Happy December 27th! I hope you all had a good holiday week, if you celebrated!
Review Responses:
Huffelpufdraws: I'LL LET YOU KICK JACK, HE'S BEING AN ASS! Pfff that's me sometimes. Ahhh, thank you, I chose to add it in and revise my writing from a year ago, and I'm glad I did! GOSH DANG IT JACK! Missing Davey, are you? Well… we're not done with him yet. Just you wait. :) THANK YOU FINALS SUCK I PROCRASTINATED AND CAUSED MYSELF TO HAVE TO WRITE TWO ESSAYS IN TWO DAYS!
Quick thank you to Dylan Quagmir for following and favoriting! And if you're reading this at all, I thank you too.
And now, sit back, relax, tell anybody around you to go away (pets are permitted), and enjoy over 6000 words of sadness.
Part Three: The Past
He was still sitting at his table, before a deceased fire, when the clock struck twelve. It was so dark he could scarcely distinguish the window from the walls. Stretching his sore back, he rose from his chair and began to pace the chamber. All was calm and chilly within, and fog lay thick upon the cobblestones without. It seemed his spectral visitor had disturbed nothing, save for his own mind.
Put off by this discomfort, Jack retired to bed and drew the curtains, then closed his eyes, willing sleep to find him. It did not, so he lay awake, and thought, and thought, and rolled back and forth, but even with a pillow pressed to his forehead he could make neither head nor tail of the encounter.
What frightened him most about Davey's ghost, he ventured while laying on his stomach, was that he could not will it away as being a dream. The memory of it remained so vivid, even an hour afterwards, that he simply could not convince himself he'd concocted the entire thing. After all, one's self is the most difficult to lie to when faced with the supernatural.
The more Jack tried not to dwell on what he'd seen and heard and what it all meant, the more it stayed on his mind, and he spun himself into a mental tizzy with the tightness of a newly placed screw. Eventually, he succumbed to the thorough exhaustion, and dropped off.
He woke again sometime later, to the melancholy thrum of his clock announcing a deep, low ONE. Jack lay on his side, aware of the dark before his eyes, the feel of sheets in his fists, and the pillow beneath his head, when suddenly the curtains at his face were drawn away, and all he could see was a flash of blinding, brilliant white light.
Starting upwards, he blinked with purpose, to rid his eyes of all spots. They focused after a moment, revealing a figure now seated on his pillow, its face inches from his.
"Hello, hello, hello, beautiful," it said. Jack screamed.
"You- you're the- the thing!"
"I am!" It matched Jack's volume with giddy enthusiasm; its voice high, childish, though not so childish as youthful, like that of a young man with his inner child always showing.
This classification was enough to still Jack's racing heart. He edged forward on his sheets, closer to the visitor. "You're the ghost Davey said was comin'."
"Right again!" The spirit giggled as if it had told a joke, then lifted its right hand, in which it held a sprig of holly. Waving the branch like a choir conductor's baton, it drew out the phrase, "And you… must be… Mr. Jack Kelly!" then tapped the holly lightly against the nose of the name's owner.
A small smile escaped before Jack could rein it in. "Tha's me." Children always had made him weak.
"You're nicer than they say, Mr. Jack," said the ghost, alighting from the bed. "I can tell already."
It was rather dwarfish, Jack noted, sizing up the spirit. By his best guess, it stood at about four feet tall. The lacy white dress it wore- embroidered at the bottom with soft pink roses- must have been tailored for someone of a greater stature, for it was bunched up around the middle, tied upon the figure's waist with a tasseled golden rope. A gilded crown sparkled atop its head, and an aurelian glow emanated about the entire person. It giving off so much light was perhaps the reason it always carried an extinguisher, Jack discerned, noticing the bell-shaped object held in the spirit's left hand.
"What happens when you put that on?" he asked, curious.
"Haven't you hidden your past enough?" retorted the spirit, cocking its head to one side, voice lilting just enough to assure the man it wasn't angry, not quite.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were… My past, you say?"
"That's right, Mr. Jack. I am the ghost of Christmas Past."
"What does my past want with me?"
"To ensure your welfare, of course!"
"I'd say I fare pretty well already, thanks."
