Ah, the third ghost. Shit's about to get real.
CW: This chapter deals with death and grieving (both healthy and unhealthy methods). A lot of it. It also alludes to suicide, and has some characters reacting non-sympathetically to a character who took their own life.
This is... well... the future ain't pretty.
I'll see ya at the end. And I'm very sorry.
Part Five: The Future
The phantom approached, carrying a sense of impending dread as it drifted across the icy ground. Jack remained rooted to his spot, hardly daring to breathe, for the robed figure might snatch the air from his lungs and disappear into the gloom.
While the other ghosts had been cheery, this one was terrifying, more so than Davey's chained ghost had been. Shrouded in black, the only visible part of its body was one muscular arm, so bruised that the formerly pale skin had turned purple. At least, Jack noted as it drew closer, this spirit stood several inches shorter than him. Small consolation.
"I s'pose you're the Ghost of Christmas Future?" Jack asked when the figure stopped, inches from him, and tipped its hooded face up. If it had eyes, they were not visible; only darkness lay within the hood. "Here ta show me what's yet to come?"
Rather than answer, the spirit stretched out its arm, and pointed behind Jack.
He did not dare take a look. "And you're only gonna show me what might happen, right? It ain't set in stone?"
Slowly, the phantom moved its head up and down.
"Great. Any chance you could take off the hood?"
The ghost stepped around him and began to walk, its purple arm still outstretched.
"Worth a shot." Jack followed in its footsteps; his feet crunched against the snow, while the ghost's made no noise. "You're a lot scarier than the others. But I respect that. Silent, broodin'– that's intimidation. I used ta know a guy–"
The phantom turned sharply toward him; Jack expected its hood to fall off, but no such luck. He still could not see a thing within the darkness.
"Sorry. You got a schedule ta keep too, I s'pose. Understood. I'll hush up."
The spirit faced the course ahead, and Jack walked behind, mimicking its silence.
Passing skyscrapers, carriages, and throngs of people– as in the present– they soon came upon the heart of Lower Manhattan: Newsies Square. Despite a steady drizzle of freezing rain, young boys and girls in threadbare clothing lined every corner, waving papers in the air and shielding the bags at their waists to protect the merchandise from the deluge.
"Extra, extra!" called one boy, who could not have been older than ten. "Famous lawyer bites the dust!"
"Lawyer's estate up in the air!" shouted a girl at the lamppost across the street. "Read all about it!"
Three men, each with their own umbrella, came out of a building at the girl's corner. Two of them appeared familiar– not only because of their identical facial features– but Jack could not attach names. The spirit brought him close to the trio, and as the third man stopped to buy a paper from the girl, Jack recognized his shock of red hair.
"When'd he die?" Albert asked, folding the paper and stowing it in the pocket of his coat.
"Last night, I heard," the girl answered, and fell into a round of sneezes. Selling in this weather did not do her health any favors.
"What 'appened?"
"You didn't hear?" asked one of the twins, steering his friends away from the newsie before they could catch whatever she had. "He threw 'imself off the Brooklyn Bridge."
At this, Albert stopped in the middle of the street. "Why?"
The other twin shrugged, nudging Albert forward so an oncoming carriage could continue smoothly on its way. "Firm went bankrupt. Guess he fin'ly lost the thing 'e truly loved."
"But he still had a mountain a' savings," said the first twin. "I wonder who 'e left it to."
"Well, he didn't leave it to me."
Even Albert chuckled at that.
"Haven't heard anythin' about a funeral," the second twin went on. "Not that anyone would wanna go."
"Yeah, las' people who cared about 'im are at da bottom of da ocean," Albert said darkly, and his companions grimaced.
After a moment, the first twin broke the solemn silence. "Y'know, I'd mourn 'im if lunch was provided. He an' I were great friends back in the day."
His brother chortled. "Right! He couldn't even tell us apart!"
The men walked on, mixing into the crowd. Jack turned to the spirit, hoping for some words of clarity, but it had none to give, and led him on.
Though they did not enter any doors or climb any stairs, they arrived on the top floor of The World building. The editor's office looked just as Jack remembered it: paneled with dark wood and lit by dim lamps. Darcy sat behind the large desk with a newspaper spread before him. Across from him, in a high-backed chair of red plush, sat Bill, also peering over the copy.
"You know you spelled his last name wrong?" Bill tapped the spread. "There's no 'E' before the 'Y'."
"No?" Darcy pushed up his glasses and turned the page. "Oh well. I'm sure they'll get it right on his tombstone."
"Certainly." Bill glanced at the frightful weather outside. "Cold today."
"Isn't it? I'll be glad for the fire at home."
And so the conversation progressed on a new track, with no more to say about the dead man.
Jack could not believe their lack of feeling. To think, he'd once been jealous of these two. And Katherine had chosen them over him.
