CHAPTER NINE
Benjamin Conlon did not go to work that day, nor the day after that, nor the day after that.
If fact, it had been precisely one week from the day that he had set foot inside the oppressing atmosphere of the factory.
The past seven days--they had been so long yet so slow. Of course, he knew the outside world was still functioning in its normal schedule around him, yet it seemed like he was in his own personal reverie. That he felt somewhat like the goldfish Jimmy Vita down the street used to have in the glass container. He could see the world clearly, yet somehow there was a tainting to it. And although he could behold the world, he was isolated from the world and the world was isolated from him.
And he had started walking. He had never really enjoyed walking before. As a child his motto had been: "Why walk when you can run?" Yet, he was a child no more, and true he still resembled a child in some ways, yet his mind had been scarred thoroughly enough with the trials of the real world that now he acted like an adult, even if he always didn't think like one.
Waking was peaceful and calming too. Over the past spring, he had become quite fond of the bottle, and now he walked to fight his cravings. He had always drank himself to a stupor, reasoning that being in this melancholy state would not solve his problems but banish them for a few precious hours. Yet, the coins he had earned working in the factory had been squandered on the alcohol and he had nothing left. Nothing to support Luxy and he on, and especially not enough capital to purchase more booze.
So he walked.
He especially liked to walk at the crack of dawn, when the sky was still stained with black from the previous night and the moon and stars still lingered above, yet when the sun was just starting to awake from its slumber and its first rays would shoot through the black and begin to paint the heavens with dreamy colors.
It was in those few moments that the summer's smoldering humidity had not been released yet and before the air was shattered by all the audible shouts and yells of the world.
And he walked in those breathless, surreal moments just as he did now, his scoffed shoes the only sound, echoing down the cobblestone walks of unknown streets. A scarcity of a light zephyr brushed against his beaten face, blowing his slovenly hair about. He raised his head, closing his eyes, taking in the wonderful breeze, his left-hand absentmindedly going to the hilt of his late father's cane.
Benji abruptly released a growl of pain, winced, and allowed his eyes to open. He removed his hand from the hilt and held it up. Ever since the fall in the late winter, his wrist had never healed properly and it still hurt like a bitch. It was another reason to avoid the factory: the agonizing pain hindered him from any hard labor.
His features still set in pain, he wound his fingers around the injured wrist, continuing in his aimless journey. Yet the night was dimming and the sky was being electrified with the violent colors of the early sun. The first sounds of the morning were filling his ears.
He released a sigh, a shock of red anger surging through him, yet he quickly shook it off by sucking in deep breaths and quickening his pace. It had been a week since his last drink, and ever since then, he had been going through a type of withdrawal, liable to be quite irritable or nauseous at a moment's notice. The yearning for the wonderful liquid trickling down his throat and soothing the dastardly cravings was always present, like some horrid dark cloud eternally stationed above his crown, yet he somehow sustained himself.
The night had now all but disappeared and the bright sun was beginning to shine its face, rising above the skyline of the buildings.
Benji elicited an exhalation. The same portrait of serene peacefulness would have to wait again until tomorrow. He lowered his head and set his features. He needed to get back to Luxy. As though he did not have enough to deal with, he had to care for another human being. Though, he thought of it as just a warped view of early fatherhood.
Reaching the curb, he quickly looked both ways and tottered off the rise of stones, crossing the street to Jefferson Avenue. He knew this path all to uncannily well.
The city was beginning to awake as he crossed roads and cut through alleyways. Voices stained the air like the forever droning of a hive of bees and the hooves of horses were heard against the cobblestones.
Releasing a sigh, he entered the familiar alley flanked by the Italian restaurant infested with cockroaches and the old general store.
He began down the alley, this world suddenly cast over with dark shadows. Shards of broken glass lay shattered, glitter-shot in the bars of sunlight that dare stream into the forbidding place. Inconspicuous rats scurried about, their pitter-patters echoed off the moist brick walls.
