Disclaimer: Most of the characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. Any original characters featured are the intellectual property of their creators.
Five
April 17, 1905
Because he was expected to be at his desk just as the sun was coming up, David Jacobs always woke to the dreary darkness of another early New York morning. Sometimes he wondered in those few seconds following sudden consciousness if he'd gone blind, the far too many hours peering at numbers and ledgers causing his eyes too much strain. That familiar tightening of his chest—for twenty-one years old was too young to worry about losing his sight—only intensified when he would reach his arm out and discover that he was alone in his bed. Where was his wife?
But then the candle Vanessa always left for him would flicker, drawing his attention to the small point of light and, after a few moments, his eyes would adjust and he would see the outline of their small but cozy room around him. From the cedar chest his parents gave them when they were married last year to the shabby secondhand dresser in the far corner with a vase full of dried flowers resting on the top and the gauzy, moth-eaten curtains fluttering in the sweet breeze… in every way it was different from the apartment of his youth; in every way it was a reminder of how different his life had become over the last five years.
And then, feeling more awake than he had, feeling utter relief that what he woke up to every morning was more of a dream than the visions he saw at night, David always proceeded to devote the next few minutes of every morning to feeling grateful for all he had. Stretching, breathing slowly and softly, he thanked his lucky stars for his health, his occupation, the apartment he kept on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, his parents who still lived with his brother only a few blocks away, the woman who took him for her husband.
Yes, he especially spared a minute to be thankful for Vanessa.
David Jacobs approached the train yards slowly, apprehension in his every step. He knew he shouldn't have bothered to come—gifted with words as he was, what could he say to stop Jack from leaving? If he was being honest, he was actually surprised it had taken Jack this long to leave.
The trains all looked the same to him and he had no idea which one would cart his friend off to Santa Fe. Shielding his eyes against the sun, hoping he'd find Jack before the boy had the chance to leave without even saying a proper goodbye, David was walking without watching where he was going. Therefore it was no surprise when, with a sharp jolt to his shoulder and a thump that sent him veering slightly off to his right, he ran straight into the back of a girl standing, frozen, directly in his path.
Rubbing his shoulder—for hers was quite bony under the thin material of her dress—David turned to look at the person he'd bumped into. "I'm sorry, er, Miss. I didn't see you there."
The girl didn't answer him and David was just about to take her silence for an acceptance of his apology when he noticed with a sinking stomach the reason behind her not speaking up. "Are you… are you crying?" he asked hesitantly, his heart dropping to his shoes. It was a simple bump, wasn't it? He hadn't hurt her, had he?
She shook her head roughly. "No," she snapped, her voice thick and her hazel eyes glossy with tears.
But she was crying, though she was stubbornly trying to hide the tears by blinking quickly and screwing her face into the most severe frown he'd ever seen on such a young lady. Though, he allowed, lady might've been too kind of a word. From the dusting of dirt on her cheeks, fair tracks left where the tears had touched her skin, to the dress she swore, faded grey and threadbare in the elbows and cuffs, he marked her as a factory girl or maybe even worse.
Getting a better look at her, he saw that she had dark hair that had been pinned up once, though thick, wavy strands had fallen free; she left them there, hanging in her face as if she couldn't be bothered in fixing it up. She sniffed, wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand and straightened up, ready to turn away from him. She had nothing else to say to David.
Still, she was crying. There was no doubt about that. And whether or not it was his fault, David discovered his weakness: he couldn't leave a girl in such obvious distress on her own. He was almost willing to do anything to stop her from looking so upset. It wasn't often he saw a woman cry. His mother was a strong woman, and his sister just like Esther. He last remembered Sarah crying when Jack Kelly first left for Santa Fe—before he came back—and then when Jack ended their summer courtship later that year. Both times had left David feeling uncomfortable and sorry that he couldn't do more for her.
He felt exactly the same watching this girl cry now.
Clearing his throat, he searched for the right words to say. When he couldn't, he settled on blurting out: "Um… is there anything I can do for you?"
The girl stopped. Her tears were still welling up in her eyes but confronted with David's sincerity, she did not shed them; instead, she narrowed her eyes shrewdly as she asked suspiciously, "Why would you help me? What would you want from me?"
