Author's note: Wow, I haven't updated this in a while. Sorry for the wait (I hope there is still someone waiting to read this!). Thanks so much to Loud Mouth, Problems, Steph, Bottles, and Fish for their reviews. I really appreciate it! And once again, thanks to my lovely beta-muse, Bittah, who helped so much with this part. Enjoy!
Wager had been waiting anxiously for Roxy on the grimy sidewalk, bouncing impatiently on his heels and occasionally glancing into the sky as though seeking divine intervention. When he heard the creak of the tenement door swinging open, he attempted to dissemble his hope. His face fell, however, at the sight of Roxy's lone figure, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, exiting the building. He did not have to ask how the meeting had gone; he could see its effects painted on her disheartened face.
Roxy did not look him in the eye as she came to stand before him, resembling a guilty schoolgirl stagnant before a stern headmaster. "I...he didn't…I don't…" she stumbled over her words before Wager shook his head empathetically.
"I know," he gently assured her and she nodded, grateful that she did not have to continue. "Now what?"
Shrugging helplessly, the newsgirl struggled for words. "I…I don't know. Back to Brooklyn, I guess."
"Ta face da Deblah Street newsies on our own?"
Roxy clenched her fists angrily, remembering the stinging sensation of her knuckles striking Spot's face. "Who needs Spot anyway?" she exclaimed, ignoring the pang of guilt that pierced her chest at the thought of her friend. "It's not like he's all of Brooklyn. We can handle this. We've taken on Pulitzer! We don't have to be afraid of some overly ambitious, heartless, vicious children!"
Wager nodded emphatically. "Yeah, you'se right." He glanced wearily down the street at the rays of light breaking sharply over the rooftops. "Come on, we beddah get back."
Roxy, hurrying alongside her fellow newsie, silently attempted to assure herself that everything would be all right. When this failed she tried to envision a life not in Brooklyn, not as a newsie—perhaps as a factory worker being yelled at by a disgruntled foreman, or a street kid learning how to pick pockets and swipe from fruit stands in order to fill her empty stomach. Neither image particularly appealed to her. Suddenly she recalled something that Spot had said: What am I supposed ta do? Stay deah forever, always a newsie, nevah able ta make somet'ing of myself? She was surprised that he thought of Brooklyn as a prison. No one asked him to stay forever. Even I think about what I could do in the future, but why should I have to worry about it now? Things are rough, but it's better in Brooklyn than a lot of places. Where would I go? What would I do? Thoughts of being a shivering, starving form hunched in the gutter caused the girl to shudder as she imagined what would happen to the Brooklyn newsies if Jackal were to take over.
*****
Spot felt as significant as his name implied. Tears stung his eyes and blurred his vision, distorting the view from the single grimy window in the tenement. He had left Brooklyn in hopes that he could finally make something of himself; now he realized that he was a failure no matter where he resided. In an attempt to take responsibility for the family he had abandoned, he had allowed the Brooklyn newsies to become so weakened that they were on the verge of destruction. No maddah what I do, my faddah was right, he conceded. Granddad was wrong and my faddah was right. Spot clutched his grandfather's cane with such force that he expected it to shatter into a thousand splinters under his pale knuckles.
He thought of his grandfather—a gentleman despite his social standing—who had had such high hopes for his grandson. He musta t'ought I'd be da one ta make it outta da tenements, ta start my own business and make millions. He musta t'ought he saw somet'ing in me dat wasn't evah actu'lly deah.
His teeth clenched tightly so that his sudden rush of rage would not explode from his mouth. And who asked him ta tell me all dat, huh? Ta lie ta me so dat eventu'lly I'd get more disappointed den I coulda evah imagined? My faddah musta seen it all along. Shit, how could I not have realized what da truth was? How could I have evah t'ought I'd be more den jus' a lousy street kid dat ain't nevah gonna get anywheah? His hands trembled with the urge to crack the cane in two—a swift, clean, violent break to severe all ties with his former aspirations. Suddenly his eyes were dry as if he prepared to end all emotion along with his former goals. I didn't cry at my own faddah's funeral and I sure as hell ain't gonna cry now.
He lifted his cane to shoulder level, studying it as if it were an implement of destruction. Destruction is right, he thought irately as he drew a sharp breath. His muscles tensed and his arms fell swiftly.
"Ethan." Eyes wide as though he had been caught committing a heinous crime, he froze at the sound of his mother's voice; the cane hovered six inches above his knee. "What are you doing?" she inquired, moving cautiously towards him, her bright blue eyes shining with concern and fear.
"Not'ing," he answered more sharply than he had intended to, fecklessly tossing the cane to the dirty floor. He gazed out the window in hopes of finding something that would provide the answer to all of his problems. All that the window offered him was a view of the shabby tenement building only a few yards away. Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, he pressed his hand against his pounding chest, somehow managing to maintain a detached veneer.
