The Father….
December 24th, 1897
It was the first time in his entire life that Francis Sullivan was missing midnight Christmas Eve mass at St. Mary's. The young man sat at the window staring longingly out at the snowy night. Francis hadn't been to St. Mary's much since his mother had died, but he always managed to go on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition based in his Irish Catholic upbringing, in his desire to uphold the memory of his mother, and in his unspoken ties to the church and its parishioners, particularly three of them. He leaned his head against the cold windowpane, his hair sticking to the frost and his breathing fogging up any view of the night he might have. He closed his eyes bringing forth memories of his church, he watched in his mind as Father O'Reilly walked up to the alter. His memories guided his eyes to his right in the usual pew where Patrick Conlon would be sitting next to him.
The two boys still attended this mass together, even though the rest of their families had since stopped. Mrs. Sullivan had died on Christmas Day in 1895, the same year as Mrs. Conlon both from the influenza that had hit the Irish community hard. Patrick's father had moved out of the city in 1896 to follow work and left his son in the care of the Sisters of St. Mary's Church until his safe return. While Mr. Sullivan had become violent after his wife's death and gotten sent to jail for a brawl just months before today. Instead of seeking asylum with the nuns of his youth though Francis had tried to survive on his own. The attempt had failed, miserably, as the young man now found himself trapped in a wretched house of refugee for young state wards. He had been caught stealing food and been sentenced to being reformed until his 18th birthday. At least Patrick had gotten away; his oldest friend had been with him that ill-fated day.
Francis had tried to convince the warden, Snyder to let him attend the Christmas mass at his old parish with little luck. The warden didn't believe in encouraging the ideals of the Irish much less the Catholic Irish. So Francis found himself starring out in the darkness of the night whispering Hail Mary and Our Father as Sister Cecilia taught him many years ago. He fell asleep sitting there in the dark straining to hear the bells of the old church.
Inside the walls of the church Patrick Conlon was hiding in the back pew. The thirteen-year-old boy was trying hard to blend into the familiar surroundings without being noticed. He had run away three months earlier from the Sisters of St. Mary's Orphanage. The day that Francis had been picked up by the police for stealing, Patrick hadn't returned to the protective shelter of the sisters. Instead he had made his way to the farther side of Brooklyn away from the Irish nook that his family had established themselves in. Patrick had changed his first name and having stretched out and lost his baby face effectively had gained a new identity. Spot Conlon was now just a Brooklyn newsie with a troubled past he never spoke about.
As the congregation hummed their community Amen ushering in the new Christmas Day, Patrick pulled his cap over his tangled hair. He pushed his chin down into his thin coat hoping to slip away before anyone had a chance to recognize him or notice he was a young boy with no family. Two steps before reaching the door though a petite hand had wrapped itself around his elbow. Patrick didn't have to turn around to know who had reached out to him. He clicked his tongue in irritation and tried to forcefully pull away.
"Patrick, I know it's you." The hand's grip tightened until Patrick turned around sighing as he looked down at the angry green eyes of Shandley Callaghan.
"Merry Christmas Shandley." Patrick sighed.
"Where is Francis hiding? Did he already go outside?" The little girl looked around Patrick's thin frame towards the dark abyss outside the doors. Before Patrick had time to respond to her demands, Sister Cecilia came bustling towards him. Sister Cecilia had lost some of her youthful features and now had soft lines around her honey eyes. Still considered the sweetest nun among the sisters, Cecilia had an unwavering love in her lost boys.
"Patrick Conlon!" Sister Cecilia said sternly as her thin arms wrapped around the teenage boy.
"Sister Cecilia, I can't breathe." Patrick mumbled into her chest as she crushed him. Shandley was wandering around the door starring out in the crowd of families searching for the familiar brown hair and round face of Francis Sullivan.
"You horrible boy, I thought something terrible had happened to you. I thought I had taught you not to run off, such a horrible example to the others. Shandley Callaghan don't you wander off now." Sister Cecilia reached out and pulled the little girl back into the foyer of the church.
