Full Circle
By Lyra
The boy called Cowboy was
restless again. He lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, hands behind his
head. The moon was high in the sky but the boy wasn't in the least bit tired.
The room was stuffy and hot, full of other boys who had the good fortune of
sleep.
Silently, he climbed out of bed,
careful not to step on a dangling hand or foot. Racetrack mumbled something
like "I'll pay ya back, promise." The window opened smoothly- it was
a well-used escape route- and he slipped outside into the night.
"Where ya goin',
Cowboy?" Jack spun, startled, and saw Boots heading for the Lodging House.
Jack winced inwardly; he'd hoped no one would know about his moonlight
wanderings. He was Jack Kelly, Cowboy-
the fearless leader, not the hopeless dreamer.
"Nowhere, Boots. Just
stretchin' my legs." Boots nodded, looking exhausted. Jack wondered where
he'd been, but didn't ask. "The window's open," Jack added as he
walked into the night.
He inadvertently found himself
outside David's house. Hands in pockets, he looked up at the dark windows of
the apartment he sometimes made his home. The Jacobs were a great family. David
was his closest friend; Les, a little brother; and Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs like an
uncle and aunt. Not a mother and father, though. Jack had parents at one point
and there were nothing at all like David's parents.
Then there was Sarah. At first,
they'd been in love, or at least what Jack thought was love. But spending so
much time at her apartment had made things awkward. He knew Mr. Jacobs didn't
approve; he watched Jack like a hawk whenever he slept there. Things had cooled
between them; Jack saw her more as a sister or close friend than a love
interest now. It was evident that she still had feelings for him, though, and
his increasing aloofness was hurting her.
He didn't mean to hurt her. He
never meant to hurt anybody unless, of course, they deserved it. The Jacobses
were wondering why he didn't frequent their supper table as often. Les often
asked why he didn't spend the night anymore.
"How do you do it,
Jacky-boy?" Spot had asked over beers one afternoon. It may have been bad
for business, but every once in awhile, a hardworking newsboy needs a beer.
"Do what?" asked Jack,
taking a drag on his cigarette.
"The family thing,"
Spot answered. "You know, wit' Davey and all. It would drive me nuts
havin' someone you gotta tell before ya go out, always havin' someone worryin'
bout ya when ya don't come home."
"I dunno. Takes gettin'
used to, I guess."
"It's stiflin' if ya ask
me."
Jack had shrugged, and the
conversation was over.
The truth be told, it was
stifling, even though the adult Jacobses were never overbearing. Jack felt
guilty for thinking such a thing. Here he was, a celebrity of sorts, with a
family who cared about him, and he wanted out. There was that old dream of
hitting the rails to Santa Fe. The dream was still alive, but it was struggling
for survival. The other newsies, they'd miss him, but they'd soon move on, find
a new leader. People often came and went in the lives of newsies. But the
Jacobs' hearts would be broken. And as much as he wanted to, he couldn't say he
didn't care.
"That's the trouble with
families," Jack said to no one in particular. "They tie ya
down." "I'll
shecond that," a drunk man slurred as he stumbled by. Jack chuckled and
yawned. All this thinking had tired him out. He made his way back to the
Lodging House and fell sound asleep.
The next morning, Skittery had
to shake Jack awake. "Come on, Cowboy, the headlines ain't gonna wait for
you t'get yer sorry butt outta bed."
Jack muttered something
unpleasant about newspapers and stumbled out of bed.
"Ya awake, Jack?"
Boots joked. "I didn't even hear ya come in."
Jack looked around sheepishly.
"Yeah, I'm awake."
"Where'd ya go, Jack?"
asked Race as he splashed water on his face.
"No place," Jack said
shortly and retreated to the bathroom stall. He hoped he hadn't been to harsh;
to make up for it he snapped Duchy with a towel on his way back. The others
seemed relieved to see their leader back to his old self.
"Hope we get a good
headline today," Race remarked, squinting in the sun on the way to the
circulation office. "I could use the money."
"We all could, Race,"
Pie-Eater countered.
"But I've got a
worthy cause," Race retorted.
"What's that?
Horseraces?"
"It's worthy! Think a all
the bookies who'd go hungry if I didn't donate my hard-earned cash."
The crowd laughed. "So
that's what you call it now? Donatin'." Specs chuckled.
The bell rung, the newsies
bought their papes, and the day began.
Later on, David caught up with
Cowboy. "We missed ya last night at dinner," he said, looking at him.
The gravity in his eyes told Jack there was more behind that statement than
David was vocalizing.
"Sorry," Jack said,
smiling to lighten things up. "I had a previous engagement." He said
it as if it were tea with the president.
David laughed. "Should we
expect you tonight?"
Jack hesitated, but relented.
The Jacobses were good to him. "Yeah, I'll be there."
***
Sales weren't good that day.
Jack's heart just wasn't in it. He had too much on his mind, and the news was
slow. Cowboy hated selling papers. He hated the smell of them, the look of
them, the way the newsprint alwys rubbed off on his hands. But it was the best
thing a 17 year old boy with no education could do.
Except be a cowboy.
The thought of himself mounted
on a horse, riding into the sunset was thrilling, but it would never happen.
Not while he was stuck in a dirty, overcrowded city selling papers for a penny
apiece.
"Hello, Jack!"
exclaimed Mrs. Jacobs delightedly. "How nice to see you!" She put an
arm around his shoulder and gave him a little squeeze.
"We've missed you,
Jack," Mr. Jacobs said, arm still in a sling from a factory accident.
Jack ducked his head,
embarassed. He never knew how to respond to welcomes like these. Luckily, Sarah
came in from the kitchen. She smiled when she saw him and he smiled back.
"How've you been,
Jack?" she asked, setting the steaming bowl on the table.
"Better since I got
here," he replied.
David and Les came in as well
and they sat down to eat. It wasn't much; the Jacobs didn't have a lot of money
since Mr. Jacobs lost his job at the factory.