"Ethan," his mother repeated, forcefully this time, as she stood beside him. "Why did you come here?"
His spine and expression went rigid at this question. When he turned to face her, he blinked in betrayed confusion. "What?" he asked, unable to conceive any other reply to her question. For a moment, he imagined himself thrown out by his own family, rejected by every newsie in New York, and forced to live on the streets—worse off than even before. His heart pounded rapidly at the thought of dirt-encased children starving together in the gutter, emaciated arms and legs extended from layers of thin rags.
"Did you come because you wanted to?" she inquired, her voice calm but direct and insistent, reminding Spot of his own usual tone, although she (having been raised) lacked his accent. "Or because you thought you had to?"
"You don't want me heah?" Spot demanded incredulously as his back arched defensively.
"Of course I want you here. You're my son and no matter where you go or where you've been I will always love you." She sighed tiredly and leaned against the wall as she solemnly eyed the room. Her gaze was distant, as if she saw the room not in its current state, but as a stage for the reenactment of all that had occurred since she and her husband, as newlyweds, had moved there. "I know it was hard for you, darling. Your father…he didn't understand. And at the end he was so bitter—so angry at what had happened in his life, even though he had worked so hard…" She shook her head dejectedly. "I just don't want to take you away from everything that you've worked so hard for."
Spot found it difficult to produce any sound for a moment. "What…what do you mean?"
A faint, sad smile curled at the corners of his mother's lips. "Your grandfather knew you would make something of yourself one day." The edges of her eyes crinkled in loving memory of her father, who had spoken so eloquently and who had taught his daughter to use the same dignified language.
"Too bad he was wrong," he spat bitterly.
Spot's mother turned to him, her forehead furrowed in confusion. "Wrong? I know for a fact that he was more proud of you than of anyone he had ever known."
"Maybe he only saw what he wanted ta see."
"He saw the truth," she insisted gently but firmly.
Scowling angrily at his mother's illusions, he turned to his mother with a irritated, irate expression. "Mom, I know I ain't done much. Ya don't have ta lie ta me anymoah." He breathed deeply, struggling for air as he strained to maintain control of his emotions. "I know I ain't gonna get anyt'ing more den what we got now." He gestured furiously to their sparse apartment, his eyes cutting to the bare floor, the battered furniture, and the chipped dishes on the rickety table. The paper-thin walls came nowhere near to blocking the noises from other tenements—young couples arguing, children being chastised, babies wailing like banshees. Cockroaches and rats scurried back and worth in the spacious darkness of the hallway. "Dis is it and I gotta accept dat!"
Spot did not realize that he was trembling until his mother cautiously placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Ashamed at this display of weakness, he violently pushed her arm away. She did not attempt to touch him again but rather stared at him with concern clouding her weary eyes. "Ethan, don't you realize what you have?"
"Oh, and what do I have, Mom?" he demanded. "Any money? A place ta live dat don't have rats and da bittah cold? Any hope of da future?" He gazed out of the window in exasperation and, instead of seeing the distant, golden horizon, saw only the run-down tenement building next door, which he knew was identical to the one in which he now resided. His face was placid but his voice became choked, and he dared not look at his mother as he spoke. "I still got such a long way ta go, Mom."
Suddenly Spot felt as though his legs were filled with sand instead of sinew. His blood raced, as though he had been running for hours and finally was forced to stop in fear that his heart would burst from the intense strain. And I still ain't anywheah, and I got so far ta go. I got less den even before—no Brooklyn, no friends, no prayah of gettin' anyt'ing else. His heart sank, back muscles tensing in a combination of disappointment, anger, and hopelessness. Even breathing was a struggle now, particularly in the dust-filled air of the tenement. For the first time in his entire life, Spot felt a weakness and a frustration that extended throughout his body and spirit. Vaguely he wondered if this is what his father had felt—if this was what had made his father call him worthless. Maybe lookin' at me was like lookin' in a mirror.
"Ethan," his mother spoke, raising her voice to command his attention. Under any other circumstance he would have smiled at the resemblance she bore to him when he was reprimanding a troublesome young newsie. "Don't you realize what you have?"
What I nevah had, he thought grimly. What I lost.
She did not feel the need to wait for a reply. "Without your help, our family wouldn't have survived this long. Your father…he…he was so frustrated with life…. You know he stopped working, drank too much… If you hadn't been helping us all these years, I don't even want to think about what would have happened." Spot suddenly imagined his mother and siblings huddled together in the gutter, swaddled in rags, and begging for change. Memories of similar families, whom he had seen trampled by carriages and spit upon by the wealthy, sent a violent shudder throughout his entire body. "And to lead the Brooklyn newsies for so long… How many people do you think can do that?"
