Disclaimer: People, events, places (nouns in general) from Newsies
belong to Disney.
I'm making absolutely no money off of them, so please don't sue me. Everything else
belongs to me, so please don't use them without my permission. Enjoy!
Miles to Go
By Athena
Spot awoke silently, before even the sun had slipped over the horizon and had the ability to cast shadows throughout the bunkroom and thus give away his noiselessly moving figure. He dressed quickly and quietly, pulling on his best shirt- donated from the nuns at St. Patrick's and the only one which lacked several noticeable holes- and worn red suspenders (which had been a vibrant shade of crimson years ago when he had first acquired them). From his pocket he extracted a note he had scrawled out yesterday and strolled over to another bunk where Wager, second-in-command of the Brooklyn newsies, slept soundly and occasionally murmured incoherently. Spot placed the scrap of paper atop Wager's black cap, which rested on the floor beside the boy's bed, knowing that the boy would undoubtedly discover the note there and that Wafer would have no problem leading the other newsies to sell that morning. It wasn't often that Spot relinquished his duties as leader. Such incidents only occurred during extreme emergencies, but this morning proved to be such a situation.
He slid cautiously past Gellar's front desk, although the man's snores were audible even from where Spot was standing and loudly declared that the man would not be waking for at least another half of an hour. He just couldn't afford the risk of taking the possibility of accidentally waking someone who would inquire as to his destination on this chilly autumn morning.
With a single, swift backwards glance towards the shadowy, creaky staircase which lead up to the bunk rooms, Spot fled like a ghost from the building, only the faint click of the door and a crisp wind giving any evidence that anyone had been there at all.
The streets were uncommonly empty, save the few individuals who were already sleepily stalking the streets on their ways to work. Even the homeless children, huddled together in the mouths of darkened alleys, were still drifting through dreams of warm blankets and mountains of delectable food. The tap of Spot's faithful cane against the sidewalk beat out a rhythmic tattoo, calling the attention of several vendors who were beginning to display their wares. Spot's stomach silently growled as he recalled how terrible last night's dinner had been, but sped up his pace as he marched by the stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. He knew he didn't have time for such luxuries this morning...he wondered if even now he was too late.
He pushed such thoughts out of his mind. Come on, pick up da pace, Spot. You'se got a long ways aheada ya.
Spot strolled with his inured air of confidence evident in even the most insignificant of his movements. Though he wasn't as tall or as muscular as some of the other Brooklyn newsies (large, brawny boys with whom no one in their right mind would dare pick a fight), he commanded a certain respect from nearly everyone he crossed paths with. However, only a rare few ever earned the respect of the Brooklyn leader.
Thanks to the light tapping of Spot's treasured cane against the cobblestone streets, the memories of one of those select few revived themselves in his mind. "Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things," the faintest whispers of a ghostly voice resonated in the newsboy's mind, although the words didn't serve to inspire him. Ironically, they only caused him to become even more morose.
His stomach was twisting in a combination of anxiety and emotional pain as he marched through the streets of Manhattan. He didn't particularly care to spend time in this borough, preferring to remain in his own Brooklyn. If any of da newsies from heah ta Chicago evah knew dat Manhattan makes me as noivous as I make most of da newsies heah, dey'd drop dead of shock, he thought with grim humor.
"Spot?" a familiar voice that couldn't contain its surprise called to the Brooklyn newsie, causing Spot's stomach to drop into his shoes. Shit, why did I have ta run inta him, tahday of all days? Spot silently demanded of himself and turned slowly on his heel- while adopting his infamous tough, cool demeanor- to face none other than Jack Kelly who was currently striding over.
"Whadda ya doin' heah at dis time of day?" Jack inquired in confusion. "Da way I hoid it, da Brooklyn newsies are so great at sellin', you'se get up at noon ta sell da mornin' edition and still manage ta make a profit."
Though under normal circumstances he would have grinned at the remark, Spot's eyes narrowed in defense. "Whadda ya, me muddah? I could ask you'se da same question."
Jack's teasing smile swiftly fell into a solemn frown. "I'se headed ta Harlem," he answered slowly as he pondered what was wrong with the leader of Brooklyn. "Some business wid da Harlem newsies about a fight last week."
"Well, I'se got some business myself," Spot answered shortly, in a tone which demanded the end to any possible interrogation.
Anyone else looking into Spot's eyes would have only noticed his natural power. However, Jack knew the boy well enough to gaze behind this appearance of strength to witness the faintest evidence of distress in Spot's stare. Immediately, Jack realized just why the Brooklyn leader had come so far that morning. "Well, I guess I'll see ya around, den."
Spot nodded and muttered, "See ya, Cowboy," but was unwilling to meet Jack's gaze. The Manhattan newsie waited only a second longer to study Spot in curious concern, and then marched off, disappearing around a corner a moment later.
Tahday of all days, Spot scowled in silent disgust, turned swiftly on his heel, and continued on his way.
*****
Despite the fact that the sun had burst over the horizon moments before, the narrow staircase was still enveloped in shadows. The dark wood of the hall was ancient and threatened to crumble to dust, but at least t that moment it held up the weight of the slim newsboy. The putrid odor of mold and the excrement of rodents hung maliciously in the air, stenches which caused Spot's stomach to grip and his cheeks to pale visibly. He clutched his faithful cane so that his knuckles soon matched his face and slowed his pace slightly, but never stopped moving upward. Spot found it extremely ironic that although he was ascending the staircase, he felt as though he were moving into the depths of hell.
He marched silently through more hallways and up another set of stairs, listening to the familiar sounds of families preparing for another seemingly endless day in a factory. Behind closed doors, he could hear foreign expressions mumbled between still drowsy children and firm mothers. He recalled Gellar roughly shaking the newsboys awake each morning with his shouts of "Get up, get up ye lazy devils! That means ye, Gull!" followed by one of the boys waking with a start and falling to the floor with a loud crash (a noise which served to waken anyone who could have possibly slumbered through Gellar's cries). Spot had been awakened in such a manner since he was five, the youngest recorded member of the Brooklyn Lodging House. And yet he recalled voices from years before- both terrible, violent voices which still unnerved him to no end and kind, gentle voices which comforted his fears.
He stopped to face one of the rows of doors, worn faux-brass numbers hanging against the wood- apartment number 43. Heah goes not'ing, he told himself with a silent sigh and, gathering his courage, knocked twice against the wood.
The sound of the shuffling of footsteps followed, and within a moment the door inched cautiously open as though the person on the other side feared an attack. A woman glanced out at Spot from her apartment. Her brown hair, which had been luxurious and the color of mahogany in her youth, was growing scant and streaked with silver. Wrinkles of worry had made themselves apparent long ago. She was slender from not eating enough and of medium height, and at that moment was clad in a severely plain green dress. Her turquoise eyes had lost their hopeful glimmer years prior, and now seemed as dull as her clothing. Teardrops sparkled when she realized who stood before her.