The spirit chucked, tucked the holly behind its ear and the cap under its arm, then extended both palms toward Jack, on the pretense of helping him out of bed. "Rise! And walk with me."
Had it been any other stranger making the request, on any other night, Jack would have said no at once. Excused himself on account of the weather, or the hour, or an imagined head cold. But this spirit, for whatever reason… Whether its friendly nature, likeness to a child, or the nagging notion that it reminded Jack of someone was the cause, he knew it was outside his best interests to refuse it.
So he grasped its hands- softer, and browner than his, slightly pink on the insides- and departed from bed, going along with the ghost.
To the window, it led him, then stopped, looking out at the dark. "Don't be frightened. That's the important thing. As long as you keep hold of my hand, you're safe."
A quality of fear had edged its way into the ghost's voice. Jack, out of instinct, squeezed its hand. "I'll hold on tight."
"Do you trust me?"
"I do."
At this, they passed together through the wall. A million noises and colors rushed by Jack; he thought he heard a baby's cry, saw blue eyes and soft brown hair looking down at him, felt a too-large cap being placed on his head, and a thousand other sensations he couldn't name. He knew he was flying, or figured he was, having never done so before. Whooshing quickly through the air, on the wings of the wind, as a phantom or something of the sort.
Then, his feet found solidity. He stumbled, out of another wall and into another room, somewhere else. Regaining balance, Jack found he knew exactly where he was. The apartment of his childhood was precisely as he remembered it.
Small, two rooms. One window, letting out to a metal fire escape. His bed on one side of the living room. The kitchen stove and sink basin, a dining table, three chairs, and an open door to his parents' room. He could hear his mother humming, smell the Christmas dinner she was cooking. Across from his bed, he saw their tree: not an evergreen, but a few boards his father had nailed together and let Jack have his way with painting. Kneeling in front of it, snooping through a simple pile of brown paper parcels, he saw himself, not a day older than ten.
He was a boy. Just a boy. Not yet emotionally maimed, shoulders not yet carrying the weight of the world, heart not yet frozen in stone. Free to be young.
"This was your last good Christmas," said the ghost, whom Jack had nearly forgotten was holding his hand. "You remember."
"Like it was yesterday," replied Jack, turning his gaze off his younger self and to the wooden door of the apartment.
As he looked, it opened. A stocky, brown-haired man entered, work boots clomping against the floorboards. Jack could hear the sound of little feet scampering across the room behind him, but didn't bother to investigate.
"There's my lovely wife!" The man greeted jovially, going behind the woman in the kitchen to wrap his arms around her waist.
"Merry Christmas," she said, face turned towards his as much as possible. She plucked a piece of carrot from the mess of cut-up vegetables beside the stove and stuck it between his lips. Mere seconds later, it was no more, as if she'd fed it to a horse.
The man removed his arms to steal more carrot pieces from the counter, eating them just as quickly. "Mmm, that reminds me: when do we eat?"
She threw back her head with a loud, "Ha!" then said, "Y'know, afta' your son told me that five times, I banished 'im."
"So ya did," said Jack's father, looking around the room. "Where to, might I ask?"
Jack's mother, too, realized her son was no longer visible next to the tree. Without missing a beat, she concluded, "Only Santa Fe. Should return before dinner."
"Well, if he ain't back in time, I'll hafta open all his presents."
"No!" squeaked a voice beneath the bed.
The man went to crouch by it, seeking out the source. Jack and the ghost copied his motions. Curled sideways on the floor was Jack's younger self, brunette and blue-eyed like his mother, staring at his father, who observed, "Can't see them desert stars from under there, I'm afraid."
"Yes I can," the boy objected.
"S'pose if ya close your eyes hard enough."
Jack squinched his eyes shut, knowing the boy under the bed was doing the same.
"I can, I can!"
His father questioned, "Frannie knows best, don't he, Kelly?" to the woman in the kitchen.
"Always, dear," she affirmed.
Now, Jack held his eyes closed even tighter, doing his best to prevent the tears that had crept into them.
"You loved when he called you 'Frannie'," murmured the ghost, "Much better than Francis."
Though he couldn't see anything, Jack heard the whoosh of air around him, felt the time pass. The scene shifted, and the room grew colder.
