Disclaimer: I don't own WSS, but I like to think I'm renting it!
Note: There's a racial slur in here that I don't particularly approve of, but the character insisted, so I apologize in advance.
For: Sergei Prokofiev, and his Romeo and Juliet Suites. :)
Hope you enjoy—please let me know if anything confuses/frustrates/clobbers you!
—viennacantabile
fell the angels
twenty-one : the sun in flight
.
She's waiting up for me, trying to make sense of it all. I think she's afraid because she already knows she's lost me. Women can sense those things.
—Anna Gavalda, "Lead Story," I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere
.
"Who're you?"
It's the second time he's asked the boy who's just stepped out of the nearest alley, but now, as before, the tall blond ignores him and jerks his head in the direction that the skinny little Shark kid—for the life of him, Ice still can't remember his name—ran off in. And Ice wonders how long he's been standing there, how much of his encounter with the Shark this boy has heard. Enough, it seems, to comment on Ice letting the kid go.
"That was generous of you," the blond repeats. "But, maybe not the best thing to do. He might come back with his friends, you know. Better to just—" He makes a slashing motion with his hand.
Ice stares at him, squinting through the glare of the sun. He has no idea who this is, but he can't be from around here, because the way he talks sounds just like—
"You Soviet or somethin'?"
And again, the boy—almost a man, really, from his height and build—ignores him. "You don't worry that they will think you are weak?"
The Jet captain stiffens. "We got an understandin'. Not that it's any-a your business."
"I see," says the boy, whose curious expression doesn't change. He doesn't look like anyone Ice has ever seen before—even in this heat, he's wearing head-to-toe black.
Finally, Ice is fed up. "Look, who the hell are ya?"
And at last, the boy gives a slow smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The hot summer light is fading now and half his face is in shadow. "No one."
No one.
"Stay that way," he says, and wakes up.
As always, it takes him a few minutes to realize where—home—and when—early morning on the last day of November 1957—he is. This time, though, it's easier to connect the walls and the ceiling with consciousness, because this memory is not that unending blackness, that absence of sense he has visited every night for almost half a year. This is not the nightmare that steals his dreams. This is not the fear he knows. This is something new.
Since August, Ice has seen the boy a few more times in back alleys and dark corners, but he knows no more about the Soviet than he did then. The guy doesn't say much, if anything, and he never interferes with Jet business, so in all likelihood, he's just some kid who wants in the gang, like so many used to. But still, he bothers Ice. All his life he's had to trust his intuition, and what he knows now is that every instinct in his body is telling him that this boy—the one who never quite speaks, just lets that slow confident smile say everything he wants to as he watches them fight against the cops and the Musclers and the whole damn city—is trouble.
And Ice doesn't have time for any more problems. There will be a war council, any day now, and he is consumed by the idea that this—this struggle against the Musclers—is nothing but some sick joke, dreamed up by whoever it is who decides where you end up in the world, and that they're all headed back to last June, and if they are—
Well, who's going to be the one who bites it this time, is what Ice can't keep himself from wondering.
As many times as he's gone over it in his head, there just doesn't seem to be a way to stop this. The Jets can't back down, and the Musclers won't, unless they're made to. And the only way to do that…
Ice stares at the hairline cracks in his ceiling and wonders how long everything can hold. A rumble. It all comes back to that.
Ice stays motionless for a few more minutes, then eases out of bed, mindful of the weak light filtering in through his window. The day will begin in less than an hour and there is no chance of sleeping now.
.
He can't remember if last winter was this cold, but either way, Ice can't stop shivering as he runs through the pale empty streets that night. The cold air is tight and frostbitten in his lungs and it's like he can't breathe. He is sluggish, slow, and wishes he could get the chill out of his bones. But even considering where he's headed, there doesn't seem to be a big chance of that.
When he gets there, Velma is waiting. Ice, halfway through the window, stops. She's got a candle on the cake burning in the darkness, casting a dim glow on her face.
"It's past midnight," she says. "Happy birthday."