"Hi, Mom," Spot mumbled uncertainly but then adopted his usual appearance of strength and calm.
His mother could not reply due to the tears that had slipped onto her cheeks, but motioned for Spot to enter the room, which he did so cautiously.
Gazing around, the leader of the Brooklyn newsies felt a faint chill race up and down his spine. He gulped as he recalled years ago, before he had joined the Brooklyn newsies...before he had even known Jack (who had been referred to as Francis then, while Spot was Ethan). He recalled the frozen nights in winter and the boiling days of summer; his father's voice bellowing throughout the room, almost causing the walls to crumble at his feet; his mother crying silent tears are she meticulously washed dishes; his siblings quaking in fear as he ordered himself to remain composed and strong for their sake.
The room hadn't changed all that much since Spot had last stepped through that doorway more than a year ago. The floors were still bare and splinters protruded like knives. Coal in a single stove burned slowly, the only source of heat in the frigid room. A lone, grimy window allowed a view of the tenement next door and never permitted in even the smallest ray of sunlight. From the next room (the only other room in the apartment), the sound of a hacking cough shattered the quiet tension. By the warm stove sat three small, huddled figures who began murmuring amongst themselves when they caught sight of Spot standing beside his mother. The smallest one finally leapt up from her place on the uncomfortable floor and threw her arms enthusiastically around Spot's waist.
"I knew ya'd come," she insisted in a hushed voice, so soft that Spot had to guess at her words rather than hear them. "Jesse and Becca didn't believe me, even dough I told 'em."
"Yeah," was all Spot could say as he unwound the girl and gently held her back at arm's length, as though fending off the attentions of an overly exuberant puppy. He then turned to his mother and murmured, "So am I...how is he?"
He mother shook her head and brought her worn handkerchief to her eyes. "Not good, Ethan. It won't be much longer now."
He nodded stoically, his frown deepening with each passing minute. His heart began to pound madly and he prayed that no one in the room would hear it. Lily was gazing up at him with such wide, hopeful eyes that he didn't dare to display the slightest trace of...what was it? Grief? Fear? Anticipation? Shaking the thought out of his head, he inquired softly, "Can I see him?"
"Ah...yes...of course," his mother replied brokenly, as if surprised by the request, and cleared her throat as she dried her eyes. "This way."
Spot took a step towards the room from which the coughs were produced, but halted for a split second before he stepped through the doorway. What da hell am I doin'? he demanded frantically of himself. But then he caught sight of his younger brother and sisters studying him with such intensity that he forced himself to take that next step.
He found himself facing a tall but extremely thin man lying in a poorly constructed bed with thin, abused blankets covering his quaking body. His skin was sickly pale and this, combined with his natural slimness, caused Spot to think of a rotting corpse. Even in such a weakened state, the man's features were cold and hard; automatically, Spot recalled days long past, when he had been no more than five years old. A vicious, terrifying voice echoed throughout his mind. "Whadda ya doin'?! Get outta my way, ya good-for-not'ing parasite!" Spot grasped his cane even tighter, an action which calmed him a bit.
Without warning, the man ceased coughing and opened his eyes slightly. He began to chuckle maliciously when he saw who stood before him. Spot's heart beat wildly against his chest and he longed to bolt out of the room, but felt his feet frozen to the floor and knew that four pairs of eyes were focusing on the back of his head.
"So ya decided ta come...." the man muttered with bitter humor. "Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy. Ya didn't have ta come gloatin' and boastin' heah!" His exclamation got the better of him, resulting in a moment of severe coughing so that Spot had to wonder if the man's lungs would explode.
"Dad, I didn't come ta gloat," he mumbled with as much coolness as he could muster up at that moment. "I-"
"I know what ya came for," his father spat out, glaring viciously at his son. "Ta make sure I'se dead. Ta try and get da one up on me."
"No, dat's-"
"Well, who da hell needs ya?! Get da hell outta my house!" He frantically gesticulated towards the doorway, cursing wildly. And with a final unemotional stare, Spot retreated from the screaming man's room just as he burst into another fit of noisy coughs.
His mother immediately reached for the boy, whose eyes darted from object to object in the room and didn't dare to settle on any person and who retreated from his mother's touch. "Ethan, he didn't mean it. It's the fever, really, honey. He didn't-"
"Sure," Spot said indifferently and clutched his cane with both hands.
Evelyn!" the raging voice from the next room bellowed, causing the worry lines on the face of Spot's mother to deepen visibly. "I'll be right back," she said with such emotion that it seemed to be more than a promise, more like a prayer, and rushed into the other room.
However, Spot didn't feel the need or the desire to await her return. "See ya around," he promised his siblings over his shoulder as he tossed a wad of dollar bills onto a nearby, dilapidated table. Without waiting for a response, he rushed out the door and closed it with a loud clatter. Only in the shadowy hallway could he allow himself to clutch his left breast, under which he was certain his heart was pounding with the force of a cannon. Why da hell did I come? he harshly questioned himself, leaning against a wall and struggling to maintain his cool veneer...not that there was anyone to maintain it for now. Yet it had become such a habit that Spot even adopted this facade when there was no one around to witness his frenzy.
As his heartbeat slowed to a somewhat normal rate, he began the journey back to Brooklyn, although he wasn't sure that even there could he truly he escape his troubles.
*****
The sometimes melancholy, often cheerful, and always thoughtful melodies of a well-played harmonica wafted pleasantly through Roxy's ears as she scanned the day's headlines, and caused her feet to long to dance. She hummed a familiar tune under her breath as she gazed at the slightly smudged print which made up articles concerning battles fought, wedding vows exchanged, and political arguments. She caught sight of a small article on the bottom of page eight, one which would undoubtedly gone unnoticed by the untrained eye. "Psychotic doctor makes sure his patients never wake up!" she called to the masses and received more than a few alarmed expressions in return. A tall gentlemen decked out in gray-toned finery which matched his silver hair paid for a paper and marched off, only to discover later that the doctor in question was actually a praised veterinarian from Queens.
Roxy smiled as she called out more exaggerated versions of articles, not minding that this morning's edition was particularly ordinary and thus required the need for even more distorted headlines than usual. The weather was lovely; the breakfast donated by some random children's aid society had been plentiful (if a bit stale); and several coins were already jingling a jaunty tune in the girl's worn pocket. Yes, it seemed as though the morning might prove to be an agreeable one.
"Hey, Roxy!" Rabbit, the quickest newsgirl in New York (she was constantly challenging Swifty to footraces whenever the opportunity arose) and who seemed to have an endless stream of boyfriends, shouted to the girl. "Meet ya at Peg's for lunch!"
"Sure, see you there!" Roxy called back. Rabbit signaled her agreement before disappearing around a nearby corner.
You better sell faster, she told herself in a firm tone reminiscent of a mother superior, or else you're going to just have water to satisfy your hunger pangs later on. With a dogged expression firmly implanted on her face, she began to should out even more headlines to the Brooklyn crowds. "Doctor's methods prove fatal! Police look the other way! Could this happen to you?!"
