I updated quickly this time because I got such immediate reviews. Love you all and keep it up!
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Chapter 20
Concerning item #5: The Key Around His Neck 14 (continued)
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The gang of Brooklyn prepared for battle for most of the night. Spot ordered everyone to sleep after that, and assured them that they would go storm Manhattan in the morning. They reluctantly agreed.
The next morning was the big day. The day to end all others. As Spot marched with his boys through the streets of Manhattan, he found himself fighting his own mind, trying hard to keep his thoughts on the strike, and not on Cat, and the knowledge she was leaving his life forever today.
But he couldn't help himself. She had become an addiction, and he craved the feeling he got when he looked at her, or when she looked at him. He longed, like so many other times, to just see her face one more time.
Spot suddenly stopped, halting the parade of young boys behind him. Why couldn't he? In fact, he could do more than just go see her face… he could kidnap her, or even follow her if necessary. Spot ground his teeth in thought, looking at his gang waiting in confusion behind him. What would they do without Spot? He'd order them on, under Griffen's orders, that's what. Suddenly Spot's heart lurched in a renewed excitement.
"Sorry boys," Spot said, turning to them. "I gotta make a stop."
Griffin was the first to laugh.
"Goin' to see your woman again, Spot?"
Spot didn't take offense, but rather liked the sound of his words. Your woman… Spot smirked to himself.
"Yeah," he replied like it was common knowledge. After that they began to smile and hoot, mocking their leader's romance. It was a thing very uncommon for Spot to show his softer side, since they all were sure he didn't even have one, but Spot wasn't concerned about his reputation anymore. There was only one thing left he cared about…
He ran as hard as he could down the block, and his gang followed far behind. He turned the familiar corner to the schoolhouse, and conquered each step with ease.
He was going to catch her before she left. He'd spill his soul to her for all to see. He'd make a fool of his hard earned status for this woman, because she was the only thing left in the world that truly made him smile. He just hoped he wasn't too late.
So he took out his crutch, his cane, and gripped it nervously. He took a deep breath, and tapped the gold tip on the dark wooden door twice. A girl answered. Not his.
"Hello Samantha," he greeted impatiently. "Is Cat--?"
"Hello there, Spot," she said with strong flirtatiousness. "How many times do I need to tell you to call me Sam?"
"I'll let ya know when ya get there. Is Cat--?"
"Oh, Spot, you're so silly. 'Let you know when you get there'. How clever you are. You just make me laugh so much! My goodness… Now, what can I help you with?"
Spot sighed again in annoyance.
"Not with anythin' you're thinkin'. Is Cat around?"
"No, Spot," Sam confessed. "She left with Miss Gray and a rich man named Mr. Farsi for California this morning. Didn't she tell you? They're getting married tomorrow out west."
Spot's chest caved in, and his shoulders fell. His mouth went bone dry, and his breath left him. She was already gone. She was off to marry dear Howard.
"Thanks, Sam," Spot said with sorrow, and turned his back to her. He was too late. She was gone. He hung his head, his heart sinking lower with each step down the stairs.
Then he stopped. He turned back to Sam.
"Sam, do you think I could… see where she lived?"
She seem confused, but stepped aside obligingly.
"Sure, I suppose. Come with me."
"Spot, where're you going?" Griffin called, as he watched Spot enter the schoolhouse. Spot readily ignored him.
"What's he doin'?" Griffin wondered aloud.
Sam led Spot inside, through the foyer. Spot stole a glance at the parlor as they passed its doors, fully set with tea and purple velvet chairs fit for a king. Cabinets were filled with fine china, hand-painted with delicate flowers.
"Spot?" Sam insisted. "Com'on."
Spot didn't realize he was staring, and shrugged it off as they continued up a flight of stairs. A long hallway stretched down far, with doors on each side bearing room numbers like an apartment complex. The blue doors seemed old looking, as if put through many years of service.
"This one's hers," Sam said, going to a room bearing the number '5'.