He stares at her for a moment before the draft reminds him to bring the rest of his body inside and shut the window. "You remembered."
She smiles. "'Course I did."
He shrugs. "I didn't."
"Well, that's different," she says quietly, and moves over to slip the coat from his shoulders. "You've got a lot on your mind."
"Yeah," he says as he watches her gaze flit over him, checking for bumps, scratches, bruises, blood, before rising to meet his again. She doesn't think he notices but he sees her do it every time. "I guess I do."
"Anyway, that's what I'm for," she says quickly. "To remember everything for you."
He swallows, a million thoughts running through his head at once. "Everything?"
Velma's expression flickers, and he can't read her face. "Make a wish," she says after a moment, blue eyes on his.
He shakes his head. "I don't know what to wish for."
"Yeah you do," she says with a smile. "Wish for what you want."
What does he want? he wonders. He stares, unseeing, for a moment. As if anyone ever knows the answer to that question. Some wishes really are impossible and some dreams never do come true. And some are hopeless to begin with. He sighs. "What do I want."
Velma gazes at him, doesn't say anything. And Ice thinks about the weight of things, about how it's so heavy that sometimes it's hard to breathe. And what it would be like, without it.
Finally, he leans forward and blows the candle out, leaving them in darkness.
"There, now," she says, "see? That wasn't so hard."
He leans forward and kisses her and as they sink down in the darkness he wonders if it even matters at all. He is twenty years old today, and this year doesn't look any better than the last.
(And even if he wishes as hard as he can with everything in him, he won't get what he really wants. No one ever does, in the end.)
.
Safety in numbers, Ice thinks as he leads Big Deal, Action, Snowboy, Tiger, Mouthpiece, and A-Rab through the back door of Haley's Barbershop two weeks later. It's not unlike that day back in August, when the Musclers paid them a call in Doc's. But that was just a friendly little declaration of hostilities. This, Ice knows, is the real thing.
Eight heads snap up at their entry, and Ice, taking a quick look around the room, is relieved. They are outnumbered, yes, but the most important Muscler in the room is Basher, who is huge but harmless without his cousin Tank to give him orders. The rest are a couple older ones and a crowd of rank-and-file. Tank and his lieutenant, Bullet, are nowhere to be seen.
There is a silence as the Musclers trade glances, apparently trying to decide who will speak for them in their captain's absence. A tall, skinny kid Ice recognizes as Motormouth evidently wins the job and stands up.
"Yeah?"
"Don't act so friendly," sneers A-Rab, "we're just here on business."
Ice gives him a look. "Yeah," he says, turning back to Motormouth. "Where's Tank?"
"Not here," volunteers Basher. "He's out at our grandma's til mornin'."
It's Motormouth's turn to deliver a look now. "He ain't here, we'll leave it at that," he rattles off. "Ya got a message for him?"
"You knew this was comin'," says Ice in a cool voice. "You're trampin' all over our territory; you musta known we wouldn't just take it. So yeah, I got a message for him: war council. Him, an' a couple-a you kids, an' me an' mine. Now," he says, his gaze sweeping over the room, "this don't exactly qualify as neutral territory. So I say midnight, tomorrow, at The Coffee Pot."
"That place that used to be swarmin' with all the PRs?" snorts Motormouth.
"That one," says Ice. "It ain't ours, it ain't yours. It's still neutral." He pauses, and raises an eyebrow. "Think you can handle that?"
Motormouth's white teeth flash against his dark skin. "We'll be there."
"Good," nods Ice. He takes one last look around at the group of Musclers, then at the Jets behind him, and jerks his head toward the door. "Let's go."
.
Later that evening, Ice detaches himself from the crowd of pumped-up, trash-talking, dart-throwing Jets and heads off into the night. It's six hours after the challenge and Ice is aching for a cigarette but he holds the hunger in check. He needs to think, and to think, he needs to be calm. In control of his own body. It's just a smoke, he thinks, taking his lighter out. He leaves the cigarette unlit. He can go without it, right?