"I'll take one," a voice from behind that, although just recently passed the stage of random high-pitched inflections, demanded respect and attention. However, Roxy found, this tone was not the sort that Spot possessed and she had to resist the urge to glare at the evidently wealthy young man.
"Certainly, sir," she murmured quietly and drew a single newspaper from her stack of sixty. She glanced up to see- just as she had suspected- a boy roughly her own age clad in expensive fabrics and perfectly groomed in both appearance and manners. Roxy supposed that her entire wardrobe cost far less than even his embroidered handkerchief. At his side was a young lady who, like her companion, was decked out in the latest Parisian fashion and whose hair (the shade of crystallized honey) was curled to stylish perfection. The boy dropped a penny into the newsgirl's hand and snatched the paper away without a further remark.
Roxy couldn't help studying the pair's retreating figures with curiosity as they strolled away (no doubt discussing their absolute abhorrence of interacting with such lowly people) with their newspaper in hand. She knew of only one girl- a Manhattan newsgirl called Ivy- who had been a member of the upper class, although Ivy never cared to talk about her past. Roxy pondered what it would be like to be waited on and pampered from dawn to twilight; to be dressed in only the softest fabrics and to gaze at diamond twinkling on her hand with the brilliance of a hundred stars; to attend formal balls and waltz with the governor's son as he whispered clever remarks into her ear and as a matronly chaperone looked on with solemn and protective eyes. Around her, men and women worked endlessly in hopes of achieving such success. And yet it seemed that the rich were the ones who acquired more wealth, while the poor continued to live (if one could call it that) in squalor.
She sighed faintly and gazed down at her own appearance. Well, no one could ever mistake me for the mayor's daughter, she thought, laughing lightly. Her clothing- chocolate corduroys, patched blue cotton shirt, and faded black suspenders- was hardly adequate for even the most insignificant of balls. She tried to imagine her chestnut tresses (which were at that moment tied into braided pigtails) styled into impeccable curls and fell into a fit of laughter. I'd look ridiculous in satin, anyway, she told herself, still chuckling slightly, and scanned a paper for another headline to improve.
A few hours later, after a relatively profitable morning, Roxy recalled her appointment with Rabbit and most likely the rest of her fellow Brooklyn newsies. Adjusting her tattered, deep gray cap, she hanged a final paper to an elderly middle-class woman and began her stroll to Peg's, the restaurant which the Brooklyn newsies frequented daily. This was, however, mostly due to not the delectable cooking, but to the low priced which the newsies could afford even after a poor day of selling and an extreme loss at the poker hall. Roxy's mouth began to water as she recalled plates of sandwiches made with thick Italian bread and cups of strong, piping hot coffee.
Her thoughts were so concentrated on her rumbling stomach that she didn't notice the unfriendly shape approaching her until it slammed her into a very unkind, very solid brick wall.
She groaned, certain that she would have a few new bruises decorating her right arm the next morning, and gazed up to see her attacker. A muscular boy stood before her, a stack of newspapers tucked securely under his arm and a scowl implanted firmly on his wide lips. He was certainly not the most handsome of young men, with rough features and icy eyes that completed the appearance of brutality. His clothing was average newsie garb, although it seemed less clean and more abused than the apparel of the Brooklyn newsies. A tangled mess of greasy blonde locks snaked out from under a black cap, reminding Roxy of wicked, enchanted vines from a fairy tale. To anyone not among the ranks of the newsies, he would have appeared to be just another newsboy clad in unclean clothing stalking the streets. However, Roxy knew far better.
"What're you doing here, Bulldog?" she demanded with more fierceness than she felt existed in her spirit at that point in time. "This is Spot's territory."
"Not for long," he drawled with a smug smirk and spit noisily into the gutter. "And ya can tell Spotty I told ya so myself."
Roxy's eyes narrowed to slits at these words. Glaring ferociously at the boy, she took a small step away from the wall and towards her attacker. "From what I've heard," she replied in a calm, patient voice as though he were a slow-witted child, "the Debler Street newsies are all talk and no action. So is that why you had to attack me instead of going directly to Spot himself?" With that, she spit squarely and violently into his face.
Just then, Roxy remembered how massive Bulldog was and just how he had come to acquire his nickname. She attempted to bolt away before he had the change to react, but she was only a few steps away when the newsboy reached out and tossed her effortlessly to the wall yet again, pining her there.
Bulldog drew back his fist and, with a savage expression that caused Roxy to quake, prepared to send her into unconsciousness. "Forget Spot. I'se gonna rearrange your teeth," he growled, eyes growing darker by the moment. Roxy attempted to struggle free from his firm grasp and kicked wildly at him, although her efforts seemed to be in vain. But she as Bulldog seemed prepared to strike, he yowled in pain and released the girl from his clutches.
"Why don'tcha pick on someone you'se own size- like a movin' train," Grin snarled, his slingshot still raised ominously. His common mischievous smile had vanished from his lips and in its place appeared a solemn, threatening frown.
The girl wasted no time in seizing the opportunity, and dashed over to Grin's side, extracting her own slingshot from her back pocket. They glared at their opponent stonily. Facing the two newsies, Bulldog seemed far less daring and intimidating.
"You'se is gonna be sorry…Jackal's gonna take ovah, and you'se are all gonna be sorry," he swore passionately, eyes blazing, and spit into the gutter yet again as though to emphasize his declaration. Then he turned on his heel and bolted away, soon disappearing into the masses.
Roxy turned to her fellow newsie with gratitude lighting her eyes. "Thanks, Grin."
He shrugged and, trademark teasing smile returning to his lips, replied, "It ain't not'ing, kid. Bulldog's just a bully and I hate dem. Plus, I couldn't let one of my favorite newsgoils get soaked, could I?"
"Yeah," she murmured, somewhat self-consciously. As the two made their way to Peg's (and as Grin began to declare his love for a beautiful girl he had sold to that morning, although he didn't have a clue as to her whereabouts or her name for that matter), Roxy glanced down at her body and mentally scowled. She was one of the smallest newsgirls in Brooklyn ("petite" was the polite term Mist had used) and definitely not the strongest. It was more than a little embarrassing to constantly need the defense of others against assholes such as Bulldog. She sighed lightly and realized that Grin had asked her something. "What?"
"I asked ya if ya knew wheah I could find her- da goil," he repeated patiently. "I ain't seen her around my usual sellin' spot, dat was da foist time."
She shook her head sympathetically. "Nope, sorry Grin. Ask Cardinal; she knows everything about everyone in Brooklyn."
"I should…" he mumbled thoughtfully and Roxy knew by his slowly vanishing smile that his mind was now on other, far more solemn topics. "What's wrong?" she inquired cautiously and gently.
Grin opened his mouth but then closed it again, shaking his head. Roxy waited a moment and was about to speak up herself, but then the boy continued, "It's Spot. I don't know if ya've noticed, but he's…he ain't hisself. It's like he's not deah anymoah, always t'inkin' of somet'ing else. He nevah jokes around anymoah or goes swimmin' or not'ing. It's weird."
