@youllstealannuduh @theloverislost (sorry I tagged yall again your the #1 and #2) @logicalucy @fnchtrack @ponleloquequier @randomfandomz14 @billthebratbastardslank + open tags
I’ve done a lot o’ things, the past nineteen years, that I ain’t really been sure about. Ain’t sure if they’re gonna work. Ain’t sure if it’s a good idea. Ain’t even sure I really want to do ’em. But I do, for one reason: I know I’m gonna regret it if I don’t.
That’s why I found myself sittin’ in the Blackwell’s Island Penitentiary this mornin’.
I’d been there before, when I was twelve, right after I got out o’ the Refuge for the first time. I went back a month later, but Pop wouldn’t see me. Said I was better off on me own—I’ve told you about that before. An’ a couple months ago, when I first got to talkin’ with Medda, I went before I could think my way out of it.
But I didn’t think about visitin’ hours, either. It wasn’t the right day an’ they wouldn’t let me see him.
But this mornin’ I showed up again. Same grey walls, same cold, damp floor, same cagey feelin’ you get once you’ve spent time in jail. I wasn’t scared, but I sure didn’t like it. An’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to try seein’ Pop again, either. I’d been doin’ just fine on my own these last few years.
But I’ll tell ya: I’ll do a whole lot o’ things if you tell me I’ll wish I had later.
@mindofeth THANKS, PAL! BACK AT YA!
If anyone new to these parts wants to read the whole story o' Pop, here's the place to do it. Someday I'll get around to fixin' the map so you can read up on all your favorite dime-novel newsie heroes (and probably everyone else) real easy, but for now you gotta bring your own lasso an' wrangle stuff up from the Arkives.
You're underestimatin' how easy most horses find their way back to their dinners. That horse knew exactly where he was goin'--and if he wanted to make a little stop at his best girl's house for an apple or carrot or maybe a piece o' pie on the way, WHAT'S WRONG WITH THAT?!?!?
Jack, in regards to your latest hiJACKing, weren't you almost trampled by a bull riding a horse into Medda's to break up the newsie rally? Is it safe to assume we're only applying the post to passionate renegades who oppose corruption and greed (such as yourself and Nell) and not bulls?
[in reference to this]
Listen, what's life if you ain't almost gettin' trampled by a horse every once in a while? I don't have any problem with the bull's horse by himself--maybe he'd heard o' Nell's starrin' role in The Singin’, Dancin’, Sharp-Shootin’ Cowboy Pirates o’ Santa Fe and wanted to become an actor himself. Or maybe he'd heard there were snacks inside, and if you ask Nell, that's the Number One Reason to go bustin' in anyplace. (That reminds me, I still gotta fix the Brace Farm kitchen door thanks to a little Incident last week. Nell's no fool--she knows when the cookin' smells especially good.)
And speakin' o' food, have you ever brought dinner out to a bunch o' draft horses? Let's do some math here. (The Brace Farm's big on "cross-disciplinary application o' principles.") Let's say each o' the Brace Farm's Percherons weighs 1,900 pounds (that's an average, but calculatin' that's a lesson for another day.) Then let's say there's eight of 'em in a field. 1,900 pounds times eight horses is 15,200 pounds, chargin' right toward their dinner pails, and those dinner pails are in Yours Truly's hands. And while I might be able to box Light Heavyweight by now (that's Pop's estimation, 'cause Sarah won't let me), that's an awful lot o' pounds o' horse if you don't have nerves o' steel like Western Jim! And that goes on every mornin' and evenin'.
Anyway, to herd it all back to your point, yeah. Passionate renegades who oppose corruption an' greed, such as myself an' Nell, should get to ride horses into roomfulls o' people anytime we want. In fact, I would argue it doesn't ruin most people's plans, it improves 'em! Unless the bulls are the ones makin' plans, in which case I think Nell an' I oughtta be able to ruin their plans every now an' then. Fair's fair, ya know.
Also, not only would we potentially be doin' the world a huge service, we'd also have fun. It says so right there.
I know I commented this already, but welcome back, Jack! It's nice to see you again!
Thanks, pal! It's good to see ya, and good to be seen, unless you're Thomas Edison tryin' to sneak motion pictures o' my darin' dime-novel antics for free again. I GOT SOME WORDS FOR YOU, TOM!!!!
For the Pretty City Asks: Chicago and Paris for Hana, Dublin and Las Vegas for Pauline, and Mumbai and Oslo for Judith? I love those girls so much!
Thank you for the ask and for embracing them! These are all going to be the worst answers because they're being asked of three women who are very much in love with their respective sweethearts. :) Under a cut because it got a little long.
Hana
Chicago: What do you ache for?
For her family to be complete. One of her greatest hopes is to gather all of the Kollárs and the Kučeras together in one place. That seems fairly unlikely to ever happen, though. Short of that, she's sure that one day her parents will get to see Jozef again, and meet Zuzana and Thomas, and Hana will do whatever she can to contribute to bringing them together. Along the same lines, she's always wanted to be a mother; now, thankfully, that longing is closer than ever to being fulfilled.
Paris: Describe your favorite kiss.
Hana could literally not do this if she were really asked to. When I started answering this I was thinking of these questions as the girls being at a slumber party and asking each other these rather intense things, and if Hana got hit with this one she'd turn red. Even if she'd ever kissed anyone besides Roman her favorite would still be with him, so that's what she says.
"But what was it like?" Pauline wants to know, pausing in braiding half of Judith's hair. "Did he sweep you into his arms, overcome with desire, and kiss you until your knees went weak? Or did he cradle your face in his hands and whisper sweet nothings to you before kissing you tenderly?"
"Sounds like someone's speaking from experience," Judith murmurs. She's glad Pauline can't see her face as she imagines the embraces the younger woman has described.
"I cannot pick one. They are all nice."
Pauline groans and slumps dramatically, her fingers sliding through Judith's tresses. "You know better English words than 'nice,'" she says. Then she chortles, and says in a sly tone, "I bet it happened in the costume room."
Hana flushes even darker, fingertips brushing the side of her neck as she bites her lip. Pauline hums smugly.
"What costume room?" Judith asks. The other two laugh a bit helplessly; from the corner of her eye she sees that Pauline, too, is now red-faced.
"You must get David to take you there the next time you visit Irving Hall," Hana says over Pauline's giggles.
(Though she still refuses to rank their kisses, one of her favorites is going to be the one they share in bed the morning after their wedding, before he's even fully awake but smiling against her lips all the same, and it hits her that they finally get to wake up like this for the rest of their lives.)
Pauline
Dublin: Do you believe in Soul mates?
