Part I, Chapter III
December 2, 1895
Brooklyn, New York
It had been four days Spot had kept Emma's key around his neck. Flynn's had been closed for the entire weekend since Thanksgiving. Come Monday, Spot sold his fifty papers and walked into the baking shop.
"D'you remembah a girl comin' in heah on Wednesday?" he asked Flynn.
The clerk jogged his memory back four days and looked up at the ceiling. "What's she look like?"
Spot thought a moment and pictured Emma standing in front of him. "Uhm…brown hair, green eyes, 'bout my age, I guess. She dropped this an' I gotta get it back to 'er." He held out the bronze key and Flynn nodded.
"The Corwell's! Good customers of mine. They own Corwell Bakery. Lost one 'a the keys, did she? I wouldn't expect anything else from that girl…"
"Corwell Bakery? Is that in Brooklyn?"
Flynn eyed him skeptically. "Why don't I take care 'a that, son."
"No. I said I'd get it back to 'er."
"Son, just hand me the key."
Spot scowled at Flynn, offended, and shoved the key back into his coat. He stomped out of the shop stubbornly and realized his dignity had gotten in the way of his needing directions. He sighed and rounded the corner.
It had taken Spot a long while to track down Corwell Bakery. He had thought he knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand, but there were some places, it seemed, he had never seen before. He did not sell for the afternoon edition and instead, devoted his day to locating Emma. After all, she had said the key was very important.
"When you're finished with that, wipe down the counters," Mr. Corwell told Emma as she dunked a thick brush reluctantly into a bucket of soap water. "All these grubby customers puttin' their rotten fingers all over the clean glass…Disgusting."
Emma released a dramatic sigh and began scrubbing away at the floorboards. After having lost the bakery's only key, her father gave her a laundry list of chores to complete for an "undetermined period of time," he had said with an adamant stare. The list required twice as much work as she carried out on a daily basis.
Only a few minutes had passed and Emma took a look at the amount of space that had to be cleaned. The lobby looked twice the size as it normally did. She threw the brush down and folded her arms over her chest, pouting. Mr. Corwell walked through the kitchen towards the staircase.
"Clean!" he ordered as he walked past Emma. "No more pouting. You need to learn how to take control of your actions. After thirteen years I'd have thought you could dothat at least."
Emma, with angry, hot, adolescent tears in her eyes, dramatically picked up the brush again and started scrubbing.
Minutes passed slowly, and Emma was nearly finished re-stocking the shelves when a knock came to the lobby door. Her back was turned and she pretended she heard nothing. From the apartment, Mrs. Corwell reached her head out and called for Emma to answer it.
"Can't! It's not on my to-do list!" shouted Emma impulsively.
"Emma Marie, answer that door right now or you'll scrub every inch of the kitchen with a toothbrush every day for the next month! And quit mouthing off!"
Now intimidated, Emma turned and headed for the door. The "Closed" sign was already facing outward, so instead, without looking, she pulled down the blinds and walked away. She never looked at the person on the other side.
Moments later, the round of knocking repeated. This time, Emma unlocked the door, frustrated, and opened it just a crack.
"What d'you want?"
Thick snowflakes scattered the street and prevented her from a clear visual of the visitor. They responded, "Uhm, this is the Corwell's, ain't it?"
"Yeah, that's what the sign says, kid." She looked closer and paused.
"It's Emma, right?"
Her eyes widened a little and her heart skipped a beat, sending her pulse to speed up its pace. It was the newsie she had encountered twice before in her life. She opened the door wider and, as if eternally grateful, Spot stepped inside from the cold. Neither said anything.
"So, what, uhm…do you want anything? Coffee, er…somethin'?" stammered Emma, watching the clean floorboards soak in snow and water from Spot's shoes and pants.
"I'm fine. I found this." Spot reached his frozen, bare hand in his coat and yanked the shoestring from his neck. Emma's key dangled inches from her astonished face.
"Oh! You really found it!"
"Yeah," chattered Spot, "right after you lost it. Ya said ya needed it." His lean body shuddered with cold as he tried to warm up within the building.
Emma could tell without even asking the lengths this poor boy had gone to just to get the key back in her possession. It looked as though he had trekked a hundred miles in the blizzard just to get it back to her. Her heart went out to him with deep appreciation, but at the same time, it ached.
"So, d'you still need it?" asked Spot after Emma had stared at him without taking the key for a long moment.
"Uhm, well…we had the locks changed already, so that key…won't work," she replied gently.
Spot's shoulders slumped upon hearing her response. His arm came down to his side as if all his energy, even the last bit it took to even speak, had been used up. He let out a sigh, unable to formulate speech; the cold weather had frozen his mind temporarily.
"Emma!" came Mr. Corwell's voice from the apartment. "What're you doing down there?"
Emma jumped and gasped slightly. "You have to go!" she whispered to Spot harshly. She opened the door again and ushered him out, not thinking about the blizzard but only of her father. "I'm sorry!"
"Wait, what about…" he held up the key again.
"Keep it!" she replied quickly and shut the door.
Spot stood still for a while in the same position. His bottom lip fell open and he tried to register what had happened. He had hiked up and down Brooklyn trying to find Emma, all the while trudging through a snowstorm which was getting worse with every passing minute, only to find she didn't need the key at all anymore. Women, he thought cynically.
Spot made it to the corner of the block successfully about five minutes later when he retied the key around his neck to keep, as if it were a meaningful gift to him. He imagined those stupid, romantic cards which often read, "With love, from so-and-so." In this case, he could read "With love, from Emma," in his mind, but he knew it was probably nothing. Then, from behind him he heard the door slam closed and he turned to find Emma jogging towards him. He looked around and wondered how crazy this girl really was.
"I'm sorry!" she said as she buttoned up her heavy coat when she met up with him. Without another word, she took his bare hands from his pockets and slipped thick wool gloves onto each of them. She then took a scarf and wrapped it around his bare neck.
Spot looked at her. Her face was full of sympathy and her expressive green eyes resembled those of a puppy's. Snowflakes fluttered into herdark eyelashes.He couldn't help but be grateful. "Thanks."
Emma took her mitten-covered hand and shoved it in his. "I haven't caught your name yet."
Spot knew he had to think about that. She had been the one who triggered his nickname years ago, which would become legend for him in the distant future. His mouth fell open and he closed it quickly. "Conlon. Uh, Spot. Conlon."
Emma's lips spread into a knowing smile. She said nothing but he looked to the snow-covered ground and felt his cheeks burn. As if reading his mind, which was chanting "please don't bring up the fact you made it up," she said nothing.
"Well, hopefully we'll run into each other again, Spot." She tightened up his scarf in a motherly way and made her way back home. "Maybe on purpose, too."
