SAVE ALL WHO DARE THE EAGLE’S FLIGHT
Chapter Two

He plucked me off of the street when I was thirteen years old. I was scrawny, starving, poor, and prepared to do whatever was necessary to survive. I had been hungry for as long as I could remember. I couldn’t even remember my old house in Pacific Grove. All I knew was that I had been hungry for so long that I had become scrawny, and I was so scrawny that the dirty men in the streets didn’t even try to grab my skirts and throw them up in the air; they thought I was eight years old.

Before I met Jack, I hardly even knew who I was. All I had was a name--Angelica Marshall. I didn’t remember my middle name. I just barely remembered my age. Before I met Jack, I had several run-ins with a policeman. I was a dirty, scraggly child on his beat and he didn’t like having orphans wandering around. Was I an orphan? I couldn’t even remember. He threatened to take me to the local orphanage five different times. One of my few lucky strokes prevented me from having to go to an orphanage.

Who knows? The orphanage might have been a better option for me. I might have had clean clothes and a full belly and no bugs crawling around in my hair. I might not have had to sleep in garbage or with stray dogs that were only snatched by the dogcatcher the next day. I could have been adopted and had something like a family again. But if I had gone to an orphanage, I never would have met Jack Dawson, and I certainly wouldn’t be where I am today.

As I said, I was thirteen when he found me. I was sitting on a stoop and the family’s dark-skinned maid was shooing me away with her broom when he saw me. He was the most handsome thing I had ever looked at. At seventeen years old, he stood tall and lanky, blond hair falling into his beautiful blue eyes. I think my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him. I remember feeling ashamed that I was in rags; if I had looked a little closer that day, I would have noticed that he was in rags, too.

"I’m guessing you don’t live there, huh?"

It was with those words that I fell under his spell. Obviously, I was not very difficult to impress.

"No," I said hoarsely; I didn’t use my voice often.

He nodded then and pulled something out of his pockets. "I got a few dimes. You wanna eat something?"

I nodded and followed him to a diner. I ate all of my food so quickly that I almost heaved it right back up. I was falling more and more in love with this fellow, and for stupid reasons. All we did was talk about who we were and how miserable our lives were, but that was enough.

"My name’s Jack Dawson, by the way," he had said, after ordering our meals. "What’s yours?"

I swallowed a sip of water, knowing my voice would be hoarse and scratchy. "Angelica Marshall."

Jack nodded slowly. "Angelica. That’s a nice name."

I shook my head. "I don’t think it fits me."

Jack smiled then. To this day, I remember how my heart thudded as he smiled like that at me. "Well, how ‘bout Angie? D’you mind that name?"

I shook my head. A silence stretched between us then. I knew I should have been the one to break it, to ask him something, but my mind was still reeling that this kind, handsome stranger was buying me lunch. Finally, Jack broke it. "How old are you, Angie?"

I was quiet for a moment. How old was I? "Thirteen. I think."

Jack nodded again. "I’m seventeen."

He didn’t look seventeen to me. He looked twenty. There were faded memories of princes in fairy tales, but I could hardly remember those. The closest thing to what Jack reminded me of was an angel. I had been in church before. There was a small parish that let my kind wander in off the streets. They spoke of angels and of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. I wasn’t too sure about the Holy Trinity, the Three in One, but I did know that he reminded me of an angel.

Our meals came then. I ate quickly, unable to savor the taste of food. I had never savored food before in my life. An irrational part of me was afraid that Jack would suddenly take my food away from me, so I ate as fast as I could. I stopped a few minutes later, feeling sick. The food was churning unpleasantly in my stomach, making my insides convulse. I put both hands on the table and lowered my head, gulping down nothing.

Jack saw me. "Hey, slow down there," he had said gently. "You’ll make yourself sick if ya eat too fast."

Finally, the spell had passed. I raised my head and drank from my water, finding the sensation of ice against my lips odd. I ate my food slower, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing.

