Title: A Hero's Sin
Author: Buttons
Rating: PG-13/T
Genre: Drama/General
Chapter 8—Hating You and Meeting Emmanuel
I woke up in the morning when my mother leaned over me to shut the window. "Peter and Alana came over this morning," she said. "What time did you get home last night?"
I shrugged and rolled over. "Late."
I saw her eyebrows knit with concern. "I don't like that you're out alone in the city so late by yourself. You're not falling into anything, are you?"
I didn't answer. Falling into anything? If only she knew. I was falling into the memory of the father I never knew. I slid my hand underneath my pillow and I could feel the smooth, sharp and tattered sheets of my father's letters.
"No Mama, I'm not falling into anything." My voice was muffled through the thick sheets.
She sat down next to me on the soft mattress. "Sometimes I worry about you Nichole." Her hand found my head and stroked my hair. "I worry that I haven't been enough in your life. But your father…" her voice broke and she trailed off.
I squeezed my eyes shut and begged to not cry. "I'm fine Mama. What time is it?"
She paused. "Nine," she pulled her hand away and got off my bed. "Time to get up. It's a new day. I think Peter and Alana were planning on going out today."
She stood up and I heard her footsteps retreat to the kitchen. The window was frosty and thick with fog. "Mama?" I whispered.
"Hmm?" she said, taking something out of the cupboard.
"I love you."
0o0o0o0o0
Peter and Alana were sitting in the den when I got to the Hunter's house. Mrs. Ashleigh Hunter let me in the front door. She was short, but her curly hair made her seem taller. It was wild, untamed hair, just like Mrs. Hunter, who was opinionated and outspoken. "Nichole's here," she called into the house.
Peter was sitting in his father's favourite leather chair and Alana was curled up on the couch. I remember thinking how calm everything looked. There was a fire on in the brick fireplace. Alana looked sleepy, staring at it.
"It's about time you got here." Peter stood up and nudged Alana.
Now, years later, when I look back on my childhood in New York, I remember the days we spent at Peter's house. His house was always full of adventure, antiquities covering the walls and filling up spare rooms. Mrs. Ashleigh Hunter thought that Mr. Hunter's collection of oddities and 'rare valuables' was useless, but we, the 'children' loved them. Peter always had something new to show us, something to show off. When we were very small we would make up stories and pretend to be princesses and princes hunting for jewels and mysterious items.
That day, when we left the house (closing the doors with the help of brass hand-crafted handles) we headed for the bakery. We always headed for Svenski's. They made the best Swedish pastries. As when Lyra and I had been there last, Cathlynn and Allegra were behind the counter. Allegra had a smudge on her nose and Cathlynn's hair was stuck to her neck in a mixture of sweat and matted yeast. We each ordered a pastry, paying our pennies and breathing in the bread-scented air.
With a mischievous look in her eye, Cathlynn pulled something out from behind the counter. "Want to try something?" she asked. Allegra took a break and sat on a stool in the corner of the shop. She shook her head, smiling, and pulled out a notebook.
"Note one," she said loudly, "Cathlynn once again manages to get in trouble with The Boss." She wrote this down, tucked a lock of dark blonde hair behind her hair, and chewed on the end of her pencil.
On a tray covered in delicate wax paper sat brown cookies. "Try one," said Cathlynn.
Alana poked one. Peter picked one up, smelt it, and took a bite. With his mouth full, he exclaimed, "They're good!"
Without hesitation Alana followed suit. Reluctantly, I did as well. The taste was rich and spicy. Pressing my tongue to the bottom of my mouth I swallowed, tasting as little of it as possible.
"It's good, isn't it Nichole?" asked Alana, reaching to take another from Cathlynn's tray, but pulling her hand away at Cathlynn's glare.
I nodded.
Cathlynn smiled. "I was experimenting. I thought that the cinnamon gives it a little something, don't you?"
Cinnamon. Just like the soap my father wore on his wedding day. The day he married a woman who wasn't my mother.
"It gives it something," I agreed.
0o0o0o0o0
Peter and Alana argued all the way to the movie theatre. The front doors were gold trimmed. Mr. Meyers was sitting in the ticket box. "Come to see the Charlie Chaplin flick?" he asked as we put our nickels on the counter.
We nodded. Mr. Meyers's was Lyra's half-brother and an ex-newsie. He was very handsome and had thick, curly hair. His eyes were the darkest green you will ever see and this, people say, is what drew his wife to him. Mrs. Kylie Meyers, or Leprechaun, as we sometimes caught Mr. Meyers's calling her, was native to Ireland. Mr. Meyers's dark green eyes reminded her of the Emerald Isle's shores. She was so in love with those eyes that she married Mr. Meyers's, who was twelve years older than her.