Rubbing his eyes to make them suitable to open, he straightened, blinking at the same apartment, three years later. It was Christmas again, Jack knew, but no tree or gifts sat in the corner. His father stood with a man wearing a stethoscope, in the doorway of Jack's parents' room. The two of them spoke in hushed tones; incomprehensible to Jack, but it didn't matter. He'd gone through this already.
With a light pat to the other man's shoulder, the doctor slipped back into the bedroom. Meanwhile, the front door was thrown against the wall, the cause of which was revealed to be a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked Jack, holding a sketchbook page proudly above his head.
"I finished it!" The thirteen-year-old ran to his father, still frozen by the bedroom door. "How's Ma? Can I give this to-"
The man shook out of his stupor just in time to slap his son's hand away from the doorknob. "I thought I toldja to stay out today."
"I been out. Went an' drew at da bakery 'cross the street fer two hours. An' I finished this sketch fer Ma, so I wanted ta-"
"She ain't well enough fer you right now. Go find somethin' else ta do."
The boy's eyes drifted around the bare walls. "I could decorate-"
"Outta here, Francis."
"But I wanna stay close in case she-"
"I said out!" the man lunged forward, inadvertently shoving his son back a few inches.
"Dad-"
"GO!"
Forgetting his drawing on the floor, the boy bolted, slamming the door firmly behind him.
"He was never so cross with you," noted the ghost, filling the silence. "You knew something was off, and yet you still ran."
"He wanted me out," said Jack, glaring at his father, who looked to have aged a decade in not so many years. The bags under his eyes alone were a testament to that.
"So you ran as far as you could. Harlem. A theater."
On cue, the tiny apartment blew away, allowing for a high-ceilinged room to take shape around them, filled with plush red seats and crown molding on every wall. Jack and the spirit stood in the back row, cloaked in darkness alongside his younger self, watching a pair of vaudeville performers doing a rather indecent number.
"No one saw you come in. You sat here for hours, and not a single person picked up on your being here."
"One person did," Jack corrected. "After they closed."
"Oh, that's right. This is when you met her."
The hours thrust forward, the audience emptied, and all lights but the ghost lamp went down. On the stage, they found the two dancers from earlier, shaking hands with a Black woman in a floral orange dress coat.
"Be sure ta rest tomorrow," she called to her performers as they bade her goodbye. "And have a merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas, Miss Medda!" They wished her, and went on their way.
Taking a quick survey of her stage to ensure all was in order, the older woman headed down the aisle, fully prepared to be done for the evening, when something made her stop and walk into the back row of the audience.
"Excuse me," Medda said, her eyes fixed in Jack's direction, though she could not see him or the ghost. "I don't allow kids in my theater."
"I'm sorry," said the boy, emerging with his hands up. "I swear I didn't take anything."
"What's that under your arm?"
He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper she was pointing at, immediately handing it over. She smoothed the sheet out to its full length, took in the advertisements for her burlesque house on the front, then flipped it over.
"I found it on the ground."
"I see the footprints…" Medda was still looking over the back side, studying the charcoal sketches; stage curtains, balconies, and bits of dancers- arms, legs, faces- filled the page among scribbled-out mistakes. "What's your name, honey?" she asked finally, beginning to roll up the page.
The boy hesitated before answering, "Jack."
"Well, Jack," Medda gave him the paper roll. "You've got some natural aptitude."
"Thank you."
"If you're ever lookin' for a job, I could sure use someone with your skill ta paint me some backdrops."
"I thought ya didn't allow kids in yer theata'."
She laughed. "Smart boy! I mean when you're older."
"Maybe."
"Whether you work here or not, I hope you do something with that talent. Don't waste it, ya hear?"
"I won't, Miss."
"Good. Now, am I gonna have to tell my landlady we're gettin' an unexpected guest for Christmas, or is there a family waitin' for ya?"
He thought it over. "My folks're probably worried."
"They ought a' be." Medda ushered the boy out of her theater, pausing in the lobby to say, "You get home safe, honey."
"Merry Christmas," Jack told her.
She couldn't hear him.