Les and Sarah were arguing over
whose turn it was to do the dishes that night; Mrs. Jacobs asked David if his
cold was any better; Mr. Jacobs mentioned sending all his children back to
school after his arm healed. Jack smiled as he looked around the table. He
really did care about these people. They gave him so much and he gave them
nothing in return. He always felt a pang of guilt whenever he ate with them;
they hardly had enough to share. But he always left feeling warm inside, as if
he'd just eaten a bowl of hot chicken soup on a cold day.
Jack left that night more
confused than ever. He wanted someone to talk to about all of it, but few of
his friends would really understand. David might, but he was the last person
Jack could talk to.
He sat on the front steps of the
Lodging House, cowboy hat in his hands. The sound of footsteps made him look
up; Specs was coming his way.
"Somethin' wrong,
Cowboy?" he asked, concerned. Jack looked at him for a moment. Specs was
always the one to listen to the ones who had problems. Nobody ever admitted to
having problems, of course, but Specs always seemed to know and always seemed
to get them to talk about it. Jack knew that he'd listen and not think him
strange, but still, he was the Fearless Leader. He took a breath.
"Ever let a dream die,
Specs?" He winced. The words sounded sappy even to him.
Specs blinked. That certainly
wasn't a Jack-like thing to say. He wondered for a moment if Jack was putting
him on, but the seriousness in his friend's eyes told him otherwise. Specs sat
down next to Jack.
"Well... I dunno if dreams
ever die. They just... go to sleep for awhile." Specs felt foolish for
saying something like that, but Jack just nodded, staring ahead into the dark,
spinning his cowboy hat in his hands. This guy's got somethin' on his mind,
he thought. "Lettin' go of a dream, Jack?"
He nodded. "Remember Santa
Fe?"
Specs smiled. "Where ya got
yer nickname."
Jack nodded again, looking at
his hat. Specs waited for him to reply, but all he got was silence. Specs was
growing concerned. It wasn't like Jack to be so introspective; that was Specs'
job. "You alright?"
Jack shrugged. "I dunno,
Specs. This city's draggin' me down. Too many people, not enough space."
Specs nodded, waiting for him to go on. "I wanna get outta here."
"Why dontcha? Santa Fe's
not goin' nowhere."
"S'not that easy. I don't
got the money."
"Keep savin' up, Jack.
You'll get enough."
"I don't got no place to
stay."
"You don't got no place
now, either."
"I wouldn't know where to
start allaway out there."
"Ya wouldn't be any worse
off than ya are now."
Jack looked at his spectacled
friend. "Ya tryin' ta get ridda me, Specs?"
Specs smiled, too. "Naw,
acourse not. Where'd we be withoutcha, Jack? But yer just makin' excuses.
What's the real reason ya don't wanna leave?"
Jack raised an eyebrow. He'd
seen right through his reasons not to leave- Specs was good. No wonder
everybody went to him. "It's complicated."
"Try me," Specs said
with a half-smile. Jack balked. "It's the Jacobs, ain't it?"
Startled, Jack peered at him.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Not ta anybody but
me." Seeing Jack's odd look, he added, "Nobody else was lookin' for
reasons."
"Yeah... if I leave, I'll
be hurtin' 'em. I don't wanna hurt nobody. An' they keep givin' me stuff an' I
know they can't afford it. It's nice an' all, but I dunno if I want all that,
what's the word?"
"Security?" Specs
suggested.
"Yeah, security. I dunno if
that's the right thing fer me, ya know? I've spent all this time by myself, on
my own, an' I kinda like it. Not havin' anybody waitin' round for me, bein'
able to go where I please. If it wasn't fer them, I could go to Santa Fe
and do what I wanna do."
"But what would ya have in
Santa Fe? I mean, ya don't got much here, but ya got friends, and a place ta
sleep sometimes, and a family that cares about ya. Out there, you'd have none a
that."
Jack thought about that for a
moment. "I'd be doin' what I wanted ta do."
Specs nodded. "Yeah." He
paused. "I always wanted ta be a writer. But I can barely read much less
write a book or somethin'. If I got a chance ta go ta school an' learn up, I'd
do it in a second, even if it meant that I'd be leavin' the people I cared
about." He looked at Jack. "Sometimes ya gotta do what's good for
you."
Jack looked back at Specs. He'd
never had a conversation this insightful before; had never talked about his
feelings this much with another human being. Though nothing had been solved, he
felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Smiling at each other,
the two newsies went inside.
***
Jack
sat on the fire escape, mulling over his predicament. The dilemma was beginning
to interfere with his everyday life- a lack of sleep made him cross, and he
hardly sold any papers. He'd just buy them, then end up sitting somewhere
thinking about what he should do. Only Specs knew what the problem was, and he
wasn't telling any of the other confused newsies.
Late that sleepless night, Jack
stared at the ceiling and decided to pray. God, he thought, I know I
ain't been the best person in the world, but I ain't been treated the best
either. I've been tryin' to survive, and doin' my best to do the right thing,
but we ain't been on speakin' terms since my ma died and my dad went ta jail. I
guess I don't got no right askin' for nothin' from ya, but ya ain't given me
much anyway. So here goes: I need a sign. Gimme somethin' to show me what I
should do- stay here or go to Santa Fe. Specs was right- I almost got enough
money. A couple more days sellin' time, and I can make it. But I need ya to
show me if I should take the chance. Cowboy opened his eyes, remembered
something, and closed them again. Amen. There. It was in God's hands
now, hopefully God would make the decision for him.
The next morning he awoke, the
prayer a small memory in the back of his brain. But at least he'd slept well
for the first time in weeks. Walking outside, he joined his fellow newsies at
the Circulation House.
"Hey Davey," he said
as his friend approached. "Hiya, Les." He ruffled the younger kid's
hair.
"Hi, Jack." They shook
hands.
"Guess what!" Les said
excitedly, jumping up and down.
"What? Ya get a new comic
book?"
"No! Even better! My dad
gots a new job!"
Jack looked at David, whose
smile was wide. "Really?" he asked.
"Yeah, he's working at the
book store. The owner's gettin' too old, and he asked my father to take over.