It's a habit that's formed over the last few months or so: sometimes, without even realizing it, Ice takes his lighter from his pocket, opens the lid, flicks the catch, and watches as it sputters to life. It's so bright in the darkness, a small, slight flame that flickers but never fails. Almost hypnotic.
(He remembers that night, and the uncertainty of waiting, the most, he thinks.)
He flicks it up with that small chk, gazes at the flame for a moment, and flips the lid down to sudden darkness again. Up, down. Light, shadow. Click, chk, click. Over and over again. But still the image burns in his mind.
It's then, while he's leaning up against the wall of the playground, cigarette dangling from one hand and his eyes locked on the flame, that he hears it.
"Can I have a light?"
He stares. "What?"
It's that big blond Soviet, standing in front of him. "For my cigarette."
"Yeah, sure," says Ice, extending his hand and transferring his wary gaze to the boy who leans forward and, once the tip glows red, takes a deep breath and exhales smoke.
They stand there in almost companionable quiet for awhile, the cigarette in Ice's hand still dark. He wants it more than ever, but now, with this strange boy watching, he refuses to give in.
"So you're Soviet, huh?" says Ice, not really expecting an answer. It's so odd, being the one who fills up the silence, that he wonders if this is how the Jets used to feel around him.
But as ever, the boy ignores him and takes another drag. "Don't you want one?"
Ice lifts his up and shrugs. "'Course."
"Then why don't you have it?" asks the boy. He closes his eyes, inhales, and Ice watches as smoke drifts off into the sky.
He's not really sure himself—maybe just stubbornness—but he doesn't have any other answer. "Can't always get what we want."
At this, the boy turns. "Can't we? If you want something—if it is there—why don't you take it?"
Ice stares at him, eyes narrowed. "What d'you want?"
The boy's expression doesn't change, and again, Ice wonders whether this, too, is familiar to the Jets. He tosses the cigarette to the concrete, stubs it out with his toe. "Thanks for the light."
Ice can't help himself. "Who'd ya say ya were?" he calls. He's not really expecting an answer, and he isn't disappointed.
The boy doesn't even turn around. "No one," he replies, as always, and in another moment he's out of sight.
"Yeah, well, for no one, you seem an awful lot like you're tryin' to be someone," Ice mutters to himself. He sighs, and in one swift motion, brings his cigarette up to the lighter, to his lips, and breathes in deep. To hell with willpower. It's not getting him anywhere, anyway.
Though it's the strangest thing, a small distant part of him observes. Even with the cigarette, he doesn't seem to feel any better at all.
.
Ice toys with the idea of not telling her. Not lying, exactly, just glossing over the fact that there will have to be another fight, and that they will be deciding who, and where, and how. He knows Velma will be upset, either way, but what's pushing him toward not mentioning it is that when she finds out, the meeting will have already happened and there'll be no reason to worry. At least not that night.
As it turns out, though, Ice doesn't have to tell her anything at all because the war council never happens.
"I still can't believe they didn't show," grouses Action the next morning, sweeping a box of Red Hots from the counter in disgust. "Even a buncha lousy moulies like them oughta done that!"
"Hey!" Baby John protests, albeit in a soft voice, as he begins to pick up Doc's candy. A-Rab, maybe to distract an already reddening Action, snorts.
"I can. They're just some spooks as got scared off when it came time to play in the big leagues, huh?"
"Yeah, we sure spooked them," chuckles Mouthpiece. He waves his arm toward the winter night outside the candy store. "Maybe they was scared-a the dark!"
A-Rab rolls his eyes. "That ain't what I—"
"Right, so whadda we do, Daddy-O?" asks Big Deal, turning toward his captain. "You want we should find 'em, make 'em pay?"
Ice considers this, then shakes his head. "Not yet. Could be they've got somethin' up their sleeve, an' we don't wanna make it easy for 'em if that's it. Keep goin' in twos, threes, okay? We'll souse 'em out."