The dank atmosphere almost always consumed him. For some reason only the Lord knew why, the alley seemed to soak up every iota of moisture, causing a moldy, pungent smell to always be present. Yet, when the blistering sun would arise to its peak, the blazing heat would always cover the alley like a shroud, mixing with the damp smell and amplifying it tenfold. For the first few days, he had spilled his guts by the crates at the end of the alley because the odor had made him to overwhelmingly nauseous.
But those days had only been when Luxy had seemed to need him the most. Now in that span he usually exited the grotesque alleyway, only returning around late evening. How Luxy could withstand it all day, he had not a fathom of a guess.
Benji approached the termination of the alley, the toes of his shoes kicking up dirt, as his eyes fell upon Luxy.
She was lying on her side near the back wall; her arms and legs sprawled in all directions, her long tangles of filthy hair spread out about her, and clad in only ripped clothing besmeared with dirt. She was asleep, yet she was twitching sporadically, and murmuring under her breath.
He cocked a brow in curiosity and padded over to her, falling to his haunches in front of her, regarding her silently.
She flinched yet again in her slumber, her features twisting. "No," she muttered. "No, don't, no stop."
She halted for a moment, before her body erupted into a string of convulsions, her expression that of utter mortal terror. "No! No! Please!" her voice was high and hysterical. "Please don't! Mr. Antonelli-DON'T!"
On the utterance of that name, Benji pressed a hand to her torso and harshly rocked her, until she abruptly awoke with a great cry, her eyes staring at him wide and full of fear. She released a gasp and jerked her body away from his hand, her breathing heavy.
"Luxy," Benji said calmly, "you'se was having a nightmare."
Luxy considered him, her eyes wide and scanning his face, her mouth gapped.
He released a sigh. "Lux, it wasn't real. Mr. Antonelli isn't here--"
As if on cue, Luxy's eyes narrowed and her lips curled as she thrust herself to her feet. "I TOLD YOU NOT TO MENTION THAT NAME!" she shrieked, wavering the gathering heat, as with a cry she had taken off, throwing herself behind a pile of warped cream-colored crates, sending a few tumbling off their tower.
Benji's gaze followed her, before he released a futile sigh, letting his feet fall from under him so he sat on the damp ground, his back against a wall. "At least she's speaking," he said to himself, a note of sarcasm laced with in his tone.
He allowed for his head to fall against the wall, the damp phosphorescent mold cushioning his crown.
It had happened a full week ago, yet for some queer reason it seemed that it had just occurred yesterday. He couldn't of course remember the details or the surroundings, he had been too utterly drunk to fathom a thing. Yet, he did recall the emotions.
The emotions.
He felt his throat constrict as he tilted his head and as he tried to force air down his narrow trachea.
The alley suddenly seemed fantastically claustrophobic and the repulsive odor of the dankness seemed to increment sharply.
Benji quickly drew in a breath as he pushed off his right hand, helping himself to his feet. He felt a cold sweat appear on his flesh, chilling him even though the sun was already on the brink of smoldering. He stumbled forward a step, feeling lightheaded and weak, as he ran a forearm over his clammy brow and a hand through his hair.
"Luxy," he said, his eyes shut and hand to his forehead, trying feverishly to rid himself of the waves of nausea. "Luxy, I have to go. I'se goin' to the factory-we'se need money to buy food-I'll be back later."
And without waiting for a reply from her, he had started, his stride erratic, shoes pressing into the moist ground of the alleyway, desperate to be rid of the dizziness that was devouring his brain. He finally reached the threshold of the bright world, and without a second thought he had set foot into it, the fulminating sounds of life filling his ears and causing his eardrums to rupture. He turned sharply right, cutting the corner short and slicing his exposed flesh on the side of the general store. Though, he was not paying heed, for he had his first three fingers pinched tightly to the bridge of his nose as his eyes sporadically pressed tightly together.
He had killed them. Killed them all.