He doesn't mind that he's only got one good arm."
"That's great, Dave!"
Jack slapped him on the back. "Tell yer dad I said congratulations."
"There's more!"
Les exclaimed. "Soon we'll have enough moneys that we all can go to
school!"
"We all?" Jack echoed.
He turned to the window. "Hundred papes." He picked up his papers and
paid.
"Yeah! Me, David, Sarah,
and you!"
"Me?" He cast a
quizzical glance at David.
"Yeah, my mother and father
want you to go to school, too."
Jack was incredulous. "Yer
parents are gonna pay for me to go to school?"
"Yeah! It'll be fun!"
Les grinned.
"Dave, I don't think
so." He shook his head. "It's a real nice idea, but... you can't
afford it! I can't pay ya back or nothin', neither."
"They want to do it, Jack.
You're a part of our family now. Where would we be if you hadn't helped Les and
I with sellin' papes?"
"Yeah, but school? I ain't
been to school a day in my life."
"Better late then
never," David countered.
"I can barely write, an' my
readin' ain't much better."
"Just think about it, Jack.
Ya got time. You're not even supposed to know yet." He threw a glare at
his little brother. "But this loudmouth couldn't keep his trap shut."
Les looked sheepish, but still maintained his smile.
No way, Jack said. There's
no way I can let them send me ta school. They can't afford it. They could use
the money for themselves. It ain't like they's livin' in the lap a luxury or
nothin'. It ain't right for me ta take their money.
Jack stopped suddenly. Was this
the sign? It sure seemed like it could be. But was it for him to stay or go?
One one hand, it could be his way of making a better life for himself. On the
other, it might be trying to tell him to leave so the Jacobs' could live
better. "This isn't much help," he muttered, bringing an odd look
from David.
"What was that?" he
asked.
"Nothin'," Jack
answered, shaking his head.
David paused, then said,
"Jack, are you alright? You've been acting funny for the past few-
Jack?"
Jack didn't hear him. He was too
busy staring openmouthed at a man who'd stepped in front of them and was
staring back at Jack.
"Francis?" the man
asked in a near-whisper.
"Dad?"
***
Jack
couldn't believe it- this was his father, a man he hadn't seen in five years,
standing in front of him, alive and well. He opened his mouth to say something
but his father enveloped him in a huge hug.
"Oh, Francis. I've missed
you so much."
"So've I," Jack lied,
pulling away. His father looked him over.
"You've gotten so
big," he said incredulously.
"It's been five years,
pop."
"Five of the longest years
of my life."
Jack nodded slowly. His father's
time in jail seemed to have changed him- he wasn't acting at all like he used
to. Jack tried to think how many time his father had hugged him after his
mother died. It was incredible. Five years ago, hidden in a closet, he'd
watched his father get taken away by the cops for robbery. Back then, he was
almost happy to see him go. Now that he saw him again, and being so loving, Jack
didn't know what to think.
"Um, I'll see ya round,
Jack," David said uncomfortably.
"Oh, Jesus," Jack
said, finally remembering that his friend was there. "I shoulda introduced
ya. Dad, this is my best friend David Jacobs. Davey, this is my pop, Francis
Sullivan. Senior," he added.
"Pleased to meet you,"
David said, politely, shaking hands with the original Francis Sullivan.
"Likewise," he
replied. His grip was strong. Francis Sullivan was a big man, muscled and
almost a head taller than his son. "Did you call him Jack?"
"Yeah, pop, that's my name
now. Jack Kelly," Jack explained.
"You changed yer name?
Sullivan not good enough for you?"
"No, pop, I had to, after I
escaped from the Refuge."
"What?!"
"I'll explain it later. Why
don't we get somethin' ta eat?" He turned to David, whose face was
concerned. "I'll meet up whicha later."
"Sure Jack. Seeya."
"Hey Spot," David
called to his Brooklyn friend. He was in town a lot- rumor had it he had a girl
in Manhattan.
"Yeah, Mouth?" He
walked over. "Where's Jack?"
"With his father."
"His fatha? I thought his
fatha was in jail."
"Me too. I guess he got
out."
Spot eyed him.
"Legally?"
"I don't know. I haven't
talked to Jack yet. They've been gone most of the afternoon."
Spot thought for a second,
considering things. "What's Jack told ya about his fatha?"
"Not much. But enough to
make me not like the man," David replied. He thought back to that
conversation....
"Why's your father in jail,
Jack?" he'd asked. "If you don't mind me askin'."
"Robbed a store," Jack
replied simply.
"How old were you?"
"Twelve."
"That young? That musta
been tough." David couldn't imagine being alone in the world at age
twelve.
"Nah. I was glad ta see him
go."
"Your father? What was
wrong with him?" He didn't mean to pry, but the question just popped out.
Jack swallowed and looked away
to the city. "He used ta hit me." He paused. "A lot."
He looked so young then, Jack
did, that David felt as if he should protect him. But Jack shook himself and
made a joke, and David didn't press the matter....
"Yeah, he ain't the nicest
guy around," Spot agreed.
"He seemed real happy to
see Jack though."
Spot shook his head. "I
dunno. There ain't nothin' we can do now anyways. Wait till he comes back. Keep
an eye on him for me, will ya?"
"Sure thing." They
parted ways.
"Y'ain't sayin' much,
boy," said Francis Sullivan, Sr.
"Sorry pop. It's just a
shock, ya know? I figgered I'd never see you again. Ya weren't supposed ta be
outta jail for another three years at least." Jack took a bite of his
sandwich.
"I got out early for good
behavior. I couldn't stay there another second longer than I had to,
Francis."
"Jack."
"Right, Jack."
"How'd ya find me?"
"Yer famous. I saw yer
pitcher in the paper when you and your pals had that strike. I just never knew
you was the leader of it." He smiled proudly at his son. "I went to
the Circulation House to look for ya- and I found ya."
Jack nodded, chewing
thoughtfully.
"Anyway, I got us an
apartment not too far from here. It ain't much, but it'll do. I figger you can
sell yer papers and I can work at the textile factory and then- what?" he
asked at Jack's strange look.