"You don’t eat much, huh?" Jack stated rather than asked.

I shook my head.

Jack nodded again. "I know what it’s like. My folks died about two years ago. I was homeless and hungry until I came to Monterey." He was quiet for a minute. "Where are you from, Angie?"

I shrugged. "Pacific Grove, I think."

"I’m from Chippewa Falls. It’s in Wisconsin," Jack offered.

I looked up then. "That’s a long way from Monterey, isn’t it?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so."

"What did you do in Monterey?"

"I worked on a squid boat there. But it wasn’t for me. I’m heading down to Los Angeles. I hear there’s more to do there," he said calmly.

I toyed with my napkin. "Why did you buy me lunch?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess…because I felt bad for ya. I used to be just like ya. I would’ve killed for a free lunch back then."

It was things he said like this that made me fall in love with him. He had been just like me once, and now he was helping me. He was…looking out for me, if only for a short while.

"Thank you," I said quietly. And then he ordered some apple pie.

*****

Somehow, we never parted after that lunch. We sneaked onto a train with an old man named Bart. The train took us just less than two miles from Santa Monica, where Jack was aiming to go. There was a bridge in walking distance from the pier there that we slept under for a few weeks. Jack was an artist, and he sold his paintings for ten cents apiece. I sold tickets, and together, we earned enough to stay in a dingy hotel with one bed. We alternated; I would sleep on the bed one night while he slept on the floor, and then I would sleep on the floor the next night while he took the bed. There were many times I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, to feel the warmth of his being comfort me, but I never did.

On Jack’s eighteenth birthday, I gave him five dollars that I had saved up. He told me that he was getting bored of Santa Monica and that we should go somewhere else. I had never left California in all my life, but Jack was a worldly man, having traveled all the way from Wisconsin to California. I was expecting us to wander a few states over, maybe even to Chicago or New York. But we went all the way to England on a small ocean liner and then we took a tramp steamer to Italy. In Italy, Jack showed me the Sistine Chapel. He was fascinated by it; he spent hours gazing up at the work of art. I did too. It gave me a neck ache, but it was beautiful. Beautiful like Jack. It was when we were leaving the Sistine Chapel that our lives changed, if only a little bit.

"The market’s not far from here; we could…get something," Jack said lightly.

"All right, but it’s your turn," I replied warningly. "I nearly got caught last time."

"Butterfingers," Jack teased, tugging my pathetic excuse for a braid.

The next part was very confusing. I could not and still do not speak Italian; therefore, I wasn’t entirely sure of who was shouting and what they were shouting and why they were shouting. As a young man sprinted into view, however, with several uniformed men on his tail, I had a pretty good feeling that they were shouting, "Stop! Thief!" Or something to that effect.

"Angie, over here!" Jack said quite suddenly, tugging on my arm. Honestly, I have no idea where we were; it was a labyrinth and only Jack had a vague idea of what was going on. I guess the street the Italian thief was running down came our way, because we heard him coming a few minutes later. Jack, with expert timing, reached out and yanked the Italian into the alley we were standing in.

"Bastardo!" the man shouted. He was more of a boy, really.

"Shh!" Jack hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. The police ran right by us. After we couldn’t hear them anymore, Jack took his hand off of the boy’s mouth.

"Ah…thank you," he said in a considerably more cheerful tone of voice. He extended his hand so quickly that it startled me. "Fabrizio di Rossi!"

"Jack Dawson."

"Hello!" I had a feeling that Fabrizio could not say much in English, especially since his accent was so thick that he was nigh impossible to understand, but I was grateful he wasn’t spewing out Italian like everyone else.

"Angie Marshall," I said, extending my hand. Fabrizio di Rossi, instead of shaking my hand, took it and kissed it. He was the first person who had ever done that to me and it left a funny sort of tingling. I was liking him already. We beamed at one another and I knew that we just had to bring him with us. I was prepared to whine to Jack like a child wanting a puppy. But Jack smiled at Fabrizio as well.

