Disclaimer: I do not own "Newsies" or any of the genius associated to them. Disney owns them, no infringement intended. I am not making money from this in any way, I claim no rights to the characters mentioned from the movie, but I do claim the plot and the ideas surrounding this story. Don't steal, don't sue, and I'm sure we will all be grand friends.
A/N: Well – this is it. Sorry it took so long. I now am out of school for the summer and have one week before I start teaching summer camps for little kids. Yipes! Crazy I know! I really don't have much of a summer, but I hope to have a lot of time to write some things that I really want to get done (i.e. Author's cut of Frostbitten and finishing Loving Brooklyn.) Anyway, please enjoy this last installment of this fiction.
Warning: PG (angst)
Chapter 3: Life Goes Full Circle
There wasn't a single day that went past that she didn't think about them. While she never spoke of them – she couldn't shake their memory and she didn't want to. In the quiet moments of the theatre she would shut her eyes and just picture the husband and child she were no longer a part of her life. It was in those moments she would sigh. Only those moments, however; she didn't have any other time for them.
The other moments were far too full with other things to allow her to be caught up in her past. She'd learned how to forget one past full of a battered childhood and hunger. She'd learned to forget the abuses she'd taken at The Pike. Now she had to learn how to forget another much different from the first. She had to forget a life of love and affection. There wasn't any other choice. Thus she did it the only way she knew how: by becoming someone else.
The theatre made it easy. First she was only understudy to roles – learning the parts of those who had been in the company longer. It was an unexalted position, but the companions she made among the performers made for good times. Their strange little community was frowned upon by the upper classes. There was no respect for the unorthodox practices they shared in living together and the immodesties suffered by the performers. It was true that the lives they lead were immoral on many standards of society, but she loved it.
There was a freedom in the company that she hadn't remembered in any other path. She could sleep with a man from the company on a drunken night and have no one think the less of her. Promiscuity was rampant, but wasn't overly discouraged. It was empowering, but she never forgot about the husband she'd lost or the little boy who was growing up as someone else's. She never spoke of them and no one ever asked. It was an unspoken rule that no one asked about the past of another company member. As far as they were concerned she had never existed before she walked in the doorway.
And in a way – she hadn't.
Members of the company seemed to come and go on the weekly. Some came back, others left for good, but she stayed just as she was. Though she grew older – the fake orange curls on her head never faded and the bright satins and taffetas she wore stayed as brilliant as her voice. She'd come into favor with the owners. That strange small woman and the large burly man who had ushered into this world she had dreamed of took a liking to her in the third or fourth year of her membership.
She was one of the only ones that stayed longer than a year.
This made it little surprise that after ten years of being a member in the company they made her a partner of sorts. It was unofficial, but it was understood all the same. She knew more about the running of the theater than even they did at times. Somewhere along the line she had developed a keen eye for the business and was the highest paying attraction the theatre offered. The show she performed was popular songs under a stage guise. It was a name she had concocted from the name her husband had called her when she sang.
If she was his songbird – then she was the public's meadowlark.
The crowds adored her as did her employers. Yet in the midst of the swirling skirts, painted faces, tightly laced corsets, wigs, praise, cat calls, and flaunting on stage there were always the moments where she would sit and remember. Though the moments were brief – they were poignant. No matter of success could outweigh what she had left behind and what she had lost.
She knew it wasn't a mistake to love that man and bear his child. It wasn't a mistake to give up her life at The Pike or to give up her little Jack. There was no way that she could have provided for her son and herself. By sacrificing him to a well established family she had secured him a life she never could have given him. It was in those quiet moments though that she always wondered how it could have been different for them.
It was twelve years after the day she walked into the theatre that the small woman who ran it passed away. The death was sudden, unexpected, and hit the large man (as well as the company) quite hard. Doctors chalked it up to an attack of the heart, but it didn't matter how she had died to the large man. In a matter of a few weeks he had taken the money that he considered his from the establishment and left the company to the running of his number one attraction.
Thus the meadowlark of the stage became the soul proprietor of the theatre.
The events were a whirlwind but it was the custom of the theatre to be as such. New acts came and went every week it seemed and the vaudeville and melodrama changed just as frequently. She, however, remained the same. The songs she sang might be different, the dresses she donned a different color, but the orange curled wigs were always in place. Her title didn't change as much as it evolved. There was little catchy about the name of meadowlark, and in show business it was all about catching the attention of the public. Thus she developed a character to further her name and add a touch of the exotic. She'd learned of men's lust for the foreign and unknown in her time in The Pike and here she used it to her advantage.
After a few months – everything was running smoothly. Shows were selling, the company members were content, and she was living her dream to the best of her ability. A successful woman though looked down upon by high society, who sang on stage and was adored by men. She got her attention to be sure and she reveled in it. The warmth from the lights faded, however, and always left her wanting more.