Absolutely—though not so much for herself anymore. She would not readily admit this, but the most concrete evidence she has of the existence of soul mates is the relationship between Hana and Roman. I don't know if she'd be quite so adamant that Snoddy is her soul mate, though. Not because she doesn't love and respect and want to marry him, but because she does, and the concept of soul mates seems rather evanescent compared to her feelings about him and their relationship. Thinking of Hana and Roman as soul mates feels fitting, hopeful in the truest sense, logical, sensible, even; but thinking of herself and Calvin as such feels fanciful and almost but not exactly demeaning. I think it's because she understands the amount of work that goes into their relationship, smooth as it may generally be, and to her soul mates are more effortless. Not that she thinks her friends' relationship is without difficulties; but she's not in it to know how much work is involved.
Las Vegas: Have you ever broken a heart?
Not on purpose. She wouldn't be surprised—or terribly disappointed, to be honest—to hear that she had at some point, though. In her younger, more carefree days, she was more of a flirt and a social butterfly. (Blink probably would have approved of that version of her more than he does the present one.) Since being with Snoddy she knows that how she felt about anyone then was just infatuation, not really love, and she assumes that that's also true of the way anyone felt about her. She's probably right, but she probably also bruised more hearts, and egos, than she realizes.
Judith
Mumbai: What is your favorite scent?
This is a tough one for her, because she's so visually oriented. Darkroom chemicals smell familiar, and while she wouldn't say she likes the scent, it puts her at ease. She wears a perfume that's something like neroli, rose, and cedar (the links in this post that mention it don't work anymore, alas)—I think she gravitates toward earthy scents more than flowery ones. If someone demanded an answer she might try to describe the smell of the streets in Portugal, with the richness of wine hovering over the scent of sun-warmed stones. Or she might just smirk and say, "Good coffee."
Oslo: What keeps you warm?
Of course the feeling of satisfaction she gets from producing a beautiful photograph—the moment of seeing the image emerge on paper exactly as she'd pictured it in her mind.
But also LES JACOBS.
But LJ, you say, Judith is in love with David, not Les. True! Allow me to climb onto my soapbox for a moment, though. One of the things I love about this series is the platonic relationships. While romance is at the center of most of the stories, romantic relationships are not the only ones that matter. Meeting David changed Judith's life in several ways, one of those being introducing her to people who are now her friends, as improbable as she sometimes finds that. She is fond of Skittery and Blink and Mush and Tumbler and Gussie and Pauline, and she is especially fond of Les. And she is surprised to find that he seems just as fond of her in return. He is, in fact, the first member of the Jacobs family that Judith realizes she loves (here). So when she thinks about the things that fill her with contentment, her work is there, and her parents and Mr. Till, and her sweetheart; but so are the people who, quite unexpectedly, like her for who she is.
Cowardly though it may have been, she’d been avoiding him. What else could she do? She wasn’t sure how to behave around him—she couldn’t pretend things were as they’d always been, couldn’t feel so free with him as she once had.
But she couldn’t bear to end it once and for all. She wasn’t sure how to live without him.
One Sunday a few months back he’d shown up after Mass with a second-hand Bible. The edges of its soft leather cover were creased and the name Margaret McNulty written inside in a spidery hand; but below it he had added her name, and the text on the thin pages that followed was dark and clear, with red lettering in the Gospels. “Not that I don’t like talkin’ about words with ya,” he’d said as she paged through it, “but I thought ya might like an English version. That way ya can take this an’ read along while you’re listenin’ in Slovak.” It had been a sweet gift, touching in its thoughtfulness, and unexpected as it came on no particular occasion. He’d been so earnest and almost sheepish in its presentation, or at least in his explanation, that her heart had swelled nearly to the point of pain with fondness. It was evidence, had she needed still more, of his concern for her well-being.
More recently she’d searched for the day’s psalm when a word had caught her eye. She paused to seek it out, letting the call-and-response of the reading flow on around her; there was her favorite fruit, not in the story of the fall, but in what seemed a lament: Stay ye me with raisins, refresh me with apples; For I am sick from love. A hiccuping sort of noise just short of a sob escaped her mouth, loud enough to cause Mama to shoot her a questioning look. Hana shook her head, pressing her lips closed.
I am sick from love. Before it would have struck her as romantic, if a bit melodramatic. Now she felt the truth of it to her marrow: the aching, the yearning, the loneliness and sleeplessness and despair.
The loneliness wasn’t only from missing him. She felt there was no one she could talk through it with—no one impartial, anyway. Her parents’ opinions would cancel each other out, though the issue of Tumbler’s welfare might sway Mama. Pauline would be unreservedly on her side, of that Hana had no doubt, even if she didn’t really think there were sides. Hana wondered briefly what might happen if Calvin took up for Roman. Would Pauline still stand with her, even if it meant arguing with Pauline’s own beau? The last thing Hana wanted was any more strife on her account, so discussing things with Pauline was out.
Though she was more Roman’s friend, Judith seemed fair and thoughtful; but they still didn’t know each other well enough for Hana to be comfortable unburdening herself to her. Perhaps Hana could write to Zuzana...but then Jozef would probably hear about it and chime in with his opinion. Besides, between being preoccupied with Thomas and the miles between them, there was no guarantee her sister-in-law would be able to provide advice in time for it to be of any use.
Sarah of all people would understand. But what could she say more than what she already had? She’d warned Hana that it was work—and that it was worth the effort all the same. But things had been different in the Kellys’ case. There had been a little brother there, too, but he hadn’t joined them in their new home.
Who Hana wanted to talk to, of course and as always, was Roman. He was the one who listened to her best, and understood her best, and knew her best.
It was heartwrenching how easy avoiding him had been. A few times she’d had to walk around the block, or duck back into the Hermanns’ when she saw him at the Kollárs’ door; but more often her peeking around corners yielded no glimpse of him. Disappointment and relief mingled in her each time.
Until one day she stepped into the hall from the stairwell to see him walking away from their door. When he noticed her he froze for a moment; then, with cautious steps, he approached.
“Hi,” he said.
It appeared that the distance between them had been having no ill effects on him, she noted a bit sourly. His posture may have been diffident, shoulders rounded and head lowered slightly, but there was a brightness in his expression that had annoyance flaring in her, then frustration, before fading back to melancholy once again.
It was not in her nature to be so sad, so bitter. The emotions leached the strength from her. She was too young for this constant weariness.
“Hello.”
“Would ya come for a walk with me?” he had the nerve—or courage, maybe—to ask, squeezing his cap in his hands. He really ought to have a new one, to go with his elevated position. “There’s a couple o’ things I want to show ya.”
She studied him for a moment before nodding once. That little acquiescence lightened his expression still further.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused, and for a moment she feared he would pull her into the alcove. Indeed he did glance over his shoulder in that direction, but instead shuffled only a few steps out of the way of the door, pulling a piece of paper from inside his vest.
