“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been… um…. three days since my last confession.”
“Go on, my child.”
“I’m guilty of the sin of disobedience…. as usual.”
“Go on, my child.”
“I’m guilty of dishonoring my father.”
“How so?”
“I want to leave the sisterhood. I still have two months left to my seventeenth birthday when I
have to take my final vows,
and I’ve decided I’m really not meant to be a nun.”
“Are you certain, my child?”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“You have no religious calling?”
“No, I used to think I’d find one, but I’m really only here because my father wants me to be.
There’s been a Callaghan woman
in the church every single generation since the time of Saint Patrick. I’m the only Callaghan
woman this generation, so here I am.”
“You wish to disobey your father’s wishes for you.”
“Yes. I never used to think about it, I just did what I was told, but now that it’s getting closer
to the time for my final vows, I’m
afraid I’ll be making a terrible mistake if I go through with them.”
“I see. What would you do if you left the convent?”
“I’m not sure, my brother lives in New York, I could go to him.”
“What about your father? He and your brother don’t live together?”
“My brother –he’s actually my stepbrother- and my father are… estranged. They don’t
exactly get along. Paul ran away
after his mother, who was my stepmother, died. That was the same year Papa sent me to
St. Ursula’s. Papa and Paul haven’t
spoken since.”
“Do you keep in contact with your stepbrother?”
“We write. I haven’t actually seen him since he ran away.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four years. We were thirteen. Paul’s three months older than I am.”
“Your father would disapprove of your decision to leave the church?”
“I don’t think disapprove quite covers it, Father. Try forbid. He’d never let me leave.”
“Is it possible your father knows what is best for you, my child?”
“My father barely knows me, how could he know what’s best for me? I love the church, I love
God, but I can’t be a nun. That’s all there is to it.”
*****
“I fold,” Skittery sighed and placed his cards face down on the table. This was the third round
of poker he’d lost tonight, and it was
starting to get a little frustrating. Racetrack was on an unusually lucky streak; he’d won two of the
three games so far. It was starting
to get late, but some of the newsies were still up, relaxing around the main room of the
Lodging House while Kloppman
dozed at his desk by the door.
“Blink?” Racetrack grinned at the blonde boy who was staring morosely at his own hand of
cards, gnawing on his lower lip.
“I fold,” he sighed, tossing down the cards.
“Specs?”
“I fold.”
“Me too,” Bumlets shrugged.
“Me too,” Swings, the only girl playing, nodded as well.
“Read ‘em and weep, fellas!” Race laughed, showing off his full house and
leaning forward to collect his winnings.
“Not so fast, Race,” Pie Eater displayed his own hand, his serious ‘poker face’ breaking into a
huge grin. “Royal flush.” The look
of surprise on Race’s face was priceless, and the newsies hooted with amusement.
“Good goin’ Pie,” Jack, who had folded a few minutes earlier, slapped the other boy on the
back. “Race was startin’ to think he
actually had luck dere fer a second.”
Racetrack took the ribbing with good humor, leaning back in his chair and lighting a fresh
cigar as he started to shuffle the
cards for a new game.
“Who’s in?” he asked, and all the players save Skittery agreed. As the new game got
underway, a shadow darkened the front doorstep, and a
figure stepped timidly into the light. A young girl with long, curly red hair peered nervously
into the Lodging House, her green eyes
apprehensive as she set down her carpetbag. No one noticed her at first, so intent were they
on their game, except for Swings, who
elbowed Bumlets and nodded wordlessly at the newcomer.
“Excuse me, sir,” the girl hesitantly addressed the dozing Kloppman in a soft, educated
voice. “I’m looking for a boy named Paul
Callaghan.”
“Whoa, look at da goil,” Bumlets whistled. The other boys looked up in surprise.
“Dat ain’t no goil!” Specs was on his feet in an instant, scattering his cards as he jumped up.
“Dat’s me sistuh!”
“Paul!” the girl turned and saw him, her pretty face softening into relief. Specs rushed across
the room and threw his arms around her.
“Irish, what’re ya doin’ here?” he demanded as he hugged her.
The girl laughed a little shakily. “I left St. Ursula’s,” she replied, returning the embrace.