Across the store, heads nod, and after a couple minutes more, the Jets unwind a little, go back to their default activities of checkers, darts, and cards. Ice, though, glances at Big Deal, who takes the hint and follows him over to the magazine rack.
"Funny, ain't it," says the lieutenant, keeping his voice low as he thumbs through an old issue of Sports Illustrated. "Them not showin' up. Whaddaya make of it?"
Ice, keeping one eye on the other Jets, picks up his own copy of LIFE and shrugs. "Got me. Maybe they're tryin' to throw us. Catch us off guard later, or somethin'. But whatever they're doin', it don't bother us, okay?"
Big Deal gives him a sideways look. "It don't?"
Ice shakes his head. "No. We leave 'em alone, act like we don't care—they get antsy, they step wrong, an' we get 'em."
Big Deal turns a page. "Easy as that, huh?"
Ice, both relieved and just a little bit anxious about this new development, replaces his magazine on the rack and nods. "That's the idea, anyway."
The lieutenant follows suit and grins at him. "Great," he says. "How 'bout a game-a basketball, then? Clarice ain't gonna be lookin' for me for awhile an' there's gotta be a couple midgets with a ball between 'em down at the playground."
Ice shrugs. "Sure."
In theory, he's right, thinks Ice as he picks his jacket up and follows Big Deal out the door. He's pretty sure the Musclers are just trying to scare them, push them off balance or something—after all, they're itching for a rumble almost as much as Action is. So there's no way they can stay out of sight for long, especially if the Jets just ignore them. And when they show up again, the Jets will have the advantage. Assuming everything goes to plan.
And unbidden, he hears Doc's voice.
"Anytime it sounds that simple, it usually ain't."
This is different, his mind argues back. But it's not any more convincing now than it was back then.
.
A day later, Ice is on his way to the candy store when a squad car pulls up and Krupke gets out, his feet crunching the snow into powder.
"Into the car," he growls. "Now."
Ice isn't exactly sure what it is this time, but it's never just tea and cookies at the stationhouse and he'd bet his captaincy it isn't now, either. His foot edges backwards, and he wonders if he could just leave. Dodge the cop, get out of here, go home.
"I got your address outta your police record, buddy," says Krupke, smacking his nightstick against his palm, "so don't even think about it."
Ice sighs. In the end, he figures, ducking into the backseat, there's really no point, and he'll only look guilty of whatever it is they want him for if he runs. Better to get in there, snow them the best that he can, and get out.
When he's deposited at the desk it's his favorite police detective who's sitting across from him. And he looks just as happy to see Ice as the Jet captain is to see him.
"Blades?" Schrank wants to know, his gaze hard. "Son of a bitch, Ice, ain't ya learned from last time?" His face twists. "Four kids in the hospital, one almost dead—now, you know I ain't no fan of them apes, but I got a helluva fight to tell headquarters about."
Ice doesn't have to feign surprise. "What're ya talkin' about?"
"Don't give me that," sneers Schrank. "So you'n the Jets ran the jungle bunnies outta town an' sliced 'em up good. Never thought you'd be ashamed to admit it."
Ice frowns. "The Musclers?"
"Yeah, the Musclers," spits Schrank. "The ones that got clobbered down behind Haley's Barbershop. The ones as was thick around here til two days ago an' ain't anymore." He glares at Ice, his gaze suspicious. "The ones you Jets were tanglin' with up until then."
And for once in his life, Ice has no idea what rumble the police officer is talking about it. He hasn't seen anything of Tank and his crew for a few days. Not since the agreement for the war council that never happened.
Blades.
If there is any gang less likely to mess around with those nowadays, he thinks, it's the Jets. And if any of them had done as big a number on the Musclers as Schrank is talking about, it wouldn't be a secret. So it couldn't have been the Jets, he thinks, puzzled, but if not them, who?
Schrank slams his hands down onto the table with a rattle, and if Ice weren't so used to keeping control of himself, he'd have jumped. "C'mon," growls the lieutenant. "Give up, punk, I know it was you Jets. Who else likes messin' around with knives an' stickin' 'em in people, huh? You're in the habit now, that it? Just can't quit, can ya?"