The theater, too, vanished. For a third time, Jack stood with the ghost in his apartment, watching his past self enter. His father was seated upon the bed next to the window, a drawing clutched in his hands. At the sight of the boy, the man leapt up, took long strides across the floor, then wrapped his arms around his son, holding him tight. "I'm sorry, Frannie. I'm so sorry."
"It's alright," he assured, a bit startled.
"No," said Jack, tightening his grip on the ghost's hand for lack of other comforts. "No."
"She's gone," his father said, "I'm sorry."
The boy squirmed out of the embrace. "What?"
"The doctor tried everything he could."
"No!" He ran to the bedroom, pushed open the door. Without following his younger self, Jack recalled how empty it was.
"They took her away, Frannie."
"That's not fair!"
The man's voice stayed even, impossibly calm as he continued. "I'm sorry you didn't get ta say goodbye. I am."
"She would a' been fine if you'd let me stay here!" He was crying as well as screaming, face flaring redder with every word. "But you sent me away! You wanted 'er dead!"
"Francis," was all his father could say, coming closer. "She was in so much pain, and I didn't want your last memory to be-"
"So you knew she wasn't gonna get better! YOU KNEW!"
"Frannie."
"I hate you! I hate you I hate you I hate you! This is all your fault!" With that, he stormed into the bedroom, flinging the door in his father's face. The man stayed still for a long minute, looking helpless, before collapsing into a seat at the dining table and burying his face in his hands.
"Did you ever forgive him?" wondered the ghost, barely audible.
"'Course I did," said Jack, eyes still on his father, whose shuddering breaths were too loud to ignore.
"Not before he died, I assume."
"There wasn't time."
"Six months?"
"I was a kid!" Jack snapped, trying to pull away from the spirit.
It didn't let him loose. "He was just as broken as you were, if not more. You only thought he didn't care because he never let you see his pain."
"Don't you think I know that!" He said it in more of a statement than a question, voice breaking in the middle as he realized the truth of it. "If he was in front a' me now, I'd tell him I love 'im."
"I'm afraid it's too late," informed the ghost, gesturing at the scene in front of him. "This is but a shadow of what's already been."
"Well thank you, for that most wonderful lesson. I think I'll be able to pass the test now."
The ghost shook its head. "I'm sorry. There's still more to see. I can promise to show you some happy things first, to make it better."
"I was never happy again," Jack said. "That's what you claimed."
"Ah, but I was wrong. And you forget."
"You still expect my trust, I suppose?"
Indifferent, the spirit told him, "Either way, we have to go on." It led him again into rushing color, albeit without much of the radiance from before, then out once more.
They had returned to the theater, standing this time in the cavernous backstage room. By the garland on the walls, it was Christmas Eve here too, and yet dancers continued to rehearse their steps, actors ran their lines, and carpenters crafted new set pieces. Walking about the room, hand clasped in the ghost's, Jack found his past self- a year or two older- in a corner apart from the others, painting a vast forest on three canvases. He was immersed in his work, but didn't appear fully there, as he kept painting the wrong spots blue. Some part of him was away, dreaming to pass the time.
Somewhere in the building, a clock struck the hour of seven, and Medda left her post by the actors to stand in the center of the room, clapping loudly for attention. "That's it, no more work tonight! Clear away everything, let's get a dance floor in here!"
The other employees hustled at once; stowing props, changing out of costumes, moving platforms, and stacking lumber in corners to liken the space more to a proper ballroom. A few set up tables on one wall, piling them high with food and drink, while still others brought instruments out of cases and started to tune. There was nothing these people wouldn't have cleared away, no party they wouldn't have prepared under the watchful gaze of Miss Medda.
Though Jack took longer to realize what was going on, he too stowed his things, leaving the canvases to dry on top of some platforms as he bustled off to wash brushes. When he'd finished, instead of congregating around Medda like most people were doing, he directed himself toward the stairs. Music started up as he began to climb, and he would have made it all the way to his quarters on the second floor had Medda not spotted him, calling out, "Where d'you think you're going? It's Christmas!"
The young man turned around, expression suggesting the holiday made no difference to him. "I figured I wasn't-"
Medda didn't let him finish. "Of course you're invited, don't be silly. Everyone working for me deserves a chance to let loose." She offered a hand; he descended a few steps, considering. "Come and relax. I insist."