Roxy nodded gravely. She had observed the same thing about the Brooklyn leader. Spot would mysteriously disappear in the middle of the day and never mention where he went. He had become introspective and distracted so not even one of Gull's wild tales or Wager's weekly games of intense poker could interest him. He was still a good leader and made certain that there were no problems in the lodging house…and yet Roxy felt that he was slowly removing himself from the newsies.
"I know what you mean," she assured her friend.
"Nobody knows what's da maddah wid him, eiddah. Not Wagah, not Cardinal, nobody."
"I haven't got a clue either," she admitted with a small, almost apologetic shrug. "He's not exactly one to just talk about his feelings, you know?"
"Well, he'd beddah get ovah it soon. Or else we're gonna lose all our territory."
Roxy knew all too well to what the boy was referring. Bulldog was one of the Debler Street newsies, from another lodging house in Brooklyn. However, these newsies made up quite a wild, sometimes even violent group who longed for the prime selling area that Spot's newsies (known as the Brooklyn newsies as they were infamous throughout New York City) had possessed for years. And now it seemed that the Debler newsies' leader, Jackal, was preparing to procure the territory for his own.
She frowned hopelessly and bit her lower lip in worry. "We might end up losing more than that," she said softly, clutching her papers tightly as though they were a lifeline.
*****
The damp, golden leaves faintly crunching under Spot's feet announced the newsboy's entrance into the cemetery. Thankfully, no one save an elderly groundskeeper had seen him enter. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies realized that it was nearly noon and he should have already returned to purchase the afternoon edition, but he still felt as though he couldn't face the newsies. Not just yet.
He felt his stomach grip as he marched by the myriad of graves; they would have one more to add to their ranks come that evening. Yet it wasn't the new grave that interested him as he strode confidently through the rows, face harder and colder than stone. He didn't dare to glance down at the names or, even worse, the dates carved with care into the tombstones. Once he had made the mistake of looking at the names of elderly immigrants, middle-aged factory workers slain in accidents during their labors, infants who hadn't had the opportunity to glance upon the world for more than a moment, and young men struck down in the primes of their lives. Spot couldn't conceal a shiver at the memory of the sight of those carvings.
His feet came to a halt in front of a simple grave, one without ornate decoration or sentiments etched into the stone. It was, however, kept much better than the majority of the graves. The surrounding grass was cut to perfection; no weeds crept sinuously over the ground; occasionally a single flower (usually a rose of the deepest red of a flawlessly white lily) was placed with care in the shadow of the tombstone. Simple words were cared with meticulousness:
Alexander Ethan Williams
1815-1890
Rest in Peace
Another grave rested beside the first, and although the second was also taken great care of, it was marked with a large rough stone, four jagged words cut into the rock: Spot- Rest in Peace.
The newsboy clutched his cane, ragged nails digging into the smooth wood. He didn't bat an eyelash as he studied the graves intensely, as though the sight were new to his blue-green eyes. Then he swiftly glanced around and, certain that the groundskeeper was nowhere to be seen, knelt carefully on the leaves and grass, both of which were slick with tiny pools of collected rainwater. Although he had never been inside a church, he imagined that he appeared to be a young priest genuflecting before a sacred altar. That actually wasn't such a far cry from what he genuinely felt towards the bodies lying deep beneath the damp earth. Against his will he began to recall things from years past, memories that haunted his mind like wailing, icy ghosts….
A young boy, tall for his five years and faint freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose, moaned dramatically and tossed himself to the sidewalks. "Ya got me! Ya got me! Ugghhh!" The cowboy hat perched atop his greasy brown tresses (which Ethan's mother considered to be too long) was far too large for his head and occasionally obstructed his sight when not positioned carefully enough. "I'se dead!"
A smaller youth with striking eyes smirked triumphantly as he waved his shoddy wooden sword into the air and marched to his 'dying' friend's side. "Well, Sir Francis of da Village, I guess ya won't be distressin' no dames no more," he drawled confidently.
Screeching like a wild animal, Francis leapt from his position on the sidewalk and began to poke his friend with his own wooden weapon. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed in the manner of vaudeville villains, "I was jus' foolin' ya! I had on special armor dat can't get hurt by swords."
"Oh, yeah?" Ethan growled, eyes narrowing to slits. "Well I gots a special sword dat can go through special armor."
"Den how come I'se alive now, huh?"
"It takes a couple of hits, of coise, ya moron."
Francis lunged theatrically at his friend and cried, "Ah-ha! Now you'se done for, Sir Ethan of Central Pawk!"
"Nevah!" he laughed and threw himself out of harm's way, and into the path of a tall, slender man with piercing blue eyes. He glared at the boy, whose gleeful expression immediately vanished at the sight of the man. "Hiya, Dad," he muttered anxiously and cast a sidelong glance at his friend, who was gnawing at his small lower lip in nervousness. The ice in his father's eyes made Ethan grow utterly silent.
"Whadda ya doin' wastin' ya're time out heah?" the man, Bill, demanded harshly. "Ya could be helpin' ya're muddah out at home, but do ya t'ink of dat? No, ya jus' waste time wid da oddah troublemakahs like you'se." He scowled bitterly and, casting his son one final glance, marched off. He muttered under his breath as he walked away, "Nevah gonna amount ta not'ing, dat kid."
Neither boy spoke for a moment. Then Francis cautiously stepped up behind Ethan, who stared at Bill's retreating figure as though he were caught in a hypnotist's emotionless trance. "Well, I beddah be gettin' home…." When his friend didn't move, Francis sighed heavily and turned on his heel. He was halfway down the block when he whirled around again and shouted, "Hey Ethan! You'se gonna move up in da woild, like dem rich guys in da mansions by da ocean! Like in da papes! You'se gonna have a rivah view and everyt'ing!"
The words echoed in Spot's mind as he studied the graves, restlessly turning his cane between his fingers. There had been only one other person besides Francis (called Jack now, and who had risen to his own level of prestige after the strike) who had had so much confidence in him, even when he had only been a child. Spot recalled the long planes of Alexander's cheeks, the sparkling spectacles positioned on a rather large nose, the scant gray hair, and the striking eyes that were so much like his own in their hue. The aroma of his pipe tobacco had been potent in his poor but well-kept gray jacket. He had had a strong handshake and a firm embrace which a young Spot had taken comfort in, particularly after his father had yelled at him for being a lazy good-for-nothing. "You're bound for great things," Alexander used to say with utmost certainty in his voice. Ethan had felt he could take on the world.
"Would ya be so proud of me now, Granddad?" Spot murmured so softly that his words were lost on the breeze. He closed his eyes very tightly, ordering himself to retain his cool demeanor. Swiftly his rose from his position on the damp grass and didn't dare to look back at the gravestones as he marched out of the cemetery.