"I dunno, pop. Last time we
was livin' together..." he trailed off, debating whether to continue.
Mr. Sullivan closed his eyes for
a moment, sighed, and said, "I've changed, boy. No more drinkin'. No more
stealin'." He looked at Jack beseechingly.
"You swear it?" Jack
asked, scrutinizing his father's face.
"I swear," he
answered.
Jack smiled. "Okay."
Mr. Sullivan returned the smile
and continued relaying his plan. "We'll both work, and when we get enough
money, we can... now if you don't wanna do this, that's fine, but I know a guy
with a ranch out west and he's lookin' for some help. He told me to come out
whenever I wanted, so... what do you think?"
Jack just smiled.
"Yer what?" asked
Mush.
"Movin' in with my
dad." He had already explained everything to his newsies friends a million
times, but was still in good spirits.
"That's great, Jack,"
he said, kind of half-heartedly.
"Thanks Mush," Jack
said, gathering his meager belongings together. "I'll still be sellin'
papes wit' you bums, don't look so glum!" That cheered up the rest of the
newsies and they all offered words of encouragement. Some of them remembered
their families and were happy that Jack could go back to his.
"Seeya tomorra, Cowboy," Race called, waving
from the window as Jack stepped onto the street. Jack called back and waved in
return.
"Jack!" He turned to
see David running towards him.
"Hey Dave," he said.
"What on earth is going
on?"
Jack explained what had happened
that afternoon.
"Are you sure this is a
good idea? I mean, from what you told me about your father, I-"
"That was five years ago,
Davey. He's changed now."
"Are you sure about
that?"
"Look Dave, it's my life.
You got a whole family livin' at home. You can least let me have my father
without tryin' to ruin it for me."
David looked at the ground.
"Sorry, Jack."
"Besides, we're goin' west
when we get the money."
David looked up. "You
are?"
Jack nodded, brightening a little.
"A friend of his has a ranch out there."
"Oh. Well,
congratulations." He tried to smile.
"Thanks Dave. I gotta go.
I'll see you tomorra."
Jack worked overtime, selling
more papes than he ever had before. Watching the money accumulate in the glass
jar on the kitchen table was exhilarating. It was going to happen. He would be
a cowboy, a real one. He conveniently avoided thinking about the people he
would leave behind.
"How ya doin'?" asked
Mush later. "We miss ya at the poker games, Cowboy."
"Can't lose all the money
I'm makin' ta youse bums," he joked. Mush slapped him on the back,
laughing, and paid for his papes. He didn't notice Jack flinch.
It wasn't that bad, really. He
and his father had just gotten into a little argument and his father had shoved
him into the doorjamb. His shoulder was just a little sore, that's all. Nothing
serious. Jack was pretty strong. It was just that his father was a lot
stronger.
Not long after that, he showed
up with a black eye.
"Woah, Cowboy, where'd ya
get the shiner?" Boots asked incredulously.
Jack laughed. "Some dumbass
thought he'd try ta take me on," he lied. "You think this is
somethin', you shoulda seen him." That brought some laughs, and
they went on their ways. Jack thought he was in the clear, but later Specs
stopped him.
"Hey, Specs. Guess I'm
gettin' the best a both worlds, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"I got my family an'
I'm goin' west."
"Oh." Specs nodded.
"Listen Jack, I know you didn't get that shina from a kid on da
street."
"Ya think I'm lyin'?"
"Yeah, I think ya are.
David told me bout your fatha."
Jack's face grew dark.
"What's that gotta do wit' anything?"
"He gave you that, didn't
he?" Specs motioned to the ugly bruise under Jack's eye.
"So what if he did? My
pop's been through a lot."
"So've you, but it ain't an
excuse for him ta hit ya like that."
"You ever been beat before,
Specs?" Jack asked hotly.
"Yeah, I have." Specs
stared at Jack as if expecting a challenge.
"Then you know this is
nothin'. If things get worse, I'll leave."
"They're gonna get worse,
Jack, and we both know it."
"My pop is a good man. You
should hear some a the stories he told me bout livin' in prison. Then maybe ya
wouldn't act like such an asshole." In his heart, he knew Specs was right
but his head wasn't listening. The pull of that western dream was still too
strong.
"Jack-"
"I ain't had a family since
I was twelve. Davey's family's great but they don't understand where I'm comin'
from. If yer pop came back an' said he wanted you ta come live wit him, an' was
givin' you a chance ta do what you wanted ta do most in the world, what would
you do?"
Specs hesitated, thinking hard.
"I-I don't know. Maybe I'd trade in bein' hit for havin' a dad. Maybe
not."
"See? I'm at least waitin'
till I get ta the ranch."
Specs and Jack looked at each
other for a minute, each trying to read the other's face. Finally, Specs said,
"Take care a yerself, okay, Cowboy?"
Jack nodded stiffly and left.
"Specs." Specs swung
around, startled.
"Dave, ya scared me."
He paused. "How mucha that didja hear?"
"Enough," David said
sadly.
"Pop?" Jack called,
entering the apartment. He was still fuming from his argument with Specs. He
hated when people thought they knew everything about him and what was right for
him. "Pop?" There wasn't an answer and he walked into the kitchen. He
stopped short when he saw the table.
The money jar was empty.
Maybe he got the tickets,
he thought hopefully. Maybe we had enough money. In his heart he knew it
wasn't true. His father had taken it all and run off.
"Bastard," Jack
muttered. He hadn't changed after all. Furious, he gathered up his things. Even
if his dad was coming back, this cowboy wasn't staying. Specs was right. How
could I have been so stupid? He comes traipsin' back inta my life sayin' he's a
great person an' all an' it's all a lie. He kicked the door to his room
angrily. All that money. I coulda gotten a ticket and a half for what I
made. That son of a bitch.
"Where tha hell do ya think
yer goin'?"