"Alright."
When he relented, she winked. "You might even enjoy yourself."
Back in the great room, people had formed pairs, circling around and around. Some waltzed properly, others did their best at pretending, and still others could be heard complaining as their toes were repeatedly trodden on. Medda weaved gracefully through all this, young Jack trailing behind. They emerged on the side, where a trio of boys stood, sipping punch and watching their fellow guests. Jack, approaching with the ghost, halted abruptly at the sight of one sandy-haired young man's face, half obscured by an eyepatch. On his arm was a younger version of the darker-skinned charity collector.
"Jack, this is Louis, Nick, and Thomas," Medda introduced, also noting the third member of the group, who hadn't looked familiar. "Boys, this is Jack Kelly."
"The artist," Thomas nodded. "We seen ya around."
An older gentleman beckoned Medda to the dance floor, and she left Jack alone to make his reply. "Nice ta meet youse."
The boy with the eyepatch remarked, "He talks!" with great surprise.
"Ya thought I didn't?"
"We never were sure," said Nick. "Although I heard you talkin' with Medda, once. These two neva' believed me."
"Excuse me, I did too believe you," Louis objected.
"No you didn't."
"I did!"
"Didn't!"
"Did!"
"Can't you two go dance or somethin'?" asked Thomas, and the pair heeded him, Louis half dragging Nick. Once they were out of earshot, Thomas said, "I'm sorry 'bout them. They's always bickerin', like they're married or somethin'."
Jack cracked a smile.
"You want a drink?"
He nodded, following Thomas to the refreshments.
"Not one fer parties, are ya?" The older boy passed him a cup.
"Nah, I don't really mind this, it's uh…" Jack took a long swig. "Christmas ain't my thing."
Thomas ladeled more punch into his own glass. "I get that. Hard when you ain't got family ta spend holidays with."
Jack stared into the bottom of his cup. "Mhm."
"But y'know, tha's the great thing 'bout workin' at Medda's. We's all kinda family here." He raised his drink toward Jack's. "Cheers."
"Cheers." The other boy clinked his glass with Thomas', then downed the rest of it.
"Tommy Boy…" Jack faced the ghost. "Whatever happened to him?"
The spirit focused on the dancers. "Aged out of being a newsie after the strike, and took a factory job. There, I believe, he met Sarah Jacobs."
"Oh. And how 'bout Mush and Blink?"
"Still together. You saw 'em."
"Right."
"You weren't very close, but these guys were your first real friends."
"I suppose."
"Oh, I'm sorry. There was of course… someone else."
Before Jack's eyes, his younger self gained two more years. At seventeen he was stockier, his hair a bit darker, and though most of his bruises were faded, they were there, a constant reminder of many beatings. It struck him, now, how much he resembled his father, and not only in name. The theater around him grew older as well, but a few cracks in the plaster were barely noticeable within all the merriment. Despite the change in year, the holiday party was still in full swing.
Instead of Tommy Boy next to Jack at the refreshment table, there stood a gangly sixteen-year-old with a cigar in his mouth, curly blond hair a rat's nest on top of his head.
"Racer," Jack breathed.
The ghost smirked. "Don't you mean 'Higgins'?"
Jack was too preoccupied watching himself to acknowledge the jab.
Race was babbling everything that popped into his head, as he often did. While Jack had his arm around him and offered the occasional nod in response, he wasn't really listening. Rather, his eyes darted about the crowd of thespians and newsies, desperately searching for someone.
"You rejected everyone the minute you met her," accused the ghost. "Even the people you called your brothers."
"What're you fellas hidin' over here for?" asked a feminine voice. A short girl with a boyish haircut appeared in front of the table, a boy with a crutch at her heels. "I need a dance partner."
"I was trying ta have a meaningful conversation wit lover boy here," said Race, giving Jack a playful shove. "But I s'pose I can pull myself away from 'is nuggets a' wisdom."
Jack came back to earth just as Race ducked out from under his arm. "Huh? What?"
"Ooh, that's world-changin', that. Your ideas astound me, Captain." The girl grabbed Race's arm and took him into the thick of the party.