Benji had not comprehended it at the time-watching Mr. Antonelli smile that ghastly bright smile from Luxy's bedroom and brandish the knife with the crimson blood cascading down the blade. It had somehow been instinct to push Luxy out of the house. It had only when they had been running in that sickening single-file line with the only sound in the world that of their feet pounding against the walk, that a shard of understanding suddenly seeped into his brain. And he had pushed Luxy into the alleyway.
He released a gasp and his eyes fluttered open, and he swerved, nearly missing slamming into a pedestrian.
Mr. Antonelli had murdered all of them. Anthony, Nathalie, Anastacia, Lynn, Antonio, Peter, and Philip Listin. All save Luxy.
All the Listins were dead. All save Luxy.
What was the reason that Mr. Antonelli had killed them all? Oh, yeah, right. He had tried to nab Luxy and put her in his collection. But she hadn't gone with him. Now her family was dead, just like his family, he brutally thought.
Another excruciating sensation was starting near the base of his skull, as though it were ravaging his cerebellum. Benji winced deeply in agony. The pain was that to rival the shocks he felt whenever his father used to bash him in the head with that damned cane-the damned cane that was situated in his belt loops at this moment.
Benji continued on his aimless travails, the scorching sun boring down upon him. He hadn't informed Luxy, but he had attained a copy of The World the day after the slayings. The article had been insignificant, back page material-after all, it only was Italians. The bodies had been found: two adults and three juveniles. Their execution had been that of a very rushed and expeditious murder; their necks had been slashed. No suspect had been apprehended and there were no leads.
Most likely this case would be like all of the other countless ones that occurred in the slums: the police would carelessly toss the file into a filing cabinet and allow it to collect dust until it was erased from memory or had disintegrated.
But Antonelli had done it-Mr. Antonelli. Benji now felt utterly foolish now that that all the intricate pieces of the puzzle now fit perfectly. His sober conscious almost felt liable for her and for all that had befallen upon them-if only he had of chased after her that day then she would have never encountered Mr. Antonelli-and now her parents were dead and his were dead and he was to support them?
He released a breathless gasp and clutched the bridge of his nose tighter. His brain felt want to combust at any moment. He was only thirteen goddamn years old. So, why in the hell was this massive bundle placed upon him? It was though Anthony Conlon was getting sweet satisfaction from beyond the grave by forcing his son into a state of paranoia-if he was out waltzing about the streets and Mr. Antonelli was out waltzing the streets and he wasn't there with Luxy, couldn't Mr. Antonelli find her and kill her then? And what would occur if he were to find her mutilated corpse stained with deep crimson?
The pain in his skull amplified itself tenfold as he silently bartered with his consciousness not to reply to that query.
And Benji Conlon felt the overwhelming sensations consume him, only to shatter to a million of shards as his shoulder roughly grazed against a pedestrian passing him in the opposite direction. His eyes immediately fluttered open as he halted and spun about, poised to apologize sincerely to that of whom he had offended. "I'se sorry," he issued rather quickly, not allowing eye contact with the latter.
Alas, there was a substantial bout of silence, and Benji finally raised his eyes, recognizing the visage he saw without a second notion. The bright, dark brown eyes of Jack Kelly stared back at him, his lips drawn up in a slight smile. Over his arm he still carted a staggering pile of newspapers, as he had the day Benji had encountered him for the maiden time-and the day Luxy had been mortally violated.
"Why, hey, I know youse! From dat day-at Medda's! Yeah, you had the broken wrist. Spot!"
For a moment, Benji regarded the grinning boy with sheer incredulity. Spot? He almost had the nerve to glance over his shoulder to see if he was addressing someone else. Yet, no-- Jack Kelly's sparkling eyes stayed transfixed to Benji's exhausted green ones.
"'Scuse me?" Benji inquired, cocking a brow.
Jack elicited a laugh, shifting the heavy load of newspapers on his shoulder. "Spot, remember? You had the shiner." He made a motion with his head. "Seems like it never went away."