"Speak good English, Fabrizio?"

Fabrizio shrugged. "Ah…poco. A leetle."

Jack nodded. "Good. Come with us?"

I don’t think Fabrizio understood the actual words, but he knew the gist of what we were saying, for he nodded enthusiastically. "Si! Si!"

And so Fabrizio di Rossi joined us. His English was bad, but it was better than our Italian. He picked up little phrases Jack and I used quite easily; within a week, he could say please, thank you, "what the hell is your problem, and I swear, it wasn’t me! Early in the mornings, I would teach him what English I could until Jack announced that it was time. That meant it was time for us to find food, and not always in an honest way.

We had a whole system worked out; I, being so scrawny that I looked nine or ten instead of fourteen, would stand to the side and wait for Jack’s signal. He was more conspicuous as a tall, blond white man than either Fabrizio or I. When Jack decided on a stall, I would stumble towards the vendor, crying. Or something close to crying.

"H-have you s-seen my m-m-mama?" I would sob piteously.

The vendors very rarely spoke English, and so I would babble in English while he babbled in Italian, trying to understand me. In truth, Fabrizio was teaching me some Italian, and while I pretty well knew what the men kept asking, I maintained a confused, tearful face. Meanwhile, Fabrizio was lurking in the crowd nearby. While the vendors were busy trying to help me, Fabrizio would slip what we needed into his jacket. Jack always had a rule; take only what we need. We did this to survive, not for sport.

"I don’t understand you!" I would insist as Fabrizio took what we needed, all without catching the vendor’s eye. Customers saw a wailing child and quickly moved away, not wanting to deal with the raggedy American girl who was vexing the poor vendor immensely. Having taken what we needed, Fabrizio would slip away to the bridge we slept under. Jack would usually come a few moments later, speaking in botched Italian to the vendor and explaining that I was his sister and that I had gotten lost. Then he would steer me away and we would sprint to the bridge, dining on stolen bread or fruit.

This isn’t to say that we were successful every single time. We had plenty of close shaves and we were nearly caught on a number of occasions. One time a beady-eyed vendor caught sight of Fabrizio and whirled around. A long argument ensued, in which I am pretty sure Fabrizio claimed he was only looking at the apples, not taking. I took this as my opportunity to stuff my own jacket with apples and dart away. Fabrizio finally managed to get away and was muttering a number of obscenities that he had taught me.

There was one time when the vendor caught both Fabrizio and me. He saw Fabrizio and turned, and when I was reaching for an apple he whirled around and snatched my wrist. I really cried then, but this time, the vendor had no sympathy for me. He shouted something that I think meant police. I was fully expecting Fabrizio to dart away and save himself while he could, but he came around the side and shouted at the vendor, tugging on my other arm as if the vendor would release me. Of course he didn’t, so both my wrists were starting to hurt before long.

"Ma va fan culo!" Fabrizio was shouting. "Figlio di puttana!" Some women nearby gasped; obviously, he had said some very, very naughty words that he hadn’t even taught me yet. This made the vendor so angry that he released his grip on me to backhand Fabrizio. I was such an idiot, standing stock-still and not quite sure what to do.

"Angie, run!" Jack, who came out of nowhere, shouted in my ear. And like magic, I turned around and ran as fast as I could to the bridge. Jack and Fabrizio followed a few minutes later. Fabrizio had a small trickle of blood running out of his nose, and his cheek showed signs of a bruise, but he seemed otherwise fine.

"I’m so sorry," was all I could say for several hours. Jack swore that he wasn’t mad at me, it could’ve happened to anyone, and Fabrizio kept reassuring me that he had been in worse scrapes. He didn’t use that wording, but I knew what he meant. Later on in the day, Jack scrounged up the money he had made from his paintings to see if he could buy some food. Fabrizio used his absence to his full advantage.

"You and ‘a Jack; you have…amore, no?"