"When did you last speak to Smalls?" wondered the spirit.
Jack shrugged. "She moved back to the Bronx. We lost touch."
"Did she? Or is that the story you invented to explain why she didn't want to see you anymore?"
"Hush."
Crutchie had taken the place beside the younger Jack, helping him watch the room. "You know…" he said after a while, "Katherine doesn't celebrate this. It's possible she isn't-"
Right that second, Jack jumped on his toes, waving above the heads of other people. "Kath! Ova' here!"
And there she was, in her purple checked dress, a silver hood trimmed in white fur resting on her back, wading to him like across a sea. He rushed to meet her, to take her in his arms, kiss her feverishly as if she was a last meal he'd been waiting for.
Strawberries, Jack recalled, but did not tell the ghost. She always tasted of strawberries.
"Miss me?" Katherine laughed, pulling away from Jack's lips.
"Not much." He laid his chin on her shoulder, breathing in her scent and initiating a sway.
She moved with him, against the flow of the upbeat music, cupping her hand on one side of his face as she lifted it from her. "Merry Christmas."
"Happy New Year." They drifted together for several minutes, Jack unable to break contact with those perfect brown eyes. Finally, he suggested, "I think I saw some mistletoe upstairs."
"Oh, did you? Let's see it."
"C'mon." Jack pulled her through the partygoers, periodically stealing glances behind him to dispel the thought of her disappearing. He did not notice, passing by the table of food, that Crutchie was sitting alone on the floor, resting the mangled leg that didn't permit him to dance.
"No one else mattered when you were in love." The ghost walked Jack upstairs, following the giddy couple.
Katherine spotted the promised mistletoe in the doorway of one study; she snatched it and led her lover inside, leaving him to close the door to the outside world.
"She was the flame, you were a moth, doing anything just to have her."
Visions began to dance around them, like a fire starting up in the spinning room. Jack and Katherine, enjoying a fancy dinner. Katherine and Jack laughing in a private box at the theater, hands intertwined for the entire performance. Sitting together in the park on a spring evening, Katherine hard at work on an article, pen stuck between her teeth, unknowingly posing as the subject for Jack's latest painting. Waking up in the same bed, Jack whining for Katherine to stay a few more minutes as she scrambled to get dressed for work.
"You were so happy together. On the surface."
More images circled. Katherine snapping at the littlest things. Jack losing his temper over bigger messes. Both of them fighting, night after day after night after day, until another Christmas, in a dimly lit newspaper office, came into focus.
Twenty, he was, bent over a drawing board, balls of crumpled paper piling at his elbows. Katherine strode in, wearing a pink woolen dress and a sour expression. She set a small piece of metal on Jack's desk: a ring, cheap tin as it was, a ring nonetheless.
He stared at it, then looked up at her. "What's that?"
"Three years, Jack. It's only been three, but it feels as if we've been at this forever. I've tried to make us work, truly I have. You know I want more than anything to be with you."
"Yes. You've said."
"Four months ago, you gave me this." She tapped the ring. "Promised me- said you intended to promise me forever. Only to never mention it again."
"We're as good as married, Kath. When I've saved up enough, we'll have a wedding. I mean that."
"We could have one any day. I have-"
"I don't want your father's money anywhere near this."
"It wouldn't be my father's money, it would be mine."
"You haven't got enough for what I have planned."
Katherine huffed. "Drawing out an engagement until you can afford New Mexico, how wonderfully typical!"
"I'm sorry it's slow, but at the rate your father pays me-"
"My father, yes! It's always about my father! Are you really in love with me, or do you just delight in spiting my father?"
Jack stood, bracing himself on the desk so as to not lash out. "I love you, Katherine. With all my heart. And I intend to prove it. All I ask is your patience as I become worthy of you."
"Worthy?" she laughed. "When have I ever said you aren't worthy?"
"You haven't-"
"Oh, I see, my father probably has."
"Not in words, you haven't!" Jack shouted over top of her. "But you talk about Bill, and Darcy, I mean, there are other prospects everywhere you go!"
"You see them so clearly, yet have no recognition of the way I choose to love you! Despite your flaws, I do it, no matter what you say against my friends, or my family, or what they say about you!"
