Brothers Forever

CHAPTER 1 NEW YORK CITY AUGUST 1900 Looking at her infant child as she walked the grimy city’s street in the predawn hour, the young mother did not see the man swoop out of the alley. The echoing “ka-klock” from the heels of her shoes alerted him of her approach and like a leopard on an antelope; he pounced directly into her path. Startled, she let go a quick squeal of fright that aroused absolutely no one’s attention. His physical appearance alone was enough to scare the most hardened street person, a giant of a man with thick black stubble on his face and a smell not unlike a stockyard. On the streets, he called Goliath. The monster reached out and grabbed her around both biceps. As he looked directly into her sea green eyes, a wide grin formed across his face, revealing sparse, rotting teeth protruding from gums that looked like raw meat. Goliath started to pull the young woman down the alley. “Come with me, Carrot Top,” he said disgustingly. “I got somethin' real special for ya.” Instinctively she jerked violently and freed herself. Goliath was stunned and for a moment, they stood there, staring each other down. Continuing to grin repulsively, the big oaf motioned toward the alley with his eyes as though it were an inviting place to visit. Holding her baby firmly with one arm, she reared back with the other and slapped the giant hard across his dirty jaw. The blow stung her hand as if she had just slapped a pincushion. Goliath barely moved. His sickening smile remained and his stench grew even stronger. Then, inexplicably, he stepped aside. “Ya got spunk, girl. Ain’t too many folks would try that. Even less gets away with it.” Bowing deeply from the waist, he waved his arm gallantly, allowing her to pass, saying, “Have a pleasant day, Miss.” The woman raised her chin proudly and after pushing her dirty, red, shoulder-length hair out of her face, walked past Goliath. It was another half city block before she felt herself breathe again. I can still smell that dirty ox. After walking for several more blocks, the rising sun’s brilliant rays were beginning to emerge above the city’s rooftops, promising another day of sweltering heat. The young mother wore a stained and faded blue dress with a tattered hem. The soles of her scuffed, black shoes were worn out and she had lined them with old newspapers to protect her feet from the gritty pavement. The heels were solid, though. That is what had warned Goliath that she was coming, but he was no longer a threat. Now, as she walked, the vagrants sleeping in the doorways of shops and tenement buildings rolled over and cursed her for having disturbed their fitful sleep. Had it not been for her distinctive red hair, she would have been nondescript from the thousands of other poor, husbandless, women in the city. On this day, however, her mane was frizzy, filthy and tangled; a result of the sweltering heat and humidity, as well as the fact that she had not had a bath in several days. Walking toward her objective, her mane flew around wildly, redolent of a blazing campfire. Her ruddy face was flushed, beaded with sweat from the oppressive heat. In her arms, she cradled her boy—whimpering, weak and innocent. Wrapped in what was once a white bed sheet, but was now a gray rag, it was more soiled than his mother’s clothing. Like his mother, the boy had a full head of fine carroty hair that stuck straight up and looked like the flame on the head of a match. Exhausted, she continued to walk block after long block until she finally reached her destination, the New York City Orphanage and Hospital, an enormous red brick building that spanned an entire city block. Pausing for a moment at the bottom of the steps, she looked up to see two imposing front doors. Her moist green eyes went back to the child and she wondered if she was making the right decision. What am I doin’? I must be mad. But, what other choice do I have? Climbing the steps to the daunting wooden doors, she entered. She was alone in a large foyer with 20-foot high ceilings and polished hardwood floors. In the center of the foyer was an empty white cradle. Against the walls, on either side of the room, were high-backed wooden benches that reminded her of the seats she had slept on at the train station. Her shoes announced her presence as she walked over to a bench. When she sat down and removed them, she instantly felt relief for her aching feet. As she rested, the child started to squirm and whine but he was not quite crying. She bared her breast and allowed him to suckle noisily. A tear began to etch a trace down the contour of her rough cheek, but she quickly brushed it away with a wave of her hand. At first, she thought it was a bead of sweat, then, in disbelief, she realized that she was weeping. Glancing at her boy, she was unable to focus on his face through the steady eruption of tears. Thoughts pummeled her weary mind. Whenever I look away from ya, I forget what ya look like. Just as well. It’ll be best if I don’t remember ya at all. I’ll never forget your hair though—it’s just like mine. She stroked his fine red hair. The infant sucked hungrily for a few moments then drifted to sleep. His mother reached into the hip pocket of her dress and removed a slip of paper. After staring at the scrawled writing for a long time, she thought: I can’t think of nothin’ else to write about ya. Barefoot, she walked to the center of the foyer and gently placed the child in the cradle. He wiggled a little when she released him but did not wake and quickly settled. She pinned the note to the baby’s rags then watched him sleep for a short while. I can’t think of nothin’ to say to ya, little man. At that moment, she heard footsteps approaching from an adjoining hallway. She looked down at her boy, pushed her hair from her face and said aloud, “Don’t hate me, Thomas. I just can’t keep ya. I’m so sorry.” Hurrying back to the bench, she picked up her shoes and darted out the front door. Stopping at the bottom step, she sat down to put on her shoes. Already! Already I can’t remember what he looks like. Then, the young woman stood, shook her head so that her hair was off her face and jutted out her jaw, trying her best to portray an air of toughness. She walked away, slowly at first, then faster and faster until she was in a dead run. When her shoes flew off her feet, she did not stop to retrieve them. She continued to run. She never looked back.