"Sorry Sister, I didn't mean to worry you." Patrick shifted his weight guiltily. "But pop hasn't been back yet has he?"
Sister Cecilia bit her lip looking into the young blue eyes. She wanted to lie to him with all her heart and save him the pain, but her scriptures taught never to lie.
"No sweet boy, he hasn't." Sister Cecilia ran her hand over his cheek.
"Yeah, figures." Patrick's mouth set harshly for the boy felt in his gut that his father would never come back. Shandley fidgeted in the nun's arms though still searching for Francis.
"Where is Francis?" The little girl demanded again.
"Sometimes I think you like him more than you like me." Patrick grumbled.
"No." Shandley shook her head, the blond almost white curls of her hair falling free of her hat. "You're just always together on Christmas."
"Where is Francis?" Sister Cecilia suddenly frowned realizing that her young charge was indeed correct. In all her time with the Sisters of St. Mary's she had never seen Francis without Patrick on a Christmas Eve.
"He's in the refuge." Patrick mumbled uncomfortably.
"Where?" Shandley demanded peeking outside again.
"The refuge." Patrick repeated louder looking right at Sister Cecilia now.
"The day you didn't come back," Sister Cecilia suddenly realized why her lost lambs hadn't returned to her in these three months. Patrick nodded wandering back into the empty church now, away from the cold bursting in from the doors. As long as someone had already recognized him, Patrick figured he might as well finish his Christmas Day traditions. Sister Cecilia sighed following the boy back into the sanctuary, pulling Shandley alongside her.
"Where is Francis?" Shandley asked again.
"He ain't coming." Patrick snapped at her angrily.
"Patrick," Sister Cecilia chastised him. Rubbing the little girl's shoulders, Sister Cecilia began to explain the situation to the nine-year-old.
"Angel, Francis has gotten into some trouble and can't come out to Mass tonight." She began.
"So Santa isn't going to come see him again this year?" Shandley looked disappointed. The little girl had been trying to prove to the two older boys for years that Santa Claus existed, especially to Francis. The young Sullivan proclaimed the same fact every year that Santa Claus didn't have time for the poor.
"Probably isn't going to see me either." Patrick sighed as he lit a candle and crossed himself as he whispered merry Christmas to his deceased mother.
"Sister Cecilia why are Francis and Patrick always on the naughty list?" Shandley frowned.
"It seems they can't behave themselves." Sister Cecilia sighed sadly as she watched Patrick stare at the flicker candle. Christmas had been hard on her boys since they had both lost their mothers to disease and fathers to hardships. Patrick yawned and turned around to face Sister Cecilia and the young Shandley.
"You won't make me stay?" He demanded. The boy didn't look young anymore his features had been hardened by the streets and his eyes had lost their innocence. Sister Cecilia shivered at his seriousness.
"Are you taking care of yourself?" She asked hopefully. Patrick didn't look any worse for the wear on the streets, quite the contrary it seemed to have benefited him to gain a sense of maturity and purpose.
"I got a roof over my head and food most of the time, I work for my money and haven't stolen anything since the day that Francis got taken away." Patrick recited as he started walking towards the door.
"He stole…" Sister Cecilia sounded pained at the information. Patrick nodded without turning around.
"Patrick!" Shandley tugged on the older boy's coat. Patrick sighed as he looked down at her again.
"Yeah?" He asked.
"Won't you stay its Christmas?" Shandley asked of him. Patrick shook his head though.
"Nope. Sorry, it's never been the same holiday for me as it was for you. But Happy Birthday." Patrick winked at her as he stepped onto the snow of the steps. Sister Cecilia hurried her step to be right behind the boy before he disappeared into the night, she wrapped her arms around his neck.
"May God protect you this year," She whispered to him.
"If you see him, tell him Merry Christmas?" Patrick whispered back. Shandley had slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a piece of toffee that she held out in her open palm towards him.