Jack whirled to see his father
in the doorway. Jack stood firm to face him with stony eyes. "Where's the
money, pop?" He held up the empty jar. "The money for the train
tickets." Mr. Sullivan didn't answer. He teetered on his feet, obviously
drunk. "You stole it. After you swore you changed." Jack stepped
forward to move past his father. He had never felt so betrayed, so
disappointed, so angry. "Yer a cheat an' a liar. An' I'm leavin'."
Mr. Sullivan's face grew
thundery. "You called me a liar?!"
Jack felt his stomach clench but
he didn't back down and he didn't reply. Mr. Sullivan snatched the jar from
Jack's hands and shook it at him. "I deserved this money. I worked in that
fact'ry all day, earnin' more'n you ever would. I was in prison for five years
while you ran the streets! This money was mine by rights! Mine!" He
hurled the jar at Jack, who jumped the the side. The jar missed his head but
smashed into his shoulder, shattering and falling to the floor. Jack grabbed
his shoulder, the blood wetting his fingers. He clenched his teeth against the
pain.
"You can have it,
pop," he said, voice controlled. You gotta get outta here, Jack. He
ain't thinkin' right. He's got that look again. If he gets his hands on you,
he'll kill you. He swallowed down his fear so he could think clearly.
"You ain't goin' nowhere,
Francis. Not after I paid for this nice place for you'n me. Not after all I
done fer you." He grabbed Jack's arm and forced him away from the door.
Jack wrenched away. Run, Jack! He flung himself at the door but his
father grabbed him around the waist and threw him against the wall. Jack gasped
and tried to catch his breath. Mr Sullivan's fist found his son's chin. He was
yelling something but Jack's ears were ringing too loudly for him to
understand.
"Pop, no!" he shouted,
praying that his father would get his sense back. It didn't work, and he tried
to block the next blows. Fight back! he shouted at himself. Jack's arm
swung up and landed in his father's stomach. He got another hit to his face,
but in his drunken state, Mr Sullivan barely felt any of the punches. He only
got angrier. "You ungrateful son of a bitch," he slurred and brought
his knee into Jack's stomach. He doubled over, feeling sick. Backhanded him
across the face and stars danced in front of his eyes. He slumped, and watched
helplessly as his father's belt came off.
Suddenly he was ten years old
again, backed into the corner of his room, bleeding and crying. The Fearless
Leader Jack Kelly, also known as Cowboy, was gone and all that was left was
little Francis Sullivan Junior. The pain of the belt was no different now than
it was seven years ago. He curled against the wall, trying to get away from the
swinging leather, trying to stand. The indignity of being whipped at seventeen
was not lost on Jack despite his fading consciousness. Smack. He had to
bite his tongue to keep from crying out. With a last ounce of strength, Jack
grabbed the belt as it landed and yanked it out of his father's grasp. He
staggered, stood, and flung the belt out the window, watching it fall to the
alley below like a bird with broken wings. His father pulled him back and beat
him into unconsciousness.
***
"Hey
Dave," called Race late the next afternoon. "You seen Jack
today?"
Dave shook his head. "Why,
haven't you?"
"No, none of us has. Wonder
what's keepin' him. Maybe he got a girl or somethin'." He chewed on his
everpresent cigar.
"Maybe," said David
absently. He'd spotted Specs and ran over to him. "Nobody's seen Jack
today," he reported.
Specs peered at him through his
glasses. "Nobody?" David shook his head slowly. They both had the
same idea. "Do you know where he's livin'?"
"Yeah, I been by a couple
times. You thinkin' we should go over there?" Specs nodded soberly.
"Me too."
The two slipped away from the
rest of the newsies and headed off to Jack's apartment. They ran into Spot
Conlon, fresh from a meeting with his Manhattan girl, along the way and relayed
the story. Spot immediately became concerned for his friend. Jack had told Spot
more about his past than he'd told David, and the idea of Mr Sullivan and Jack
under the same roof unsettled him. "Let's go," he said, determination
and a little fear in his eyes.
The apartment building was quiet
and dark. The three made their way up the dilapidated stairs to Jack's
apartment. Tentatively, David knocked. "Jack?" he called. There was
no reply. Spot pushed David out of the way and pounded on the door with his
fist. "Jack! Hey Jacky-boy, it's me, Spot! Lemme in!" Still no
answer.
"I think we should go
in," Specs said. The others nodded, and Spot tried the doorknob. It wasn't
locked. It swung open eerily, like the door to a creepy house in a horror
comic, and the three paused for a moment before entering.
"Jack?" David called
again. The house looked deserted. Had they left without saying goodbye? Then he
noticed the shattered glass on the floor. "Uh oh," he muttered, just
as he heard Specs say in a terrible, horrified voice, "Oh my God."
***
He
was faintly aware of people around him, of hands touching him. He thought it
should have hurt, but if it did, he did not feel it. Everything was very dark
and very quiet. A voice called to him but he didn't answer. He wasn't sure if
he could. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. He was quite comfortable laying where
he was, wherever he was. It was peaceful, and all he wanted to do was sleep.
***
"Oh, Jesus, Jack."
Spot's voice was quavery as if he might cry. David couldn't blame him. His best
friend was lying on the hard wooden floor, curled up and lying on his side in a
pool of blood. His clothes were torn, his shoulder and back bleeding, his shirt
ripped. Huge, angry bruises and knots displayed themselves on his chin, neck,
eye, forehead. It was a few seconds before any of them could even move, then
all of them did at once.
"Jack! Jack, can you hear
me?" David yelled, turning him on his back and cradling his friend's head
in his lap.
Specs felt for a heartbeat under
Jack's tattered shirt. He nodded, a relieved expression on his face. "He
ain't dead. But we sure as hell better get a doctor up here now."
Seeing that neither David nor Spot was going to leave Jack's side, he got up
and ran out the door.
Spot had taken off his shirt and
was using it to cover the wound on Jack's shoulder. He was crying now, but
trying not to show it. "Jacky-boy, come on. Talk to me. It's Spot."
He didn't expect a reply but he had to say something.