With slightly trembling hands he unfolded the paper. It was some kind of official form, she could see as she drifted closer, typed text interrupted by blanks to be filled in. Some of them already had been: she noticed his name and birthdate before her eyes landed on the painstakingly-written words Andrew Kučera.
“Roman,” she said quietly. She raised her eyes to his, shining even in the dim light. “This is wonderful.”
It explained his happiness, and maybe his absence. Her heart throbbed.
“Before I filled it out I asked Kloppman if he had any record o’ what the kid’s last name could’ve been, but he didn’t. ’Cause I would’ve left it in as his middle name, so he’d still have it.” He shrugged, no doubt feeling helpless about all they’d lost. But he’d tried all the same. She wondered if he knew how important the effort itself was, and if Tumbler knew, and if he appreciated Roman’s hard work on his behalf.
“You know Kloppman’s been helpin’ me with all o’ this stuff,” Roman reminded her, and she nodded. “An’ then Jack an’ Sarah said they’d put in a good word for me, an’ Denton too. I went up an’ saw them—Jack an’ Sarah, an’ all the kids.” Her head jerked up at that and she stared hard at him, envious and curious all at once. He explained, “Figured it was quicker, an’ cheaper, to just go an’ talk to him in person ’stead o’ usin’ the phone. I see why ya like it up there.” He’d been looking at her all the while he spoke, but now his focus on her sharpened, his expression thoughtful and tender. Voice low he went on, “I thought o’ you the whole time. I kept thinkin’ I’d turn around an’ you’d be right there, with the sun shinin’ on ya, lookin’ all free an’ full o’ joy.”
Rather than keep facing the adoration in his eyes, she dropped her gaze to the scuffed floor of the entryway. She wanted to ask how he’d liked Valhalla, how big Danny and the girls had gotten, how Sarah and Jack were getting on; she wanted to ask how he dared go without her when he knew how much her visit had meant to her.
“Anyway,” he went on after a pause, “we gotta go up in front of a judge before the adoption’s official. Can’t say I’m lookin’ forward to bein’ in a courtroom again...’specially not with somethin’ this big on the line.” When he let out a shaky breath she looked up at him again and reached out to put a hand on his forearm. The muscles there flexed beneath her fingers.
“It’s first thing Tuesday mornin’. It’d mean a lot if you could be there. I tried gettin’ it on a Wednesday afternoon, so you could come without havin’ to miss work, but they only do adoptions certain times.” His face was lit with the same hope and wonder that she’d seen on it after that first letter from his siblings in Iowa had arrived, as if he couldn’t quite believe the good thing come to him.
“I will ask if I can be there,” she said. Even if it was only as a friend, she could support them on this important day, when all of Roman’s anxieties and fears were likely to spring up at once.
“Thanks,” he murmured. She took her hand away while she still could. He watched her for a moment, then, with the utmost care, folded the paper and secured it within his vest once again.
“Is there something else? It is very good news,” she said, “but this was not much of a walk.”
“Yeah.” He opened the door and held it for her; then he pointed up the street, and they walked side by side a few blocks north, then briefly toward the river. The building they arrived at was unremarkable, the same brick as its neighbors; the entryway was a little dusty, though nothing a good sweeping and thorough mopping couldn’t take care of. Roman led her up two flights of stairs and then down a hall. He pushed open a door and then stood aside to let her enter.
The apartment was sparsely furnished with a small table and two chairs. The floors had been swept recently and the walls were unstained; the windows, bare of any shades or curtains, looked out onto the street. She peered toward the bedroom, where a pale shape seemed to be a mattress. “Who lives here?” she asked, though she felt she knew the answer.
“I’m workin’ on movin’ in. Helps that I don’t have too much to move,” he joked, sounding proud nonetheless. “I’m lookin’ for a cot or somethin’ so that Tumbs has got a place to sleep, too.” He scuffed a shoe over the floor. “I want to get rugs an’ curtains an’ stuff, to make it more comfortable, like your folks’ place. An’ we’ll need plates an’ forks an’ knives, an’ sheets, an’...a lot o’ other stuff.” Out of the corner of her eye she watched his shoulders slump at the enormity of the task before him. Then he sucked in a breath and gathered himself, straightening up and turning toward her.
His siblings found, Tumbler’s adoption nearly complete, and now an apartment of his own: it was what he’d wanted and been working toward for so long. Even if there was plenty of work left to do, he’d done so much already; the rest would come with time.
She steeled herself to meet his gaze, and tried her best to ignore her desire to be in his arms, to deliver this praise into his ear with his heart beating against her own. From a safe distance she told him, “You have done so well. You have come from Tábor to Duane Street, and now you will have a place all your own. And you work to write the papers you used to sell—it is what they hoped for us when we came to America.” Not for the first time she wished the elder Kučeras were here to see their son, what he had achieved. It was so much more impressive than anything she’d done. “You have worked so hard for all of this, and I am glad you will have it. I am—” Her voice caught. “—very proud of you, Roman.”
It almost looked as though his eyes were wet, and she felt her own welling, too. His smile was tender.
“I was hopin’ that before too long, you’d be livin’ here, too.”
That was not unexpected. Rather than reply she studied the space all the closer, pivoting away from him to survey it. In her mind’s eye she saw lacy curtains blowing in the breeze, an inviting settee with a warm blanket draped over one arm, the kitchen shelves full of cans and jars and utensils. She saw herself leaning out the window to watch her children playing on the sidewalk below, saw Roman coming in the door at the end of the day to greet her with a kiss. It was a glimpse of the life she’d planned and expected and prayed for.
When her spin brought them face to face again he looked antsy. He hadn’t asked a question, so she would. “What does Tumbler think of this, of all of us living together?” Maybe, she thought for a split second, they could simply swap places: Tumbler could take her bed, and she could stay here with Roman.
He hesitated long enough for her heart to sink.
“He’s known I wanted to marry you since almost before I knew myself. He knows how important you are to me.” She doubted that, had always heard an undercurrent of mockery in his mentions of a possible union.
She shook her head. “I promised that I would not come between the two of you. I think he would be happier if I was not living here, too. And that is what’s important, for you two to be together finally.”
“You’re allowed to be important, too. You are important, Hana. To me, an’ to so many other people. Includin’ Tumbler, even if he don’t act like it sometimes.”
That idea was perhaps the most optimistic one Roman had ever expressed. “You must do what will be best for your family.”
“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “That’s what I’m tryin’ to do!” The display of temper was oddly reassuring, though short-lived; he let out a harsh breath and his fingers drummed against his hip as he stared at the door.