Ice's eyes flash up to the police officer. Just in time, he sees Schrank lean forward, just a little bit, eager for a confession. It takes everything in him to stay in his seat, keep his voice even, detached, and tell the truth.
"I got nothin' for ya, Lieutenant. We didn't do it."
Schrank holds his gaze for a full minute. Ice, leaning back in his chair, keeps his face blank, watching as the police officer narrows his eyes, as if willing him to admit his guilt. But Ice keeps quiet, and the silence stretches on.
"Watch yer step," the lieutenant finally snarls, "'cause I will be. An' if I can pin anythin' on you, you can bet I will."
Ice stares at him. "Yeah," he says. Schrank, at least, will never change. "Good luck with that."
.
The next time he sees their resident shadow, he holds her back. "Kid."
"Yeah, Daddy-O?" asks Anybodys, her face eager. "Whaddaya want?"
"Look, I know I said leave 'em alone, but see if you can figure out what those Musclers are up to," says Ice. "I still ain't seen them around in the last coupla days an' I wanna know what they're up to." He remembers Schrank's words and frowns. "Or if they're even around anymore."
"You think they wised up, then?" asks Anybodys, excited. "I just bet they did, Ice, I bet they're runnin' back to Harlem with their sorry tails between their legs!"
"Maybe," Ice says, his eyebrows knitting. He doesn't want to tell her what he's heard just yet—he wants to see what she digs up on her own. "But whatever it is, I want you to find out."
.
In the end, though, it's Ice who gets one last look at the Musclers.
It's just a glimpse, but it makes Ice as uneasy as if he'd seen the whole gang loaded up with zip guns and nightsticks and God knows what else. He's crossing the border between Jet and neutral territory several days later when he catches a dark blur in the corner of his vision. Ice tenses, whips around, ready for confrontation. But nothing comes. All he sees is a Muscler, who hasn't noticed him.
But Ice, who knows Tank's face very well by now, almost shouts because there, running up the right side of the boy's cheek and meeting two curved lines over his forehead and across the bridge of the nose, under the eyes, is a bright, fresh scar only a few days old.
It's bad. Ice isn't an expert on this kind of thing—his theory has always been that it's better to avoid the hit if he can—but still. It's bad. The Muscler is lucky not to have been blinded. And for it to be Tank—the leader, the best fighter they've got—
Blades?
Ice, hearing Schrank's voice in his head, flinches. It sure looks like it.
Four kids in the hospital—one almost dead—
He's still positive it wasn't the Jets. But now the question reoccurs to him with increasing urgency: if not them, who?
.
He gets one last confirmation of the state of things when Anybodys finds him two alleys from Velma's.
"Ice, I been lookin' for ya everywhere," she pants, skidding to a stop. "I been spyin' around, runnin' through enemy territory—"
"What d'ya got?" asks Ice, who is used to Anybodys' showmanship by now. "Where are they?"
The grin on Anybodys's face disappears, to be replaced by a troubled frown. "Dunno," she says, her small face pinched. "I heard things—awful things, like one-a them havin' a smile carved into his face an' another with all his bones broken, but no one's gotten a look to say yes or no. They're just gone. Like that. Can't scare 'em up or nothin'. They ain't nowhere."
Ice frowns. He's come to depend on Anybodys as a spy—she isn't lying about the wind through a fence thing—and if she can't sniff them out, that says something. "Yeah, well," he says, picking his words with care, "let it go. We got enough to worry about."
Anybodys wrinkles her nose. "Couldn't even find no one who'd talk about 'em. Even the little kids, they all just shut up about it."
For the hundredth time, Ice remembers Schrank's words. Four kids in the hospital. One almost dead. Yeah, he thinks slowly, that'd shake up anyone who knew them. But still, he doesn't want to let her or any of the gang know what he's seen. Not yet. "Probably scared 'cause you're a Jet," he says, keeping his voice light. "Good work."
