We soon fell into a predictable pattern. In the morning we would have breakfast. He asked that I clean the apartment while he was gone and stay away from the window. Then he would come home and we would have dinner. Usually he would bring me a paper and tell me that Spot sent his regards. Often he would go downstairs to the neighbors' apartment for a few hours to clean the place, leaving me to read the paper. He would come over to my bed most evenings before retiring for the night. He often crushed me to his chest in hugs, and I hated that most of all.
The thing that sustained me was the thought of Spot and of Papa. Spot needed me to be strong and to stay hidden. Every time Antonio came to my bed, I retreated into my own thoughts. Mostly I thought of Spot. I locked all the emotions—the pain, the fear, the disgust-into a bottle and assured myself instead that I needed to do this for Spot. I needed to be strong.
I liked the hours when Antonio was at work. I liked reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I had heard of Mark Twain, but I had not read this book. I loved it; I loved the adventure and the impish spirit and the creativity that was Tom Sawyer. In a lot of ways he reminded me of Spot—always getting his way, doing things his own way. I missed the freedom and spirit of Spot and his newsboys.
By now spring was in full bloom, and I was miserable. I was trapped in this apartment. Every day I had asked Antonio when I could return to work, but apparently the police were still looking for me. He said they had visited the factory two days ago and the lodging house the night before that. He figured a few more days, and he promised that as soon as Spot thought it was safe I could leave. I was getting awfully tired of being cooped up and dreaded Antonio's regular visits to my bed, but I figured Spot must know what he was doing. I had missed Spot's birthday, and I asked Antonio to deliver a letter to him. In it I begged him to get me out of here.
I spent three weeks living in fear and frustration before I finally became bold enough to look out the window. Down below, I spotted a police officer. Antonio told me that the man was frequently outside during the day, looking for me. It shook me to my core. It was another two weeks before I decided that I'd had enough. I would rather have an adventure like Tom Sawyer and end up in an orphanage than stay here. I had been at Antonio's for nearly five weeks now. So it was that I planned my departure.
One night after Antonio had returned to his own bed, I crawled out, throwing my one change of clothes and the Twain book into a pillowcase. I crept as quietly as I could out of the apartment. It was dark, so I had to move slowly to avoid bumping into things. My heart was thumping in my chest so loudly I was sure Antonio could hear it, but I made it to the doorway and slowly undid the deadbolt. The little click as the latch opened and the creak of the door seemed to ring through the night. I listened to be sure Antonio hadn't woken, closed the door as softly as I could, and headed down the building stairs. It was quiet, and it made me nervous. I had always tried to avoid going out at night since that incident last summer. Still, the fresh air beckoned, and I tried to be brave like Tom Sawyer.
When I stepped outside, the enormity of my predicament hit me. I needed to go—where? I couldn't bring trouble to the boys, and I knew Spot wouldn't be impressed that I had disobeyed him. Where to go? Was there anywhere in Brooklyn . . . ?
And then it hit me. No. I needed to leave Brooklyn. I had no idea where I was headed, but I had to start by crossing the river. I bolted for the bridge, nervous about being outside like this. It was so dark and cold. I stopped briefly to put on the shoes in my bag. I hadn't been wearing them for fear of waking people in the building, but now that I was out of sight I knew I needed shoes. I was still in my nightgown, but at least I could walk. Well, sort of. I was quite sore from Antonio's visits to my bed, but it was manageable. I would just have to figure it out.
And so it was that I ended up in Manhattan. I found an alley and quickly changed from my nightgown into my only real clothes, then summed up my situation.
Okay, this was bad. I was lost. I had no idea where I was. I had a sack with a book and a nightgown, no money, and nowhere to go. I was hungry. I needed to avoid the police at all costs. The sun was coming up, and my fear and exhaustion overwhelmed me. I found a park and headed in among the trees, found a soft spot, and curled up. I have no idea how long I slept, but it must have been several hours. It was midday when I woke, still hungry, feeling rumpled, and scared. I headed down the next street. After a few hours of walking I found a neighborhood full of hiding places. This would work for tonight. I was still hungry, but at least I had a quiet and hidden place to sleep. Curling up in the fading daylight, I tried to find a comfortable position. The gnawing in my stomach was relentless, and it was matched by the gnawing in my head that I could go back to Antonio.
No. The bed there might be more comfortable, but I liked this better. Sharing with him had been unpleasant and had made me feel dirtier than I felt now. I remembered what Spot had said about sex, but living with Antonio made it feel like it was a big deal. I knew that was just my perception and that I was ungrateful, but somehow I felt like this was better than going back. I reminded myself that Tom Sawyer seemed to think adventures were fun, and this was my adventure. I wasn't having fun, but at least things were better than they had been with Antonio, no matter how wrong it was to think that.