"How's Kath feel about Darcy sittin' behind her desk?" He asked the spirit, not expecting an answer.
He got none, but tried another question, in an effort to let go of his past pettiness. "So, where do I fit into all this?"
Once again, the phantom pointed ahead. Jack supposed it was a selfish question, but as they emerged on another street, he endeavored to answer it himself, searching for his own face among the crowds. Even on the premises of Kelly and Jacobs, he found no trace; the windows were dark, and the door was shut firmly. Every now and then, someone would pass, shaking their head gravely. He could not fathom what that was about– Davey, he would guess, if this were seven years ago, but this was the future.
The streets became darker and shabbier as they left behind the newspaper and financial districts; as before, the buildings tightened together like they were huddling for warmth, and the garments of the people unlucky enough to be outdoors offered little protection from the elements. Upon turning another corner, the spirit indicated the dilapidated sign for "Wah's Hand Laundry", and Jack took his cue to enter. Following the sound of voices, he passed an array of metal wash tubs, pulled back a dingy curtain, and stepped into a smaller side room. Two women and a man were seated around a table; two cloth sacks sat between them on the tabletop, and a tall, rectangular canvas– with its brown paper wrapping torn to shreds, so that the wooden back was visible– leaned against the wall.
Jack shivered. Behind him, the phantom pointed its purple hand at the trio, to which he gave his utmost focus.
"What've you got fer me?" asked the man, rubbing his hands together. His fingerless gloves provided little warmth in the drafty room.
The shorter of the two women nudged her bag closer to his side of the table. "See fer yourself, Finchy."
Smalls. What was she doing in a place like this? How much time had passed between this vision and those he had seen in the present?
The man brushed dark curls out of his eyes and dragged a great quantity of cloth out of the bag. For a moment, he tested the cloth's quality with his fingertips, then turned raised eyebrows to Smalls. "Blankets?"
"And bed curtains. House was wide open, like ya said. Easy to pick da lock."
"No mercy," Finch said approvingly, pushing the blankets aside. "These'll go for a lot. Between them, an' the painting–"
"Jus' pay up."
Finch brought a cash box up from his lap, counted out some bills, and handed them to Smalls. "How's that?"
"Fine." Smalls pushed her chair back and rose. "I'll be goin'."
"Wait a minute, and I'll walk you home," said Sniper, turning to Smalls. Worry lines etched her forehead.
Across the table, Finch frowned and began undoing the knot on Sniper's bundle.
"You betta' not." Smalls slipped the money deep into the pocket of her shabby, brown coat. "I ain't goin' home." With that, she swept from the room.
"Clothes, Snipes?" Finch said, raising a sleeveless, striped shirt out of the bag.
The spirit pulled Jack away, and they followed Smalls' progress. Up the dark alley, through twisting streets, and past cramped tenements, she walked, until the road spit her out on an open, dirt thoroughfare, across which loomed the sign for the Sheepshead Bay racetrack.
Here, Smalls paused, took the cash out of her pocket, and examined it, as if making sure it was real.
Jack took this opportunity to step in front of her, planning to ask just what she intended to do with that money, in a place like this– and she looked up at him. "I know you don' like it."
Her deep brown eyes scrutinized the clouds above. "I didn't eitha', at first. But it's survival. 'Sides, Racer's pretty lucky, an' tonight, we deserve a win more'n ever." She shook her head, shoving the money back in her pocket. "What am I doin'?"
With that, she crossed the road, walking hurriedly through the gates.
Race met her inside, she slipped him the money, and Jack bore witness as they sat side by side in the frontmost section of the track, betting on horses and drinking heavily. Without smiling, they toasted to someone, but he did not understand who.
"Couldn't help us out when 'e was alive, so he's fin'ly gettin' his due now," Race said bitterly, raising his cup. "Thanks very much, Captain."
Smalls clinked her glass with his and downed the rest of her beer.
The hours wore on; they grew poorer and poorer, but became too intoxicated to care.
"What the hell're they doin'?" Jack asked, although he knew, at this point, that no one would answer him. "How many times I told 'em playin' ponies is reckless? Blow a few bucks, sure, let off steam, but don't expect ta win a fortune. Tha's a waste–"
"It's a waste!"
Race and Smalls' tenement materialized around Jack. Henry paced the area in front of the sofa, lecturing the two gamblers slouched upon it. Judging by the stench of alcohol, they were steadily sobering up.
"That money could a' been the next two months rent, but no, you had ta try an' double it!"
"Yeah," Race mumbled. "We was gonna be real hoi palloi."
"But it didn't work," Buttons said. "As usual." He, Elmer, and Jojo stood behind Henry, with matching disdainful expressions.
"It was dirty money," Smalls said. "Youse wouldn't a' liked it."