That was the last thing David expected her to say. To think he was just trying to be kind. "What? Nothing!" he said hurriedly, holding his hands up in a non-threatening gesture. "I just… I was just wondering, that's all," he added, "and I'm sorry if you thought I was too forward. I just wanted to help."
She blinked away her tears and sniffed once, her arms wrapped around the bosom of her dress. Without looking away from David—who was becoming increasingly more uncomfortable under the weight of her stare—she at last demanded, "What's your name?"
"It's David," he answered, grateful that the question had been an easy one; from the steely glint in her eyes, he expected a doozy when she opened her mouth again. Then, because she still hadn't turned away from, and it seemed like she wasn't about to say anything else, he asked genially, "What's yours?"
She didn't answer right away, and though he heard a whistle in the background and part of David wondered if that was the train heading out West, another part of him was waiting with unfounded interest for the girl's response. Just as the whistle died, he heard her offer it simply:
"Vanessa."
On that morning David woke up earlier than he normally did, his arm automatically reaching out for his wife at his side. His hands closed on nothing; the sheet was warm but cooling. The spring breeze blew in gently, wafting Vanessa's perfume around the room. She was gone but she hadn't been gone for long. She had a knack for waking up mere moments before he did, always with enough time to slide out of the small bed they shared, light the candle she kept next to her flowers—an anniversary gift from David she never had the heart to throw away—and start cooking the breakfast meal before David was even dressed.
David Jacobs smiled to himself as he absently patted his curly hair. He was a very lucky man indeed.
Grunting as he stretched contentedly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. They were tangled in the sheets and it took him a moment to free himself. He nearly tripped, laughing at his clumsiness as he picked the ends of the sheet off the floor and draped it back over the bed. After washing up and changing into a freshened suit for his role as office clerk to one of the long-timed established attorneys on this side of town, David blew out the candle on the dresser top. No matter how many times he told Vanessa it wasn't necessary, that he could find his way around their quaint bedroom with his eyes closed, she always insisted on leaving some light for him.
He didn't quite understand why it had to be a candle, either. In the four room apartment they just managed to afford on his salary—one with two bedrooms, a kitchen and a room for sanitation—the quarters had been wired for electrical light when the apartment house first opened. But, like David, he knew Vanessa had grown up for a time in the City slums where a candle was worth nearly as much as a scrap of bread. For all the convenience the new-fangled light provided, she couldn't help but leave her trust in an honest to goodness wax candle. Regardless of how often he told her not to worry about him.
Sometimes David longed to tell her that she was the light that lit up his life. He didn't, though. As sweet as his young bride could be, he knew better than to drown her in his own stickiness. She would never allow it. So he kept those thoughts to himself and, as he met her over the stove in the tiny square kitchen, he just gave her a quick peck on her cheek.
"What was that for?" she murmured, tending to a pot of porridge.
He answered her with a nonchalant shrug. "Just for being you, I guess."
A girlish smile fluttered across her face. David had judged her right: a small token of affection was the perfect amount of affection to show towards a woman like Vanessa. But then she swatted him away playfully, hitting him in the side with her cooking rag. "Take a seat. I'll have breakfast ready in a few minutes."
"You know you don't have to do this every morning," he said, effortlessly dodging a second swipe as he headed toward the table.
"Of course I do," she countered, turning around to meet him. "I'm your wife. What good am I if I don't prepare breakfast for my husband?"
I'm your wife. My husband. Even after a whole year of that being true, it always sounded so strange to hear her saying so. Strange, but in a good way. As Vanessa spun back, stirring the breakfast with a wooden spoon, he was secretly thankful for her words. Sometimes he wondered if she felt rushed into marriage, rushed into promising herself to a simple office clerk for the rest of her life.
Then she would smile that earnest smile, leave that candle lit for him every morning, wake up ever earlier to serve him breakfast before he set out for work… and he knew that, in her own way, Vanessa was as happy with him as he was besotted with her.
David watched her intently, spying her profile from across the small kitchen. He thought he might be biased, but he didn't think there was a more beautiful woman in all of New York than his wife.