"Merry Christmas," She smiled. "Santa might not visit you and Francis, but he always brings me enough to share."
Patrick took the piece of toffee starring at Sister Cecilia accusingly before hunching up his shoulders and walking away into the darkness.
"Do you think we can see Francis tomorrow?" Shandley yawned.
"We shall see. Christmas is a time for miracles." Sister Cecilia held the little girl's hand as they walked to the sister's building next door.
"Maybe next year Santa will actually visit Francis and Patrick." Shandley smiled brightly. Sister Cecilia laughed. She was beginning to doubt that Patrick and Francis were ever going to learn to behave themselves.
Hours later as the midmorning sun shone through the windows of the orphanage, Shandley shouldered a basket of warm food onto her shoulder. Sister Cecilia tucked a shawl around the little girl's shoulders and the two slipped out the kitchen door. The city of New York was quiet under its blanket of fresh snow. The streets smelled of freshly baked bread and oysters. Dashing through the icy streets, Sister Cecilia noticed the lack of hustle and bustle of the city. She caught herself wondering what Patrick was doing to make his money. She knew the children of the city took up all sorts of dangerous work to just get by and she prayed for his safety.
Shandley's tugging hand pulled Sister Cecilia from her daze. It seemed that the two had arrived at the gate of the Manhattan Refugee. Starring at the dark and damper building Sister Cecilia already didn't like the looks of where Francis was spending his holidays. She knocked loudly at the porter's door and a grimly looking young man answered.
"Can I help you Sister?" He asked noticing her habitat.
"Please, I'm here to see one of your boys. He is a member of our community, I wanted to make sure he celebrate with God today." Sister Cecilia recited to him.
"Well," The porter huffed, "I'm not sure if Mr. Snyder will allow it."
"Sir I can assure you that we provide Mr. Snyder with much needed help during the year and it would be in his best interest to allow me access to this young man." Sister Cecilia pressed. She knew that she might be faced with opposition from this government run facility she was about as much of a fan of Warden Snyder as she had been of Mr. Sullivan. After some cajoling of the porter, Sister Cecilia and little Shandley had been allowed into a visitors' parlor that was rarely used at the refugee.
"There are no Christmas decorations." Shandley noticed of the drab surroundings. "No smell of oysters. No stockings." She frowned. "Is it because these boys are all on the naughty list?"
Sister Cecilia nodded at the girl as she pranced around the room. The older lady had assumed that Shandley would outgrow her attachment to Santa Claus over the years. But nothing deterred the little girl's faith in the power of the Christmas Spirit. After a few moments of silence, footsteps could he heard on the wooden floors of the hallway. Francis Sullivan opened the door, grinning at his two visitors lovingly.
Francis Sullivan still had a happy-go-lucky air to him. His idealism hadn't been lost in all the sorrow that had marred his young life. Though his eyes still shone with optimism and his grin was eternally charismatic Sister Cecilia could see his rough edges. Patrick and Francis were now fighters in their own worlds outside her protective grasp.
"Happy Birthday Shandley." He smiled and winked.
"Santa Claus?" The little girl smiled back at him expectedly. But Francis took a deep breath and shook his head.
"He doesn't see boys like me." Francis shrugged. Shandley dug into her pocket and pulled out two-pieces of toffee.
"I had three…" She suggested as she held out her hand.
"You saw Patrick?" Francis asked hopefully as he snatched up his piece of candy. Sister Cecilia studied the young man in front of her. He was thin, poorly fed from what she could gather and his shirt was several sizes to big. She noticed he had tied up his pants with a piece of old rope and she made a mental note to bring him clothing the next time she visited.
"He wished you a Merry Christmas, are you boys fighting?" Sister Cecilia asked him.
"Fighting is a strong word." Francis shrugged as he leaned against one of the parlor chairs.
"How strong?" Sister Cecilia pressed. Francis Sullivan was a well-known storyteller, improving facts to fit his story was one of his many talents.