Petulantly rolling his eyes, he snapped, "Lots of people've been da leadah of Brooklyn; it ain't like I run a newspapah."
"And what's happened to Brooklyn now that you're here?"
Spot tensed, his eyes widening to the size of teacups. "Ya heard?" he ventured. With a nod of response from his mother, he continued, "Can't ya jus' forget about it?"
She crossed her arms over her chest with a doggedness that Spot had never seen in her before. His eyebrows raised slightly at this show of tenacity and strength. "No," she replied, "I'm worried about you, darling. I don't want you to throw away all that you have."
Spot was certain that the splintered floor quaked beneath his tattered boots. Falling gracelessly into a nearby chair, he cound that he could not look into his mother's eyes, which reminded him so much of his grandfather's. They were so full of hope and love for her son, making it impossible for him to even glance at her without shame stabbing at his stomach. As if seeking help from another source, he looked to every object in the room; but the sight of his environment only serve to distress him further. What if I end up like my father? he wondered, remembering a thundering, piercing voice that had seemed to make the walls crack with its rage and disgust. The memory of another place where he had once lived caused his stomach to twist in anxiety. Spot had already abandoned the Brooklyn newsies, his closest friends since he had been an optimistic five-year-old, ready to make a thousand dollars in only a few years. What would stop him from doing the same to his family?
Leaping up from his chair, Spot avoided glimpsing his mother as he marched diligently to the door. Mumbling the feeble excuse of, "I gotta get some air," he rushed into the hallway before his mother could open her mouth to protest.
*****
The neighborhood had not changed much in the previous decade. Identical, dilapidated buildings lined the street, nearly stooping over in weariness like their occupants. Occasionally, the face of a very young child or a wrinkled grandparent would appear behind one of the broken windows, glancing at the busy sidewalk. Unlike some of the other neighborhoods in Manhattan, none of the upper class strolled here. Instead, grease-stained men and women (returning home from hours in a factory) marched tiredly back to their tenements. Those children who were not able to work yet occasionally stole a moment from aiding in the household chores to sit on their front steps, playing games with spare bits of string and their imaginations. Every so often a mother's foreign tongue—usually Italian or German or Celtic—shouted to one of her stray children playing on the sidewalk. Thin, grimy alley cats hunted the equally dirty pigeons that strutted through the piles of garbage.
Spot kept his head down as he walked, concentrating on the cracks in his tattered boots instead of his surroundings. His legs moved stiffly and shoulders hunched like those of an elderly man. His eyes, once confident and laughing, were now downcast and defeated. He moved slowly but steadily, although he had no idea in which direction he was headed. To the passersby, his face was reminiscent of a stone statue's, with his carved frown and his lonely, distant eyes.
The air was bitingly cold, unusually so for an autumn morning. Spot wrapped his arms tightly around his body to warm himself and in reaction to the fear that he would fly apart. Wandering aimlessly down streets and sidewalks, he allowed the knowledge of his youth to guide him. He could almost hear the ghost of his young voice—high-pitched and cheerful then—resonating against the brick walls of buildings and glass windows of stores. Gazing at the children running carelessly in the streets, the old women trudging to factories, and the elderly men of fortune riding in their luxurious carriages with their young mistresses at their side, he shuddered unconsciously. He did not dare ask himself which image he would most likely resemble in forty years.
He found it odd to be stalking the streets of Manhattan after so many years. Even his visits to the Manhattan newsies had been brief affairs. I willin'ly choose ta stay in da place I avoided for so long. While considering the irony of the situation, he heard a familiar voice behind him.
"So ya did come back, huh?"
For a moment Spot wondered if it was the voice of a memory, deepened into manhood. Turning slowly, a frown of distaste deepened on his lips. "Good eyes, Jacky-boy. And a good mouth, I heah, too."
Jack's eyes narrowed, and he resisted the urge to toss down his papers and thoroughly pummel the newsboy standing agitated before him. "What was I supposed ta do? Lie ta dem—people who are supposed ta be your friends? I didn't even know for shoah if ya was heah."
"And wheah else would I be?" Spot demanded, glowering fiercely at the newsboy. What oddah choice did I have? Spot wondered, imagining the grimy tenement with its stale air and walls that rattled with each gust of wind. "What else could I have done aftah my faddah died and left my muddah wid a lot of problems and not a lotta money." Spot quickly cursed his tongue, wishing that he had not let that slip. But he realized that Jack would have found out eventually; he might as well learn the information from its source.
Jack tensed, startled by this newfound information; memories of a slim, hunched man whose words cut like razors filled his mind at once. His throat clenched, unable to imagine how Spot must have felt at the news that his father had died at last. "Spot, I…" He struggled for words of consolation and apology, but Spot quickly raised his hand in a careless objection.