I'm making absolutely no money off of them, so please don't sue me. Everything else
belongs to me, so please don't use them without my permission. Enjoy!
Miles to Go
By Athena
Spot awoke silently, before even the sun had slipped over the horizon and had the ability to cast shadows throughout the bunkroom and thus give away his noiselessly moving figure. He dressed quickly and quietly, pulling on his best shirt- donated from the nuns at St. Patrick's and the only one which lacked several noticeable holes- and worn red suspenders (which had been a vibrant shade of crimson years ago when he had first acquired them). From his pocket he extracted a note he had scrawled out yesterday and strolled over to another bunk where Wager, second-in-command of the Brooklyn newsies, slept soundly and occasionally murmured incoherently. Spot placed the scrap of paper atop Wager's black cap, which rested on the floor beside the boy's bed, knowing that the boy would undoubtedly discover the note there and that Wafer would have no problem leading the other newsies to sell that morning. It wasn't often that Spot relinquished his duties as leader. Such incidents only occurred during extreme emergencies, but this morning proved to be such a situation.
He slid cautiously past Gellar's front desk, although the man's snores were audible even from where Spot was standing and loudly declared that the man would not be waking for at least another half of an hour. He just couldn't afford the risk of taking the possibility of accidentally waking someone who would inquire as to his destination on this chilly autumn morning.
With a single, swift backwards glance towards the shadowy, creaky staircase which lead up to the bunk rooms, Spot fled like a ghost from the building, only the faint click of the door and a crisp wind giving any evidence that anyone had been there at all.
The streets were uncommonly empty, save the few individuals who were already sleepily stalking the streets on their ways to work. Even the homeless children, huddled together in the mouths of darkened alleys, were still drifting through dreams of warm blankets and mountains of delectable food. The tap of Spot's faithful cane against the sidewalk beat out a rhythmic tattoo, calling the attention of several vendors who were beginning to display their wares. Spot's stomach silently growled as he recalled how terrible last night's dinner had been, but sped up his pace as he marched by the stalls filled with fresh fruits and vegetables. He knew he didn't have time for such luxuries this morning...he wondered if even now he was too late.
He pushed such thoughts out of his mind. Come on, pick up da pace, Spot. You'se got a long ways aheada ya.
Spot strolled with his inured air of confidence evident in even the most insignificant of his movements. Though he wasn't as tall or as muscular as some of the other Brooklyn newsies (large, brawny boys with whom no one in their right mind would dare pick a fight), he commanded a certain respect from nearly everyone he crossed paths with. However, only a rare few ever earned the respect of the Brooklyn leader.
Thanks to the light tapping of Spot's treasured cane against the cobblestone streets, the memories of one of those select few revived themselves in his mind. "Never underestimate yourself, my boy. You're bound for great things," the faintest whispers of a ghostly voice resonated in the newsboy's mind, although the words didn't serve to inspire him. Ironically, they only caused him to become even more morose.
His stomach was twisting in a combination of anxiety and emotional pain as he marched through the streets of Manhattan. He didn't particularly care to spend time in this borough, preferring to remain in his own Brooklyn. If any of da newsies from heah ta Chicago evah knew dat Manhattan makes me as noivous as I make most of da newsies heah, dey'd drop dead of shock, he thought with grim humor.
"Spot?" a familiar voice that couldn't contain its surprise called to the Brooklyn newsie, causing Spot's stomach to drop into his shoes. Shit, why did I have ta run inta him, tahday of all days? Spot silently demanded of himself and turned slowly on his heel- while adopting his infamous tough, cool demeanor- to face none other than Jack Kelly who was currently striding over.
"Whadda ya doin' heah at dis time of day?" Jack inquired in confusion. "Da way I hoid it, da Brooklyn newsies are so great at sellin', you'se get up at noon ta sell da mornin' edition and still manage ta make a profit."
Though under normal circumstances he would have grinned at the remark, Spot's eyes narrowed in defense. "Whadda ya, me muddah? I could ask you'se da same question."
Jack's teasing smile swiftly fell into a solemn frown. "I'se headed ta Harlem," he answered slowly as he pondered what was wrong with the leader of Brooklyn. "Some business wid da Harlem newsies about a fight last week."
"Well, I'se got some business myself," Spot answered shortly, in a tone which demanded the end to any possible interrogation.
Anyone else looking into Spot's eyes would have only noticed his natural power. However, Jack knew the boy well enough to gaze behind this appearance of strength to witness the faintest evidence of distress in Spot's stare. Immediately, Jack realized just why the Brooklyn leader had come so far that morning. "Well, I guess I'll see ya around, den."
Spot nodded and muttered, "See ya, Cowboy," but was unwilling to meet Jack's gaze. The Manhattan newsie waited only a second longer to study Spot in curious concern, and then marched off, disappearing around a corner a moment later.
Tahday of all days, Spot scowled in silent disgust, turned swiftly on his heel, and continued on his way.
*****
Despite the fact that the sun had burst over the horizon moments before, the narrow staircase was still enveloped in shadows. The dark wood of the hall was ancient and threatened to crumble to dust, but at least t that moment it held up the weight of the slim newsboy. The putrid odor of mold and the excrement of rodents hung maliciously in the air, stenches which caused Spot's stomach to grip and his cheeks to pale visibly. He clutched his faithful cane so that his knuckles soon matched his face and slowed his pace slightly, but never stopped moving upward. Spot found it extremely ironic that although he was ascending the staircase, he felt as though he were moving into the depths of hell.
He marched silently through more hallways and up another set of stairs, listening to the familiar sounds of families preparing for another seemingly endless day in a factory. Behind closed doors, he could hear foreign expressions mumbled between still drowsy children and firm mothers. He recalled Gellar roughly shaking the newsboys awake each morning with his shouts of "Get up, get up ye lazy devils! That means ye, Gull!" followed by one of the boys waking with a start and falling to the floor with a loud crash (a noise which served to waken anyone who could have possibly slumbered through Gellar's cries). Spot had been awakened in such a manner since he was five, the youngest recorded member of the Brooklyn Lodging House. And yet he recalled voices from years before- both terrible, violent voices which still unnerved him to no end and kind, gentle voices which comforted his fears.
He stopped to face one of the rows of doors, worn faux-brass numbers hanging against the wood- apartment number 43. Heah goes not'ing, he told himself with a silent sigh and, gathering his courage, knocked twice against the wood.
The sound of the shuffling of footsteps followed, and within a moment the door inched cautiously open as though the person on the other side feared an attack. A woman glanced out at Spot from her apartment. Her brown hair, which had been luxurious and the color of mahogany in her youth, was growing scant and streaked with silver. Wrinkles of worry had made themselves apparent long ago. She was slender from not eating enough and of medium height, and at that moment was clad in a severely plain green dress. Her turquoise eyes had lost their hopeful glimmer years prior, and now seemed as dull as her clothing. Teardrops sparkled when she realized who stood before her.
"Hi, Mom," Spot mumbled uncertainly but then adopted his usual appearance of strength and calm.