“Why?” Specs wanted to know, stepping back. His face immediately darkened when he
caught sight of a nasty bruise developing
around the girl’s left eye. She was going to have quite a shiner. “What the hell happened?”
he demanded, tilting her chin up to get
a better look. “Did he do this?”
The girl shrugged slim shoulders. “There’s been a Callaghan woman in the church
every generation-"
"Since da time a’ St. Patrick,” Specs finished, sighing heavily. “You told him you wanted to
leave and he did this. Dat figuhs. Da bastard.”
“Paul, please,” she said softly, touching a self-conscious hand to the bruise.
“Hey, Specs, ain’t ya gonna introduce us to ya sistuh?” Jack spoke up. The other newsies
had been watching this exchange with avid interest.
Specs looked at them and grinned slightly.
“Yeah, fellas - everybody - ,” he amended for the benefit of Swings, and Panda, who hadn’t
been playing poker, but was sitting nearby
on the stairs with Mush, “this is my stepsister, Kaitlyn. Katie.” The newsies chorused hellos, and
the red haired girl smiled and nodded politely.
“Katie, some a’ da newsies: Jack, Blink, Mush, Skittery, Race, Pie Eater, Bumlets, Swings,
and Panda.Everybody else is upstairs.”
“How do you do?” Katie smiled at the group.
“I didn’t know ya had a sister, Specs,” Pie Eater commented. “Where ya been, Katie?”
“Boston,” she replied with a vague smile.
“She’s a nun,” Specs added, grinning.
“I was a novice,” Katie corrected, elbowing him. “I decided not to take my vows, so I left.”
“Ran away, ya mean,” her brother said. Katie shrugged.
“I had to, Papa never would have let me leave. You said in your last letter that you had girl
newsies here now,” she darted a
nervous glance at the two girls who were present, “so I thought I’d come here.”
“A’ course, Irish,” Specs shrugged easily, picking up her carpetbag and bringing it all the way
into the room out of the doorway. “She can stay, can’t
she, Kloppman? We’s got room, right?”
The elderly man had been watching the reunion silently. “I suppose we do,” he nodded. “First
night’s free. Sign in here,” he said to Katie,
pushing a ratty ledger towards her.
“Thank you,” she whispered, signing her name as she was told.
“How come ya call her Irish?” Swings wanted to know, eyeing the new girl speculatively.
“’Cause she is,” Specs grinned.
“We came over from Galway when I was four,” Katie answered, smiling slightly as she
tucked a red curl behind her ear. “After my mother
died, Papa decided to move to America.”
“My pop died just after I was born, so then Katie’s pop met me muddah when dey got ta
Boston,” Specs continued, “an’ then they got
married, then about four years ago she died - ”
“And you ran away,” Katie broke in.
“An’ the dictator stuck you in a convent,” Specs went on. No one had to ask whom ‘the
dictator’ was.
“And that’s our life story,” Katie smiled a little tiredly. There were circles under her green
eyes and a pinched look to her mouth.
“How did you even get heah from Boston?” Specs demanded as the group reseated
themselves around the poker table. Pie Eater had gallantly offered his seat to
the new girl. She smiled at him as she accepted.
“I sold my rosary and took the train,” she replied.
“Not yer muddah’s rosary?” Specs looked at her in surprise.
“I had to,” she said quietly. “There was no other way.”
“Ya do whatcha gotta do,” Race nodded emphatically. Katie smiled slightly at him.
“Yes, I suppose you do,” she agreed quietly.
“Hey fellas, what’s goin’ on?” Beaner appeared on the staircase, leaning over the
banister. Crutchy was just behind her,
peering over her shoulder.
“Hey, you two, come meet Specs’ sistuh, Irish,” Jack invited, gesturing for them to
come downstairs.
“Sister?” Beaner repeated as she and Crutchy obeyed. “I didn’t know ya had a sister
Specs.”
“She’s a nun, ain’t she?” Crutchy supplied, scratching his head.
“Novice,” Katie corrected again, smiling slightly. “How do you do?” she added as the
two newcomers were introduced to her.
“Nice ta meetcha,” Crutchy grinned, and his girlfriend echoed his sentiments.
“You look awful tired,” Beaner commented, frowning at the new girl. “Ya feelin’ all
right?”
