Part I, Chapter XVIII

April 10, 1899

Brooklyn, New York

1:18 a.m.

Spot held his forehead in his hands as he sat up. I can't do this anymore. He stared at the floor and looked at the time on the open pocket watch sitting on his nightstand. He had been in bed little over an hour and only restless sleep plagued him. Not careful to be silent, he crawled out his window. He let his feet dangle over the edge of the fire escape as he rested his chin on the iron bar.

"See wha' some dame gimme, Tony?"

"That's a daisy that is. How'd you get it?"

Looking down, Spot eyed two young men strolling slowly down the street.

"She gave it ta me, don't you listen? Walkin' through the market today and she was passin' 'em out. Placed it right in my hand heah."

As the two men walked out of sight, the conversation he had overheard struck a chord with Spot. Upon first meeting Emma, nine years ago, she had teased him about the name he would become legendary for. Before she had run off, she placed a fully blossomed daisy into his hand.

Spot grabbed his collarbone, as he instinctively did from time to time when he thought of Emma. The key necklace was gone.

After thoughtful time and consideration, Spot stood up. He was going to go inside, rest his eyes, and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow morning he would wake up, sell papers, and talk to Emma. Already he didn't like the idea of himself accepting partial, or any, responsibility; but if that's what it took to get Emma back, he was going to do it.

6:05 a.m.

Emma's eyes opened wearily to the sound of voices and movement about the apartment. She heard her parents' voices, and those of strangers. She closed her eyes again and pulled the blanket over her head. What time was it? What day was it?

Moving day. She sank lower into her bed.

"Emma Marie!" called her mother from the other room. "Wake up, get a move on!"

Emma sighed impatiently. "I'm up."

"Then get your things together! The movers are leaving in an hour and I don't want you holding them up!"

Miserably, Emma picked up her pillow and smothered it over the side of her head. Ten minutes passed and her mother invited herself into her room, yanking the blanket from Emma's bed in one fluid motion. She groaned miserably and curled into a ball.

"Come on, Emma! I need you to get ready!"

As Emma put the final touches to everything she ever owned in her room, she stopped and leaned her forehead against the window. The sun glowed on her closed eyelids. If she turned her head to the left, the window framed a long view of the city. If she squinted her eyes, she could see the Brooklyn Bridge, the docks, and the river. She turned and leaned her back against the window, wiping tears from her cheeks.

On the nightstand, curled in the tangles of a shoelace, was the key necklace. She had found it buried underneath the doormat of the front door of the bakery only days ago. She thought picked it up and stared at it in consideration.

12:21 p.m.

Spot paced up and down the block. His stomach growled, but he hadn't eaten lunch because of the pangs of guilt he had been having. He ran through the speech in his mind, motioning during certain points and shaking his head low during others. His key necklace was gone, as he kept reminding himself every time he checked his neck.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Stopping of interruption, Spot looked up and met the bewildered expression of Elizabeth. Her face was a mixture of impatience and confusion, as they could both recall Elizabeth giving Spot the boot the morning after she had first met Emma. He had been put in his place, for a change, and had not stepped a foot near Sonny's since then.

"Nothin'. What's it ta you?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "If you're practicing some kind of apology, don't bother. She doesn't want to hear it. It'd hurt her too much."

Spot shook his head, puzzled. "Her who? You?"

"No. Emma."

"What? How d'you know her?" The level of his voice increased.

"Look, that doesn't matter, Spot. Don't hurt her any more than you already have, okay? Let it go."

He walked away, shaking his head low, and as he brushed past her, he said, "You don' know anythin' about me an' her. Don't talk about Emma."

12:28 p.m.

The train station seemed so final once Emma had arrived. As her parents collected their carry-on luggage, she took a seat on the bench and waited for their train. In the distance, another train arrived and the passengers filed out of the car. She watched as a young man hopped out with long-stemmed daisies in his hand. After scoping out the crowd anxiously, a smile flashed onto his face brightly as he ran to a young woman. They embraced tightly and shared an innocent, loving kiss. She received the flowers thankfully and planted another kiss on the man's lips.

"Emma, time to board." Mr. Corwell placed his arm on her shoulder. She looked at him hesitantly and he closed his eyes, making his way toward the train. Mrs. Corwell followed behind.