As the namesake clicked in Benji's brain, his fingers of his left hand found their way to the flesh underneath his eye. He was met by a dull shot of pain, which made him slightly cry out. This blacken eye was too fresh to be the workings of Luxy Listin. No, Benji recalled as a grand shudder wrought its way down his spine, this bruise was courtesy of a repulsive Polish worker in the factory. The slovenly Pole had cornered Benji in a desolate part of the factory one-day a few weeks back and had wanted Benji to perform oral sex upon him. Benji had refused and the Pole had given him a nasty beating for his insolence.
The painful memory vanished and Benji locked eyes with Jack. "Yeah, Spot," he murmured, forcing a smile.
Jack's grin only grew broader as he observed Benji's hand. "Still have ya hand wrapped in me bandanna?"
Benji immediately allowed his arm to fall lax to his side. "Yea-Yeah. Here, you can have it back though if ya want--"
Jack simply raised a hand and shook his head. "Nah, you keep it, Spot. Need it more than me. Say, I remember that day ya was lookin' for that broad- Luxy was her name?"
Benji nodded his head.
"D'ya ever find 'er?" Jack implored, inclining his head.
Benji felt the air being purloined from his lungs as his psyche was bombarded with fantastically excruciating notions, and he digested these as he formed the only reply he could muster, "Yeah."
Jack Kelly's smile grew as he stepped back, shifting his heavy load once more. "Well, Spot, that's good, that's good." He motioned to his newspapers. "Well, business is business and these suckers are heavy as hell and I'se gotta sell a good quota."
Benji listlessly nodded as he murmured a reply to Jack, who tipped his cowboy hat as he strolled along.
Benji then felt the breath being restored to him, and he exhaled deeply, as he just took notice of the beads of perspiration that saturated his flesh from the smoldering sun. He lethargically picked up his heels, depression conquering him as a coldness pierced his heart. He must go to the factory today; there was no other way to sustain both he and Luxy if he did not have money.
And then he was halted, a familiar voice calling out his name from behind him. He turned on his heel to find Jack Kelly had stopped and was hollering out Spot, not Benji. Benji was stunned how easily he seemed to answer to this new pet name. It was wonderful to be called a name that was not a profanity for once.
"Hey, Spot! Have any plans tahnight?" Jack inquired in a raised voice.
Benji shook his head. "No!"
Jack erupted into that wonderful smile as he cried, "Good. Then ya invited to a poker party tahnight! Over at the Manhattan Newsboys Lodgin' House! All the booze, girls, and poker you could ever want!"
Benji's eyes grew bright. "Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House?
Jack nodded. "Yeah! Ask around! It ain't that hard to find. So, can I count ya in?"
Innumerable thoughts streamed through Benji's mind. Of course he could not attend this poker game with some newsboys. He had to go to the factory and watch over Luxy-yet he found his lips opening and his voice answering in the affirmative.
"Good!" Jack called back. "See ya there tahnight then!"
And with that, Jack Kelly turned, as the melodic tune of Home, Home On The Range escaped his lips, his cowboys hat prominent in the masses of crowds.
Benji smiled, the first honest-to-goodness, genuine smile since before his parent's demise, a time that seemed epochs ago. He watched until Jack had disappeared, yet the memories of the boy still lingered on. He didn't work in the factory. He was a newsies and he aspired to become a cowboy in his adult life.
And a revelation suddenly clicked within Benjamin Conlon's mind-a fantastically simple one at that. As he ran it through his brain, his smile only became broader until he was prompted to whisper a phrase he had a week to the day before, only then it had been under utterly different circumstances.
"Fuck the factory."
And with that, he turned and strode down the hot sidewalk, weaving through the pedestrians, whistling Home, Home On The Range, pondering how he was going to steal Luxy and his meals for the day, yet more importantly, the utter elation and anticipation that welled inside of him at the mere thought of the twilight's poker game.