"It's locked though. Been locked since they left."
Spot immediately pulled the shoelace over his head, and gripped the key in his hand. He frowned with determination and impatiently jammed the key inside the lock.
Again, it didn't fit.
"Damn key," Spot muttered, and stepped back. He ran full force for the door, slamming it open with his shoulder. Sam seemed surprised, and a few other girls stuck their head out of their rooms to see what the commotion was.
Spot picked the door back up and leaned it against the wall like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he stepped inside her room.
He was amazed at what he found. No, not for it's glorious splendor, but for how poor it looked. The window was broken, and the shutters hung on for their dear life, and the wallpaper on the walls was brown and peeling. The bed's mattress was sunken in and stained, and the furniture was chipped and scarred.
"This is where she stayed?" Spot said with disbelief. "Are all the rooms like this?"
"More or less," Sam admitted. "I understand why though, for how broke Miss Gray is, of late."
"She's broke?"
"Has been for many years. Why do you think she takes in so many girls? She can't possibly afford us all to live like she does. If they have a pretty face, she educates them on being a good wife then sells them off."
Spot's heart lurched. Cat was sold? Like a damn slave? What kind of a place was this?
His next thought was anger. She lied to him. Told him how great her life was when it was really hell. Why?
He punched his fist into her mattress as hard as he could, yelling in rage. A cloud of dust arose from the mattress in reply, making him cough a bit.
"You can go now," he said over his shoulder to Sam. Sam frowned, but left to go about her business.
Why would she lie to him? Spot sat on her bed and buried his face in his hands. He tried desperately to make sense of it all. Was she trying to impress him? Make herself seem above him? That couldn't be it…
Maybe she didn't want him to worry about her. Maybe she wanted him to think she was taken care of.
Or maybe she really was deceiving him. Maybe to her, anywhere was better than being with him in Brooklyn… He put that thought to death quickly. That couldn't be it either.
He looked up for inspiration, but nothing came. Her room was completely unfurnished with any trinkets whatsoever, save for a bottle of perfume and a jewelry box on her dresser.
Spot went over, and sprayed some of the scent in the air. Intoxicating. It smelled just like her. He fiddled with the box next. That's when he noticed it. A small piece of paper stuck out of the crack of the lid. It was a shred of newspaper bearing his name: Spot Conlon.
Spot went to open the box, but saw that it refused, staying tightly shut.
It was locked.
Spot glanced down at the silver key, still gripped in his hand. It matched the silver lock exactly. He gulped, finding suddenly that his mouth had gone dry. His heart raced with an unknown fear. Unhurriedly he slid the key inside the lock with gentle care. Slowly, he turned the key, and heard the soft click as it undid the lock, and the small noise echoed through the empty room.
It fit.
His mind screamed with joy as he unfastened the latch and opened the box. His eyes grew wide at what he found.
There were many things, he saw, mostly newspaper clippings… but he soon noticed they were all about him… There was the one on Haze's death, and numerous small ones on his dealings with Brooklyn… and there was a cutout of his face from the newspaper he gave to her that day, with him one the front page of Denton's paper after the strike victory… it was all here.
But that wasn't all. There was an old photograph too… from an old faded newspaper. Spot immediately recognized himself when he was young. He was being herded by his mother to a waiting car, alongside of his father…
And then he recognized Cat. She was in the frightened crowd next to a judge and his wife, looking scared as well.
It was the night of the shooting, when Spot had saved and killed his father all in the same night.
Cat was there.
Spot's eyes grew wide… he remembered her… she had stared at him and he waved at her at the speech dinner…
Oh God…
She wasn't lying when she said she had always loved him…
She knew who Spot really was all along, where he had come from, how he grew up… the same as her. She knew it the whole time.
He dropped the newspaper when he saw envelopes. Many letters, all bearing his name on the front, in Cat's wonderfully perfect cursive. Gulping hard, Spot grabbed one at random, and slowly slid his finger under the seal, and opened it. A thick piece of parchment was inside, folded in threes. Spot opened that slowly too.