Finally his gaze returned to her, and he said her name like a prayer. “You are my family. You have been since you came into Tibby’s to invite me an’ Tumbler to dinner. You’re beautiful and brave and better than I deserve, and I’ll do whatever I have to to get ya to stay with me. It ain’t gonna be easy—it ain’t been easy already, I know, and I’m sorry for puttin’ ya through all this waiting. And the three of us livin’ here is goin’ to take gettin’ used to, especially since Tumbs barely remembers what it’s like to have a home he don’t have to pay for by the night.” Her heart clenched at that. “It’s gonna be hard sometimes, but I know it’ll be worth it as long as you’re there. I hope... I hope you feel the same way.
“I know I prob’ly got no right to ask, an’ I think ya ought to think about it before you answer. I made ya wait long enough; ’s only fair if I have to wait a while, too—” Here he swallowed hard. “—however long it takes. I got you a ring,” he revealed, fingers again tapping at his hip; “I got it with me almost all the time. Whenever you’re ready, you can come find me an’ put it on. I-if you still want to.”
Haltingly, as if afraid that she might lash out, he reached for her hand. When he took it she gazed down at their hands, amazed that his felt so familiar after what seemed so long. She glanced up again to see his eyes on her. “I love you, Hana,” he said humbly. “Will you please marry me?”
This was not the kind of proposal she’d read about, not the kind that would have pleased Pauline. Hana’s throat was thick with emotion all the same.
But if she didn’t say this now, she never would, and it would eat at her for the rest of their lives, a slow poison. She clenched her fist in her skirt. “Even though I am not enough for you?”
His expression was disbelieving. “Is that what ya think?” he demanded. Then, his eyes roaming her, his tone softened. “Is that how ya feel?”
She nodded, the movement more resolved than she felt. “All of this,” she said, freeing her hand from his to gesture to the apartment, the adoption paper in his pocket, the vaguest of directions in which Iowa might lie, “came first. All of this you had to get done before you could get to the bottom of your list, where I am. And while you were doing all of this, you didn’t even tell me about it, or check that I was okay.”
“Don’t ya get it? I had to do all this first, not ’cause it's more important than you, but so that it’s done, finally. This’s what’s kept me from marryin’ you before. This was gettin’ in the way, keepin’ me from you. Now that it’s taken care of—God willin’,” he added, “—it shows that I’m good enough for ya. That I can take care o’ ya the way a man’s s’posed to look after his wife. An’ it means that when we get married I won’t be worryin’ about any o’ it. Just you.”
“And Tumbler.”
“Yeah, an’ Tumbler,” he sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “He’s gotta be safe. I have to make sure o’ that.” His tone was almost desperate, his eyes pleading. “You’ve known that all along.”
“Yes,” she murmured. Tumbler had been the first of them in Roman’s life, in his heart, in his plans. She’d understood the responsibility he felt for the younger boy, even embraced it as a sign of Roman’s maturity and desire for family; when had she let it come to seem an obstacle? It was small of her, and shame filled her—though it warred with her selfish desire to feel as important to Roman as he’d said she was.
“For a long time I didn’t think any o’ this was actually possible. Not for a guy like me. I wanted it, sure, but it was easier not to think about it too much, in case it never happened. But then I met you, an’ saw ya with your family, an’ it all came back. An’ this time I started to think it was really possible. All o’ this is because o’ you. Because ya gave me hope, more than I’d had in a long time, an’ because ya gave me something to work for. Thank you, Hana,” he said fervently, taking her hand once again and holding it tenderly. “This could— I could have a good life, now, because o’ you. I do have a good life because o’ you. Thank you.”
“I am glad. You should have a good life—you should get all of the good things you want. That is what I want for you, because I love you.” Whether or not it was kind to admit it now, it was true.
His smile wavered, but his hand tightened around hers. “Still?”
“Still. But like you said,” she murmured, “I must think about it.”
Though she knew she should let go, she held on to him a moment longer.
That night she slid out of bed to kneel in the dark, pleading for what her heart most desired, hoping that what she desired was right.
*
His usual lunch companion was absent; she wasn’t sure if this would be easier or harder were Gussie here. Instead he sat with Boots, towheaded Ten-Pin, and Snipeshooter. The company made her pause, but moreso did the sight of him. He was taller now than when they’d met, his face starting to lose the roundness of childhood; soon he would be a handsome young man, with heaven only knew what kind of life in store for him. She’d prayed often enough that it be a good one, and did so again now.
Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t want to interrupt this group, worried about embarrassing him in front of his friends. These were anything but normal circumstances, at least for her. So she squared her shoulders and strode into Tibby’s and up to the table, smiling at Boots’ polite greeting and Ten-Pin's less formal one.
Tumbler looked up at her from a chair tipped onto its two back legs. “Can we talk, please?” she asked. In response he thumped down onto all four legs before following her to an empty table out of eavesdropping distance, both of them ignoring Snipeshooter’s singsong teasing that “Somebody’s in trouble.”
Once he was seated opposite her she told him, “Roman has asked me to marry him.”
“He said he was gonna.” He eyed her, gaze flicking from her face to her hands and back. “What’d you tell him?”
“I told him that I would not come between the two of you. I will not marry him if you do not agree to it, too.”
Whatever he’d expected her to say, that wasn’t it. His eyes widened in a face gone suddenly pale. “So it’s on me to decide? That ain’t fair!”
“No, it isn’t.” For so long she’d held her tongue in front of him; now she could not. “It isn’t fair that my future and my happiness depends on someone who does not seem to care about me the way I care about him.”
“Skitts cares about ya. You know that. Everybody knows that.” His attempt at a derisive tone lacked conviction.
“I was not talking about him. I love you, Andy,” she said, noting the way his face went scarlet at the statement, the way his gaze dropped, the way his throat bobbed; she wondered distantly when the last time he’d heard those words was. That didn’t stop her from going on, “But I will not share my home with someone who cannot be kind to me. I will not spend the rest of my life pretending it’s okay when someone takes me for granted, and acting like it does not hurt when they don’t respect me.” A tear spilled over and tracked down her cheek, followed by a twin on the other side; she didn’t try to stop them, nor did she move to wipe them away. She’d hidden her hurt from him enough times before. Maybe he had to see it to believe it. By now he was old enough to understand that his actions had consequences.
His expression was graver than she’d ever seen it. She could not let herself believe that that boded well; she could not bear to hope. She swallowed hard, wishing for an icy sarsaparilla.
“I think that you do not want another sister.” At his quizzical frown she went on, “Máša you may not ever meet, so you will be able to ignore her, and Joe and Miles. But they will be your brothers and sister because they are Roman’s. Máša is funny and clever—she is a lot like Pauline, I think, so you will certainly like her more than you like me.”