"We have to find his
father," David said quietly. "So I can kill him." He could not
believe that a father could do something like this to his own son. He had just
noticed the purple welts that striped Jack's back and chest. He looked so much
like his old friend, even with the marks on his face. Eyes closed, like he was
sleeping. David got that feeling again, like Jack was a little boy in need of
protection.
"Not before me, you
don't." Spot and David exchanged a tear-filled look. "He's not gonna
die." He turned his head to look at Jack. "Ya not gonna die on me,
Jacky-boy! You listen ta me! Ya not dyin'!"
The doctor arrived then, with
Specs and another doctor close behind.
"I'm Doctor Harper,"
he said, not looking at either of them but focusing on Jack's still form.
"His name is Jack?" He looked him over, a little aghast. "Who
did this to him?"
"His father. Francis
Sullivan, Senior." Spot spat out the name like it was rotten fish.
The other doctor approached and
they shooed the other boys away.
***
He
was aware of voices, and a cool hand on his forehead. The boy called Cowboy
tried to open his eyes but suddenly became aware of something else- pain. His
whole body hurt more than anything he'd felt before. It was not a place he
wanted to be. He slipped back down into the darkness.
***
The rules at the hospital said
that there could only be three people in the room at a time, but the newsies
quickly broke it. They crowded around Jack's bed, not saying anything. There
was nothing to be said. They came and went throughout the day with pained looks
on their faces. Jack looked a little better than he did when Specs, David, and
Spot had found him, but not much. The
only good news was that Francis Sullivan, Sr. had been arrested for beating
another man outside a bar and stealing his money. He'd be going back to jail
now, hopefully for good. The message had been bittersweet for the three that
stayed by Jack's side all day and all night.
David, Specs, and Spot hadn't
left the hospital in three days. The Jacobses were there as much as they could
be, but Mr Jacobs couldn't let his new job slip away. Sometimes seeing Jack
laying there unconscious became too much for Mrs Jacobs and she had to leave.
Sarah went with her, because it hurt her as well, though she wouldn't admit to
it. Les was only allowed to stay for a few hours at a time before his parents
would make him come home. David, however, was immovable.
Jack Kelly had four broken ribs,
a broken wrist, and a deep cut in his left shoulder. He had to have surgery to
take care of the internal bleeding. The cuts had been stitched up, the welts
iced and salved. There were too many to count. Wires and tubes ran everywhere,
attached to his arms, his head, his chest. He had a severe concussion, and the
doctors had said that if he didn't wake up soon, he may never wake up at all.
"I shoulda been more
forceful," Specs said quietly, his spectacled eyes ringed with dark
circles. "I shoulda made him leave."
David shook his head.
"Don't blame yourself, Specs. He never woulda listened to you, you know
that."
Specs just shook his head,
watching Jack.
Spot was terribly silent,
speaking only when absolutely necessary. He was at a loss. Any time something
bad happened, Spot Conlon could always take care of it. But now this... he felt
as if he'd failed somehow. Failed his best friend. They'd known each other for
four years and they'd always helped each other. If something was wrong, Spot
could count on Jack for help, and Jack always counted on Spot. I shoulda
done somethin'. I shoulda asked him about it. Maybe I coulda talked some sense
into him, even if Specs couldn't. He thought these kinds of things all day.
David knew better than to beat
himself up over this. It would achieve nothing. Or maybe he just couldn't think
too much about it without breaking down. Instead he thought of the future. He's
gonna wake up, he told himself. And when he does he's coming straight to
my place and he's not leaving. Even if he wants to. David wondered about
that. How would this event change Jack's opinion of David's family? Would he
hate it? Love it? Run off to Santa Fe to get away from everything? He didn't
know. All he could do was wait.
***
When
he came to consciousness again, the boy called Cowboy felt better. The pain was
less and he contemplated opening his eyes. He still did not know where he was,
but that fact didn't bother him too much. He heard those same voices, the ones
he always heard when he surfaced from the darkness. They sounded so familiar,
who were they? As he tried to place them, he slipped back down into darkness.
The
next time he came up, he was aware, and thinking. Where am I? What happened?
He struggled to open his eyes. It was quite an effort, his eyelids felt
like bricks. The light that he saw was too bright; he shut them again and
groaned.
Immediately, Specs, Spot, and
David were standing by Jack's bed. "Did
you hear that?" David asked.
"Jack? Can you hear us? Are
you awake?" Specs asked.
"Hey Jacky-boy, rise and
shine."
Jack opened his eyes again and
three disheveled heads came into focus. He blinked a few times. Their faces
were all concern. Why was he laying here? What had happened? He tried to speak
but his throat was a desert. It was too much; Jack started to close his eyes
again when there was water at his lips. He didn't know who gave it to him but
he swallowed it greedily. The effort wore him out, he fell back asleep.
He hadn't said anything, but the
three keeping vigil were so excited that they hugged each other. Quickly they
separated, trying to look macho, but the smiles plastered across their faces
gave them away.
"He's gonna be
alright," David said, more relieved than he thought possible.
Jack opened his eyes, confused,
later that afternoon. He was in a bed, and Lord, did he hurt. Was he in a
hospital? He was going to turn his head when the pain that shot through him
made him change his mind. He blinked furiously as if it would clear his mind as
well as his eyes. "Jack?"
A face came into view. Jack vaguely remembered seeing it peering down at him
before.
"Dave?" he croaked.
And suddenly the memory of what caused him to be here came rushing back. He
closed his eyes and groaned.
Four more heads appeared over
him: Spot, Specs, Race, and Mush. They all were talking at once, each looking
eternally relieved. "Are you alright Jack?" "God, we was worried
bout you!" "How you feelin'?" "We missed ya, Cowboy!"
Jack was beginning to feel a bit
overwhelmed. He didn't like everyone looking down on him like that. He felt
claustrophobic but he couldn't move to get away.
"Hey, hey, hey, give him
some room," Spot ordered, pushing everyone back. He sat down in a chair
near Jack's head. Jack, with much strain, turned to look at him. "How ya
feelin'?"
Jack licked his lips. "Like
I got hit by a train," he said hoarsely.
"That's about right,"
Spot replied.