Benjamin Conlon did not go to work that day, nor the day after that, nor the day after that.
If fact, it had been precisely one week from the day that he had set foot inside the oppressing atmosphere of the factory.
The past seven days--they had been so long yet so slow. Of course, he knew the outside world was still functioning in its normal schedule around him, yet it seemed like he was in his own personal reverie. That he felt somewhat like the goldfish Jimmy Vita down the street used to have in the glass container. He could see the world clearly, yet somehow there was a tainting to it. And although he could behold the world, he was isolated from the world and the world was isolated from him.
And he had started walking. He had never really enjoyed walking before. As a child his motto had been: "Why walk when you can run?" Yet, he was a child no more, and true he still resembled a child in some ways, yet his mind had been scarred thoroughly enough with the trials of the real world that now he acted like an adult, even if he always didn't think like one.
Waking was peaceful and calming too. Over the past spring, he had become quite fond of the bottle, and now he walked to fight his cravings. He had always drank himself to a stupor, reasoning that being in this melancholy state would not solve his problems but banish them for a few precious hours. Yet, the coins he had earned working in the factory had been squandered on the alcohol and he had nothing left. Nothing to support Luxy and he on, and especially not enough capital to purchase more booze.
So he walked.
He especially liked to walk at the crack of dawn, when the sky was still stained with black from the previous night and the moon and stars still lingered above, yet when the sun was just starting to awake from its slumber and its first rays would shoot through the black and begin to paint the heavens with dreamy colors.
It was in those few moments that the summer's smoldering humidity had not been released yet and before the air was shattered by all the audible shouts and yells of the world.
And he walked in those breathless, surreal moments just as he did now, his scoffed shoes the only sound, echoing down the cobblestone walks of unknown streets. A scarcity of a light zephyr brushed against his beaten face, blowing his slovenly hair about. He raised his head, closing his eyes, taking in the wonderful breeze, his left-hand absentmindedly going to the hilt of his late father's cane.
Benji abruptly released a growl of pain, winced, and allowed his eyes to open. He removed his hand from the hilt and held it up. Ever since the fall in the late winter, his wrist had never healed properly and it still hurt like a bitch. It was another reason to avoid the factory: the agonizing pain hindered him from any hard labor.
His features still set in pain, he wound his fingers around the injured wrist, continuing in his aimless journey. Yet the night was dimming and the sky was being electrified with the violent colors of the early sun. The first sounds of the morning were filling his ears.
He released a sigh, a shock of red anger surging through him, yet he quickly shook it off by sucking in deep breaths and quickening his pace. It had been a week since his last drink, and ever since then, he had been going through a type of withdrawal, liable to be quite irritable or nauseous at a moment's notice. The yearning for the wonderful liquid trickling down his throat and soothing the dastardly cravings was always present, like some horrid dark cloud eternally stationed above his crown, yet he somehow sustained himself.
The night had now all but disappeared and the bright sun was beginning to shine its face, rising above the skyline of the buildings.
Benji elicited an exhalation. The same portrait of serene peacefulness would have to wait again until tomorrow. He lowered his head and set his features. He needed to get back to Luxy. As though he did not have enough to deal with, he had to care for another human being. Though, he thought of it as just a warped view of early fatherhood.
Reaching the curb, he quickly looked both ways and tottered off the rise of stones, crossing the street to Jefferson Avenue. He knew this path all to uncannily well.
The city was beginning to awake as he crossed roads and cut through alleyways. Voices stained the air like the forever droning of a hive of bees and the hooves of horses were heard against the cobblestones.
Releasing a sigh, he entered the familiar alley flanked by the Italian restaurant infested with cockroaches and the old general store.
He began down the alley, this world suddenly cast over with dark shadows. Shards of broken glass lay shattered, glitter-shot in the bars of sunlight that dare stream into the forbidding place. Inconspicuous rats scurried about, their pitter-patters echoed off the moist brick walls.
