Title: A Hero's Sin

Author: Buttons

Rating: PG-13/T

Genre: Drama/General

Chapter 6—Irving Hall

I left Medda's and forgot the concept of time. It was a blind wandering through the Manhattan streets. Occasionally a thought would waft through my mind, causing me to slow or accelerate. I weaved through crowds of people. My heels rang like a mantra.

Click, click.
Santa Fe.
Click, click.
Santa Fe.

It was obsessive. I sped up until all I heard were my shoes. The chant had blurred together.

Click, click.
Sanfe.
Click, click.
Sanfe.

I ran.

In the back of my mind I heard a voice like my mother's, but also strangely like mine. "Ladies don't run in public unless pursued."

But I did.

And fast and hard. Until I couldn't hear the voice. I could hear my boots on the ground, my breath in the air, and my heart, drowning out my thoughts. I brushed past people roughly, speeding through the clearings, my skirts trailing behind, my hair catching in my wake.

My arms ached and my muscles strained and finally I slowed. In the middle of Central Park.

Click, click.
Sanna Fe.
Click, click.
Sanna Fe.

The air was colder than I remembered, filling my lungs like a drink.

Click…click…
Santa…Fe…

I leaned against a tree. Passer-bys avoided my eye.

Santa Fe.

I had inherited something else. It wasn't just the mouth and ears anymore. I had inherited an infatuation.

0o0o0o0

Mama asked me where I went. She asked where the carrots were and why I smelt so strongly of cigarette smoke. She asked why I was so red in the face.

"It's cold out," I told her. Then I washed my face and left again for the carrots. Mama looked worried.

I strode down the street, cutting through the crisp air like a knife. I didn't say anything. What was it like in New Mexico? Was it cold like it is here? No, I didn't think so. I thought it was warm and bright. Hazy by the afternoon, with sand blowing into updrafts in the wind. I was right.

Through shop doors Christmas music drifted. Shoppers rushed past, bundled in jackets and warm hats. I shoved my bare hands in my pockets, trying to keep the circulation in them. A woman with long navy gloves rushed past. I wanted those gloves. My fingers trembled.

The grocery was warm. I stepped in, pulling my hands from their hiding. The shop was bright and soft. Vegetables were arranged neatly in crates. I chose a bundle and paid the shopkeeper a nickel.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

I sniffed and tucked the carrots into my jacket. "Merry Christmas."

Mama and I don't do much for Christmas. Other than the tree and ornaments we don't have much for the season. We don't get each other gifts. If we did, I would like a pair of warm, long gloves. I would get Mama a whole roll of fabric so that she could make a new dress for herself. But these were only dreams; wishes and barely even fragments of the possible.

Mama made stew for dinner. It had lean beef, potatoes and soft carrots. It was warm and thick. We didn't talk much. I wanted to ask her about New Mexico, but I stopped myself. She wouldn't know. She hadn't been there.

0o0o0o0

Medda met me at the front of Irving Hall. It was four in the afternoon and already it was growing dark.

"Come inside," said Medda, "We'll show you what to do."

Eva Grace met us near a tall wooden staircase. It was surrounded by stage props: horse heads and a pink swing decorated in bowed ribbon. Her red-brown hair was curled majestically and piled atop her head. Her face was serious and her eyes watchful. She was shorter when I was this close to her.

"Come with me," Eva led me up the stairs. Her voice was stern and severe. Her boots were soft, barely making a sound as they hit the wooden panels. Her skirts of blue and purples swished gently against her covered ankles.

Behind the door at the top of the steps was a long, thin catwalk. Eva walked onto it without hesitation. I followed more carefully.

"This rope," said Eva, pulling lightly on a tan-coloured rope," is for opening and closing the curtains. This one," she tugged on a red one, "is for pulling out the swing for the finale."

She continued and told me when to pull each thing. Then, without asking me if I understood, Eva turned on her heel and descended the steps. I looked around, surrounded by the dusty curtains. I sneezed and sat down. I pulled my boots off so that I could feel all the detailing of the catwalk on my socked feet.

Music started, filling the hall with warm, smooth melodic music. Eva appeared below me. She struck a pose and I pulled the tan rope. The curtains opened and she began to sing. The crowd cheered her on. There were many young men. Newsboys were waving their hats in the air and singing along. I watched them in awe. They were my age, some even younger. Their mouths stretched wide as their mouths formed lyrics. They were so loud that they drowned out Eva at their favourite parts.

The door at the end of the catwalk clicked. Medda walked onto the walkway smoothly, stepping over my shoes. She sat by my feet, her skirts around her, her feet dangling over the edge of the ramp.

"Your father used to come see me dance," she told me, "and your uncles. But Les, he came more for the candy."

I spotted a man with a china white mask combing the crowds, selling licorice and taffy.

"Even your mother came once. She sat with your daddy. She looked happy. And Racetrack, that's Mr. Higgins now, he was the life of it all." She smiled fondly, remembering the night. She sighed. "Those boys. That was the night of the rally. I suppose you've heard all about it." She paused and glanced up at me.

I hadn't. I shook my head.

"They all came here. Your daddy, David and the leader of Brooklyn himself, Spot Conlon, were up on that very stage. The hall was full. Queens over there. Manhattan in that balcony, the Bronx up top." She pointed to sections. "It was inspiring. Everyone was on their feet. Then the bulls came. They raided my hall. Punched out poor Racetrack. Your uncle and daddy put up quite the fight. Used my old swing, your uncle did. And your daddy fought off so many of them. But they were caught. All of them, of course. Too much rebellion, that's what the bulls thought." Medda looked sad. "Your daddy was a good man. He would have done anything for his boys. And I thought he would have done anything for your mama too. I guess I was wrong."

The song ended. I drew the curtain.

"Things aren't the same anymore Nichole," Medda told me. "The newsies are a dying breed and there are no such things as heroes anymore. It's sad, really. And I'm growing older."

Medda looked lost in her thoughts. I pulled the curtains open again, my arms straining, battling with the heavy fabric.

Medda pulled something out of her bodice. "I want you to read this," she said, handing them to me. "They're your father's letters."

End Chapter

Hey! I'm ba-ack! Please review! And forgive me for taking the better half of an eternity to update! At least it was long-ish!

Shoutouts:

mistymixwolf aka Perch—(Nichole takes money and puts in collection can) Thanks!

Lady of Tir Na Nog—Let me just say this, she will be going to New Mexico! Yes, she will!

C.M. Higgins—You saying 'over-sexed' made me laugh my ass off. I don't even know why.

Two-Bits—Thanks! That's all sweet of you to say. Sorry about the spelling/grammar. I rush when writing a lot.

newsisfreak9er9er—Muah ha ha, you keep wondering! That's right, fall into my plot trap.

Pancakes—Don't you hate administration sometimes? Fight the power!

JosiahGirl—Hey! You're pretty good at this whole deciphering my plot thing! Not that it wasn't totally obvious or anything. Tee hee.

BoomerRang—Aw! (blushes)

Crystal Music—It's kind of sad that we can all see Jack running off like this. It's really not good for his character.

Ccat—I am happy that your computer is fixed now! WOOT!