Emma stopped in her tracks at the door. She closed her eyes and saw Spot. She saw him the first time they had met; when he showed up to return her key; the first time he kissed her. She saw the young man embracing the young woman with a kiss and daisies in his hand.

"Come on, dear," interrupted Mrs. Corwell. "Get a move on, people are waiting."

12:35 p.m.

It came as a great surprise to see Corwell Bakery locked up. It was no holiday. It was an ordinary day. Spot shook the front doors lightly at first, then harder and harder, knocking on the windows and calling for someone to let him inside. From the kitchen, an irritated cook emerged and opened the lobby door a crack.

"Can I help you, son?" he inquired, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Yeah, 'scuse me a second." Spot shoved opened the door and past the cook.

"What—what are you doing here, we're closed today!"

Spot ignored the man and bounded up the staircase. He grabbed the doorknob but it wouldn't turn. He looked down and saw his key necklace dangling from the doorknob. The sight of it made his heart race and his stomach rake with nerves as he tried to figure out what this meant. He grabbed the key and ran downstairs once more.

"Where is she? What's goin' on?" he urged the cook.

"Who? Helen?"

"Emma! Where's Emma?"

The cook, still confused, shook his head slightly. "Well—they're at the train station, or at least on their way out of here."

"What—Where're they going?"

"Philadelphia. They've opened another store down there, they're moving today."

Spot suddenly felt very alone. He remained still a moment as the information sunk in. The cook raised his palms helplessly and looked at the clock on the wall.

"Their train leaves in just a few minutes, if that helps. I'm sorry."

Spot took a deep breath, threw the necklace over his head, and bolted for the door. His mind raced at a mile a minute as he dodged passers-by in the street. He took every shortcut he knew, mapping out Brooklyn in his brain as he cut through alleys and weaved in and out of the crowded markets.

At the train station, he breathlessly asked the man at the ticket booth where the train to Philadelphia was located.

"Well, it's right over there, son, but I've no more tickets for you—"

Leaving the man still pointing to the left, Spot hurried through the building and out onto the loading dock. The steam to the train was rising into the sky, preparing to take off down the track. As the last of the passengers boarded, Spot pushed open the door and was blocked by a navy blue-suited man, getting ready to take tickets.

"I'm sorry, son, we're all full."

"No, I need to get on this train. I need to talk to someone." He gripped the narrow doorframe tightly, refusing to let the train leave without him.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to catch another train!" The man closed the door.

Spot knocked his fist onto the glass. "Emma!"

12:41 p.m.

Emma jumped to her feet. She asked hurriedly, "Did you hear that?"

"What, dear?" asked Mrs. Corwell.

Emma didn't respond. Her heart practically skipped a beat and even though she couldn't see him, she heard Spot. Her breath came in a quick, shortened rhythm and her lip started to quiver.

"'Scuse me, miss, you'll have to take your seat. We're just about to leave," said one of the ticket collectors.

She looked at him, misty-eyed, and remained standing.

"Emma, sit down right now," ordered Mr. Corwell.

"I…I can't…" stuttered Emma, trembling.

"Emma, it's alright, just sit down," said Mrs. Corwell.

She could hear Spot still trying to make his way onto the train. Passengers exchanged looks between Spot outside on one end of the car, and Emma on the other side. If she had the strength, she would shove past the ticket collector, pry open the door, and leap onto the loading dock. But she reminded herself, as best as she could, what he had done to her. She closed her eyes and felt the train moving.

"Emma!"

The moment had passed, Spot still trying to get on, and Emma sat down slowly in defeat. She leaned her head against the window, the sun warming her face, and covered her eyes with her hands. Her parents said nothing as she cried silently across from them.

12:43 p.m.

As he watched the train move further into the distance, Spot felt the same loneliness he felt when the cook had told him they were moving to Philadelphia. His heart ached as he stood breathless and hurt, trembling as the train disappeared.

When he turned around and walked a few steps forward, he saw his reflection before him in a window. He stood still as he glared back at it. What was the saying about doors, or windows? When you close a door, there's a window of opportunity?

Bullshit.

Spot felt betrayed and filled with more anger than he had ever felt before. He stomped forward with the vision of Emma—everything they had ever had together—burning in his mind. He reeled his fist back and shattered the window into a thousand pieces.

END PART I