Same "Night", 1:00 A.M.
Manhattan
It was true. Sleep really wasn't going to come.
Secret moaned softly, rolling over for about the hundredth time. Despite the fact that the September nights were growing steadily cooler, she felt hot, fidgety, restless. Her itchy cotton nightgown clung to her skin, and the door leading out of the bunkroom was beginning to look more and more appealing.
Whatcha t'inkin', goil? She berated herself silently, shocked at the suggestion that her own mind seemed to be considering. No way can ya be t'inkin' o' goin' out on da streets o' New Yawk at dis time o' night. What, 'ave ya somehow f'gotten Song already?
This thought made Secret shudder, and not only because the emotional wound of her friend's death was still fresh. It was also because, in a way, it almost seemed as if she had forgotten Song, at least temporarily. For the first couple weeks after that terrible night, it had been all Secret could think about; it had been the thing that kept her up at night, and haunted her dreams on the few occasions sleep claimed her. But now those tragic memories had been replaced by another memory, another series of words and images, and one which, by all rights, should be a great deal less significant and less emotional than those surrounding her best friend's murder.
The memory that haunted her now was such a simple one. A beautiful moonlit river full of swimming newsies. A small, handsome, arrogant newsboy, speaking harshly to her, strongly implying that he believed the rumors proclaiming Flick as Song's killer. Secret had been horrified, shocked and upset, frightened and angry. For one of the very few times in her life, she had lost her famous cool, her famous good sense. She had allowed her almost nonexistent temper to take over, and she had pushed Spot Conlon into the river.
Thinking about that night, Secret found it so easy to explain in her mind, to summarize in perfectly simple and rational words. But the words didn't seem to fit what had really happened. They couldn't accurately describe half of the things she remembered most...the mysterious and alluring way that the mists embraced the water, the complex tangle of emotions that had stormed inside her, and most of all, that face...she couldn't even begin to describe the experience of looking into that face for the first time.
This thought was followed by such a powerful wave of shock and self-disgust that Secret feared she might be sick.
"Couldn't stay in dat liddle room...I was...feelin' too much...y'know?"
It was Flick who had said that once, describing how she'd felt one night at the boarding house where the two of them had stayed briefly after Song's death. Reflecting on the statement, Secret understood it completely. It was exactly how she felt now. And before her calm and rational mind could make any kind of protest, her traitorous legs were swinging over the edge of her bunk. Her traitorous eyes were scanning the room, glancing into the bunk above her, making sure that Flick and all the boys were sound asleep. Before her brain could even manage to grasp what she was doing, she had been in and out of the washroom, casting off her nightgown and pulling her dress over her head, drifting out into the lobby like an ice-blue, ebony-haired wraith. Past the table that held the Registration Book, past the door that led up some stairs into Kloppman's room, and, with a last sinking feeling of resignation, out the door of the lodging house.
As her bare feet carried her softly down the dark street, as she shivered in the slight early-autumn chill, and as she wondered in bewilderment where on Earth she thought she was going, Secret flashed back once more on the quote that had inspired this insane journey.
Now I know I'se in trouble. God help me, I'se t'inkin' like Flick.
One by one, the streets and the buildings that lined them flashed by, each one fading into the next. Secret paid no attention to them, except for a growing feeling of unease. For she knew full well that every step which carried her farther from Duane Street was a step farther from safety, deeper into the dark and dangerous unknown. Periodically, the sentence Dis is so da stupid an' I can't believe I'se doin' it crossed her mind, but other than that, her thoughts remained focused on the topic that had started her off on this crazy nighttime walk in the first place.
Secret had no desire to think of this topic anymore. If it were up to her, she would dismiss it completely. But apparently, her thoughts and the feelings attached to them no longer were up to her. Brooklyn, it seemed, could do that to people.
Spot Conlon could do that to people.
Spot Conlon could do that to girls.
October 19, 1890, 12:00 Noon
Harlem
"But if ya knew, even den..."
"Poor child...it seems so simple ta you, don't it? Ya can't undastand how it was fer me...he was da most amazin' poyson I eveh met. Wild, lighthearted, jokin' an' fun-lovin'...da life o' da party. Charismatic, I t'ink dat's what a scholah would call it. Means...charmin', y'know? Irresistible. I was...fascinated. Enthralled. Obsessed, ya might say. I was unda his spell...but I can't believe I'm tellin' ya dis! A liddle goil o' six..."
"I don't t'ink ya shoulda married 'im, Mama."
"Oh, darlin'! Don't be t'inkin' dat way. Imagine a baby like you sayin' sometin' like dat. An' about yer own papa. If I neveh married 'im, I neveh woulda had you...my poor liddle daughda. My sweet, sensible daughda. You won't make da same mistake yer mama made."
Back To The Present
"Oh, won't I?" Secret spoke aloud, although there was no one to hear her; the stillness of the night was beginning to bother her. "Well, I'se shoah glad ya had so much faith in me, Mama." Her voice was laced with bitter sarcasm. "'Cause I'se startin' ta have doubts about me, myself."
She was saved from having to analyze whether that sentence had made any sense by the sudden realization of where she was. This was followed by a stream of words that would have caused Secret's mother, had she still been alive, to wash her daughter's mouth out with soap.
Around her, the night breeze stirred up the air, raising goosebumps on her neck and muttering ominously. Below her, the East River sparkled, serene as ever. And before her stretched...well, what had she expected?...the Brooklyn Bridge.
Stupidly, Secret stared at it. She stared straight ahead into the darkness until she could swear she saw a face staring back at her. Gold hair, grey cap, ice-blue eyes...
Secret, ya bloody psychopath!