Jack gritted his teeth. "I'm sorry it's been so difficult for you. Hasn't been a picnic for me either."
"I'm not trying to play the victim, it is draining. I've lost a good set of friends in staying loyal to you."
"If you'd rather them than me, have at it!"
"That's- yes, I will."
Hurriedly, Jack lowered his voice. "Kath, I wasn't serious."
"I am."
"All because I haven't married you yet-"
"Don't be stupid, it's more than that. Neither of us have been our best for a long time. I thought, if you went through with this, every quarrel, all the tension, everything would be made up for. But you can't even do that. I can't depend on the one thing I got from you in the first place. And I know, I know you have reasons, but you're stalling. Not to mention, you're at work so often I hardly see you, and of course any time you're actually available, I'm working…" She let out a shaky breath. "I'm trying to hold onto something that simply isn't there anymore. The love is gone, Jack."
He met her eyes with a blank expression, hiding all emotions. "You're ridiculous."
She took the ring from his desk and folded it into his palm. "I release you. With all the care I have left."
At that, all the anger flooded into him. "I neva' asked for release!"
Katherine shook her head, turning up the collar of her overcoat. "Have a Merry Christmas."
"Kath."
No answer.
"Katherine."
Nothing.
"KATHERINE!"
She left him; and they parted.
Jack was statue-still, watching the image freeze. Then he turned expectantly to the spirit. "I suppose you have one more Christmas to show me?"
It bit its lip, hesitant. "This was the last you saw of Katherine…"
"No. Not completely."
"I didn't want to show you-"
"But you have to, I bet."
"Well…"
"Go ahead. What's an ounce more pain?"
"If you insist, Mr. Jack."
Forward, time lurched. Into a spiraling thicket of gray, and black, and cold. Then out upon a still older Jack, immersed in a newspaper. Across the room he recognized as his current place of business, behind the desk that was currently his, David Jacobs sat, hard at work. Though not so hard that he couldn't talk, of course.
"Do you believe we're the only establishment open tonight? Everything within a three-street radius is closed, and tomorrow too. We'll be ahead of our books in the new year, that's for certain."
Jack didn't look away from his reading.
"And hey, I'm not saying it's bad or anything, giving people time off. But my father still has to work on Hanukkah, y'know?"
Still no response from the other man.
"There's gotta be some kind a' equality. They're both holidays. But even my brother favors one over the other. Apparently, Sally's family is having a Christmas party tomorrow, some yearly thing, I dunno. Anyway, Les asked me to come. This is what he offers after I couldn't be with the family two weeks ago. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to go, but you remember how tied up I was in that Marley case."
Jack shook out his paper, ridding it of a few creases.
"And Sarah, she gets mad I don't show, and now she's guilting me into going to this Christmas thing. Says I'm not there for Les enough. That someday when our parents are gone, I'll be all he has, but the way I'm handling things now, he won't be reaching out then. Really spreading holiday cheer, my sister."
Davey paused for breath, then looked toward his partner, hidden from view. "Jackie, are you listening to me?"
"Hmm?" Jack lowered his newspaper. "Oh, that's great, Dave."
"You are not!" Davey left his office, walked behind the older man, and propped his arms on Jack's shoulder, peeking over his head. "What could possibly be so interesting to keep you reading intently?"
Mutely, Jack pointed to the article in question. Davey snatched the page, continuing to use his friend as an armrest while he read aloud: "'Mister Darcy Reid and Miss Katherine Pulitzer are pleased to announce their engagement, as of Saturday last. The wedding is scheduled for May…' Oh Jackie, I'm sorry."
"What've you got ta 'pologize for?" Jack took the paper back. "Forget it. Ain't like I care. Let's get back ta work. I've wasted enough time."
"No, are you kidding me? You're too distracted now."
"I'll focus, Dave, honest."
"Jackie, don't be stupid." Davey checked his watch, deciding, "Work'll still be here tomorrow. Let's close up."
"What 'bout gettin' ahead?"
"So what, it's a holiday."
"But you wanted-"
"I know. But I'd rather be a friend than a businessman just now. And you need help recovering from this."
As Davey gestured to the paper, Jack insisted, "I'm fine."