Katie managed a shaky smile. “Oh, I’m fine, thank you, just a little tired. It’s been a l
ong day.”
“Well, c’mon upstairs to da goils’ bunkroom,” Swinger suggested, “an’ we’ll get ya
settled into a bunk and stuff.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that,” Katie said softly. “It was lovely to meet all of you,”
she added as the girls led her upstairs.
“Good night, Paul,” she called over her shoulder to her brother.
“Here we is, home sweet home,” Swinger announced, leading the girls into the smaller
of the two upstairs rooms. Bunk beds
lined the walls, and a window opened out onto a fire escape at the far end. “Dat
bunk’s free,” she gestured at a bed near the
window, and Katie gratefully placed her carpetbag on the wooden floor beside it.
“Thank you very much,” she said, sitting down on the edge.
“Nuthin’ to it,” Swings grinned. “Now why doncha get some sleep? We’s early risers
around heah.”
*****
The following morning dawned bright and fresh. It was just before sun-up, not quite
time to get up yet, and Katie was already
awake, accustomed to the routine at the convent, where the sisters were always at
morning vespers long before it was
even light. She lay still in her bunk and listened to the rhythmic, even breathing of the
other girls. There were four of them
besides herself, the three she had met the night before, Panda, Swinger, and Beaner,
and a fourth who had slipped in sometime
after midnight. Katie, always a light sleeper, had awoken just long enough to catch a
glimpse of another girl climbing into a
nearby bunk. Now, in the dim gray of early dawn, careful not to make a sound, Katie
slipped out of bed and padded across
the bare floor to the window. Pushing it open wide, she climbed out through it and
took a seat on the iron steps of the fire escape.
Resting her chin on her drawn-up knees, she thought about the beginning of her new
life. St. Ursula’s seemed very far away, and
she was glad of it. New York represented freedom, a new start, a reunion with the
stepbrother she’d missed so badly all
those years at the convent. She had a feeling this was going to be a big, wondrous
adventure. Sister Kate, as she had been
called back at St. Ursula’s, was no more. The other newsies had already started
calling her Irish, after Paul’s nickname for her. It
was appropriate, a new name for a new life.
“Hey Irish, whatcha doin’?” a voice broke into her thoughts and she looked up in
surprise to see Beaner leaning out the window,
looking curiously at her.
“Just thinking,” Katie - no, she was truly Irish now – replied. “Watching the sunrise.”
“Well, ya better get in heah, we’s gotta get to da bathroom before Kloppman gets da
boys up, otherwise, well, it gets messy,” the
other girl grinned roguishly.
Irish grinned back. “Coming,” she said, getting up and climbing back in through the
window. Inside, the other girls were
stirring, crawling out of bed, yawning and complaining good-naturedly.
“Hey Irish, dis heah is Dusk,” Swinger said, indicating the girl who had come in late
the night before. “Made it back from Brooklyn
in one piece, did ya?” she teased, elbowing the other girl.
“Hello,” Irish smiled at her.
Dusk nodded, returning the smile. “Hey, nice ta meetcha,” she said, running her hands
through her tangled dark hair. “Youse
Specs’ sistuh?”
“That’s right,” Irish nodded cheerfully as she attempted to tame her wild curls into
some semblance of order. “He’s my stepbrother.”
“Welcome to da Lodgin’ House,” Dusk said, and wandered out of the room towards
the bathroom. The girls continued getting
ready for the day. Swinger dumped a pile of male clothing in Irish’s arms, instructing
her to put it on, saying that it was easier to
work in trousers than in skirts. Irish was amused by how scandalized the good sisters
of St. Ursula’s would be to see her in such
an outfit. But then again, the sisters never had to sell newspapers, now did they?
*****
“So, how was yer foist day a’ sellin’ papes?” Irish looked up from the Lodging House
steps where she’d been sitting, counting
her money to make sure she had enough for the night’s room and board. It was just
after dinnertime, and she had to shade her eyes
from the bright crimson of the setting sun in order to see the people approaching. She
smiled as she recognized some of the newsies
she’d met the night before, Mush, Blink, Racetrack, and the quiet, shy Panda.