The dank atmosphere almost always consumed him. For some reason only the Lord knew why, the alley seemed to soak up every iota of moisture, causing a moldy, pungent smell to always be present. Yet, when the blistering sun would arise to its peak, the blazing heat would always cover the alley like a shroud, mixing with the damp smell and amplifying it tenfold. For the first few days, he had spilled his guts by the crates at the end of the alley because the odor had made him to overwhelmingly nauseous.
But those days had only been when Luxy had seemed to need him the most. Now in that span he usually exited the grotesque alleyway, only returning around late evening. How Luxy could withstand it all day, he had not a fathom of a guess.
Benji approached the termination of the alley, the toes of his shoes kicking up dirt, as his eyes fell upon Luxy.
She was lying on her side near the back wall; her arms and legs sprawled in all directions, her long tangles of filthy hair spread out about her, and clad in only ripped clothing besmeared with dirt. She was asleep, yet she was twitching sporadically, and murmuring under her breath.
He cocked a brow in curiosity and padded over to her, falling to his haunches in front of her, regarding her silently.
She flinched yet again in her slumber, her features twisting. "No," she muttered. "No, don't, no stop."
She halted for a moment, before her body erupted into a string of convulsions, her expression that of utter mortal terror. "No! No! Please!" her voice was high and hysterical. "Please don't! Mr. Antonelli-DON'T!"
On the utterance of that name, Benji pressed a hand to her torso and harshly rocked her, until she abruptly awoke with a great cry, her eyes staring at him wide and full of fear. She released a gasp and jerked her body away from his hand, her breathing heavy.
"Luxy," Benji said calmly, "you'se was having a nightmare."
Luxy considered him, her eyes wide and scanning his face, her mouth gapped.
He released a sigh. "Lux, it wasn't real. Mr. Antonelli isn't here--"
As if on cue, Luxy's eyes narrowed and her lips curled as she thrust herself to her feet. "I TOLD YOU NOT TO MENTION THAT NAME!" she shrieked, wavering the gathering heat, as with a cry she had taken off, throwing herself behind a pile of warped cream-colored crates, sending a few tumbling off their tower.
Benji's gaze followed her, before he released a futile sigh, letting his feet fall from under him so he sat on the damp ground, his back against a wall. "At least she's speaking," he said to himself, a note of sarcasm laced with in his tone.
He allowed for his head to fall against the wall, the damp phosphorescent mold cushioning his crown.
It had happened a full week ago, yet for some queer reason it seemed that it had just occurred yesterday. He couldn't of course remember the details or the surroundings, he had been too utterly drunk to fathom a thing. Yet, he did recall the emotions.
The emotions.
He felt his throat constrict as he tilted his head and as he tried to force air down his narrow trachea.
The alley suddenly seemed fantastically claustrophobic and the repulsive odor of the dankness seemed to increment sharply.
Benji quickly drew in a breath as he pushed off his right hand, helping himself to his feet. He felt a cold sweat appear on his flesh, chilling him even though the sun was already on the brink of smoldering. He stumbled forward a step, feeling lightheaded and weak, as he ran a forearm over his clammy brow and a hand through his hair.
"Luxy," he said, his eyes shut and hand to his forehead, trying feverishly to rid himself of the waves of nausea. "Luxy, I have to go. I'se goin' to the factory-we'se need money to buy food-I'll be back later."
And without waiting for a reply from her, he had started, his stride erratic, shoes pressing into the moist ground of the alleyway, desperate to be rid of the dizziness that was devouring his brain. He finally reached the threshold of the bright world, and without a second thought he had set foot into it, the fulminating sounds of life filling his ears and causing his eardrums to rupture. He turned sharply right, cutting the corner short and slicing his exposed flesh on the side of the general store. Though, he was not paying heed, for he had his first three fingers pinched tightly to the bridge of his nose as his eyes sporadically pressed tightly together.
He had killed them. Killed them all.