His mother could not reply due to the tears that had slipped onto her cheeks, but motioned for Spot to enter the room, which he did so cautiously.
Gazing around, the leader of the Brooklyn newsies felt a faint chill race up and down his spine. He gulped as he recalled years ago, before he had joined the Brooklyn newsies...before he had even known Jack (who had been referred to as Francis then, while Spot was Ethan). He recalled the frozen nights in winter and the boiling days of summer; his father's voice bellowing throughout the room, almost causing the walls to crumble at his feet; his mother crying silent tears are she meticulously washed dishes; his siblings quaking in fear as he ordered himself to remain composed and strong for their sake.
The room hadn't changed all that much since Spot had last stepped through that doorway more than a year ago. The floors were still bare and splinters protruded like knives. Coal in a single stove burned slowly, the only source of heat in the frigid room. A lone, grimy window allowed a view of the tenement next door and never permitted in even the smallest ray of sunlight. From the next room (the only other room in the apartment), the sound of a hacking cough shattered the quiet tension. By the warm stove sat three small, huddled figures who began murmuring amongst themselves when they caught sight of Spot standing beside his mother. The smallest one finally leapt up from her place on the uncomfortable floor and threw her arms enthusiastically around Spot's waist.
"I knew ya'd come," she insisted in a hushed voice, so soft that Spot had to guess at her words rather than hear them. "Jesse and Becca didn't believe me, even dough I told 'em."
"Yeah," was all Spot could say as he unwound the girl and gently held her back at arm's length, as though fending off the attentions of an overly exuberant puppy. He then turned to his mother and murmured, "So am I...how is he?"
He mother shook her head and brought her worn handkerchief to her eyes. "Not good, Ethan. It won't be much longer now."
He nodded stoically, his frown deepening with each passing minute. His heart began to pound madly and he prayed that no one in the room would hear it. Lily was gazing up at him with such wide, hopeful eyes that he didn't dare to display the slightest trace of...what was it? Grief? Fear? Anticipation? Shaking the thought out of his head, he inquired softly, "Can I see him?"
"Ah...yes...of course," his mother replied brokenly, as if surprised by the request, and cleared her throat as she dried her eyes. "This way."
Spot took a step towards the room from which the coughs were produced, but halted for a split second before he stepped through the doorway. What da hell am I doin'? he demanded frantically of himself. But then he caught sight of his younger brother and sisters studying him with such intensity that he forced himself to take that next step.
He found himself facing a tall but extremely thin man lying in a poorly constructed bed with thin, abused blankets covering his quaking body. His skin was sickly pale and this, combined with his natural slimness, caused Spot to think of a rotting corpse. Even in such a weakened state, the man's features were cold and hard; automatically, Spot recalled days long past, when he had been no more than five years old. A vicious, terrifying voice echoed throughout his mind. "Whadda ya doin'?! Get outta my way, ya good-for-not'ing parasite!" Spot grasped his cane even tighter, an action which calmed him a bit.
Without warning, the man ceased coughing and opened his eyes slightly. He began to chuckle maliciously when he saw who stood before him. Spot's heart beat wildly against his chest and he longed to bolt out of the room, but felt his feet frozen to the floor and knew that four pairs of eyes were focusing on the back of his head.
"So ya decided ta come...." the man muttered with bitter humor. "Decided ta drop by from wheah you'se all mighty in Brooklyn. Well, Brooklyn's shit, boy. Ya didn't have ta come gloatin' and boastin' heah!" His exclamation got the better of him, resulting in a moment of severe coughing so that Spot had to wonder if the man's lungs would explode.
"Dad, I didn't come ta gloat," he mumbled with as much coolness as he could muster up at that moment. "I-"
"I know what ya came for," his father spat out, glaring viciously at his son. "Ta make sure I'se dead. Ta try and get da one up on me."
"No, dat's-"
"Well, who da hell needs ya?! Get da hell outta my house!" He frantically gesticulated towards the doorway, cursing wildly. And with a final unemotional stare, Spot retreated from the screaming man's room just as he burst into another fit of noisy coughs.
His mother immediately reached for the boy, whose eyes darted from object to object in the room and didn't dare to settle on any person and who retreated from his mother's touch. "Ethan, he didn't mean it. It's the fever, really, honey. He didn't-"
"Sure," Spot said indifferently and clutched his cane with both hands.
Evelyn!" the raging voice from the next room bellowed, causing the worry lines on the face of Spot's mother to deepen visibly. "I'll be right back," she said with such emotion that it seemed to be more than a promise, more like a prayer, and rushed into the other room.
However, Spot didn't feel the need or the desire to await her return. "See ya around," he promised his siblings over his shoulder as he tossed a wad of dollar bills onto a nearby, dilapidated table. Without waiting for a response, he rushed out the door and closed it with a loud clatter. Only in the shadowy hallway could he allow himself to clutch his left breast, under which he was certain his heart was pounding with the force of a cannon. Why da hell did I come? he harshly questioned himself, leaning against a wall and struggling to maintain his cool veneer...not that there was anyone to maintain it for now. Yet it had become such a habit that Spot even adopted this facade when there was no one around to witness his frenzy.
As his heartbeat slowed to a somewhat normal rate, he began the journey back to Brooklyn, although he wasn't sure that even there could he truly he escape his troubles.
*****
The sometimes melancholy, often cheerful, and always thoughtful melodies of a well-played harmonica wafted pleasantly through Roxy's ears as she scanned the day's headlines, and caused her feet to long to dance. She hummed a familiar tune under her breath as she gazed at the slightly smudged print which made up articles concerning battles fought, wedding vows exchanged, and political arguments. She caught sight of a small article on the bottom of page eight, one which would undoubtedly gone unnoticed by the untrained eye. "Psychotic doctor makes sure his patients never wake up!" she called to the masses and received more than a few alarmed expressions in return. A tall gentlemen decked out in gray-toned finery which matched his silver hair paid for a paper and marched off, only to discover later that the doctor in question was actually a praised veterinarian from Queens.
Roxy smiled as she called out more exaggerated versions of articles, not minding that this morning's edition was particularly ordinary and thus required the need for even more distorted headlines than usual. The weather was lovely; the breakfast donated by some random children's aid society had been plentiful (if a bit stale); and several coins were already jingling a jaunty tune in the girl's worn pocket. Yes, it seemed as though the morning might prove to be an agreeable one.
"Hey, Roxy!" Rabbit, the quickest newsgirl in New York (she was constantly challenging Swifty to footraces whenever the opportunity arose) and who seemed to have an endless stream of boyfriends, shouted to the girl. "Meet ya at Peg's for lunch!"
"Sure, see you there!" Roxy called back. Rabbit signaled her agreement before disappearing around a nearby corner.
You better sell faster, she told herself in a firm tone reminiscent of a mother superior, or else you're going to just have water to satisfy your hunger pangs later on. With a dogged expression firmly implanted on her face, she began to should out even more headlines to the Brooklyn crowds. "Doctor's methods prove fatal! Police look the other way! Could this happen to you?!"