It was nearing the thirteenth anniversary of her arrival at the theatre and she was cleaning out some of the backstage clutter that seemed to grow on its own. Flat board sets and oversized props abounded without organization. The only semblance of order was that the props and sets in use for the melodrama were towards the front near the stage. Dust floated in lamp light as she picked through different racks of costumes. There were wigs of all different colors and styles. She lingered over each of her signature orange curls, which she wasn't wearing now, but donned carefully for every performance. There were so many and it seemed that a memory was tied to each. The rest of the company were either out on stage practicing, out on the town, or sleeping in the living quarters. No one was there to disturb her as she lost herself in the thoughts and memories of the theatre.
No one until the backstage door burst open and shut just as rapidly.
"Who is it?" She demanded quickly as she turned around to locate the person.
It wasn't strange to have people come in and out of the building – but it was strange to have a person enter in that fashion. Stranger still was that she didn't see anyone. Could it have been a dramatic exit? No, she hadn't heard anyone go to the door. Someone had come in. Lamp in hand she walked over towards the entrance.
"Who's there?" She questioned. Her steps weren't overly-confident and her heart was beating quickly.
Noise from the melodrama's rehearsal wafting through the air and she wished that there were uncovered windows or some of the electric bulbs backstage. It would be easier than dealing with the lamp, but she pressed on. She didn't see anyone. In the darkness of the cramped backstage area she continued her search. Her breathing was shallow and it wasn't entirely due to the corset she wore. All of her senses were on edge and itched with anticipation. For an instant she thought she was going insane, but then there was a loud crash. Her eyes went instantly to the noise.
Light from the lamp illuminated a dark corner where a prop had fallen off of a table and the intruder stood beside it. They made a quick move to flee but she effectively blocked their path and grabbed their arm. The arm was small, but they were stronger than she. Their superior strength led to their breaking free but not before she had called out for help. The intruder had managed to escape from her – but they couldn't escape the theatre members that swarmed in from rehearsal.
In moments the intruder was detained and brought in front of her by two men of the company. It was a boy who couldn't be older than fifteen and his face stared down at the floor. The clothes he wore were once nice but now were dirty and torn. Dark blonde hair hung with his head, greasy and trenched from fingers running through it. He was still struggling against the holds on his arms but he didn't say a word. There were murmurs and words going through the crowd at the capture of the strange boy. Occasionally they had vagabonds wander in from the street with no purpose but it had been quite awhile since the last.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. It was a standard question for anyone who walked through that door. You never knew when a new talent would be walking through the door. The boy didn't respond, though his struggling had ceased. "What are you doing here?" She repeated.
"Just waiting for some trouble outside to go away," was the mumbled reply.
Then he lifted his head and shook back the hair that had fallen over his face. In the dim gleam of the lamp light she could make out his appearance. Lean angles showed a face of a boy who had already become a young man. A firm mouth, long nose, and high cheek bones all framed the two eyes which shone with the lamp's light. Two eyes which caused the heart in her chest to beat faster than it had ever beaten before. Her mouth went dry and it felt like someone had punched her in the gut. Two piercing hazel eyes stared back at her. Two haunting hazel eyes which she hadn't seen in thirteen years; if she hadn't known better she would have sworn her husband had come back from the dead. However she did know better. She knew people didn't come back from the dead, and she did know that children grew. Children grew into people wlike them even as an infant.
"I didn't take anything." The boy said defensively. "Honest. Just let me go and I'll leave." He bargained and she felt a catch grow in her throat. His voice even sounded like her husbands.
The two men who held him looked to her for orders and she nodded her head. With that they released him and the boy made haste for the door. This time it was she that grabbed his arm. He froze.
"It might not be safe to go out yet." She reasoned. "Stay here a bit longer and talk with me." She would have been stupid if she hadn't noted the wary look that entered his hazel eyes at her request, but he did so. Whether it was because he wanted to talk to her or because he feared for his own safety – she'd never know. She had a sneaking suspicion, however, that it was the latter.
The company went back to rehearsing and she took the boy up the stairs to what was an office of sorts. It was where she kept all of the paper work for the theatre and its expenses. The room also doubled as a sort of dressing room for her and storage space for various things. It was in that room she learned about the boy.
The longer he stayed and spoke to her the more and more certain she became. From the initial gut reaction to the sight of him to the instants she spoke with him now – she only grew more certain. This boy was undoubtedly her child. All of the day dreams, all of the imaginations, all of the wonderings and worrying about her child were now being fulfilled. There was no way to certify the validity of her feelings beside the intensely maternal sensation boiling inside. She couldn't justify or rationalize any of it beyond the fact that she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was her boy.