Mrs. Meyers manned the concession stand at the theatre. Peter treated us to popcorn.
"You'd bettar hurry up thare," said Mrs. Meyers, her accent thick and rough compared to our New York ones. Her Irish accent.
Every time Mrs. Meyers spoke that day it sent chills up my spine. I couldn't help but think about my father's wife. Irish.
0o0o0o0o0
That night, when I reported to Eva for work, I felt exhausted. She put me in charge of curtains again. I sat on the catwalk, waiting for something exciting to happen. Eva's act was the same as the day before, but what did I expect? Medda didn't appear next to me. I unlaced my boots and left the next to me, my stocking-ed feet hanging over the edge of the metal platform.
At one point, a man came up to the catwalk. A few feet away he leaned over the edge of the bar and tugged on a rope until a sandbag fell and hit the wooden floorboards below with a muted 'thunk'.
"Hi," he said, looking over and noticing me staring.
I looked away and then looked back. "Hello."
"You're the new girl, right?"
I nodded. "I'm Nichole Sullivan." The last name stung like a slap.
He rubbed his hand on his tattered brown corduroys. "Emmanuel Espinoza." We shook hands. In the darkness Emmanuel's hair looked black and slick. His chest was broad and he was wearing a blue shirt with suspenders.
I remember feeling that it was indecent, this man seeing me without my shoes on. I wasn't sure why and I later felt stupid for thinking this, but it was the biggest concern on my mind. He was handsome and a few years older than me. I had never had much experience with men who weren't family friends before. I stared down at my socks and listened to the song, waiting for my cue. I could hear Emmanuel breathing. He sat down beside me.
"Why're you here?" he asked.
I looked over at him. He had his head rested on one of the bars of the catwalk. His eyes were dark brown and he had very long eyelashes.
I didn't answer at first. Finally I said. "I needed some money."
Emmanuel got the hint and didn't ask any more questions, for which I was grateful.
"How old are you?" I asked him.
I smiled a bit. I could only see half of his face in the partial lighting. "Twenty-two. And you?"
The rope slid through my fingers as I lowered the curtain. He helped me tie it to the bar, holding it in place. "Nineteen."
We sat together up there until the show ended. When he left, I felt strangely worried. I wasn't worried about Emmanuel; I was worried about my father, my chest felt as if it was going to burst with frustration and anger. I worried that I would never make enough money to get to Santa Fe.
The street was quiet and the snow banks by the side of the road reached my mid-thigh. I pulled my coat around me; my skirt swished around my ankles and my boots clicked on the ground. I began to think Santa Fe again with each footstep. Tears grew in my eyes. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to miss my father this much.
And suddenly the night was broken by a shout. "Nichole!" someone called from behind me.
I stopped and turned.
He rushed up, his cheeks were red and he was not wearing a coat over his thin blue shirt. He half smiled. "I know you don't know me, but do you think you'd like to meet for coffee tomorrow? I know a nice place around here."
My breath caught in my chest but, without hesitation, I said yes.
He smiled. "Meet me at Irving Hall at nine then?"
"I'll see you then."
He turned and left. When he was about to turn the corner he looked over his shoulder at me.
But why did I do it? Why did I agree to go for coffee with him? At the time I was very confused by this. I was a shy child, rarely taking chances or taking to new people easily. There was just something about him. After some time I discovered just what it was: Emmanuel made me forget about everything else. When we were standing there in the nighttime street I stopped worrying about my father and instead I thought only about us, right then, in the winter street.
End Chapter
((OK, I know I have been slacking off. In fact, I probably would have been lying around doing nothing all day if I hadn't gotten a review from GlumAndDumb asking about updates. And so I updated. A few points about this chapter, the thing about the cinnamon soap is what led to my entire thought process behind Nichole hating everything to do with Jack and his new life. The whole cinnamon thing came from me and my ex-boyfriend. He loved cinnamon gum and always smelled like cinnamon. I loved it then, but I broke up with him and he started hitting on my best friend so now I get sick every time I smell cinnamon. I think that I'm basing a lot of Nichole's personality around me, but a lot is totally opposite. For example, I am very stubborn as opposed to Nichole who seems to be becoming meek but determined…if that's even possible. ANYways, just review. And please have faith in my updating and read on. Thank you to everyone who reviewed for the last chapter))