Dearest Spot, it said.
Today we went out on a walk through the city. I saw a group of newsboys selling papers in the streets. I looked for you, but you weren't there. I miss you so much…
They were written like journal entries, all addressed to him…
Dearest Spot, said another one grabbed at random.
It was raining today as we came home, and my school dress was ruined. No doubt I'll get a few extra chores for that later…
Dearest Spot, he desperately seized another.
You found me at last today. I thought I was over you, but now I feel as if my soul has been returned to me, as if I can breathe in hope in my body now. The image of you keeps me going in my day, pushes me onward…
Dearest Spot,
I worry for you and that ghastly city, so much I am afraid of myself. I wish to tell you the truth of how I am living here, but a lie seems so much easier. I couldn't bear for you to worry about me like I worry for you…
Dearest Spot,
I wish to tell you how I feel for you, but something unknown holds my mouth closed. I try to love other men, but I feel as if I am living a lie, and it hurts me inside. The only way I can go through with it is if I imagine it's you in their stead…
Spot then had another
fit of rage, and swept the jewelry box off the dresser with a harsh
shove, and let it crash to the floor. The papers and letters
scattered everywhere, almost covering the entire floor of the small
bedroom. He sighed to himself, and sat on the bed again.
That's
when he saw it.
One more letter. It was tied to her bedpost with twine, fluttering in the cold wind coming through the only window in the room. Spot tore it from the twine, and opened it slow and cautiously.
Dearest Spot, it said.
I have no idea where to begin, but I know I must. I suppose I shall start with an apology. I had no reason to act the way I did, going on about a charade of status that was completely nonexistent. You are absolutely right; we were once the same level, and no amount of clothes and education could change that, no matter how I try. I wished only to see myself better than I was, to be someone worth stepping aside for in the streets. You remind me that I must be who I am, and never what I am not. You are right about another thing too: I was not so ready to give that up, not even for the best person I have ever known. By the time you read this I will probably be halfway to Monterrey, but I couldn't leave without these things being said. I don't love that man. I love you. I don't care if Brooklyn is first in your life; you are first in mine. If you ever change your mind about me, knowing this, then I only ask for you to show me by arriving in California, and meeting me at the train station Friday at noon sharp. Please save me from making the biggest mistake I will ever do. If not, then I will go ahead with it, knowing what your decision was, and that I do indeed have nothing better for me in my lonely life, and the reverie of you I have lived with for so long is only just that. Enclosed is an invitation to our wedding. It will have all the information you might need.
Ever yours,
Catherine
Spot read it once more, then again. Then he pulled out the invitation from the parchment envelope and glanced over that. It was black and white, printed on expensive paper and decorated with black ribbons. It had the address of the church circled with a pen.
Spot sighed, and thought to himself hard. She was getting married. She might be married already. There was nothing left to do. He shouldn't go off to Monterrey… no matter what he felt. Or what she did. They had agreed their place was here.
But where was he going to find another girl who loved him this much? Who he felt this way for?
That last thought scared him. Who he felt this way for… How could one girl screw with his head so bad?
He didn't need this now. He couldn't leave the strike, and that was that. Brooklyn needed him, and if he left now he'd be as bad as Jack. Brooklyn was the only place that made sense, the only place where he felt in control… because he was in control. He practically owned that place. Why should he give that up?
Because he loved her… He had told her so. It was the truth. Would it really be so bad to leave Brooklyn? But just when they were so close to the end of the strike…?
Spot tucked the letter in his shirt, over his heart. Now was not the time to decide. Brooklyn didn't seem to come first in his priorities anymore, but he was definitely first in Brooklyn's. They needed him. He was a father to it. Without him, they would be lost.
Spot let his head down in sorrow. Brooklyn seemed more like bondage than a child now, because it was the only thing keeping him from what he wanted the most. What he had always wanted, all his life.
Not power.
Love.
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You know what to
do…
Signed,
RedRogue