His name was Francis Sullivan and held the age of fifteen years. His mother was dead from small pox two years ago and his father was in prison for extortion. This left him the custody of the state and because of his father's criminal nature they had put him under the care of a warden for a boy's rehabilitation facility called The Refuge. She had heard of the place and it sent a shiver down her spine.
"So I ran from him. I'm not going back." He spoke defiantly now. He was relaxed now that he knew for sure she meant him not harm at all.
"Where are you staying?" She inquired. She never wanted to lose him again and she intended to know where he was living.
"No where." He answered sullenly and the wheels in her head automatically began turning.
"If you aren't going back to The Refuge then we need to turn you into someone who they aren't looking for. You can't be Francis Sullivan anymore." She stood and he looked at her curiously. There was a spark in those hazel eyes she recognized even from when he was an infant.
"If I'm not going to be me, then who am I going to be?" He stood as well and she looked at him with a bright smile. He'd grown tall. Though he was gangly now she knew he would fill out. He would look just like his father in only a few years.
"Don't worry. I have just the thing."
She did indeed have just the thing. It was an old costume for a previous production that she had stored in that very room. The dark trousers and light blue shirt were too big for him, but she knew he would grow. The stripped vest was just the touch it needed though it too hung loosely on his bean pole of a frame. A red bandana tied around his neck and tucked into his collar. The final touch was a faded black cowboy hat which rested upon his head in a truly crowning fashion. The full length mirror distorted him slightly, but he was able to capture the essence of his appearance and smiled crookedly at the reflection.
When he donned the outfit a certain cocky confidence came about him. He'd put on the role of a character as easily as he had changed his clothes and she smiled. While the boy might have looked like his father he had captured his mother's flair for the dramatics. He experimented with the hat. Tipping the hat all sorts of angles and positions he finally pushed it off his head to fall and rest on his back.
"I look like a real cowboy." He mused and she laughed. Her heart swelled with inexplicable pride.
"Maybe you are one." She returned coyly and he looked back at her with a smile. "But now that you look a different part – you have to have a different name. If they're looking for Francis Sullivan you don't want that name to follow you." She informed from experience. After all – she was a woman with three pasts and three different names to go with them. Purging yourself of your former title was all part of the transformation.
"I haven't ever had another name." This dampened his smile momentarily with a puckering of his brow.
He looked back in the mirror and adjusted his vest as she wanted to tell him everything about how he had a different name. She wanted to tell him that she was his mother and that Francis Sullivan was the real character he was impersonating. Everything within her wanted to confess the entire story of how she'd met his father as a whore, fallen in love, and born him into their marriage. She wanted to tell him that she had wanted to keep him, but life had made her make other choices. There were no words that came, however. No words of how much she loved him or how she desperately wanted to keep him. Nothing was said of how she thought of him every day and prayed for his safety every night. This was partially from fear but also partially because it sounded crazy even to her. If she could barely believe it – how could he?
"Jack." The name was barely a whisper from her lips and he looked at her questioningly. "Jack." She repeated in a stronger tone. "Jack Kelly will be your name now." She took a few steps over to stand beside him in the mirror as she put the hat up on his head. "Jack Kelly – cowboy of New York." She smiled winningly and he looked at himself once again.
"Jack Kelly?" He spoke in a question as if it sounded familiar to him somehow. "Jack Kelly." He stated this time with approval. The name which had been his so many years ago rang in the room. "I like that." He admitted and her heart soared.
She may never tell him that he was hers, but at least he had the name which had always been his in her heart. The name his father had worn and she had taken proudly was now pinned to him where it belonged. She was broken from her reverie by a question that shook her almost as much as his arrival had.
"I'm Jack Kelly, but who are you?" He asked and her heart broke in a way she hadn't expected it to with such a simple phrase.
He didn't know her. She had carried him inside of her body and yet he did not know her. It was a shattering moment to realize that in his reality she didn't truly exist. His mother was the one that had abandoned him because of death not because of a dismal choice. In that moment she knew that she could tell him the truth of who she was. He'd given her a chance that couldn't have been better written in a script, and she wanted to badly. However – she didn't. She hid as she had always hidden. Before she had hidden behind makeup, wigs, costumes, and fake smiles. This time, however, she hid simply with her words. She hid by introducing herself in a way that was true but false in the same. With a smile that came easily only because of years of practice – she looked up at the boy now turning man and said:
"You can call me Medda."
A/N: Ah snaps. Did you see that one coming? Did you, did you, did you? Review please. Tell me if I'm really stupid and this is the worst idea ever, but I love it. Medda being Jack's mom… come on. You have to admit that is cool. Okay. So maybe you don't, but I'm still begging for reviews. Reviews are like rain to my writing drought.