As she talked his brows gradually lifted, nearly disappearing beneath the hair that hung over his forehead. His eyes were filled with worry at her uncharacteristic attitude. And why wouldn’t they be? He’d never wanted it to get back to Roman that he’d upset her: not out of concern for her, but for fear of what his brother might do. The cynicism burned like acid dripping into her stomach. She hated it, and, for just a moment, hated herself.
“Hana...” was all he managed.
She swallowed hard, blinking away the teardrops clinging to her eyelashes. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that.”
He fidgeted in his seat, shoulders spasming in something like a shrug. “I like you fine,” he offered.
She let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, good. ‘Fine.’ Why? Because I do things for you—pay for your lunch and buy papers from you and let you into my home and cook spaghetti sauce? Or because your brother likes me? Or because you think I am a person who should have respect and kindness?” She fixed him with a cold stare. “My mother loves you. She treats you better than she does to Roman. And what do you do for her? Wash the dishes and sometimes say thank you. That is not how a family works.”
“How’m I s’posed to know that?” he snarled. “I never had one.”
At any other time that reminder of his past would have evoked significantly more pity than it did now. “You have eyes,” she said. “You have spent enough time with the Jacobses to see how they treat each other, how they help each other. You have seen the same thing with Sarah and Jack, and with us. You are not stupid, Andy, and you are not a bad person,” she added, to forestall any accusations on that front. “You are funny and clever, and I like spending time with you very much. But I do not want to cry any more because of you.” She would, that much was certain, no matter what he decided. She would keep loving him even if—when—she was furious and heartsore because of something he’d done.
“If you cannot agree that we will all work to be a family together, you and Roman and me and whatever children we have, then I cannot marry him.” It was a lot to ask of a 14-year-old, she knew, but she wasn’t sure how else they could move forward.
There was a long moment of silence between them, though she heard his heels drumming against the legs of his chair. At last he said, “You should say yes,” meeting her gaze.
“You must understand what it will be like,” she warned him. “I will tell you to wipe the floor when you track in snow and mud, and ask you to take the rugs outside to beat them, and tell you to be quiet when the baby is sleeping, and I will forget and talk in Slovak when I am very tired or upset. And when Roman and I disagree, you cannot stick your nose in and take sides or make fun.”
“Sounds great,” he muttered to the tabletop.
This time when she pictured the tenement apartment Tumbler was there, stretched out in front of the fireplace as Roman read aloud and she sewed. He was among their family and friends filling their home at Christmastime, joining Gussie in sneaking the rohlíčky Mrs. Procházka had brought while Pauline and Calvin, arm in arm, chatted merrily with Mama and Tatko. He sat on the settee in the evening light, his drowsy niece or nephew in his arms, both of them at ease with the other.
It would be hard work, but worth every second of it. Tumbler and Roman were worth more than the effort she put into polishing floors and scrubbing sinks. And wasn’t that what she was good at?—hard work, and hope. Her heart began to lift.
“But you will have a safe place to sleep every night. You will have clean clothes, and good meals. You will be cared for. You will be as healthy and happy as I can help you be,” she promised.
Tumbler glanced up at her, head tilting. His eyes seemed warmer than before as he considered her. For the first time in what seemed a very long time she felt able to smile, and did, just a little.
“So this is what you must know, and decide if it is something you can accept. If you will let me be part of your family forever. I would like to be,” she added quietly, “very much.”
Having said her piece and made her case the best she knew how, she fell silent to await his response. Though he didn’t reply for what felt like whole minutes, his gaze pensive and distant, the wait did not bother her; she felt possessed of endless patience, and, better still, a peace she hadn’t had in far too long.
All the same, she was eager to hear what he had to say when at last he spoke. “When Gussie wanted to run away I told her she had to go home an’ sleep on it. Make sure it was what she really wanted. So that’s what I’m gonna do, too,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll think about it an’ let ya know.” Once he was on his feet, he didn’t leave immediately; instead he paused, looking down at her for a minute. “But it, um... What ya said...” He ventured a tiny, shy smile. “It sounds like a good deal.”
*
Even without hearing Hana’s reason Miss Grace had agreed that it would be fine for Hana to come in a bit late on Tuesday morning. She wouldn’t be able to stay to join in any celebrations—which might be for the best, given the current uncertainty about her place with Roman and Tumbler—but she would be there to support them, and that would have to be enough.
Tumbler was waiting when she stepped down from the streetcar that evening, a grim expression on his face and a little posy in his hand. She joined him out of the flow of foot traffic.
“I only got a minute,” he said, “Gussie’s waitin’ an’ I gotta get her home.” Hana looked in the direction in which he’d jerked his head: curiosity plain on her face, Gussie was peering out from a doorway, and waved when she saw Hana. He squinted at Hana. “You know she’s gonna wanna be around all the time now, too, right? She may be little, but she can eat.”
“So can you,” she said over the sudden tripping of her heart.
He threw his shoulders back. “I’m a growin’ boy! I need nourishment.”
Her lips twitched. “We will manage.” She would find a way—if he gave her the chance, she would prove how much she could achieve. “Do you want to have dinner with us now? Gussie can come, too.”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “But, uh, thanks. Listen, what I said yesterday. It still sounds like a good deal—better for me than for you, I guess. But if ya don’t mind that, I’d like to take ya up on it.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “You are sure?” He nodded, but she pressed, not wanting to misunderstand: “We have an agreement? We will work together?” She hesitated, hoping that to ask more would not scare him away, that to ask this most important question would not change his mind; she had to be certain he meant it, though, had to hear it from his own mouth. “We will be a family?”
He met her eye squarely. “Yeah.”
It would be naïve to hope for some show of affection from him, a hug or a kiss on the cheek. It would be just as naïve to think he would accept the same from her, especially in public as they were. This demanded some kind of gesture, though, some physical seal of their pact, of this moment. So she signaled its significance in the way she knew he would best understand: she raised her hand, spat into it, and offered it to him.
Tumbler’s eyes went wide as saucers and his jaw dropped. Then he let out a shout of laughter. While his laughter still rang in her ears, he spat enthusiastically into his own palm and grabbed her hand. Despite the slickness between their palms Hana, too, grinned, her eyes growing damp.
As he dropped her hand he seemed to remember the bouquet he still held. “Oh, yeah,” he said, thrusting it toward her, “these’re for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, admiring the cheerful white daisies and yellow carnations. They weren’t the expensive gardenias she so enjoyed; but if they had been she would have felt guilty that he’d spent so much of his pay on her. These were perfect, and she said so, meaning it with every fiber of her being. The smile that had been absent from her face for so long now seemed here to stay, and when she looked up again his expression was pleased.
“We gotta go,” he said, pivoting toward where Gussie lurked. Hana nodded and turned, too, but not in the direction of her home. Tumbler smirked a little. “Remember the way there?” She nodded, her smile widening further still, and wished them a good evening before hurrying away.