“It was all right,” she returned Mush’s friendly smile and got to her feet. “I never
knew selling papers would be such hard work though!”
she added cheerfully.
“You’ll get used to it,” Race promised.
“We didn’t see ya at Tibby’s fer suppah,” Blink remarked as the group headed inside
to sign in with Kloppman.
Irish grinned as she signed her name in the ledger. “I still had papers to sell, so I just
got something from a vendor,” she explained.
“Poker game tonight?” Race asked, whipping out his ever-present deck of cards and
shuffling them.
The other boys grinned. “You know how ta play poker, Irish?” Blink wanted to know.
The red-haired girl shrugged slightly. “Actually, I don’t,” she admitted. “Gambling
was considered a sin.”
“Now dat is a sin,” Racetrack shook his head mournfully as they trooped
upstairs.
Irish laughed. “Not if I’m willing to learn!”
****
“I give up! I’m never going to get this!” Irish laughed and tossed down her cards
good-naturedly. It was a few nights later, and the
newsies were up in the boys’ bunkroom, engaged in another one of their many poker
games. “I’m so bad!”
“Takes practice,” Race advised sagely.
“Or in Race’s case, tons a’ practice but no luck,” Jack grinned, lighting a cigarette.
“I wins, every now an’ den,” Racetrack protested cheerfully. The other newsies
laughed.
“More ‘then’ than ‘now’,” Swinger put in as she gathered up the cards and began to
shuffle them.
“Is Dusk out in Brooklyn again?” Irish asked Panda as she left the poker game and
went to join the other girl, who was seated by the window.
Panda nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered. Irish had discovered that the small dark haired
girl rarely spoke, and couldn’t help but wonder why.
“She’s visitin’ Spot again,” Mush contributed, joining the two. “Of course,” Irish
smiled.
“All right, who’s in?” Race called out, but just then, Snipeshooter came flying into the
room as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.
“Specs! Get yer sistuh outta heah!” he grabbed the bespectacled boy and hauled him
to his feet.
“Huh?”
“Irish, yer fadduh’s downstairs lookin’ fer ya!” Snipeshooter cried, and Irish looked
up in horror.
“What?”
“Specs, Irish, out the window,” Jack immediately took control, hustling them into
action. “Down the fire escape - ”
“How did he know?” Irish demanded as she and her brother bolted through the
window and went rushing down the iron stairs to
the street below. Specs didn’t have an answer for her. They reached the ground and
took off for safety. Irish got two steps before a
hand closed around her arm and jerked her to a halt so abruptly her shoulder shrieked i
n pain.
“Irish!” she heard Specs shout, but it was too late; she was caught.
“Not so fast, missy,” a police officer dragged her around the corner to the front of the
Lodging House building. “Mr. Callaghan, sir,
here she is,” he said, and thrust Irish forward as her father came out the door. She
stumbled to a halt and draw herself up to face him.
“Hello, Kaitlyn,” Thomas crossed his arms across his broad chest and frowned down
at his daughter. “Going somewhere?” Irish opened her
mouth and closed it, completely at a loss for words. Behind her father in the doorway
was a concerned-looking Kloppman, and behind
him a crowd of newsies was gathering to watch.
“You can’t make her go nowhere,” Jack spoke up, hostility in every line of his tall
frame.
Thomas flicked a disinterested glance at him before turning his attention back to Irish.
“I understand many of the young people living here
are criminals and fugitives in some shape or form,” he remarked almost casually,
watching his daughter’s face. “I can suggest that Officer
Malone here take some of them down to the station for questioning, or…. you can
come home with me.”
“Dat’s blackmail,” Crutchy muttered from inside the doorway.
“Dirty bastard,” Blink growled, lunging forward. Snoddy and Skittery pulled him back
from the edge of the doorframe to ensure he
didn’t try anything stupid.
A long moment passed as Irish and her father stared at one another. Finally, long
eyelashes fell and Irish’s gaze dropped in defeat.
“Yes, Papa,” she whispered.
Her father nodded once. “Good, I’m glad you’re being reasonable. Let’s go.”
****
Well, that was that. And back to the convent we go. Irish sat gingerly down
on the edge of the bed and buried her head in
her hands. Her father had brought her to the home of a friend of his, a businessman
who lived in a spacious Brooklyn townhouse.