Benji had not comprehended it at the time-watching Mr. Antonelli smile that ghastly bright smile from Luxy's bedroom and brandish the knife with the crimson blood cascading down the blade. It had somehow been instinct to push Luxy out of the house. It had only when they had been running in that sickening single-file line with the only sound in the world that of their feet pounding against the walk, that a shard of understanding suddenly seeped into his brain. And he had pushed Luxy into the alleyway.
He released a gasp and his eyes fluttered open, and he swerved, nearly missing slamming into a pedestrian.
Mr. Antonelli had murdered all of them. Anthony, Nathalie, Anastacia, Lynn, Antonio, Peter, and Philip Listin. All save Luxy.
All the Listins were dead. All save Luxy.
What was the reason that Mr. Antonelli had killed them all? Oh, yeah, right. He had tried to nab Luxy and put her in his collection. But she hadn't gone with him. Now her family was dead, just like his family, he brutally thought.
Another excruciating sensation was starting near the base of his skull, as though it were ravaging his cerebellum. Benji winced deeply in agony. The pain was that to rival the shocks he felt whenever his father used to bash him in the head with that damned cane-the damned cane that was situated in his belt loops at this moment.
Benji continued on his aimless travails, the scorching sun boring down upon him. He hadn't informed Luxy, but he had attained a copy of The World the day after the slayings. The article had been insignificant, back page material-after all, it only was Italians. The bodies had been found: two adults and three juveniles. Their execution had been that of a very rushed and expeditious murder; their necks had been slashed. No suspect had been apprehended and there were no leads.
Most likely this case would be like all of the other countless ones that occurred in the slums: the police would carelessly toss the file into a filing cabinet and allow it to collect dust until it was erased from memory or had disintegrated.
But Antonelli had done it-Mr. Antonelli. Benji now felt utterly foolish now that that all the intricate pieces of the puzzle now fit perfectly. His sober conscious almost felt liable for her and for all that had befallen upon them-if only he had of chased after her that day then she would have never encountered Mr. Antonelli-and now her parents were dead and his were dead and he was to support them?
He released a breathless gasp and clutched the bridge of his nose tighter. His brain felt want to combust at any moment. He was only thirteen goddamn years old. So, why in the hell was this massive bundle placed upon him? It was though Anthony Conlon was getting sweet satisfaction from beyond the grave by forcing his son into a state of paranoia-if he was out waltzing about the streets and Mr. Antonelli was out waltzing the streets and he wasn't there with Luxy, couldn't Mr. Antonelli find her and kill her then? And what would occur if he were to find her mutilated corpse stained with deep crimson?
The pain in his skull amplified itself tenfold as he silently bartered with his consciousness not to reply to that query.
And Benji Conlon felt the overwhelming sensations consume him, only to shatter to a million of shards as his shoulder roughly grazed against a pedestrian passing him in the opposite direction. His eyes immediately fluttered open as he halted and spun about, poised to apologize sincerely to that of whom he had offended. "I'se sorry," he issued rather quickly, not allowing eye contact with the latter.
Alas, there was a substantial bout of silence, and Benji finally raised his eyes, recognizing the visage he saw without a second notion. The bright, dark brown eyes of Jack Kelly stared back at him, his lips drawn up in a slight smile. Over his arm he still carted a staggering pile of newspapers, as he had the day Benji had encountered him for the maiden time-and the day Luxy had been mortally violated.
"Why, hey, I know youse! From dat day-at Medda's! Yeah, you had the broken wrist. Spot!"
For a moment, Benji regarded the grinning boy with sheer incredulity. Spot? He almost had the nerve to glance over his shoulder to see if he was addressing someone else. Yet, no-- Jack Kelly's sparkling eyes stayed transfixed to Benji's exhausted green ones.
"'Scuse me?" Benji inquired, cocking a brow.
Jack elicited a laugh, shifting the heavy load of newspapers on his shoulder. "Spot, remember? You had the shiner." He made a motion with his head. "Seems like it never went away."
