Part I, Chapter XI
March 18, 1899
Brooklyn, New York
Emma spent the better half of a late morning doing mindless chores around the apartment. She dunked a garment into the wash basin and effortlessly took a bar of soap to it. Her puffy, red eyes stared blankly in front of her. She moved robotically and hadn't even bothered to roll up her shirt sleeves while doing laundry. Her mind kept replaying the conversation in her head from two days ago:
"Emma, your father and I have given this a lot of thought."
"What's going on? What happened?"
Edward and Helen looked at each other anxiously.
"We've been offered building space in Philadelphia. We're extending our business! Not a lot of places around here get this chance, but my brothers helped us make it happen."
"Oh." Emma rested easy for a moment. "Well, that's good news, I guess. Who's running it? Uncle Richard lives there, is he taking care of it?"
Helen looked at her husband again cautiously. "Not exactly. It's important we get this off the ground successfully…So, your father and I have decided to manage it. One of the cooks is being promoted here, so they'll take care of this one while we're there."
"What?" shouted Emma. She jumped to her feet angrily. "How could you—What, you want me to just pack up and leave with you? I won't do it!"
"Sit down, Emma! It's not like we're moving out West, we're just going to Philadelphia. It isn't that far and we'll be living with my family," reprimanded Helen.
"I don't care, it's not Brooklyn! It's not New York! And I won't sit down!"
"Emma, listen, it'll only be for a few years. We just need to make sure it gets up and running."
"So, you go! I couldn't care less about this stupid bakery!"
"Watch your—"
"Ya know, I have a life here, you can't expect me to just leave it all behind!"
Edward rose from his chair angrily. His dark, angry eyes buried into hers and Emma sat down at once. She closed her mouth and glared up at him.
"Emma, that boy is not your life. We are still your parents, your family should be more important to you than him. We need all the support we can get, even if we do have relatives in Philadelphia. You're going with us and I don't want to hear another word about it."
"But—"
"What did I say?"
Her bottom lip quivering, Emma rose from her chair and hurried into her room. She slammed the door forcefully and leaned her back against it.
"And tell Spot he needs to make a quicker exit next time!" she heard her father say from the kitchen.
Presently, Emma was ringing out one of her father's shirts. As she stared at the sopping wet, freshly cleaned garment, she considered taking all of his laundry and hurling it out the window. How dare they treat me like such a child, telling me what to do! Instead, she remembered how angry her father can get, and clipped it onto the clothes line.
She felt a lump form in her throat when her eyes flew to her bedroom door. Spot was still asleep, even at eleven in the morning. He had passed out cold from the night before and put up too much of a fight to get up at dawn. She felt as though she should be angry as hell with him for showing up practically unconscious. But considering the circumstances, he could have done anything last night and she would dismiss it; she didn't have time to argue with him anymore.
She picked up another garment and scrubbed it hard against the washboard.
Around noon, Spot's eyes opened heavily. He stared for a long time at the sideways wall in front of him before he realized he was at Emma's house. Slowly, so not to lose the contents of last night's festivities, he rolled over and saw an empty bed space. Clutching his stomach, he sat up and turned to the side of the bed.
"Goddamn…"
Spot hadn't been this hung-over in a long time. He hardly remembered seeing Emma or even leaving with Oliver. He remembered crawling from pub to pub drinking himself into oblivion. He remembered when the alcohol hit him and he remembered vaguely shoving a girl off his lap. Everything else was anybody's guess.
The door opened and Emma stood in the doorway. They looked at each other silently for a moment.
"Hi," greeted Spot weakly.
"Hi."
Emma walked over and started making her side of the bed. Without a word, she fluffed the pillows and smoothed out the sheets. Spot wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn't find the words—he also thought if he spoke, he would vomit all over the place. Instead he held his stomach and leaned over slightly.
"You gonna be sick?" asked Emma.
Spot shook his head, and even that hurt. "No."
Emma left the room and Spot clutched his throbbing head. Pangs of guilt formed in his stomach; he could distinguish that well from the alcohol. He knew Emma was angry with him and, whether or not he chose to admit it, she had a right to be. He knew he should probably apologize, but he was never good at that, so he never did. Emma made her way back into the room, this time with a small bucket in her hand which she placed in front of Spot.
"Em—"
"We need to talk," said Emma at the same time. "Sorry. We just—I really need to talk to you. It's kinda important."
Spot felt another pang. Yet this time he felt the alcohol too. He tried his best to keep it together, but—
"Shit."
Spot bent forward and hurled what felt like all of his organs into the bucket. He squeezed his eyes closed and felt them water. His knuckles turned white and felt like they were splitting in half from the tight grip he had on the bucket's rim. Emma sat beside him and rubbed his back. Another pang of guilt—and another lurch into the bucket.
Moments later, Spot caught his breath. Emma stopped rubbing his back.
"I'll get you some water and a towel."
Spot kept his eyes closed and pushed the bucket from his face. Suddenly, a round of taps came to the bedroom window. Spot looked up and saw Bolt sitting outside the fire escape. Gradually, very curious, he walked over and opened the window. Bolt's face was anxious and worried.
"What the hell?"
"Conlon, ya gotta get back to the lodging house," he urged.
"It can't wait? I just puked up my fuckin' liver…"
"No," panted Bolt. "It's about Oliver."
"What happened?"
Bolt hesitated and his breath picked up. "He's…hurt. Real bad. It happened just last night when he got home."
"Bolt, tell me what happened!" Spot's nerves shook to his core and his mind raced.
"I'll tell ya that on the way, ya just gotta hurry, okay?"
"Gimme two seconds."
Refusing to acknowledge how sick he felt, Spot shoved his feet into his shoes and hurried out the window. Emma returned just as he crawled through, and he hesitated.
"I'll see ya tonight, somethin' came up at the lodging house! I'll see ya later, I promise!"
"But we didn't get to—"
Slam.
"Talk."
Emma sighed and set the glass of water onto the dresser. She closed her eyes and slid her back down the wall. All she could hear in her mind was her father telling her, "Emma, that boy is not your life…" Her shoulders rolled forward and, genuinely hurt, she sobbed uncontrollably, and she hated the person who made her that way.