They were staying the night there, then leaving on the first morning train to Boston.
She’d be back in St. Ursula’s by suppertime
tomorrow. Her father had been frighteningly calm all the way to the Bowen home;
he’d barely said two words to her at all. He’d
taken her up to this small bedroom on the third floor and locked her in. The look of
tightly controlled fury on his face sent shivers
of terror down her spine. She might very well be lucky to live to see St. Ursula’s
again, and count herself fortunate to do so.
There was nothing she could have done. She couldn’t have risked getting any of her
new friends in trouble, so here she was. No
way out; the only window in the room opened out onto a three story drop, no fire
escape, nothing. No doubt she’d be under similar
lock and key once back at the convent. Perfect, just perfect. I should have known
he’d never let me leave. At least he didn’t try
to make Paul come home. He didn’t even see Paul, I don’t think. That’s a good thing
anyway. Good grief, now what do I do?
Tears welled up in her eyes, and Irish brushed them away impatiently. Crying
wasn’t going to help. But she’d been so happy for
those few scant days! All that freedom, and her new friends, to have to leave that
when she was just starting to learn how to be free!
The tears overflowed and she buried her face in her hands. She cried softly for a few
moments, until a strange tapping noise distracted
her. Wiping at her wet cheeks, she looked up in confusion. What was that? It came
again, louder now. It was coming from the window.
Hesitantly, Irish got to her feet and sidled a cautious step towards the curtained
window. There was a shadow visible through the heavy
calico curtains. But that was impossible, there was no way a person could be outside
that window three stories up. Gathering her courage,
she rushed over, yanked open the curtains and threw up the sash before she lost her
nerve.
“Never fear, Brooklyn’s here!”
“What?” Irish blurted out, astonished. There was a boy outside her window, someone
she’d never even seen before, suspended by a
rope around his narrow waist, braced against the brick wall. “Who are you?” she
demanded. He was small framed and thin,
with huge eyes a strange mix of blue and gray.
“You Irish?” the boy asked, ignoring her question. She nodded, completely confused.
“Well, den, get out heah, we don’t got all night,”
he ordered, holding out another rope to her. She looked from him to the rope and
back again in utter loss. “Ya comin’ or not?”
“Um, I suppose,” she managed to mutter, and climbed up onto the sill, no small feat in
a dress.
“Tie dis around ya,” the boy instructed, and she did as she was told. “All right, I got
ya, try an’ get a foot hold.” There were obviously
more people on the roof because someone was pulling up the ropes as the two
climbed. After what felt like forever, they made it to
the roof. Irish clambered over the edge and struggled to stand on shaking knees.
There were four more young people up there,
all dressed in dark, ragged clothing, three boys and a fierce-eyed girl. None of them
were known to Irish.
“Good goin’,” the girl said, gathering up the rope as one of the boys helped Irish to
her feet. “Les’ go ‘fore dey figure out she’s gone.”
“C’mon,” the boy who had been at the window led them across the roof and down the
fire escape on the other side of the townhouse.
Silently, they hurried off into the night.
No one spoke as the group made their way swiftly through the dark streets. A little while later, they came to a building similar to the Manhattan Lodging House, only more ramshackle, and without a kindly old man sitting in the front foyer.
“Heah we is,” announced the boy who was obviously the group’s leader as they piled in the door.
“Thank you,” Irish whispered, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.
“So this liddle creampuff is one a’ Cowboy’s newsies?” the only girl remarked, raking a disbelieving glance over Irish as she sat down on the stairs and lit a cigarette.
“I beg your pardon?” Irish arched an eyebrow at her, unaccustomed to the hostility in the girl’s tone.
“Leave ‘er alone, Tricks,” the boy with the gray-blue eyes snapped. Turning to Irish, he spit in his hand and held it out to her. “I’m Spot.”
“How do you do?” Irish said, spitting in her own hand and shaking his. Spit shaking was a newsie habit that she wasn’t too keen on, but she was willing to overlook it since this boy had just rescued her.