"You can't say that when we both know you're gonna spend the next month sulkin'."
"I won't-"
"You will too, quit lyin'." Davey went back into his office, to close his books, and extinguish his fire. "Kath meant the world to ya."
When Jack spoke next, his voice was tighter, muffled. "Can't do anything 'bout that."
"We could go home, get dinner, and burn the article," offered Davey, putting his coat on. "That'll at least help."
"Yer crazy."
"Don't you like crazy?" Davey doused Jack's fire too, then threw the man his coat. "C'mon."
Jack folded the newspaper, straightened his books, put his pens in their places, then donned his coat and went out after his partner. They left the law firm, walking the glowing streets side by side, matching each other's strides despite a considerable difference in height. It was only when they'd passed the dark windows of Jacobi's, halfway to their residence, that Davey paused, looking over his shoulder and bringing a fist to his forehead. "We forgot the paper."
"Forget about it." Jack rubbed his gloved hands together, blowing on them for extra warmth.
"Not having it defeats the entire purpose."
"I ain't goin' back ta get it."
"No, no, you're right, I won't force that on you." He thought for a moment, then dug into his pocket, retrieving a slender iron key. "Here, you take this, head on home. I'll go back to the office, grab the pape, an' you can let me in when I get home, how's that?"
"Sure." Jack pocketed the key. "But if I fall asleep before you make it back, yer spendin' the night outside."
"Ha ha," Davey started walking backwards, down the way they had come. "See ya soon!"
"I won't wait up!" Jack went forward, rapidly disappearing around the corner.
"Only reckless when it came to you, huh," observed the ghost. "He was so careful in everything else."
"He never looked twice before crossing the street," said Jack, quick to shift blame away from himself. "Learned it from his father."
"And I suppose he didn't expect any traffic so late at night."
Jack watched the figure of Davey grow smaller in the distance, straining to hear a scream, or a crunch, or a crash. Having never heard it the first time around, he found himself unable.
"It was Sarah who told you, the next morning. As distraught as she was, you did nothing to comfort her. Granted, you were in shock."
"That didn't stop 'er from hatin' me forever."
"You'd barely met, and unfortunate circumstances are not the way to get acquainted. Not to mention, you took her brother from her life."
"I didn't kill him."
"No. But you were his priority, took every shred of his attention. And being the last to see him-"
"She never tried to show me a speck of kindness!"
"She gave as good as she got!"
"I-" Jack scrambled for a reason to back up his side of the debate. "I didn't know any better."
"That's no excuse."
"No, but all I'd heard about her was negative stuff Davey would tell me. What was I s'posed ta think?"
"I dunno, that being his sister she was feeling the same pain, ten-fold?"
"Look, if there was even one nice thing for me to work off of, I would've been better to her."
"Doubtful."
This set Jack off. "What happened ta you seein' I was kind?"
"The shadows of your past do not lie. They are what they are, don't blame me."
"Spare me your lectures. I've had enough of this. Take me back."
"Certainly, Mr. Jack." The spirit released his hand, and there they were, back in his room.
Jack sat upon his bed, covering his face with his hands. Never before had he felt more of a mess. He needed to go back to sleep. Problem was, the prospect of painful nightmares was far too likely. No harm in trying, though. He squeezed his eyelids shut, hoping to feel tired. No luck.
Peeking through his fingers, he noticed the still vibrant light from the ghost. "You," he growled, dropping both hands. "Leave me."
Nervously, it fingered its extinguisher cap. "Five minutes 'til your next visitation. I had hoped I could-"
"You are no longer welcome here," spat Jack, rising toward it. In one swift movement, he seized the cap, raised it high, then brought it down on the ghost's head. "Haunt me no longer!"
Though the extinguisher entirely covered the tiny person, and Jack put all his weight on it, he could not hide the light, streaming unbroken across the floor.
Still, he sat, pressing on the cap, faintly aware of his clock, ticking away minutes to the next hour.
Ding dong ding dong.
Ding dong! Ding dong!
ONE.
TWO.
And his room filled with light.
So, uh… that's that. Sorry.
If you're not too emotionally exhausted, I'd appreciate any feedback you have, good or bad.
I'll be writing the next chapter. See y'all (relatively) soon!