Jack looked down at himself. A
blanket covered most of his body but he bet they were covered in bandages and
bruises. One arm was in a cast and it was painful to breathe. He suddenly
wondered if everyone knew why he was here. He didn't know how he got out of the
apartment. Did his father take him in? Could he make up a story about getting
mugged? Nobody had to know it was his father; it would be too humiliating.
Before he could ask any of these
questions, a doctor came in and made everyone leave. Jack was almost grateful.
The doctor checked him over and asked him a lot of stupid questions, like what
was his name and how old was he and what year was it? After he left, David,
Specs, and Spot returned.
"I feel like I seen too
mucha you," Jack said.
"We ain't left since ya got
here," Specs said. "Ya really had us worried there, Cowboy."
"You remember what
happened?" David asked gently.
Jack looked uncomfortable.
"Yeah," he said noncommittally. "How'd I get here?"
"We, uh, we found ya at yer
apartment, Jacky-boy," Spot said.
Jack closed his eyes. So they
did know. "Does everybody know what happened?" They nodded. Jack
moaned. How would he ever face the newsies again, after they knew he'd gotten
beat by his own father?
"What's wrong, Jack? You
need something?" David queried.
"Naw. Maybe my
dignity," he added bitterly.
"What're you talkin'
about?" Spot wondered.
Specs knew what he meant.
"Nobody thinks any less a ya, Jack."
He looked up at Specs. How did
he always know what he was thinking? "I think less a me," he
answered quietly.
The three looked at each other.
What could they say to that? Spot and David glanced at each other, at Jack looking
extraordinarily sad on the bed, and at Specs, the counselor. "We'll leave
you two alone," they said, and retreated.
Specs took a seat near the bed.
"Why do ya think less a yerself, Jack?"
"Remember how ya felt after
ya got beat when you were a kid?"
Specs nodded, not liking the
memory. "Uh huh," he said aloud, since Jack wasn't looking at him. He
stared at the ceiling, as if looking Specs in the face would be too much for
him.
"Yeah, well, I'm seventeen.
It's about a hundred times more humiliatin'."
"Nobody thinks a guy
gettin' beat up on the street is a wimp," Specs told him. "What's the
difference between a street thug and yer father?"
Jack sighed. "Because he's
my father," he whispered sorrowfully.
Specs leaned back in the chair
and nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said in a low voice.
Jack's
physical recovery was progressing well. He'd soon be released from the
hospital. The Jacobses had already prepared a bed in David's room for him and
refused Jack's assertions that he did not want to impose. He looked much
better, but he was not the same Jack that everyone knew.
"It will take him some time
to get over his father's betrayal," Dr. Harper told the Jacobses. "In
the meantime, let him know that you love him. Just don't push him."
Jack wouldn't talk to any of the
doctors about it, so the job of psychologist fell on Specs. "You gotta
stop blamin' yerself for this, Jack," he said a few days before Jack's
release.
"I don't blame
myself," he said, forcing down the hospital food.
"Yeah, ya do," Specs
countered. "Ya think it's yer fault for not bein' tough enough. But yer
not a rock, Jack. Yer a person, and yer seventeen. Yer father's what, five
inches taller than ya, and prob'ly weighs about fifty pounds more. None of us
coulda taken him. It ain't yer fault."
"I shoulda listened to ya.
I shoulda left."
Specs shook his head. "I
was thinkin' bout what you asked me before all this happened, Jack. You asked
if I'd go back if my father came back. And ya know, I probably would. We all need
somebody. It don't matter if yer seven, seventeen, seventy. Everybody wants
somebody ta watch out for em, as much as they say they don't care. And a
father-son relationship is hard ta bust."
Specs' wisdom never ceased to
amaze Jack. "Yeah, mine's busted now. Along wit' da rest a my body."
"But now ya got a new life
now. Wit' da Jacobs."
Jack looked down. "Yeah, I
dunno bout that." He paused, breathing, thinking. "Everybody treats
me like I'm some poor lost kid or somethin'. Like theys gotta be all quiet an'
nice an' everything. It'd be a lot easier if people'd treat me like they used
to."
"I think they will,
eventually. You know, a lotta the newsies've been in situations like
yours."
Jack looked at Specs.
"Yeah?"
Specs nodded. "Not all of
'em, but some. They know how ya feel. They ain't gonna think yer any less of
their leader."
Jack thought about that for a
long time. Specs looked out the window at the setting sun, the colors muddied
by the dirt of New York City. Finally Jack shook his head angrily and said,
"He shoulda just killed me an' saved me from all this goddamn trouble. I
hate that bastard." The venom in his voice was palpable. "I hope he
dies in prison. I hope he gets the shit kicked outta him every goddamn day.
Then he'd know how it feels. But it wouldn't even be the same, cuz the guys
beatin' him wouldn't be people who were supposed to love him." Jack
was trying very hard not to let the hot tears building behind his eyes spill
over. He felt Spec's hand on his arm. It was a comforting gesture and Jack was
thankful for it, though he'd never say so. It was one of those things that boys
do but never talk about, like going to see Specs for advice.
"I don't understand,"
Jack said quietly as the tears fell unbidden. "I don't understand how he
could do it. He was supposed ta be my father. He was supposed to take care a
me. He was supposed to...." Jack couldn't finish. Jack Kelly, the Fearless
Leader of the Manhattan Newsies was crying into his friend's shoulder like a
small child. Neither would ever talk about this moment again, but Jack knew
Specs would understand. And he did understand; Specs, the eternal observer, had
witnessed many a newsie crying into his pillow late at night. He'd done it,
too, waking up after a nightmare about his uncle, shaking and full of fear.
Everybody wore masks, to hide what they were feeling inside. It's the boys'
curse, Specs thought often, to be unable to show what we feel because we have
to put up a macho front. We have to hold everything inside until it all comes
out, and most of the time, there's nobody there to comfort us, to hold us, to
tell us it will all be okay.