"Is he doing all right?" Francis carefully lifted the lid of the basket that Shandley was holding in front of him. The look of hunger in his eyes broke the nun's heart and she allowed him to distract her.
"He appears to be doing well enough, though I think he should come back to us." She sighed.
"I don't think that's in our future Sister." Francis shook his head as he bit into a biscuit.
"But we'll always see you at Christmas?" Shandley demanded of him.
"Until Santa Claus stops visiting you." Francis smiled knowingly at Sister Cecilia. It was the best promise a boy like Francis Sullivan could make and he knew it.
"What happened with your father?" Sister Cecilia asked now.
"Got himself thrown in jail. Like father, like son?" Francis shrugged, his warm brown eyes losing some of their glow.
"Francis Sullivan." Sister Cecilia stood up suddenly and strode across the parlor placing both her delicate hands on the boy's shoulders.
"You will never be a man like your father, do you understand?" She asked him. Shandley watched the exchange curiously as one of her heroes was shaken by her guardian. Shandley Callaghan loved Francis Sullivan and Patrick Conlon, she had since the first night she had meet them. The two young Irish boys that only appeared in her world once a year captivated her. Francis with his warm smile and his happy eyes made her always feel warm. While Patrick with his reckless posture and penetrating stare made her feel safe. The two of them were as much part of her Christmas traditions as Santa Claus. Also the little girl prayed every year that the boys be forgiven for their troublesome ways and that maybe just once Santa Claus would bring them some holiday cheer. Shandley's prayers had yet to be answered but the little girl was ever hopeful that it would happen one year.
"Yes ma'am." Francis stared down at his worn out shoes.
"You are already a better man that your father ever was, but please try not to steal anymore?" She begged him.
"There are others ways not to starve." Francis laughed to himself darkly. "So Shandley, Santa Claus still visited you this year even though I'm sure you were naughty?" Francis bent down to be at eye level with her green eyes.
"Well no one can be as naughty as you are." She smiled and nodded at him.
"Yes, I suppose that's true. It's a talent really." Francis shook his brown hair out of his eyes.
"But I know he's going to visit you one day." Shandley declared.
"Of course he is kid, of course he is, maybe he'll just keep visiting you instead?" Francis suggested spitting into his hand and holding it out to the little girl.
"Maybe I will leave him a note next year." Shandley spit into her own hand and shook hands with Francis.
"Deal." Francis laughed as he stood back up and stuffed his pocket with a warm potato. A harsh knock sounded at the door.
"Visiting time is over, forgive me sister but this hooligan is due to locked up for disrespect." The young warden opened the door and beckoned for Francis.
"As is the life on the naughty list." Francis smiled nonchalantly. He allowed himself to be pushed harshly down the hallway and into a closet cell that he had already come to know well in his short time at the refugee. Being left in the dark, Francis pulled out his potato and piece of toffee and pulled up his knees to his chest.
"Merry Christmas to me." He sighed quietly as he looked around at his bare surroundings. "Hope you all don't mind, but this is definitely the last time I spend the advent season with you folks." Noticing a folded up newspaper on the ground Francis bent down to pick up the yellowing paper. His brown eyes read the title of the paper, The World. The paper was one from early in September and as Francis read the articles about the Cuban War and the push for reforms in five points, the young man formulated a plan. Remembering the shouted headlines outside the windows of the refugee on a daily basis, Francis knew what he would do to avoid starving when he escaped his newest prison. He didn't have a doubt that he could be a successful newsie. Remembering even biblical story that Sister Cecilia had ever told him, Francis knew that to start anew most of the characters had changed their names. So as he savored his piece of toffee and enjoyed a sensational story on a cowboy named Jack in Wild West the young man knew that his life as Francis Sullivan was coming to a close.
"No more living in my pop's shadow. When I get out of here, I won't be a Sullivan anymore." Francis whispered to himself as he dozed off in his cell alone.