“Dat’s Tricks,” Spot said, nodding at the dark-haired girl. Irish held a hand out to her as well, but Tricks only eyed it coldly. “An’ dat’s Scraps an’ Lasher an’ Blue,” Spot went on, indicating the other boys. Scraps was small and dark, Lasher stocky and muscular, while Blue was tall and lanky, a handsome boy with sandy curls and big blue eyes.
“It’s lovely to meet you all,” Irish smiled at them. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Nuthin’ to it,” Blue grinned.
“You’re Dusk’s boyfriend,” Irish remarked to Spot, recognizing his name. Spot nodded briefly.
“Yeah, she oughtta be here soon, I sent Tips ta Manhattan to let ‘em know we’d got ya,” he said.
“How did you know where to find me?” Irish asked.
“Dere ain’t much dat goes on in Brooklyn dat Spot don’t know about,” the girl, Tricks, said, puffing on her cigarette. The way she said it made Irish feel as though this was something she should have already known, and she was stupid for having to ask.
“Dey’s playin’ poker upstairs, Tricks,” Spot commented, turning a steely look on the girl. “Why doncha go play?”
Tricks rolled her eyes and got to her feet, leaving the room without a word.
“I don’t think she likes me very much,” Irish mused. The boy named Blue laughed good-naturedly.
“Don’t feel bad, Tricks don’t like nobody,” he assured her. “You know how ta play poker?”
Irish returned his smile. “Not very well,” she admitted honestly. “I’m still learning.”
“Well, c’mon, we’ll see what else we can teach ya,” the blue-eyed boy grinned enchantingly and tilted his head at the stairs.
“Blue,” Spot’s tone held a distinctly icy note of warning, even though Blue was plainly the elder by a few years. Blue smiled innocently at the Brooklyn leader.
“What? We’s jus’ gonna go play some poker!”
****
It was quite a bit later when Spot’s boy Tips arrived back in Brooklyn with Dusk, Specs and Cowboy in tow.
“Wheah’s me sistuh? Is she all right?” Specs demanded as the three hurried up the stairs of the Brooklyn Lodging House.
“Yeah, she’s heah, she’s ‘sleep,” Spot nodded towards the corner, and Specs let out a yowl of rage that woke nearly the whole house when he caught sight of his sister and the Brooklyn boy who was particularly well known for being a ladies’ man, asleep on a nearby bunk. Irish was curled on her side, and Blue’s arm was tossed casually over her.
“Get yer hands off me sistuh!” he cried, grabbing Blue by the shirt and hauling the other boy to his feet. Poor Blue, he’d been sound asleep on his bunk, the Manhattan girl Irish dozing against him, quite innocently mind you, and now someone was yelling in his ear and shaking him.
“Huh? What? What’d I do?”
“Specs, calm down, dey was jus’ sleepin’,” Spot grabbed the other boy by the back of his suspenders and pulled him away.
“What’s going on?” Irish sat up, rubbing at her eyes and looking around in confusion.
There was a long beat before anyone spoke as Specs glared bloody murder at the Brooklyn boy, and Blue glared back, just daring him to try something.
“Heyah Irish, how’re ya doin’?” Dusk finally spoke up, going over to the other girl. “I see ya met me boy, Spot.”
Irish smiled at her. “I did, indeed, he rescued me.”
“He’s good at dat,” Dusk smirked and Spot gave her a dark look.
“Is something wrong?” Irish asked, getting to her feet and going over to her brother.
“Dey’s jus’ ready ta kill each udda,” Tricks smirked from her seat on a nearby bunk, where the poker game that Irish and Blue had abandoned for sleep was still going on.
“Whatever for?” Irish looked around in confusion.
“Ain’t too bright, is she?” Tricks muttered, ignoring the reproving looks she was getting from Spot.
“You ain’t too bright, Tricks,” Spot snapped and his second in command laughed as she went back to her poker game.
“So youse gonna head back ta Manhattan tonight?” Tips, a small, coffee skinned boy who was Spot’s best spy, wanted to know.
“I was t’inkin’ dat maybe Irish oughtta stay ovuh heah in Brooklyn for a few days, jus’ until we’s shoah ‘er pops ain’t gonna come lookin’ for ‘er again,” Jack replied. Specs looked ready to argue, but shut his mouth when he realized the sense in this statement.
“Dat’s probably a good idea,” Spot agreed.