Amore, I knew, meant love. Everyone who came to Italy did. I shook my head vigorously. "No, no; we…are friends. No amore."

"No amore?" Fabrizio asked, looking almost disappointed.

I was sorely tempted to tell Fabrizio that I loved Jack; after all, I could trust Fabrizio enough to know that he wouldn’t tell Jack. But I would have to put far more time and energy into explaining it to him, and I really didn’t think I could. So I settled for no amore.

*****

After less than three months in Italy, we convinced a man named Paulo to let us ride in the back of his wagon to France. It was on this trip that I whined and pleaded until Fabrizio caved in and told me just what ma va fan culo and figlio di puttana meant. I laughed until my sides hurt while Paulo grunted indignantly. I decided to keep those in mind and use them when we were away from Italians.

It took us over a week to get to Paris, but get there we did. It was beautiful. And it was full of art. Jack acted like a boy on Christmas, shouting excitedly for Fabrizio and me to look at this painting or that sculpture and did we see how the artist used the colors here? I didn’t always see, but I pretended I did to please Jack. In Paris, Jack drew his ten cent portraits and made a lot of money off of them. Sometimes he would disappear at night to the brothels; he claimed that some of the women there were perfect models. He had drawn me before, but I was fully clothed and staring at something only remotely interesting.

Fabrizio found a job as a waiter. He had a way of convincing the customers to take the finest food and wine, thus earning him the favor of his employer. As for myself, I worked as a maid in a hotel generally used by Americans. They were glad to see a native of their home country, even if I was beneath them. Together, the three of us saved up enough for a hotel room with two beds; I slept on one and the boys slept on the other. It was mostly Fabrizio and I who brought in the money; Jack’s drawings weren’t as popular in Paris as they had been in Santa Monica. A few Americans bought them, but not many.

It was at the hotel I worked at in Paris that I met Yves. Yves was a Frenchman by birth who was fluent in English. He was in charge of the lifts, two years older than me and rather attractive. I still had not stopped caring for Jack; I still clung to the hope that someday he would realize that we were meant to be. But in the meantime, I figured that I could have some fun.

I liked to take the lifts, just so I could talk to Yves. I was young when I knew him; therefore, I was silly. Looking back, I turn red with embarrassment when I remember how hard I laughed at his little jokes, how I wore a stupid, idiotic grin whenever I was around him. I found myself glancing in every possible reflective surface before I went onto the lifts so that I would look as nice as possible. And I took the lifts quite often.

Yves took to walking me places. Walking me to the street corner, walking me down the block, walking me to the hotel I stayed in, walking me all the way to my room. I never let him inside; I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. And by wrong idea, I mean the fact that two other men around his age were living with me and we all three slept in the same room. That might have discouraged any interest he had in me.

One morning I woke up to Jack and Fabrizio standing over me.

"Wake up, Rip Van Winkle!" Jack bellowed, grinning. Normally, this sight would have made my heart flutter. Instead, I remembered that my hair was tangled and disheveled and my mouth was open while I slept and I generally did not look very pleasant. "Come on; get up! It’s your fifteenth birthday!"

"It is? How do you know that?" I asked, slowly rising and scratching the back of my head.

"Well, we decided that it is," Jack conceded, shrugging. "Partly because too much time has passed since I first met you and now. But mostly because we have enough money to take you out for a birthday dinner now. So tonight, we’re going to that Les Augustine place."

Les Augustine was a nice bar. It was the kind of place young cads take naïve girls who don’t have a terribly large inheritance before they whisk them off to a hotel and never speak to them again after that night. Naturally, it was a rather nice place, considering who the three of us were.

"I a’ make you a cake a’ today!" Fabrizio promised, beaming at the prospect of celebrating a day that probably wasn’t even my birthday. "You a’ come to my ristorante today for lunch, okay?"

"All right," I agreed, trying to smile even while I yawned.