Roman answered her knock in his undershirt, the sleeves pushed up his forearms and a sheen of sweat on his brow. From behind him in the apartment came the sound of bickering and the scrape of furniture across the floor; she’d guess the voices belonged to Bumlets and Swifty, though she couldn’t be sure. Roman’s weary expression shifted when he registered her presence.
Fighting to keep her own expression neutral she held out her left hand, palm down. For a moment he simply stared at it, uncomprehending. Then he blinked up at her. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice sounding choked.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
The rag in his hand drifted to the floor as he fumbled in his pocket. His fingers trembling, he took her hand in his and slid the thin band onto her ring finger. She caught a glint of red from the little stone atop it as she raised their hands to kiss his knuckles. Then she wrapped her arms around him and drew him to her, pressing her face into the worn fabric of his shirt. His arms enfolded her in return, holding her almost too tightly; she didn’t mind the squeeze but snuggled deeper into his embrace. He kissed the side of her head before burying his nose in her hair. They stood holding each other on the threshold—of their new home, of their new life—and she knew she was exactly where she belonged.
Slingshots were a lot more difficult to maneuver than Tumbler had expected when he asked Spot Conlon for one after the strike. Spot and the other Brooklyn newsies made it look easy but so far, Tumbler had dropped almost every marble he’d attempted to load. And the ones he didn’t drop didn’t make it much further than his feet when he launched them. He’d been practicing in the attic for almost two hours, according to the pocket watch he’d borrowed from Racetrack (even if Race didn’t know that he’d borrowed it), and hadn’t been able to hit any of the bottles he’d set up as targets.
It was just so frustrating. He wasn’t used to not being good at things. He was good at selling (one of the perks of being young and adorable), he was good at all of the acrobatic tricks the older boys had taught him, and he was good at the Italian words Race and Itey were trying to teach him. Bumlets had called him a “prodigy,” once while they were playing on the barrels together and sure, Tumbler didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded fancy and the way Bumlets rolled the ‘r’ when he said it made it sound even fancier. He’d always been good at getting things quickly and the fact that he couldn’t get this was starting to grate on him.
With a sigh, Tumbler loaded yet another marble into the slingshot, deciding that if he didn’t land the next three shots, he’d head downstairs and see if he could talk someone into helping. He knew he couldn’t ask Skittery or Bumlets if he wanted to keep the slingshot and while Itey could occasionally be talked into doing something silly, Tumbler had a feeling it wouldn’t work if a weapon was involved. Swifty, however, could probably be convinced. Swifty was usually up for anything as long as no one got hurt.
The first two shots went about as well as the others had, so when Tumbler managed to get the marble properly loaded and aimed, he nearly jumped for joy. It took him a moment to regain his composure, breathing deeply and channeling his inner Spot Conlon as he aimed at the bottle closest to the door. When he released his shot, the marble arched perfectly, moving closer and closer to the bottle as the door opened and a figure stepped into the marble’s trajectory.
“Hey, Tumbs, I’ve been looking for you everywh-”
THWACK. The marble smacked directly into the center of Skittery’s forehead, sending him stumbling back into the cabinet where Tumbler had lined up the bottles. They crashed to the floor around Skittery’s feet, making both of them flinch at the sound of glass breaking. When the sounds of destruction finally stopped, the two boys stood in silence for a beat before Skittery closed his eyes and let out a deep, exasperated breath.
“Why?” Skittery didn’t sound mad, just tired, which honestly was worse than if he had been mad. A mad Skittery was easy to deal with. All Tumbler had to do was show him a new acrobatic trick he’d learned and he’d crack a smile. A tired Skittery was like Skittery in the winter, quiet and withdrawn, almost impossible to get out of bed in the morning and going to sleep as soon as they got back to the lodging house. It was bad and looking at the exhaustion on his older brother’s face made Tumbler feel guilty.
“I…” In hindsight, the whole thing felt a little silly and it was embarrassing to actually say it out loud. “I’m not big enough to fight yet, but I thought if I could shoot like Spot Conlon…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. What could he do? Take on the Delancey brothers? Protect Skittery and the others from grown men who didn’t care that they were hurting kids? Go after the cops who had hurt Race and Blink and Jack and the others at the rally? What could a six-year-old boy do?
Skittery, to his credit, really tried to keep the frustration out of his voice when he replied to Tumbler’s unfinished statement, though it still bled through the concern.
“What the hell do you need to fight for? You know me and the other boys won’t let anything happen to you! I promised I’d always look out for you, didn't I? If you think for one second-”
“But what about you?” Tumbler cried, far louder than he meant to and cutting Skittery off. “You’re my brother! I wanna look out for you too!” Tumbler swallowed hard and fought back tears. “I don’t wanna lose you,” he choked out, a few tears escaping against his will and rolling down his face. As soon as he saw the tears, Skittery quickly stepped over the broken glass on the floor and made his way over to the younger boy, pulling him into his arms and tucking his face into the crook of his neck.
“Why do you think you're gonna lose me?” he asked softly, one hand rubbing soothing circles against Tumbler’s back while the other stroked his hair. It was a familiar motion, one they both knew eased his sadness the fastest, and Tumbler paused for a moment, soaking in Skittery’s comfort before burrowing his face further into the curve of his shoulder, clinging to the front of his shirt as tightly as he could.
“We got separated at the rally and then Bumlets got hurt trying to get me and Flipper out an-and then you all got arrested and you didn’t come home and then Jack got put in the refuge again and everyone was fighting and I know you and Bumlets and Pie-Eater all had your families taken away-” Skittery flinched a little at the mention of his siblings but said nothing “-and I thought that if I could protect you like you protect me, then no one could take any of us away.” Skittery’s grip tightened for a moment before he pulled back just enough to look Tumbler in the eye.
“Listen to me. No one is going to take you away from. Never. I won’t let that happen. Do you understand?” Skittery’s eyes were gentle but there was a stubborn set to his jaw, one that Tumbler knew all too well. It was the same thing that happened every time he’d set his mind to something important to him. And as long as Tumbler could remember, they were the decisions he never faltered on. Tears welled up in his eyes again, so he quickly nodded before moving back into Skittery’s arms. He felt him take a deep breath before he adjusted them both, moving so that Tumbler was sitting more in his lap and his head was tucked back safely into his shoulder.
“You know I love you, right?” Skittery asked, his hands once again making the familiar comforting motions.