"I'll take one," a voice from behind that, although just recently passed the stage of random high-pitched inflections, demanded respect and attention. However, Roxy found, this tone was not the sort that Spot possessed and she had to resist the urge to glare at the evidently wealthy young man.
"Certainly, sir," she murmured quietly and drew a single newspaper from her stack of sixty. She glanced up to see- just as she had suspected- a boy roughly her own age clad in expensive fabrics and perfectly groomed in both appearance and manners. Roxy supposed that her entire wardrobe cost far less than even his embroidered handkerchief. At his side was a young lady who, like her companion, was decked out in the latest Parisian fashion and whose hair (the shade of crystallized honey) was curled to stylish perfection. The boy dropped a penny into the newsgirl's hand and snatched the paper away without a further remark.
Roxy couldn't help studying the pair's retreating figures with curiosity as they strolled away (no doubt discussing their absolute abhorrence of interacting with such lowly people) with their newspaper in hand. She knew of only one girl- a Manhattan newsgirl called Ivy- who had been a member of the upper class, although Ivy never cared to talk about her past. Roxy pondered what it would be like to be waited on and pampered from dawn to twilight; to be dressed in only the softest fabrics and to gaze at diamond twinkling on her hand with the brilliance of a hundred stars; to attend formal balls and waltz with the governor's son as he whispered clever remarks into her ear and as a matronly chaperone looked on with solemn and protective eyes. Around her, men and women worked endlessly in hopes of achieving such success. And yet it seemed that the rich were the ones who acquired more wealth, while the poor continued to live (if one could call it that) in squalor.
She sighed faintly and gazed down at her own appearance. Well, no one could ever mistake me for the mayor's daughter, she thought, laughing lightly. Her clothing- chocolate corduroys, patched blue cotton shirt, and faded black suspenders- was hardly adequate for even the most insignificant of balls. She tried to imagine her chestnut tresses (which were at that moment tied into braided pigtails) styled into impeccable curls and fell into a fit of laughter. I'd look ridiculous in satin, anyway, she told herself, still chuckling slightly, and scanned a paper for another headline to improve.
A few hours later, after a relatively profitable morning, Roxy recalled her appointment with Rabbit and most likely the rest of her fellow Brooklyn newsies. Adjusting her tattered, deep gray cap, she hanged a final paper to an elderly middle-class woman and began her stroll to Peg's, the restaurant which the Brooklyn newsies frequented daily. This was, however, mostly due to not the delectable cooking, but to the low priced which the newsies could afford even after a poor day of selling and an extreme loss at the poker hall. Roxy's mouth began to water as she recalled plates of sandwiches made with thick Italian bread and cups of strong, piping hot coffee.
Her thoughts were so concentrated on her rumbling stomach that she didn't notice the unfriendly shape approaching her until it slammed her into a very unkind, very solid brick wall.
She groaned, certain that she would have a few new bruises decorating her right arm the next morning, and gazed up to see her attacker. A muscular boy stood before her, a stack of newspapers tucked securely under his arm and a scowl implanted firmly on his wide lips. He was certainly not the most handsome of young men, with rough features and icy eyes that completed the appearance of brutality. His clothing was average newsie garb, although it seemed less clean and more abused than the apparel of the Brooklyn newsies. A tangled mess of greasy blonde locks snaked out from under a black cap, reminding Roxy of wicked, enchanted vines from a fairy tale. To anyone not among the ranks of the newsies, he would have appeared to be just another newsboy clad in unclean clothing stalking the streets. However, Roxy knew far better.
"What're you doing here, Bulldog?" she demanded with more fierceness than she felt existed in her spirit at that point in time. "This is Spot's territory."
"Not for long," he drawled with a smug smirk and spit noisily into the gutter. "And ya can tell Spotty I told ya so myself."
Roxy's eyes narrowed to slits at these words. Glaring ferociously at the boy, she took a small step away from the wall and towards her attacker. "From what I've heard," she replied in a calm, patient voice as though he were a slow-witted child, "the Debler Street newsies are all talk and no action. So is that why you had to attack me instead of going directly to Spot himself?" With that, she spit squarely and violently into his face.
Just then, Roxy remembered how massive Bulldog was and just how he had come to acquire his nickname. She attempted to bolt away before he had the change to react, but she was only a few steps away when the newsboy reached out and tossed her effortlessly to the wall yet again, pining her there.
Bulldog drew back his fist and, with a savage expression that caused Roxy to quake, prepared to send her into unconsciousness. "Forget Spot. I'se gonna rearrange your teeth," he growled, eyes growing darker by the moment. Roxy attempted to struggle free from his firm grasp and kicked wildly at him, although her efforts seemed to be in vain. But she as Bulldog seemed prepared to strike, he yowled in pain and released the girl from his clutches.
"Why don'tcha pick on someone you'se own size- like a movin' train," Grin snarled, his slingshot still raised ominously. His common mischievous smile had vanished from his lips and in its place appeared a solemn, threatening frown.
The girl wasted no time in seizing the opportunity, and dashed over to Grin's side, extracting her own slingshot from her back pocket. They glared at their opponent stonily. Facing the two newsies, Bulldog seemed far less daring and intimidating.
"You'se is gonna be sorry…Jackal's gonna take ovah, and you'se are all gonna be sorry," he swore passionately, eyes blazing, and spit into the gutter yet again as though to emphasize his declaration. Then he turned on his heel and bolted away, soon disappearing into the masses.
Roxy turned to her fellow newsie with gratitude lighting her eyes. "Thanks, Grin."
He shrugged and, trademark teasing smile returning to his lips, replied, "It ain't not'ing, kid. Bulldog's just a bully and I hate dem. Plus, I couldn't let one of my favorite newsgoils get soaked, could I?"
"Yeah," she murmured, somewhat self-consciously. As the two made their way to Peg's (and as Grin began to declare his love for a beautiful girl he had sold to that morning, although he didn't have a clue as to her whereabouts or her name for that matter), Roxy glanced down at her body and mentally scowled. She was one of the smallest newsgirls in Brooklyn ("petite" was the polite term Mist had used) and definitely not the strongest. It was more than a little embarrassing to constantly need the defense of others against assholes such as Bulldog. She sighed lightly and realized that Grin had asked her something. "What?"
"I asked ya if ya knew wheah I could find her- da goil," he repeated patiently. "I ain't seen her around my usual sellin' spot, dat was da foist time."
She shook her head sympathetically. "Nope, sorry Grin. Ask Cardinal; she knows everything about everyone in Brooklyn."
"I should…" he mumbled thoughtfully and Roxy knew by his slowly vanishing smile that his mind was now on other, far more solemn topics. "What's wrong?" she inquired cautiously and gently.