"Don't even try. Ya done enough already." He moved to walk away, hoping never to see Jack again. Then, recalling a bewildered Roxy standing uncomfortably in his tenement, he turned on his heel to face the newsie once again, blue eyes blazing with fury. "Do ya realize dat I coulda jus' slipped away widout anybody knowin' what happened ta me? I coulda jus' been forgotten in Brooklyn. And dat's da way I want it, Jacky-Boy—I don't want no part of Brooklyn anymoah."
"Why shouldn't I have told dem?" Jack demanded. "Dey have a right ta know why ya left. Why'd ya have ta slink away like some coward dat couldn't—"
Jack was unable to finish his question, for he found himself sprawled on the ground, papers haphazard around him and blood dripping from his newly cracked lip. He touched his mouth gingerly, wincing at the pain. Rising to his feet, he faced Spot, whose taut body revealed his readiness to hit Jack once again.
"Ya couldn't use dat on Jackal?" Jack inquired with grim humor. "Ya know dat Brooklyn is in real trouble, don't ya?"
Spot's dangerously stoical expression was unmoved; but Jack thought he noticed concern forking through his eyes like lightning. "Brooklyn'll get by fine," he replied, unable to quell an uncertain tremble in his voice.
"Oh, shoah. If dey don't get killed in da process. Ya know what happened ta Grin?" The memory of Grin lying cold and motionless on his bunk flashed through Spot's mind, causing him to gaze down for a moment. Observing this, Jack continued quickly. "Deah could be more of dat. Brooklyn newsies—your newsies—are getting beat up at every cornah and in every alley."
"Dey've had trouble befoah. Why should dey let this time be any different?"
"Because dis time is different," Jack spat, leaning forward as though for emphasis. "Dey're confused why deir leadah and friend would abandon dem like dis; dey ain't ready for a fight like dis, and Jackal knows it, and you know it." Drawing a deep breath in hopes of calming himself, Jack continued, "I know ya gotta take care of your family. Nobody wants ya ta abandon dem, but nobody wants ya ta abandon Brooklyn, eiddah."
Taking an aggressive step forward, Spot moved as if he was going to hit the Manhattan newsie, but rather raised his voice. "Who are ya ta tawk? Ya still got dat Santa Fe comic in you'se back pocket."
The frown on Jack's face deepened and he found himself unable to look the other boy in the eye. He recalled the day the newsies had beaten Pulitzer, and when he had been the closest he had ever come to abandoning his friends. That afternoon, he had practically felt the heat of the Santa Fe sun on his shoulders, heard the coyotes howl in the distance, and breathed the clean air. Even the distant whistle of a train had made his pulse quicken. Then, speaking lightly in the manner of polite conversation Teddy Roosevelt had inquired about his life as a newsie, tearing the newsboy from his imagination.
"It's not dat bad," he had remarked, "aside from da wheddah and gettin' up earliah den anybody else in da city. And at least we got each oddah, unlike a lot of oddah kids." The thought that, for the first time in over a decade, he would not be surrounded by familiar faces and streets jarred Jack. He certainly had enough street-smart enough to get by anywhere, but to be completely alone after everything that had happened? To arrive in Santa Fe without Racetrack's jokes, Mush's daydreams, or Crutchy's quiet friendship? To never sit at the Jacob's table and laugh about the day's headlines with David again? A quiet but persistent ache manifested itself in his chest and he found that he could not ignore it, could not get onto the train because of it.
Jack turned to Spot with a renewed sense of strength. "Shoah, I got it. But I ain't plannin' on jus' leavin'. Nobody expects me ta stick around forevah, but it ain't like I wanna get outta heah as soon as I can.'
"Dat's da difference between you'se and me."
Jack blinked in confusion. Maybe it ain't jus' about his faddah dyin' and his family needin' him, he realized as his studied Ethan's tense form. "Whadda ya mean?"
Words spewed forth from Spot's mouth, almost against his will. His stoic expression replaced by one of fury and frustration. "I got responsibilities and stuff ta do, Jacky-Boy. I ain't gonna let all dat pass me by so dat I only realize it when I can't do a damn t'ing about it. I ain't gonna get bittah and angry about what I was nevah able ta get. I don't got a damn t'ing, Jacky-Boy, and neiddah do ya. I'm jus' tryin' ta make shoah I don't end up like ev'rybody else. And if dat means I gotta leave Brooklyn—which ain't even woith shit anyway—den dat's what I'm gonna do."
Jack's fists clenched irately but his voice was calm and even. "If ya really t'ink dat ya don't got anyt'ing, den dat's da woist of your problems." Without waiting for any kind of response, Jack strode confidently passed Spot. He turned a corner and reached into his pocket to extract his Western Jim comic, tattered due to age and use. For the first time in his life he felt the desire to toss it into the gutter.