A/N 2: The headcanon about Bumlets getting hurt during the rally came from a conversation I had with the wonderful @chaosfairy18 shortly after I started my blog (old blog, technically). He's barely in the raid scene and just looks so worn out and exhausted that we discussed whether or not he got hurt. @jackcowboyhero gave the idea to give Skittery siblings that got taken away on the orphan train like Bumlets (I like to think it's why they initially bonded) and I'm pretty sure Pie-Eater having a sister came from them too. I stayed up until 3 A.M. to finally finish this so please let me know about any typos lol
i live my life. constantly disappointed and appalled by the total degredation of character that is the broadway newsies jack kelly. the movie explicitly stated that he was COOL and a COWBOY and they made him an ARTIST? no thank you mA'AM. please take your weak, redeemable character and get him out of my face so i can watch christian bale ride a horse and dance badly. it's my only joy in life
this is absolutely the only artistic side of jack kelly that i will accept. the boy is a DORK and a NERD and a COWBOY and not poetic at all and we deserve his traced dime store western tracings
I like the way @jackcowboyhero explores Jack's artistic abilities because they write it as an extension of his character instead of just making him Artistic Sadboy #6846 but the concept of Jack only being able to draw horses is delightful. Also, @superdogkrypto, your grandpa's horse is wonderful and I love it
You might not know it, but I once was considered an expert judge o' horseflesh (if you ask me, which nobody did, but I've never let that stop me.) You wanna see my credentials? Check 'em out. And with that for proof, I'm givin' @superdogkrypto's gramps' horse a 2500/10. I'm a little concerned about their cheek situation, but that's prob'ly nothin' a little snack couldn't fix--just ask Nell. She'll tell ya.
Howdy, my friend and I got into an argument about hats and belts and he says suspenders are more fashionable than belts. I say belts are considerably more practical, so he asked me "what good are hats then but for fashion?" I told him hats are much more practical than fashionable, and I brought up cowboy hats as an example. I'd like to get a first hand opinion on exactly how practical they are, so what would you say are all the practical uses for a cowboy hat?
First o’ all, to answer the question about suspenders an’ belts, you shouldn’t wear either one. Suspenders are too easy to get hung up on a saddle or cow’s horn or wagon seat or any other one o’ the ten million ways to get hurt on a ranch, an’ if ya got a belt on while your horse starts to pitch, the buckle’ll cut right into your belly. So, if you really wanna be a good ranchhand, you gotta get your pants to fit tight enough that they’ll stay up on their own. You can do that by sittin’ in a horse trough an’ then wearin’ ‘em around ‘til they dry–they’ll fit your waist like they were custom-made that way.
But, if you don’t live out west, they might not make pants that fit like that, an’ it ain’t fashionable OR practical to have your pants drop down around your ankles, exposin’ your long underwear to shock old ladies an’ makin’ ya trip and fall flat on your face. (Not that this ever happened to an eight-year-old Frank Sullivan when he first heard about the no-suspender/no-belt thing an’ tried it out on pants that weren’t made for it.) So, if you got to hold your pants up with somethin’, make your choice based on what’s more important: looks or ability. If all ya do’s roost on a dock throne all day, you can get by with red suspenders. But if you’re an action hero who might hafta carry papes, break into the Refuge, an’ catch a horse all in one day, I recommend a useful an’ stylish rope belt.
(Whoever that dashin’ an’ debonair fella on the right is, he knows how to wear a rope belt. –And in case your pal feels the need to point out the suspenders also danglin’ from that mysterious style icon’s pants, I just gotta say: some guys just look great in everythin’, ya know?)
Anyway, now that you got your pants secured, you can start thinkin’ about cowboy hats. I think if I told ya ALL the practical uses for a cowboy hat, I’d be writin’ for the rest o’ my life, so here’s a Selected List that oughtta be more than enough to prove your point.
1) Sun shade
2) Umbrella
3) Fannin’ flames
4) Blockin’ smoke to make smoke signals
5) Carryin’ water
6) Feedin’ your horse out of
7) Coverin’ your face for a nap
8) Cartin’ blackberries, gold pieces, or anythin’ else ya stop to gather
9) Keepin’ your head warm
10) Concealin’ your hair color an’ most o’ your head while ya hold up a stagecoach
11) Wavin’ to urge on a horse, or to show your bronc-ridin’ prowess
12) Pillow
13) Takin’ off to show respect to ladies
14) Signalin’ to your pals from far away
15) Conveyin’ information ‘bout your job or home turf
16) Barn cat bed (you should always set your hat down on its top so the luck don’t run out, but if ya do it around a cat, chances are it’ll hop right in. That’s inconvenient, but it’ll make the ladies swoon.)
17) Settin’ off your rugged good looks. If you don’t think that’s practical, look at me–I got a wife outta the deal.
18) Startin’ fights. You don’t mess with another guy’s hat–but if you’re itchin’ to fight somebody an’ want an excuse, touch his hat or knock it off his head. He’ll oblige.
19) Blockin’ the wind
20) PROVIN’ YOUR PALS WRONG WHEN THEY SAY HATS AIN’T PRACTICAL.
things that would be different:
-presents - These are a pull in from Christianity. The boys with parents or culturally aware adults are more likely get some small amount of pocket money to gamble with
-the food - Jelly Donuts–sufganiya is a Hebrew term, and they’d be more likely to know them by European names -the Yiddish term is ponchik, German is Berliner, Polish is Paczki Russian is Ponchiki
Latkes would likely be the same, but both they and pontshke (plural for ponchik) would be more likely to be fried in chicken fat (schmaltz) or goose fat, not oil. This also means that the pontshke wouldn’t have custard* and the latkes wouldn’t have sour cream
*it would also break the laws of kashrut to eat it with something cooked in schmaltz aka it wouldn’t be kosher cause mi l k and dairy together are no go’s (Modern sufganiyot is normally fried in vegetable oil to avoid this issue)
things that would be the same:
-Menorahs would still be lit at sunset, either increasing or decreasing one light every night depending on tradition. They’d be more likely to be used for light though rather than purely ritual purposes
-Ma o tzur, though most other Hannukkah songs we know of/can think of are newer
-Dreidl - it is not a stretch to imagine that it was very popular among newsies, who were already known for playing dice
things we’re not sure about:
-i don’t know if they’d be lighting candles or if they’d be sticking wicks in schmaltz or what kind of feel like candles, but we’re not sure which it would be exactly
This post will be added to as we come up with more stuff!
A/N: I got carried away and this is way longer than I meant it to be but I've been thinking about this particular subject for about five years now so I'm very passionate about it. Hope you guys like it!
Damian Vasquez was seven years old when he saw Manhattan for the first time. Mamá was pregnant with Bianca (though she didn’t know it yet), Papá hadn’t lost the glimmer of hope in his eyes, and he and his sisters hadn’t yet known the sharp pangs that came with hunger. There was nothing but nervous excitement to be felt in all of them. He’d bounced his way through the registry line and fidgeted so much during the medical inspection that the doctor laughed and called him “enthusiastic,” a word his tongue still tripped over from time to time. When they finally left Castle Garden and stepped foot in Battery Park, Damian had a suitcase in one hand and Gabriela’s much smaller hand in the other. They were a happy pack of soon-to-be-eight (and later nine) ready to take on a new world as a family.