Jojo replied, "It would a' been better than no money at all."
"It's Christmas," Elmer said quietly, attempting to ease the tension. "You were celebrating. You just took it a bit too far."
"More than too far," Henry snapped, making a violent gesture at nothing in particular. "Race, I'm sorry yer outta work, but Smalls, the least you could do was not encourage 'im. The rest of us do our part around here. Even Crutchie–"
"No!" Race got to his feet, swayed a little, then advanced on Henry with clenched fists. "You don't get ta use 'im like that. Have a little respect."
"Don't talk ta me about respect. All you're doin' to mourn is make a fool of yourself. And then anotha' of your brothers died–"
"Why should we care?" Smalls jumped to Race's defense. "That man ain't been our brother fer years. He left us!"
"He let Race work for 'im," Buttons said.
"An' a lot a' good that did."
Jojo started, "At least it was a job–"
"He would a' been better off workin' fer a pape, like Crutchie."
"Crutchie is dead!" The shout burst out of Race like a thunderclap, and the others froze as the rainstorm started. "I neva' should a' let 'im go. I thought it would help 'im, help all a' youse, but it didn't–" a sob shuddered out of him, and he fell back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. "I let 'im down."
The others flocked around, pressing in on Race, telling him the blame was not his, and exchanging apologies.
The anger, so thick in the air moments before, faded completely, leaving compassion behind. Here, the remaining members of an unconventional family were holding each other up, swearing never to part, and never to forget the first parting among them.
Crutchie was gone. As the second spirit had predicted, his crutch leaned beside the door, and the dining table had an extra seat- closest to the fire, but no one dared fill it.
They all missed him.
"Does anyone feel this way for that dead man?" Jack asked. A terrible fear was knocking at the back of his mind, demanding to be let in. But he could not keep company with that idea. Not yet.
The spirit pointed forward, and the scene around them changed, opening on a clear, snow swept hill, with bits of dull, blue sky peeking out of the clouds above. It held all the promise of a perfect, happier day, save for the gravestones dotting the wide expanse.
Jack had already resolved not to be too optimistic when Sarah Jacobs came over the crest of the hill, holding a small, round stone in each hand. His heart sunk further as she knelt by a collection of tombstones a few paces away, the backs of which faced him, so he could not read who lay beneath.
"Happy belated Hanukkah," she said, setting one of the stones on top of the grave marker. "And Merry Christmas. Tom would've come- he's speaking to me again- but the newsies got some bad news. Or... good news; he, Mush, and Blink were going out for a drink. None of them seemed very upset– But you would've been. You kept hoping he'd change. You never gave up on anyone. I don't know how you-" At this, Sarah cut herself off with a sharp inhale. She closed her eyes and pressed a hand to the stone, holding that position as her shoulders shook with faint, repressed sobs.
"Not-" Jack said, the name sticking in his throat. He did not bother to force it out.
No. He refused to believe it. Not until he had full confirmation that the situation was as bad as he assumed.
Eventually, Sarah took a few steadying breaths and went on. "I'm sorry for the way I acted. I didn't mean to scare you away. But you were right to leave; I was stubborn, and selfish… all you wanted was to remember our brother, and I wouldn't let you." She took a shaky breath. "You tried to tell me. I'm so, so sorry I didn't listen. I'm working to make it up to the people I have left, which I know doesn't mean much. But I owe you that. I miss you. I love you. And I promise, with all my heart, that I will never forget you."
She pressed her fingers to her lips, tapped them to the stone, then turned to the marker on her left and set the other stone on top of it. "Dave? I forgive you. I'm ashamed it took me this long to say so." She pressed a kiss to his stone, too. "Take care of Les, will you? Tell Mom and Papa I'm sorry. Give my love to Katherine. And tell your friend Jack–" she bit her lip, hesitated, then went on, "I understand."
"No." The door in Jack's mind flew open, and the terrible idea engulfed him, bringing him to his knees on the hill.
Crutchie. Les. Katherine. All at once. And him.
Of course he was dead, and no one missed him. He deserved it. But the others–
He whipped his face toward the ghost, tears stinging his eyes. "What happened?"
It lifted its robed shoulders in a shrug.
Jack scrambled to his feet, slipping a little in the snow. He seized the spirit by its robe and shook it roughly. "I know you know! Answer me!"
It fended him off with the skill of someone used to a fight, and though Jack held his own, he ended up flat on his back in the snow, with the ghost looming over him.
"For them kind a' answers, you'll wanna ask further up the food chain, Jackie-boy."
So... Crutchie was supposed to be Tiny Tim, but then... *gestures vaguely*
Again, all I can say is I'm so sorry.
I would greatly appreciate a review (if it helps, you can scream at me all you want).
Farewell, until tomorrow, when I post the next chapter (which is no less depressing, but... you'll see).