She had a sharp jaw but a delicate nose, a contrast that left her striking. Her skin was fair, her wavy hair dark. Vanessa refused to attend to the coiffure fashion of the day; instead, she kept her hair pinned back in the same simple manner that she had worn on the day they had met. She'd traded her old grey dress for a longer one, cream-colored and better fitting. A slender girl, the material showed off her slight curves in a way that David never failed to appreciate.
The skirt swished around her bare ankles as she moved from the stovetop to the cutting board set up next to it. She picked up a knife carefully. "Here, let me slice you some fruit while your porridge finishes cooking," she said, already putting the knife to a fresh apple she conjured from out of nowhere.
"The doctor said that fruit is very good for you," he agreed, hoping Vanessa might take the hint and join him at the breakfast table for once. She rarely did, either breaking fast before David rose or after he left for the office. And lately she'd been paler than usual, her step a little slower than it used to be. He didn't want to draw attention to it, but it had been worrying him the past few weeks. Perhaps a little bit of breakfast, a breakfast he could witness her eat, would bring some color back to her cheeks. "Won't you join me?"
"Maybe I will, but I'm not very hungry."
"Did you eat already?"
She shook her head, keeping her face away from him. "Not yet, David."
"But you will?" he said, hoping he didn't sound like a nag.
Vanessa glanced over her shoulder then, a queer expression on her face. Before David could say anything, she brought her smile back to her face. "I'll slice a second apple right now if it'll make you happy."
"Very happy."
She nodded, produced a second apple and turned both her attention and her knife to slice it. Her action signaled the end of the conversation—at least on her end. David, however, he watched her curiously, biding his time and biting his tongue. When she had turned around, facing him under the dim electric light she minded in the kitchen, she looked even paler than before. Worry lines creased her forehead; worry lines that took too long to fade when he smiled.
There was certainly something on her mind, and David wondered if he should try to get her to talk about it. As kind and loving as Vanessa was to him, even more so after their marriage, it was hard for her to lose a lifetime worth of habits she developed living in a New York City slum. Always one to watch out for herself first, it had taken him years to earn her trust, to get her to think of them as a pair working together rather than a young woman facing the world alone.
In the end, David decided to keep quiet for the moment. Despite her silence and short answers—which was usual while she was cooking, seeing how it took most of her attention to keep it from burning—Vanessa was still in a pleasant mood. Prone to falling into even deeper silences, moping fits when the fancy struck her, he didn't want to cause her any unnecessary upset.
Promising to keep his an eye on his wife, making a vow to speak to her about her strange behavior if it lasted much longer, David took his seat at the table.
At first he kept his affection for the Irish girl a secret from everyone: from his parents, his brother, his sister… even from Vanessa herself. He remembered how his mother had been against Sarah seeing Jack for the same reasons he feared bringing Vanessa home. She was an Irish Catholic, first of all, and an orphan, too. She wasn't like him or his family, but he couldn't find it in himself to care about something like that. He loved her, and he hoped that would be enough.
He knew his mother secretly thought of Jack Kelly—thought of all the newsies, in fact—as a boy who'd gone to the bad. She worried over his influence on her two sons, and fretted that such a delinquent would woo her good Jewish daughter away from the family. Esther Jacobs had never been more relieved than when Jack left, and David was afraid to upset her again by announcing his pursuing of a girl that, in every way, reminded him of Jack.
Well, he allowed, thinking of a stolen kiss outside of her tenement, perhaps not in every way.
But when that first meeting led to a second a week later, and weekly meetings turned to months where David couldn't let a single day go by without seeing her, finding some reason to visit her at the Girls' Home, just to see her hazel eyes light up… when he couldn't keep his feelings from her any longer, and he couldn't keep her from his family any longer, David brought Vanessa home—
—where Meyer called her a beautiful young lady and Esther warmly invited her to sit at the kitchen table for a bowl of hearty soup. Sarah asked Vanessa to look at her tatted lace and offer her opinion. Les brought out his marbles and tried to get her involved in a fast game.
And David knew then that it was meant to be.
While Vanessa finished tending to breakfast, David reached over the table and grabbed the newspaper that had been sitting on her side. It was a copy of the New York World, the evening edition from the night before. He had stopped and bought a copy from the newsie who peddled on the same corner where his office building stood, but he hadn't had the chance to read it before supper. Taking advantage of the cozy quiet before he had to eat up and dash out, he started to read the headlines.
