…I mean, he's lost a lot of blood and…"
She didn't finish and Spot was grateful. "Who did dis?" he asked, his voice barely audible and colder than the wind that howled outside.
"We don't know for sure. We think it could be the…the Debler Street newsies."
"He was the only one sellin' widout a partnah tahday," Retriever spoke up, sounding choked. "Da message didn't get around ta him; he was tryin' ta find dis goil he's been talking' about, so he wasn't in his usual sellin' spot."
Spot absently wondered if he was going to be ill. I let dis happen, he thought grimly as he gazed at the frighteningly lifeless body. He recalled years prior, when he had been a young newsboy with Grin, running wildly through the streets of Brooklyn and screaming out the headlines at the tops of their lungs. Spot's face drained of color as he imagined Jesse, his own younger brother, acting in a similar fashion and unwittingly growing up to face the same dangers. Spot closed his eyes, unable to look at his friend's broken features any longer, but the image was branded behind his eyes.
*****
For the second time in four days, Spot woke far earlier than any of the other Brooklyn newsies. He was thankful that the fog hadn't lifted to reveal the moon, as his figure was nearly invisible in the darkened bunkroom. Instead of seeing objects around him, he moved according to memory and intuition. His fingers automatically curled around the meager amount of belongings he had acquired over the years- his cap, an extra shirt, a deck of cards, his slingshot, and a tattered, weather-beaten dog collar. An entire lifetime fit inside a threadbare pillowcase.
When all of his possessions were carefully tucked away, he reached into his pocket and extracted a scrap of paper torn from the afternoon edition. Over a short article about a debutante ball in Manhattan, he had written a few slightly smudged sentences to Wager. He knew that when Gellar stomped up the stairs that morning, yelling that the newsies were wasting perfectly good daylight, Wager would find this note on the top of his cap. As the other newsboys prepared for another day of selling, Wager would remain seated on his bed, expression growing steadily more solemn as he read:
Wager, I don't think this'll come as a surprise to you, but I have to leave. There're some things I have to deal with and I can't be any help here anymore. I know you'll be a good leader. Good luck and good-bye. Spot
He left the piece of paper by Wager, hoping that he and the rest of the Brooklyn newsies would understand. It was better this way, he assured himself as he crept through the bunkroom, careful not to rouse even the lightest of sleepers.
The usually creaking staircase didn't give away his presence that evening, a slight relief to Spot. He passed by Gellar's desk for the final time, not even daring to breathe, despite the fact that any sound would have been muffled by the older man's loud, rhythmic snores. The door swung to a nearly inaudible close as Spot stole into the barren streets.
Slinging his makeshift sack over his shoulder, he rushed down the sidewalk, his path largely concealed by the icy fog. He didn't dare to halt his mechanically moving feet in fear that he would lose his nerve and forever be trapped in Brooklyn as a ghost of his former self. Only when he was a safe seven blocks away did he succumb to the temptation and turned slowly to look at the lodging house one last time; but by then, the building had been swallowed up by the fog.
Heart sinking, Spot whirled back around, attempting to convince himself with each step he took that this was all for the best.
*****
The city was still enveloped in darkness when Spot approached his destination. He paused before entering, drawing a deep breath and raising his chin slightly. No turnin' back now, he told himself sternly. He didn't allow himself to ponder what exactly 'back' was.
He crept through hallways and climbed stairs cautiously, as though afraid the fragile floorboards would give way beneath his weight. The walls were so dark that they swallowed any possible bit of light available. Trusting childhood memories instead of his eyes, he moved slowly but deliberately. The sounds of gentle, sleep-induced murmurs and snores wafted around him, mingling with the stench of decay and rodent feces. He recalled being in the same situation only a few days prior…living in these conditions years before that, when he had been terrified to speak in front of his father.
Not even the keenest of observers would have noticed how Spot's hands trembled as he stood in front of one of the identical wooden doors that lined the hallway. Dis is what ya wanted, he reminded himself as he untied the leather cord wound around his neck and extracted the key he had strung on it years ago.
"Heah goes," he muttered, his own voice surprising him as it shattered the silence of the hall. He unlocked the door and, clutching his cane as though it were a weapon rather than a walking stick, slid inside.
His slim body seemed to blend in with the shadows cast against the wall. For a moment he simply studied his surroundings as if he had never been there before (although he vaguely wondered how he could ever forget them). He was surprised to see that the small cot, which was placed by the oven and usually held the three youngest members of Spot's family, was bare. His heart slammed against his chest and he paled visibly as a dozen emotions stewed in his stomach.
What if dey left…or got kicked out? he wondered as he took a frantic step away from the wall. I shoulda been heah. Foist Grin, now dis… Maybe dey didn't even wanna tell me… I can't be too late… Shit, what have I done?
"Ethan?" an anxious, yet hopeful voice tossed Spot back to reality. "Is that really you?"
The faint glow of a nearly melted candle seemed to illuminate the entire room. Spot's mother cautiously stepped forward from the doorway. Even from his slightly distance, Spot noticed the tears sparkling in her eyes.
"Yeah," he murmured. "It's me, Mom."
She held her hand to her mouth, as though not trusting the emotions that would otherwise pour out. As she struggled to maintain control, a tiny white form, which seemed to shine even in the dull light, darted out from behind Spot's mother. Lily almost tripped over the hem of her nightgown- a hand-me-down from her sister that she still needed to grow into- as she threw her arms around her brother's waist, holding onto him doggedly.
"I knew ya'd come back…" she whispered delightedly. "I told dem ya'd be back soon. Dey were worried but I told 'em ya'd come back."
He didn't move to loosen her firm, enthusiastic embrace as he had done on the last occasion he had been in the tenement. Instead, he gently placed on hand atop her unkempt blonde tresses and the other on the small of her back. "I promised, didn't I?"
She nodded and tightened her grasp. "Yeah. T'ings are really gonna be okay now, Ethan."
"Yeah, dey are." As the words slipped from his mouth, he wondered who was he trying to convince- Lily or himself? He struggled to ignore the stubborn ache that had manifested itself the moment he stepped into Manhattan.
To be continued…please send feedback!