September 1893
The oldest newsboy, sixteen-year-old Tugboat, was so tall he didn't need to stand on anything to get the other boys' attention in a crowd. Tugboat whistled, and they all circled up on a corner near the distribution center. "Every one of ya fellas sold out today!" He shouted. Someone echoed, "Hell yeah!"
"Hell yeah! Great work!" Tugboat said. He clapped his hands once. "Now hit the road. Come with me if ya needs some supper."
The boys were grinning as they scattered in all directions. Their pockets were heavy with coins, and for once their day was done before sunset.
"I'm gonna get me a penny candy." Race said. He clapped Jack on the shoulder. "Wanna come?"
Jack smiled. "Of course." Tommy and Finch ran to catch up with them.
The bell on the door jangled loudly as the boys paraded into the five-and-dime store like a pack of puppies. The four of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter, studying the big glass jars of stick candy.
"Should I get peppermint or lemon?"
"Peppermint is only for Christmas. Do they have licorice?"
"Licorice? Yuck! Here's root beer and cinnamon ones."
"Two for a nickel. Should we each get two?"
"Ooh, I want two cinnamon!"
The grey-haired shopkeeper glared at them over his glasses. Jack and Finch tried to lower their voices. The other two didn't.
"May I help you boys?" He asked. He probably wondered from their beat up shoes and sweaty newsboy caps if they could afford to buy anything.
They pointed at the candy they wanted and proudly handed over their hard earned nickels. Jack got a cinnamon candy for himself and a lemon one for his father. It was his favorite. Maybe it'd cheer him up.
Their mouths and fingers grew sticky as the boys sucked their candies down to sharp, brittle points and walked aimlessly around the city. Tommy did sloppy cartwheels in the grass, which made the others laugh. Finch was feeling generous with his first ever paycheck and bought them a bag of peanuts to share. The boys split the salty shells with their teeth, then took turns trying to spit them as far as they could.
"Dang! look!" Race said, pointing. "I hit that squirrel! Scared it away."
"Did not!" Tommy said. Jack chomped on the last handful of nuts and threw the shells at a tree.
They scattered shortly before sunset. Finch lived with his oldest sister, and the other two lived in the Refuge. Jack had a long walk home, but he didn't mind it. He felt his pocket and hoped his father's candy wouldn't melt before he got there.
.
A man he'd never seen before was hovering at Jack's door when he got home.
"Are ya Pat Kelly's boy?" The man asked. He twisted a blue bandanna around in his calloused, dirty hands.
Jack took a step backwards. "Jack." He said.
"Ya father's had an accident, kid. You gotta come with me."
He froze. "What? No. Who are you? Where's my dad?"
"I been trying to find ya, kid." The man said. "I work with ya old man. He told me y'all live here. He fell...we was working on a wall and he fell. He hit his head real bad."
Jack's mouth went dry. The man took a step towards him. "My name's Walt. Couple of us took ya dad to my place. He started asking for ya as soon as he came to."
Inside his pocket, Jack felt for his dad's candy and snapped it in half. He was shaking as he silently followed Walt out of their building and through the streets. They ended up in a narrow townhouse on the north end of the neighborhood.
.
Pat was laying on a couch. His eyes were closed, and he took short, heavy breaths. As Jack got closer, he saw that his father's auburn hair was matted with blood.
"Papa?" Jack said. He couldn't breathe.
Pat opened his eyes and reached for Jack's hand. "Hey, lad." He said quietly. His eyes looked funny, like he couldn't quite focus them.
"What happened?"
Pat grunted. "Messed up...my shoulder."
Walt stood behind Jack. "We were up on a ladder. He lost his balance and fell backwards." he said. "Knocked him right out for a while. Another fella and I managed to carry him here. Cleaned him up best I could. My wife ain't back yet, but she'll know what to do."
Jack nodded and swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Can't afford...doctor." Pat said. Then he squeezed Jack's hand and swore as a dizzy spell took over him.
Jack felt at the candy and the coins in his pockets and wondered how much he'd need to pay a doctor. "Ya need a doctor." He told his father. "I'll go get our stash from home, and I got paid today. I made a lot today. I'll go fetch us somebody."
"No." Pat said. "No. Stay here...We'll go home soon."
"Stay as long as ya need." Walt said. "Do ya need anything? Jack, are ya hungry?"
Jack shook his head. He couldn't take his eyes off his father.
It was dark when Walt's wife and teenage daughter returned from their factory job. They dabbed cool water at the cuts and bruises on Pat's arms and neck, and brought him a shot of whiskey to dull the pain. Jack stood nearby, staring, playing with the coins in his pocket.
His father wasn't the invincible fairy tale giant he'd been when he and Ciara were tiny.
"Jack, staring at him won't make him any better." The wife said. "Come have something to eat."
Jack shook his head. "No thanks, ma'am."
She put her hands on her hips. "Wasn't a request, lad." She said. "Come fix ya self a plate. Sarah, get him a chair, please."
Jack sat at the little table with these strangers, picking at tiny bites of chicken. He wasn't hungry. His father, his legs dangling over the edge of the little couch, drifted in and out of restless sleep. Jack tried to help clean up from dinner, then he sat back down next to his father.
Walt's wife and daughter gently wrapped Pat's shoulder. One of them held him up by his uninjured left side. The other tied his arm across his chest. Bruises spread across his ribs and back, purple and black and yellow and some the size of dinner plates. Jack wanted to look away, but he stared until his eyes hurt.
"He's broken somethin' for sure." The wife said. She propped a pillow under Pat's arm. "I just ain't sure how much more I know how to do for him."
"But...he's gonna be okay, right?" Jack asked. He felt like a little kid, and he hated it.
Sarah, the daughter only a few years older than him, smiled softly and started to say something. But her mother shook her head. "I can't lie to ya, kid." She said. "I dunno. I hope so, but I don't know."
Jack nodded. He insisted he wouldn't sleep. He sat straight up in his chair, watching his dad's every breath. Sarah brought him a blanket and turned out the lamp in the kitchen. He couldn't sleep.
.
Jack and Pat both fell in and out of sleep throughout the night and into the next morning. Walt and his family couldn't afford to miss a day's work, but they left food for Jack and a note how to find a doctor or a cab if they needed anything.
It was midmorning by time Jack pulled himself from his hard chair. He'd slept sitting straight up. Everything was stiff. He folded the blanket, laid it on the chair, and wandered to the window by the door. It was grey and stifling, storming on and off. Pat was still sleeping. His injured arm sat at an awkward angle across his chest, and his face was very pale. Jack gently touched his father's uninjured hand. Should he try to wake him? Offer him water or something to eat?
He paced aimlessly around this foreign house. A couple hours crawled by. His dad still wasn't waking up. Jack sat down cross-legged on the floor, feeling hot and restless, and watched Pat's chest rise and fall. What should he do?
...
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