They seemed better than the ones he used to shout out when he sold newspapers himself. More sensational somehow, and the writers hadn't had to resort to using words like love nest or nude. As Vanessa sat a plate of sliced apples before him and he picked one up and took a small bite, he wondered if there was anything left in them to improve.
But the stories themselves were dull. David found himself munching absently on his apples while he waited for his porridge to be cooked and for his wife to maybe take a seat before he had to leave. And that's when he caught sight of the date: April 16, 1905. Six days until the 21st—no, he remembered, this was yesterday's paper. Five days. He couldn't believe it.
"Only five more days," he mumbled to himself, hardly aware he had even spoken.
"What was that, David?"
"Oh, nothing, dear," he lied, "nothing really." He folded the newspaper up neatly and pushed it away from him.
Because, of course, it was something. Five days now… was it really so close? It must be. For all the lies you could find in a New York paper, the writers and the editors were pretty good at getting the date right. So five days… after five years, there were only five days left.
Would the others remember?
He barely remembered himself. For the first year it was always on his mind, and why not? Even now he could remember the sight of all that money shoved hastily inside that dropped bag. But then Jack took off and no one knew where to find Oscar and David had met Vanessa…
Would they remember? He hadn't seen Jack Kelly in four years. He hadn't heard anything from Oscar Delancey in close to five. Race… Race would remember. With a small smile, David thought he wouldn't be surprised at all to find that Racetrack Higgins was waiting just outside of Duane Street now, planning on spending those five days guarding the brick wall.
Then there was Spot. David's smile dipped down into a slight frown as his thoughts turned to Spot. It was a frown Vanessa noticed as she set his steaming porridge in front of him. But she didn't mention it, though she mirrored it slightly, and David was grateful for her gift of silence. He immediately reached for his spoon, poising it over the hot breakfast, his thoughts back to Spot Conlon.
Even if Spot remembered, David doubted he would care. David didn't blame him, either. It was too soon for all of them; he knew Spot felt the pain worse, the pain and, for no real reason, the guilt. Still, he'd been there that night five years ago, he'd kept the secret as well as any of the rest of them. Spot deserved his share. Of them all, no one needed it more.
Making up his mind just then to visit Spot at the first available opportunity—when the office closed for the night, but before he returned home for supper—David pushed the newspaper away at last and placed his attention where it belonged: his breakfast. Delicious as always, if just a little cooler than his liking for his dallying, he ate it quickly, knowing he was later than he should've been.
Vanessa was just sitting down to enjoy her own meal, a smaller portion of porridge with cinnamon sprinkled on top, just as David jumped up from his seat; there was no apple in sight, but at least she was eating something. Grabbing the newspaper and folding it so that it tucked neatly underneath his arm, he placed his free hand lovingly on the top of his wife's head, bending down to kiss her sweetly on the lips this time. She tasted like cinnamon already.
She smiled, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on his arm. "Is it time for you to go so soon?"
"Mr. Wagner will be furious if I'm late," he told her apologetically. Mr. Wagner was a respected attorney, one who demanded much from his clerks—including punctuality.
"I know. But maybe he'll let you home early for a change?"
David chuckled. "I think you're thinking too highly of him, Vanessa. If he lets us clerks out one minute before the office closes, that's one minute too soon in his opinion."
"He works you too hard," she sighed, a small frown crossing her face, wrinkles creasing her forehead.
"But he pays more than he should," he added quickly, feeling a sudden desire to wipe that frown from her face. He always hated it whenever his wife looked upset and, like always, he found himself eager to make her happy again. "Look what we have," he told her, gesturing around them both as he walked backwards towards the door. He really was late, but he couldn't leave while Vanessa was frowning into her porridge. "We have more than enough, and even if I didn't have all this, all I'd ever want is you. I have you."
His words, genuine and heartfelt as they were, did what they were meant to do. Vanessa's frown wavered, a pleased grin taking its place. "And I have you."
David swallowed back his contented sigh. "But not until tonight," he said, his hand resting on the door, and his feet planted against the ground as if he wanted to stay. Not that he could—he couldn't, not unless he wanted the office manager to find reasons to ask him to leave his desk—but, for reasons he couldn't full understand, he wanted to stay home. He just didn't want to leave Vanessa home alone again.