And things were good, at least for a while. Bianca was born and made her preference for her big brother blatantly clear, something he bragged about to just about anyone willing to listen. Then Inés came and hated him for the entire first year of her life, to the delight of his sisters old enough to understand what was going on around them. He picked up English quickly, though not as quickly as Cataleya and Maricela did, and did well in school when he could understand the concepts. He made friends with the boy down the hall and his neighbors marveled at how a boy with so much energy could be so quiet. They were safe and happy and loved.
Then Papá died. The two of them had been walking through the streets (or rather, Papá was walking; Damian was shadow fencing with an old cane he’d found in the alleyway next to their building) when a spooked carriage horse came charging down the street. His father was safe, but Damian wasn’t, and the next thing he knew, his father was shoving him so hard that he crashed into a streetlamp on the other side of the road. He’d turned around at just the right moment to see the horse trample his father. A woman nearby had grabbed him and tried to turn his face into her stomach so he didn’t see anything else, but he still heard the sharp crack of a wagon wheel rolling over Papá’s ribcage.
Damian lied when Mamá asked him about the incident through her sobs, reassuring her that he didn’t see the initial accident and strangers made sure that he never saw the body. He loved his mother and would spare her that pain. But he saw his father’s broken body every night when he laid down to sleep, saw his father’s once lively brown eyes blank and empty every time he closed his own. Lying to his mother and the younger girls was easy, but Xiomara always knew when he wasn’t telling the truth. They’d shared a womb for nine months and a life for ten years, and maddeningly, she knew him better than he knew himself. Still, he was thankful for her hand pressing between his shoulder blades and the gentle sound of her voice as she tried to comfort him when he woke up crying.
It broke him for a while, though he never really told anyone. He’d sat in confession once, a few months after the accident, and asked the priest if it was a sin to lie to his mother like he had. Padre Nuñez went silent for a minute before gently telling him, “In this instance, my son, lying is a kindness,” and Damian felt at least part of the gaping wound in his heart close. It was a little embarrassing, crying in the booth the way he did and coming out with red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, but no one said anything, and the next time he saw Padre Nuñez, the priest shook his hand like he was a man and not the little boy he still felt like.
Things got a little better as time went on. Everyone called him “the man of the house,” and he started selling papers to earn the title, which is how he ended up with the nickname “Bumlets.” He’d wanted to impress the older boys in the paper line and tried smoking one of their cigar butts. Of course, being eleven years old and entirely unused to smoking, he’d coughed so hard he nearly threw up, and another boy around his age had to hold his shoulders to keep him from falling over. It wasn't a fun experience, but he’d met Swifty that day and found out that getting a nickname from the newsies meant that you were one of them, which made him feel significantly better about the whole ordeal.
Mamá died a few months later. The doctor had called it “pneumonia,” a word he could say but not quite spell at twelve years old. He’d thought losing Papá would be the worst pain he would ever feel, but losing Mamá was like a molten knife to the chest. When Papá died, at least, they could still be a family, but with Mamá gone, the girls were sent away on the orphan train and Swifty hooked an arm around his shoulders and led him to the lodging house at No. 9 Duane Street. Kloppman had been old even then, but his eyes were kind and he wouldn’t let the older boys give him a hard time. It was almost like having a father again.
The girls, thankfully, were adopted into a farming family upstate instead of being sent out to kingdom come like Skittery’s siblings were, and Bumlets got to write to them once a week. The mother, a Russian-born woman named Anya, had gone through the orphan train herself and insisted on keeping them in contact, and the way Xiomara told it, her husband knew better than to argue when his wife set her mind to something.
Anya had written to him once, promising to take care of his sisters and to love them with everything she had. She’d enclosed a picture of the girls in the letter: Xiomara standing proud with his eyes and smile, Cataleya staring cross-eyed at the camera because she knew it used to make him laugh, Gabriela and Maricela hanging onto one another while they laughed, Bianca waving at the camera and smiling as big as she could, and little Inés with her face scrunched up from what he could only imagine was laughter. He’d cried a little when he saw it, but no one judged him, and Skitts even smiled when he saw it, even if it was a little sad.
Life with boys was different than life with girls, but Bumlets was nothing if not adaptable. It helped that he was quiet and not one to cause trouble, making it easy to make friends. Swifty, of course, was his oldest and closest friend, but Skittery was a close second and Pie-Eater after that. Even the boys he wasn’t close with still looked out for him, with Kid Blink once punching out an older boy who’d decided that he didn’t like the fact that Bumlets was Puerto Rican and thought the best way to show it would be to jump him. He’d gone to Kloppman later and begged him to show him how to throw a punch so he would be able to return the favor if the occasion called for it.
The younger kids followed him around sometimes: Tumbler imprinted on Skitts like a baby duck when he got to Duane Street, but sometimes the kid needed someone with a little more energy to wrangle him; Boots was probably one of the smartest guys he’d ever met, and his chest ached at the thought that people would dismiss him based on the color of his skin; Snipeshooter played tough most of the time, but he’d still crawl into bed next to him when he had a bad night; and Charlie, a sweet little Irish kid with more nicknames than Bumlets could remember (he’d heard Flipper, Blanket, and even Crazy Legs before deciding to just call him Charlie), looked at him like he hung the moon and started combing his hair the same way he did, which was equal parts endearing and exasperating.
Life as a newsie wasn’t easy, and he never shied away from that fact when people asked, but Bumlets found that the brotherhood and friendships he had made it easier. Mamá had always told him to remember the good things in life because they were the things worth living for and every night before he fell asleep, he’d recite a list of the things that brought him joy, no matter how small: fencing with Skittery in the morning on their way to the distribution center, helping Swifty teach Tumbler and Charlie how to do backflips, the well-worn dime novels the boys shared amongst themselves, lunch at Tibby’s with the guys, and of course, the photograph tucked under his pillow with six smiling faces staring out at him.
In December of 1899, the halls of 9 Duane Street Lodging House echoed with the voices of newsies. This was the 30th annual holiday feast held for the newsboys and their guests. Kid Blink, among others, gave toasts and speeches, including one entitled "The Strike, When We Licked", no doubt celebrating their successful strike from the summer. The newsies were served a generous feast of turkey, boiled ham, celery, mashed potatoes, turnips, tea, bread and butter, and -- the newsies favorite -- pies.
[sources: 1, 2, 3, 4]
This year, to celebrate the 155th anniversary of the first annual Duane Street holiday feast, I have put together a list of prompts for the first annual Duane Street December. Happy Holidays!
