January 1900
"Let me help." Kat whispered. "You're strong, Jack, but you don't have to be. Let someone take care of you for once."
"I don't 'member the last time nobody fussed over me like this." Jack said. He didn't remember the last time he'd been so sick either.
xxx
March 1888
Jack, who was almost 6, had his father's green eyes, his mother's round face, and his baby sister's cold. He sat on the fire escape, sniffling, with his chin resting on his knees. The weather wasn't exactly warm yet, but he knew the long, dark winter was melting from the air. It was almost Molly's first birthday, then his birthday, then Ciara's. He and Ciara were watching the busy streets, waiting, like they always did, for their father to come home.
Ciara leapt up when the door opened, threw her arms around Pat's waist, and climbed him like a tree. She laid her head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent of dirt, smoke, and exhaustion. Pat was slender, but tall and strong from a lifetime of hauling brick and stone. To the kids he may have well have been a fairytale giant. He kissed Ciara's cheek, then sighed and put her down. "I carried bricks all day, darlin', don't need to carry a big girl like you."
Jack hugged him around the knees and Pat put a heavy, calloused hand on his head. "Hullo, lad."
Evelyn was at the kitchen table with Molly sitting in her lap, fussing. Pat leaned over his wife's shoulder and grabbed the baby's chubby fist. "A mhuirnin (uh WER-neen, darling or sweetie), what's all this about?" He sat down next to them.
"I told ya last night she was gettin' sick." Evelyn said, frowning. "She and Jack both been coughin' all day long." She wiped Molly's nose with her sleeve, then plopped the baby into Pat's lap and stood up to finish dinner.
Pat used his fingers to fluff Molly's soft strawberry blonde hair so it stood up in all directions like flames. "Ya got a fire on ya head, my unlucky gal." This usually made Molly smile, but she just looked up at him with huge, teary eyes and whimpered.
"I told ya, Pat." Evelyn said. "I told ya all them little ones downstairs been sick."
This was the beginning of an argument the two of them had every couple of months.
Country girl Evelyn had been spoiled by her room and board when she worked as a maid, and never quite got used to the noise and the mess of living in a crowded apartment complex. The buildings were too close together; sometimes she felt restless, at best, and unsafe at worst.
But Pat had been raised in the slums, where his family of seven was packed into a single windowless room. The hundreds of immigrants who lived in his building were more often than not jobless, angry, filthy, and sick. To Patrick, even the amount of sunlight and fresh air in their narrow 1-bedroom apartment felt luxurious.
"Ya worry too much." Pat said. He wrapped one hand around Molly, and used the other to prop his head up on his fist. He could feel Molly's tiny ribs under his hands as her chest sucked in and out with every breath she took.
"The ceiling still leakin' in the corner." Evelyn muttered, pointing to a water stained spot above Jack and Ciara's bed. "No wonder theys sick."
She slammed their plates on the table one at a time: clang, clang, clang, clang. The noise made Molly cry harder, which made her choke and cough. Evelyn scooped her up and rubbed her back. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep shaky breath to calm herself. "Let's eat."
Jack's father, who laid bricks from dawn to dinnertime six days a week, was a creature of habit. Every night he ate dinner, drank a glass of whiskey, then held Jack on one knee and Ciara on the other while they prayed "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep". Then he went straight to bed. In the summertime, he was asleep before the sun went down.
xxx
Jack couldn't sleep. Molly had finally settled down, and Ciara laid on her stomach beside him, breathing deeply. But Jack laid flat on his back in the bed he and his sister shared, studying the shape of the water stain in the corner and listening to his mother do the dishes. His throat really hurt now and he couldn't breathe through his nose.
He got up and padded across the shadowy room. "Ma?"
"Go to bed, Jack." Evelyn said. Her tired eyes didn't even look up from the pan of water. "It's late."
He pressed himself into her side and mumbled something about not being able to sleep.
Evelyn dried the last plate, then dried her hands and wrapped her arm around him. "Ya not feeling so well, either, are ya, sweet boy?"
"Can ya tell me a story?" He said. He sniffled and hoped he looked so pitiful she had to say yes. "Please?"
Evelyn yawned, then sat down in a chair and pulled Jack into her lap. "A short one." She said. "Now, years ago, a lad, a bit older than you, by the name of Mikey O'Brien was walkin' through a forest when he saw a wrinkled little man sittin' on a rock, drinkin' a pint…" This was one of his favorite legends with a wonderfully mischievous leprechaun and a little boy stupid enough to trust him.
.
Years later, once he'd become the strong, smart-mouthed, applauded Jack Kelly who would do anything to look out for his newsie brothers-steal food, break out of juvie, lead strikes, and try to sell papes in single-digit weather when he had the Christmas plague-Jack told his girlfriend he didn't remember the last time he had someone fuss over him when he was sick.
But that was a lie.
Every minute of that endless night in their damp, dim apartment remained vivid and haunting.
His mother's storytelling voice grew tired as silly leprechaun antics made him forget about sore throats and creepy shadows.
Then Molly awoke with a piercing cry as soon as he got back in bed.
He pretended to be asleep, laying as stiff as he could, as he heard Molly's breathing grow more and more rapid and wheezy. Evelyn, with Molly on her shoulder, paced back and forth between the front door and the stove a hundred times. inhale-squeak! Inhale-squeak! Then coughing and gasping, Evelyn's gentle murmuring and patting her back. A hundred times.
Jack would swear he didn't sleep at all that night, but he must have, because his next memory was at sunrise. His parents sat at the kitchen table, Molly in Pat's lap, leaning listlessly against his chest. From his bed, in the soft orange light, Jack could see his baby sister's lips were grey. Her sweet, round face shone with sweat. Evelyn was facing away from him. Her dark hair was in a sloppy bun, and her shoulders stooped in exhaustion. Was she crying? He couldn't tell. He'd never seen either of his parents cry before.
His father should've been leaving for work by now, right? He usually left around sunrise, didn't he? Ciara was still sleeping. Jack was perfectly still. He needed to not bother his parents so they could help Molly.
.
Ciara shook him awake.
"Jack!" She was just inches away from him, with her huge blue eyes and her hot breath on his face. Sunlight flooded the apartment. "Jack, Jack. Somethin' the mattah with Molly."
His parents were sitting at the table. Why was his dad still home? Shouldn't he be at work? He and Ciara leapt up.
Evelyn was holding Molly. Jack thought her hair looked even redder against her pale face. She was very, very still.
xxxx
*deep breath* Alright, there's some childhood trauma for ya. I said it was gonna be sad!
That "last time he'd had someone to fuss over him" idea was the springboard, and I initially intended for this to be just be a one shot with the last time Jack remembers being nurtured :( But I could keep this going, possibly, with the rest of his childhood/family up until he becomes a newsies. Thoughts?