Maybe, when the next five days passed and, after five years, one-fifths of a fortune could be his, maybe then David wouldn't have to leave her side ever again.
He certainly wouldn't have to worry about being on time to work then.
It had been three years since that fateful day down at the train yard and David still wondered sometimes what it was that had caused Vanessa to cry that afternoon so long ago. He gave up trying to find out himself, though he had his suspicions. She refused to talk about it, and he didn't want to push her. In the time since they'd known each other, first as friends, then as something more, he'd never seen her cry again so he knew that, whatever it was, it was probably something better left unknown.
But sometimes, when they were at a vaudeville show, or maybe sitting down to an early supper together, Vanessa's smile would dip and a distant, faraway look would come to her eyes. David knew then that whatever had happened, whoever had left her alone that afternoon, it still haunted her. The memory of her tears would rush over him at those times and, like that first day, David promised he would do whatever he could to keep her smiling.
And when he finally plucked up enough courage to ask her to become his wife, he promised her even more—
It had been a handful of hours since David left for the office. Vanessa had busied herself with cleaning up after breakfast, washing the laundry in the tub and darning a pair of socks that had David's big toe poking out of a hole before she got her hands on them. She was just about to go up to the rooftop and hang some of the washing to dry on the line when there came a brisk knock at the door.
Leaving the laundry where it was, Vanessa smoothed the front of her skirt absently before patting the back of her hair, ensuring each strand was neatly in place. She eyed the door curiously as she approached it. It would be quite some time until David returned home for supper, and Les, David's younger brother, had to still be in lessons. He couldn't possibly be visiting. It had been months since Spot last stopped by—not that she blamed him, of course.
But if it wasn't one of them, who could it be?
She glanced out of the peephole, her eyes widened, and she unlocked the door, frantic fingers fumbling with the lock. She pulled the door partway open, managing to only stick her head out into the hall. Her voice wavered only a bit as she said, "Good afternoon."
There was a young man in the doorway, roughly her age or maybe a few years older. Broad-shouldered and tall, tanned and ruggedly handsome, he tipped his faded cowboy hat in her direction. His big brown eyes twinkled as he looked down at her. "Do I have the honor of addressing Mrs. David Jacobs?"
Vanessa was hugging the edge of the door, gazing up at the man. His voice was as deep and as gravelly as she would've expected. She paused for a moment and then, "Yes."
He placed one broad hand on the doorway. "Is Mr. Jacobs in?"
Another pause and then, "No."
His hand dwarfed hers as he gently overlaid it, prying her fingers delicately away from her grip on the door. Just as gently he eased the door open; Vanessa never resisted. He moved quickly for a big man, sliding the door open wide enough to allow him to slip inside of her apartment.
"Good," he murmured, "I was hoping you'd say that."
And, reaching behind him, he pulled the door closed behind and turned the lock without giving her a chance to say another word. When he glanced up, a wolfish smile on his face, he was pleased to see that, though hesitant as always, Vanessa was already giving him a glowing smile in return.
—but more than he could ever give her himself.
End Note: See. when I said there would be gratuitous use of flashbacks, I wasn't kidding. Rather than start the story in 1900 and write another epic - though I'm already 13k+ in and only on the fourth chapter in the document - I decided I would flashforward to 1905 and show the boy's histories through the use of flashbacks. Some chapters will have really long ones, some chapters will have only a few short ones and some chapters won't have any at all. But they'll serve their purposes, almost as much as the story happening right underneath the character's noses.
So, what did you think so far? I do want to thank everyone who reviewed the first chapter and let me know what they thought (Pegasus, Newsie Dork from D.U.M.B.O., Cybale and Eavis - thank you!); also, for those who even added it to their story alerts. I wasn't sure how this would be received, and I'm glad that you guys liked it. I've never been so excited or so driven with a piece of storytelling before - though Diabo is a close second, I think - and I like the idea of working on it a chapter ahead of time. I'm in the middle of editing the third chapter now, so I should have that out within a couple of days, once I get a good chunk of the fourth one working the way I want it (and, considering the fourth chapter ties into this one, I really want to get it there).
- stress, 06.19.10