As the namesake clicked in Benji's brain, his fingers of his left hand found their way to the flesh underneath his eye. He was met by a dull shot of pain, which made him slightly cry out. This blacken eye was too fresh to be the workings of Luxy Listin. No, Benji recalled as a grand shudder wrought its way down his spine, this bruise was courtesy of a repulsive Polish worker in the factory. The slovenly Pole had cornered Benji in a desolate part of the factory one-day a few weeks back and had wanted Benji to perform oral sex upon him. Benji had refused and the Pole had given him a nasty beating for his insolence.
The painful memory vanished and Benji locked eyes with Jack. "Yeah, Spot," he murmured, forcing a smile.
Jack's grin only grew broader as he observed Benji's hand. "Still have ya hand wrapped in me bandanna?"
Benji immediately allowed his arm to fall lax to his side. "Yea-Yeah. Here, you can have it back though if ya want--"
Jack simply raised a hand and shook his head. "Nah, you keep it, Spot. Need it more than me. Say, I remember that day ya was lookin' for that broad- Luxy was her name?"
Benji nodded his head.
"D'ya ever find 'er?" Jack implored, inclining his head.
Benji felt the air being purloined from his lungs as his psyche was bombarded with fantastically excruciating notions, and he digested these as he formed the only reply he could muster, "Yeah."
Jack Kelly's smile grew as he stepped back, shifting his heavy load once more. "Well, Spot, that's good, that's good." He motioned to his newspapers. "Well, business is business and these suckers are heavy as hell and I'se gotta sell a good quota."
Benji listlessly nodded as he murmured a reply to Jack, who tipped his cowboy hat as he strolled along.
Benji then felt the breath being restored to him, and he exhaled deeply, as he just took notice of the beads of perspiration that saturated his flesh from the smoldering sun. He lethargically picked up his heels, depression conquering him as a coldness pierced his heart. He must go to the factory today; there was no other way to sustain both he and Luxy if he did not have money.
And then he was halted, a familiar voice calling out his name from behind him. He turned on his heel to find Jack Kelly had stopped and was hollering out Spot, not Benji. Benji was stunned how easily he seemed to answer to this new pet name. It was wonderful to be called a name that was not a profanity for once.
"Hey, Spot! Have any plans tahnight?" Jack inquired in a raised voice.
Benji shook his head. "No!"
Jack erupted into that wonderful smile as he cried, "Good. Then ya invited to a poker party tahnight! Over at the Manhattan Newsboys Lodgin' House! All the booze, girls, and poker you could ever want!"
Benji's eyes grew bright. "Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House?
Jack nodded. "Yeah! Ask around! It ain't that hard to find. So, can I count ya in?"
Innumerable thoughts streamed through Benji's mind. Of course he could not attend this poker game with some newsboys. He had to go to the factory and watch over Luxy-yet he found his lips opening and his voice answering in the affirmative.
"Good!" Jack called back. "See ya there tahnight then!"
And with that, Jack Kelly turned, as the melodic tune of Home, Home On The Range escaped his lips, his cowboys hat prominent in the masses of crowds.
Benji smiled, the first honest-to-goodness, genuine smile since before his parent's demise, a time that seemed epochs ago. He watched until Jack had disappeared, yet the memories of the boy still lingered on. He didn't work in the factory. He was a newsies and he aspired to become a cowboy in his adult life.
And a revelation suddenly clicked within Benjamin Conlon's mind-a fantastically simple one at that. As he ran it through his brain, his smile only became broader until he was prompted to whisper a phrase he had a week to the day before, only then it had been under utterly different circumstances.
"Fuck the factory."
And with that, he turned and strode down the hot sidewalk, weaving through the pedestrians, whistling Home, Home On The Range, pondering how he was going to steal Luxy and his meals for the day, yet more importantly, the utter elation and anticipation that welled inside of him at the mere thought of the twilight's poker game.