***
Jack was released from the
hospital and received into the Jacobs' home. He was prepared for the
awkwardness, but not for the outpouring of love. Now more than ever did Mr. and
Mrs. Jacobs treat Jack as if he were their own son, preparing him for school,
quizzing him over things he should know. Since Jack was so far behind, having
little schooling, David tutored him to bring him to the level of most seventeen
year olds. He was a quick and eager learner, and devoured books as fast as
David could give them to him.
School was another story.
Sitting in a desk all day was terribly uncomfortable, and Jack was often
reprimanded for daydreaming. His thoughts were still on Santa Fe, though not
nearly as much as before. He had toyed with the idea of leaving after he was
well enough, to leave everything behind, but Specs told him that running from
his problems would only make it worse. Jack agreed to give living with the
Jacobs a try, and he was surprised to find that he liked it. After a few
transitional weeks of settling in and adjusting to the Jacobs' ground rules,
Jack found the routine comfortable.
He missed the other newsies,
however, and met with them whenever he could. Weekdays were consumed by
homework, but Jack, David, and Les still sold papes on the weekend. Sometimes
Jack would purposefully lose David and Les in the crowds to stay out later with
the newsies who didn't have to be home at a specific time.
"You stayin' to play poker
wit' us, Cowboy?" Race asked hopefully.
Jack nodded. "Ya damn right
I am. Youse bums are gettin' too rich fer yer own good." Whenever he was
with the newsies, the proper grammar he was learning slipped into the familiar
language of the streets.
"Dontcha gotta be home fer
bed, Cowboy?" Spot teased. He was one of the only people who could get
away with saying something like that to Jack without getting a punch in the
arm.
"Naw, I'm breakin' the
rules tonight." He struck a rebellious pose and accepted the cards handed
to him.
The game lasted very late, and
Jack was getting worried about what the Jacobs' would say to him when he
arrived home. He pushed the thought out of his head though. I'm havin' fun.
I ain't been out late wit' the boys in a long time. They won't care that much. Still, he left the game earlier than most of
the other newsies.
He looked for Specs on the way
home, hoping to talk to his friend. They'd grown much closer through the events
of the past months, but with school and homework, Jack hadn't been able to see
him much. He didn't run into him on the way back home (it had taken him awhile
to think of the Jacobs' apartment as home) and he climbed up the fire
escape to sneak in the window.
There were no lights on in the
apartment; Jack thought he might be safe. When he opened the door to his room,
however, he saw the adult Jacobs sitting there.
"Where have you been,
Jack?" asked Mr. Jacobs sternly.
"Just out with my
friends," Jack replied. "I didn't realize it was so late."
"The sun set hours
ago."
"Sorry," Jack said,
pulling off his everpresent bandana and tossing it on the table next to his
bed.
"I know you're getting used
to everything here, Jack, but you need to understand that we have rules
here."
Jack felt resentment and anger
rising in his stomach, but not at the Jacobs. He was resentful that David and
Les and Sarah had parents who cared about them enough to worry when they
weren't home; angry that his father had never cared, and anger that he had to
compromise his fun and freedom to abide by the rules that these people who
weren't even technically his parents placed upon him. The emotions ran up
against each other, his thoughts confused him, and he tried to calm down.
"I think you will stay home
tomorrow night, Jack," said Mr. Jacobs.
"I will what?" Jack
echoed. "I'm not staying home. I'll go out if I damn well please."
"Jack-"
"You think you can tell me
what to do? You're not my parents." He regretted saying that the instant
he said it, but he couldn't take it back.
Mrs. Jacobs' face fell.
"We're trying to look out for you. We know we're not your parents, but we
still love you. We still want what's best for you."
"How do you know what's
best for me? You hardly know anything about me!"
"We would if you would just
talk to us!" she exclaimed, and Jack was afraid that he'd made her cry. It
was true, though. Jack was closemouthed about what his family life was like,
even though he knew it would help the Jacobs understand him better.
"You wanna know everything
about me? Doesn't this tell you enough?" He pointed at the scar on his
forehead. "Or this?" Pointed to the scar on his shoulder. "You
saw me in the hospital, you know what my goddamn life was like before I
ran away!"
Mrs. Jacobs really was crying
now. Mr. Jacobs had an arm around her. He looked at Jack and said quietly,
"You know we love you and care about you. I think we'd better talk about
this in the morning after we've all calmed down."
"Sure," Jack said bitterly.
"If I'm still here. I don't need your stupid rules or your stupid family.
I can get along fine by myself." With that, he slammed the door.
Through the thin walls, he heard
Mrs. Jacobs'soft crying and her husband's voice calming her down. Jack laid on
the bed and stared at the ceiling. What the hell am I doing? What the hell
is going on? I'm so damn confused. So much was going through his head. He
did love the Jacobses, he didn't want to hurt them. But the anger surfacing
from his past, his resentment, everything kept getting in the way. Yes, he
still wanted to leave; yes, he hated the rules, but he loved the warmth of the
apartment at mealtimes. He loved reading books in his room, knowing that there
were people in the other rooms that cared about him. The thoughts spiralled
around in his brain until he thought it would burst.
He didn't realize he'd fallen
asleep until he awoke, gasping for air and covered in a cold sweat. His father
was coming, he had to hide, he had to run, he had to-- Jack suddenly realized
he was safe in his room at the Jacobses. He'd had a nightmare, nothing more.
Sitting up, he put his head in his hands, still trying to calm himself.
Suddenly, he heard the door open; Mrs. Jacobs peeked her head in. A shaft of
light from the hallway fell onto Jack's bed; he was looking up at her with
those eyes, those eyes that always showed her that Jack was just a scared and
hurt young man trying to cover up his pain with that facade of his
devil-may-care attitude. A sheen of frightened sweat covered his face; Mrs.
Jacobs moved to his bed. She didn't say anything, just knelt down next to him
and rubbed his back as she used to do for David when he awoke from a nightmare.
"I'm sorry," the boy
called Cowboy said quietly.
"It's okay." As his eyes
closed and his breathing turned to deep, even breaths, she brushed the hair
from his forehead, smiled, and watched him sleep.