The pinched look on her face relaxes, and she even pops a candy into her mouth and works at it as she gives him a tiny grin. "Gee, Ice, where d'ya think they went?"
Ice says nothing, just remembers an enigmatic smile and stares at a wall. "I dunno," he finally says. "But they're gone now."
.
That night, Velma's face is happier than he's seen it in months. "So they gave up? That's a relief."
"Yeah," nods Ice, because even if he's got his doubts about the whole thing, there's no reason to bother her about it, too. "It is."
"I'da been real worried. If there was another rumble," she says, and despite her confirmation of his resolve not to mention his friendly visit with Schrank and the sight of Tank's new face, Ice almost cracks. That there isn't going to be one is almost worse, because of the reason, and what it might mean for all of them. But instead, he just nods again.
"Me, too."
"Things'll get better now, you'll see," she says, resting her head comfortably on his shoulder. "I know they will."
And even when he closes his eyes, he can still see those long, fresh, curved scars running over dark eyelids and meeting another, straight down one torn cheek. Another image to add to his nightmares. "Yeah."
.
The Jets' reactions are mixed, to say the least.
Action knocks his chair over. "The fuck?" This time, both Baby John and Mouthpiece cast reproving glances at him, but the raging boy doesn't even notice. "What the hell d'ya mean, they're gone for good?"
"Just what I said," Ice says, eyeing him. "They're out. Gone. Ran back to Harlem or somethin'—who cares, really—but anyway, they ain't here."
"Gee, an' I was so eager to try out my new brass knuckles," Snowboy says with a cheerful snicker, trading a high-five with Joyboy.
A-Rab cackles. "Aww, c'mon, Action, it ain't like there ain't still kids to beat on."
"Like them Vipers, right?" pipes up Baby John. "Just the other day I saw Mopsy an' Rattle throwin' tomatoes at Mouthpiece. Didn't they, Mouthpiece?"
"They did," a helpful Mouthpiece supplies. "They sure tasted good."
Action rolls his eyes. "Forget us beatin' on them, ain't they the ones beatin' on you? Forgettin' the trash can they dumped ya in, are ya?"
"I gave as good as I got!" blusters a red-faced Baby John.
"Aww, sure ya did," snaps Anybodys. "I just hadda pull 'em offa ya, that's all!"
As he listens to the Jets bicker and trade insults, Ice feels a little relieved. On the whole, they're taking it better than he'd thought they would. Thank God for the Vipers, he thinks with a half-smile. Without them, he doesn't know how the Jets would get over their disappointment.
He waits until they've gone before he pulls Anybodys back. "Kid."
"Yeah, Daddy-O?" asks the girl, her face eager. "Whaddaya want?"
"Get me more on those Vipers, okay?"
The girl's face twists. "Aww, Ice, I already scouted 'em out, remember?" she says, sounding almost hurt. "They ain't nothin' but a buncha kids slappin' paint on their faces an' playin' at bein' a real gang. Not like the Jets." And just like that, she is back to happy pride, and Ice, looking at her, sees how young she really is and wonders when she will stumble across the thought that keeps occurring more and more as the weeks go by. So were they, before the night that changed everything. So were they.
"Yeah, I know," he says, "I just wanna make sure, is all. People're diggin' around an' we can't be too careful."
Anybodys shrugs, though the long-suffering expression on her face says she still doesn't see the point. "Sure, boss. Whatever ya say." And she makes as if to scamper off before he catches her arm.
"One last thing," he says. "Remember that guy I asked you about a couple months ago?"
For the first time, Anybodys looks nervous. "I swear I been lookin'," she says, "but I ain't got nothin'. This guy's invisible. I ain't even seen his shadow, an' I've been keepin' an eye out special."
Ice frowns, thinking. He does see the difficulty in searching blind with what little information he's given her. "Try this," he says at last. "He's a Soviet."
The girl's eyes widen. "One-a them Commies? What's he doin' around here?"
"That's what I wanna know," Ice says, "an' what I'm countin' on you to find out, okay? I wouldn't ask nobody else."