Grin opened his mouth but then closed it again, shaking his head. Roxy waited a moment and was about to speak up herself, but then the boy continued, "It's Spot. I don't know if ya've noticed, but he's…he ain't hisself. It's like he's not deah anymoah, always t'inkin' of somet'ing else. He nevah jokes around anymoah or goes swimmin' or not'ing. It's weird."
Roxy nodded gravely. She had observed the same thing about the Brooklyn leader. Spot would mysteriously disappear in the middle of the day and never mention where he went. He had become introspective and distracted so not even one of Gull's wild tales or Wager's weekly games of intense poker could interest him. He was still a good leader and made certain that there were no problems in the lodging house…and yet Roxy felt that he was slowly removing himself from the newsies.
"I know what you mean," she assured her friend.
"Nobody knows what's da maddah wid him, eiddah. Not Wagah, not Cardinal, nobody."
"I haven't got a clue either," she admitted with a small, almost apologetic shrug. "He's not exactly one to just talk about his feelings, you know?"
"Well, he'd beddah get ovah it soon. Or else we're gonna lose all our territory."
Roxy knew all too well to what the boy was referring. Bulldog was one of the Debler Street newsies, from another lodging house in Brooklyn. However, these newsies made up quite a wild, sometimes even violent group who longed for the prime selling area that Spot's newsies (known as the Brooklyn newsies as they were infamous throughout New York City) had possessed for years. And now it seemed that the Debler newsies' leader, Jackal, was preparing to procure the territory for his own.
She frowned hopelessly and bit her lower lip in worry. "We might end up losing more than that," she said softly, clutching her papers tightly as though they were a lifeline.
*****
The damp, golden leaves faintly crunching under Spot's feet announced the newsboy's entrance into the cemetery. Thankfully, no one save an elderly groundskeeper had seen him enter. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies realized that it was nearly noon and he should have already returned to purchase the afternoon edition, but he still felt as though he couldn't face the newsies. Not just yet.
He felt his stomach grip as he marched by the myriad of graves; they would have one more to add to their ranks come that evening. Yet it wasn't the new grave that interested him as he strode confidently through the rows, face harder and colder than stone. He didn't dare to glance down at the names or, even worse, the dates carved with care into the tombstones. Once he had made the mistake of looking at the names of elderly immigrants, middle-aged factory workers slain in accidents during their labors, infants who hadn't had the opportunity to glance upon the world for more than a moment, and young men struck down in the primes of their lives. Spot couldn't conceal a shiver at the memory of the sight of those carvings.
His feet came to a halt in front of a simple grave, one without ornate decoration or sentiments etched into the stone. It was, however, kept much better than the majority of the graves. The surrounding grass was cut to perfection; no weeds crept sinuously over the ground; occasionally a single flower (usually a rose of the deepest red of a flawlessly white lily) was placed with care in the shadow of the tombstone. Simple words were cared with meticulousness:
Alexander Ethan Williams
1815-1890
Rest in Peace
Another grave rested beside the first, and although the second was also taken great care of, it was marked with a large rough stone, four jagged words cut into the rock: Spot- Rest in Peace.
The newsboy clutched his cane, ragged nails digging into the smooth wood. He didn't bat an eyelash as he studied the graves intensely, as though the sight were new to his blue-green eyes. Then he swiftly glanced around and, certain that the groundskeeper was nowhere to be seen, knelt carefully on the leaves and grass, both of which were slick with tiny pools of collected rainwater. Although he had never been inside a church, he imagined that he appeared to be a young priest genuflecting before a sacred altar. That actually wasn't such a far cry from what he genuinely felt towards the bodies lying deep beneath the damp earth. Against his will he began to recall things from years past, memories that haunted his mind like wailing, icy ghosts….
A young boy, tall for his five years and faint freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose, moaned dramatically and tossed himself to the sidewalks. "Ya got me! Ya got me! Ugghhh!" The cowboy hat perched atop his greasy brown tresses (which Ethan's mother considered to be too long) was far too large for his head and occasionally obstructed his sight when not positioned carefully enough. "I'se dead!"
A smaller youth with striking eyes smirked triumphantly as he waved his shoddy wooden sword into the air and marched to his 'dying' friend's side. "Well, Sir Francis of da Village, I guess ya won't be distressin' no dames no more," he drawled confidently.
Screeching like a wild animal, Francis leapt from his position on the sidewalk and began to poke his friend with his own wooden weapon. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed in the manner of vaudeville villains, "I was jus' foolin' ya! I had on special armor dat can't get hurt by swords."
"Oh, yeah?" Ethan growled, eyes narrowing to slits. "Well I gots a special sword dat can go through special armor."
"Den how come I'se alive now, huh?"
"It takes a couple of hits, of coise, ya moron."
Francis lunged theatrically at his friend and cried, "Ah-ha! Now you'se done for, Sir Ethan of Central Pawk!"
"Nevah!" he laughed and threw himself out of harm's way, and into the path of a tall, slender man with piercing blue eyes. He glared at the boy, whose gleeful expression immediately vanished at the sight of the man. "Hiya, Dad," he muttered anxiously and cast a sidelong glance at his friend, who was gnawing at his small lower lip in nervousness. The ice in his father's eyes made Ethan grow utterly silent.
"Whadda ya doin' wastin' ya're time out heah?" the man, Bill, demanded harshly. "Ya could be helpin' ya're muddah out at home, but do ya t'ink of dat? No, ya jus' waste time wid da oddah troublemakahs like you'se." He scowled bitterly and, casting his son one final glance, marched off. He muttered under his breath as he walked away, "Nevah gonna amount ta not'ing, dat kid."
Neither boy spoke for a moment. Then Francis cautiously stepped up behind Ethan, who stared at Bill's retreating figure as though he were caught in a hypnotist's emotionless trance. "Well, I beddah be gettin' home…." When his friend didn't move, Francis sighed heavily and turned on his heel. He was halfway down the block when he whirled around again and shouted, "Hey Ethan! You'se gonna move up in da woild, like dem rich guys in da mansions by da ocean! Like in da papes! You'se gonna have a rivah view and everyt'ing!"
The words echoed in Spot's mind as he studied the graves, restlessly turning his cane between his fingers. There had been only one other person besides Francis (called Jack now, and who had risen to his own level of prestige after the strike) who had had so much confidence in him, even when he had only been a child. Spot recalled the long planes of Alexander's cheeks, the sparkling spectacles positioned on a rather large nose, the scant gray hair, and the striking eyes that were so much like his own in their hue. The aroma of his pipe tobacco had been potent in his poor but well-kept gray jacket. He had had a strong handshake and a firm embrace which a young Spot had taken comfort in, particularly after his father had yelled at him for being a lazy good-for-nothing. "You're bound for great things," Alexander used to say with utmost certainty in his voice. Ethan had felt he could take on the world.
"Would ya be so proud of me now, Granddad?" Spot murmured so softly that his words were lost on the breeze. He closed his eyes very tightly, ordering himself to retain his cool demeanor. Swiftly his rose from his position on the damp grass and didn't dare to look back at the gravestones as he marched out of the cemetery.