I couldn’t help but announce my sudden birthday to Yves that day. After I had answered a summons from the concierge and directed a haughty-looking woman with a voluminous bosom towards a fashionable café, I all but skipped over to the lifts. It was empty, save for Yves, who smiled as I entered.

"Good afternoon, miss," he said, tipping his hat as he closed the doors.

"Sir," I replied airily. After three seconds of silence, I couldn’t take it anymore. "Today is my birthday."

Yves cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Really? You didn’t tell me before."

"I forgot," I said, shrugging. It was better than telling him I just now found out. "My friends are taking me to Les Augustine for dinner."

Yves nodded. "That’s a nice place."

"Very," I agreed, trying not to grin.

"How old are you?"

"Um…fifteen." Was that too young for him? I had never disclosed my age to him before; perhaps he wouldn’t be so flirtatious now.

"Well, bon anniversaire, Angie," Yves said warmly as the lift came to a halt. He opened the doors for me, and as I was about to leave, he stopped me and took my hand. "And many happy returns." And with that, he kissed my hand, only the second person to have done so.

I blushed crimson, I’m sure of it, and mumbled what I think was a thank you. The moment my hand was out of his grasp, I walked quickly down the corridor, my skirts swishing violently.

When I was finally allowed to leave the hotel and scurry over to Les Augustine, I was tired but ecstatic. Jack and Fabrizio had promised me drinks and presents at lunch, and I was not about to be late for that. I nearly slipped on the snow but plodded on, eager to get to warmth, beer, and my surprise presents. Finally, I made it to Les Augustine. I pushed open the door and nearly gasped with the warmth that overcame me. I pushed the door further and stumbled in, brushing snowflakes off of me. Jack and Fabrizio flagged me down from a table in the corner where they were nursing two beers.

"Is that how you come dressed for your birthday dinner?" Jack teased as I took off my coat.

"Excuse me, but I don’t have all day to change clothes at my leisure," I teased back, taking a swig of his beer.

I had just sipped the froth off of my own beer when Fabrizio nudged me. "He looks a’ lost."

"Who?" I asked rhetorically, looking around in the direction Fabrizio was staring at. My mouth fell open. It was Yves. "Oh, God," I muttered, turning around quickly and ducking my head.

"What?" Jack and Fabrizio asked at the same time.

"It’s…it’s someone I work with," I tried to explain. "He…he’s…"

"Angie!"

I plastered a huge smile on my face and turned around. I liked Yves and all; I just wasn’t prepared for, well, this.

"Yves!" I returned as he made his way towards us. He smiled uncertainly at Jack and Fabrizio. I didn’t want to introduce them, but I had to. It would be quite awkward otherwise. "Oh, Yves, this is Jack and Fabrizio. Fellows, this is Yves. He works at the hotel with me."

They all shook hands in that maddeningly masculine way before Jack and Fabrizio sat back down.

"Wanna join us?" Jack asked, shouting as some rather loud music started up.

"Oh, no, thank you," Yves shouted back. "I just…my sister’s husband works here…and…well, au revoir!"

And just like that, he was gone. I sank back into my seat.

"What the hell was that all about?" Jack asked, sounding stunned.

I grinned sheepishly. "Um…I don’t know?"

Suddenly Jack smirked. "Uh-oh, Fabri; it looks like our little Angie’s found herself a sweetheart."

"What?" Fabrizio asked, sounding very confused.

"He’s just being stupid, Fabri," I snapped, flushing red.

"Never mind that," Jack shouted, pulling something out of his pocket. He pulled a stack of cards out of a small carton and began to shuffle them. "Tonight, we’re gonna teach you how to play blackjack."

"Why?" I asked, curious. I didn’t even know that Fabrizio knew how to play cards, let alone an American game like blackjack. Or was blackjack even American?

"Because it’ll impress your little Evie," Jack replied smoothly, not missing a beat.

"It’s Yves—oh, ma va fan culo!" I snapped.

Fabrizio roared with laughter.

Chapter Three
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