Anybodys reddens a little. "Sure thing, Daddy-O," she says, a determined glint in her eyes. "You can count on me!"
.
"You're late."
Ice, dropping into his room, glances over to the door where his mother stands waiting. "I know," he says. The small room is so different from the vast empty streets he has just left that it takes him a blink, and a moment, to adjust.
"Ye did say ye'd be home earlier tonight," she reminds him, crossing over to him and putting a hand on his arm. For the first time in awhile, Ice is struck by the difference in their height, how he towers over her. From where he stands, she's almost—small. "I've been that worried, thinkin' ye'd been hurt, or somethin'."
"I'm fine," Ice tells her. "An' I'm sorry I'm late. I just—got real caught up in a game-a checkers Joyboy an' Snowboy was playin'." It's a terrible lie, even for his low standards, and his mother doesn't even pretend that she believes it.
"Look at ye. You're exhausted," she says, concern flickering in her eyes. "When was the last time ye had a good night's rest, then? Ye shouldn't be runnin' in and out like this."
Ice shrugs. "I'm fine."
"Look, I know you're still hurtin' over Riff, and Tony," she says, and Ice shifts his weight. This is not something he wants to discuss. "I know I'm just your old mother, John, but if ye need to talk about it, well—"
The love, the knowledge in her voice is almost more than he can take. "I don't wanna talk," he snaps, "okay? Talkin' don't help nothin'."
Ice sighs as he sees the hurt in her eyes. He knows she means well. He knows she is just being a mother. He knows all of that and still he is unable to say what he really means: he would talk if it helped. But what is he supposed to tell her? Two of his best friends are dead. He has ten guys looking at him, asking him to tell them what to do when he doesn't know any better than they do. He has a girlfriend who waits and waits and who Ice is afraid will someday get tired of waiting and bolt, like she should have done ages ago, and even if she doesn't that's somehow even worse. And he has a mother who, Ice is starting to wonder, might know a little bit more about her son than he thought.
"Look, Ma," he says, reaching a heavy hand over to her. "I'm sorry."
Mrs. Kelly gazes at him, her eyes troubled. "I just wish ye could get everythin' out of ye, John. It's eatin' ye up inside; I can see it."
"I'm fine," he says. No matter how many times he says it, it doesn't sound any more true. Maybe if he believes hard enough—
His mother shakes her head. "No," she says. "You're not. And if I'd done a better job of bein' your mother, you wouldn' be in this state."
Ice shakes his head, disturbed. "Ma, don't talk like that. It's got nothin' to do with you."
His mother just looks at him with a sad smile. "Not from where I'm standing."
Ice sighs. "I'm goin' to bed," he says, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Glancing down at his wrist, he can just barely make out the time. 12:42 AM. "Merry Christmas, Ma."
Mrs. Kelly reaches out and strokes his cheek, her faded eyes resigned. "Merry Christmas, John."
.
Velma's present to him is a watch—a nice one, with gold links and a solid weight to it.
"Thanks," he says, turning it over before Velma takes it from him and gently fastens it around his wrist. "It's really—it's really somethin', Vee."
"I wanted ya to have one that was really yours," she says with a little smile. "Just yours."
At the moment it doesn't quite feel all that different, wearing one that hasn't been lifted off some drunk, but he can tell that it makes Velma happy. There's not that much he can do nowadays that does, so he smiles.
"Thanks," he repeats, and kisses her on the cheek. She really loves him, he thinks. The thought isn't a good one, or a bad one. Just as much as he loves her.
Velma leans in to fiddle with the dial on the side. "Lemme fix it to the right time," she says. "I dunno why they never do it before you get it. Seems kinda stupid to me."
And as he watches her wind the hands of the watch into position, he thinks of the Christmas before, and how everything that seemed so important then is gone now. He has three things left: the Jets, his mother, and Velma. In theory, that's all he should need.
So maybe it'll be okay, like they all say, Ice thinks without hope. Maybe.