The imaginary face vanished, but the tension it had created did not. The shaken newsgirl found herself wondering if insanity was contagious. Could she have caught it from Flick? After all, Flick had, about three weeks ago, spent one unforgettable night believing that she had murdered her best friend.
Then Secret laughed dryly. Of all da dumb excuses ya coulda come up wit, dat one beats 'em all. Sure, Flick occasionally had her own mental issues, but she would never be caught dead in the kind of situation she found herself in now. Secret actually laughed as she tried to picture Flick becoming obsessed with a boy.
Amusing thoughts of Flick were just beginning to distract Secret from disturbing thoughts of Spot when her solitude was suddenly shattered without warning. The sound of footsteps met her ears, and her eyes widened at the sight of two figures approaching across the bridge. Their footsteps were mingled with loud, rapid conversation...and then a burst of high, girlish laughter. This actually frightened Secret more than if it had been a gang of thugs with clubs and chains. If there was one thing she and Flick had in common, it was a mortal terror of high girlish laughter. Diving for the nearest shrub, Secret ducked out of sight and silently eavesdropped on the intruders.
"I dunno what's wrong wit ya, Punky! Da most gorgeous guy eveh ta walk da oith, an' ya'd barely even look at 'im..."
"C'mon, Trigga," moaned the other girl's voice, "ya know 'is reputation. You din't even bodda ta tawk ta poor Valentine...she knows foisthand what a joik he is, even dough she's too nice ta put it like dat..."
"Punky," the first girl's voice interrupted impatiently, "yer jist da craziest goil I'se eveh met. Shoah, Spot ain't got da greatest hist'ry wit goils, but if dat's enough ta make ya stay away from him, ya ain't even human. Did ya even get a look at dat face? I'd be happy ta drown in dose eyes..."
To Secret's enormous relief, the girls were apparently capable of walking while talking, and at this point, the distance between them and her bush became sufficient for their voices to fade away into the night.
As soon as the footsteps had become completely inaudible, Secret burst out from behind her bush as if she'd been shot from a cannon. "Dat's it!" she declared. "Dat is absolutely, positively it! I look inside my mind an' see Brooklyn. I look at wheah I am an' see Brooklyn. I look at da people around me, an' I heah Brooklyn...Brooklyn...Brooklyn!" The word had quickly become a swear word to her, representing both the borough by that name and, more to the point, the boy who owned its streets.
"Punky...Trigga...who were dose goils? What were dey doin' comin' back from Brooklyn at one in da mornin'? Real safe. Wait a second, did I really jist say dat? Me, da goil dat was wanderin' 'round New Yawk alone at one in da mornin'? But I ain't usually like dis. It's all Spot's fault. Which makes no sense, 'cause I'se barely met da kid. An' why'd I go an' t'ink o' my mudda t'night? I ain't t'ought o' her in yeahs..."
This monologue of Secret's was being carried on as she navigated swiftly through the streets of Manhattan, away from the Brooklyn Bridge and back in the direction of the lodging house, which she was entirely aware she should never have left. She shut her mouth when the sign for Duane Street came into view, heaving a sigh of relief as she turned onto the familiar street and approached the welcome form of her shabby home.
And stopped dead in her tracks.
A'right, dis's been a seriously bizarre night. Dis wouldn't be da foist time t'night dat I saw or hoid sometin' dat ain't dere. I'se jist oveh-tiah'd, is all.
It was a highly comforting conclusion. So, like most comforting conclusions, it was quickly shattered, by a repeat of the sound that she had just "imagined".
A voice...a low, raspy voice from somewhere behind her, somewhere in the shadows.
Two syllables were all it seemed to have to say...it was now repeating them a third time.
They were not "Brooklyn".
They were two syllables which made up a name that Secret hadn't heard in eight years. At least, not applied to her.
She wanted to turn around, to look behind her. She wanted even more to run, to close the few feet between her and the lodging house, to climb the steps and barricade herself behind the safety of its sturdy door, and claim the warmth and security of her own bunk.
Instead, she stood frozen like a statue.
The name was spoken one last time, but loudly now, forcefully, with conviction, triumph. The voice had grown closer, she noted. It was now directly behind her. She was fully aware of this, and of what it meant, and of what she should do. But it wasn't until the steely fingers closed around her wrist that she managed to move. Yanking free, Secret sprinted down the street, stumbled up the steps of the lodging house, and burst in through the door, slamming it behind her and firmly fastening the latch and bolt.
For a few moments, she simply leaned against the door, attempting to correct her breathing pattern, aware that her face was probably as pale as Flick's at the moment. Then, turning to eye the door, she resumed her questionable new habit of speaking aloud without an audience.
"No," she declared matter-of-factly. "Y'know what? No. Dat did not happen. Uh-uh. I refuse ta believe dat happened. It'd be really, really convenient at dis particula time ta decide dat what jist happened did not happen."
Slightly calmed by this decision, the girl proceeded into the
bunkroom, careful to monitor every movement so as to make the minimal amount of noise. Though there was no clock in the room, she estimated the time to be around 2:30 A.M. After a quick glance around her to make sure everyone else was still safely asleep, Secret collapsed once again on her blissfully inviting bunk.
Upon closing her eyes for the second time that night, she discovered just how much good her little adventure had done. Now her mind was crowded not only with images of Brooklyn, but with many other memories as well, pulled out of a far more distant past.
One phrase in particular stood out in her mind.
"My poor liddle Charlotte...an' I got nuttin' ta leave ya. I'd leave ya da woild if I could, but I got nuttin'...nuttin' at all."
"Oh, ya left me sometin' a'right, Mama," Secret whispered grimly. "I'se receivin' yer legacy now, a'right, in moah ways den one."