The Edge of Lost

by Kristina McMorris

  Only now was it evident that what filled their bags was regret. At least, that was the case for Shan. He was anything but proud of the things he’d said to Nick. But then, there was no sense in looking back. Not when survival took priority.

  On the day he’d left the Capellos, he found a line of children needing food and shelter on the back side of St. Peter’s Church. Joining them could have helped stretch his funds, meager as they were, but a sign on the door read: Children’s Aid Society. In Shan’s short time in the country, he’d already heard about the group that fed and tidied young orphans before handing them off to any willing taker.

  Truth or not, he couldn’t take the chance.

  He had chosen instead to spend that night on a bench in Prospect Park, until a policeman shooed him off. For every night since, he’d hunkered down in a warehouse, where nibbling rats assaulted his sleep. Some were so large he could mistake them for cats. They were the same kind of scavengers he’d competed with for scraps in trash cans behind restaurants, most of them all but picked over.

  Now, on the tenth morning, aching from hunger and exhaustion in every way, he felt the darkness of desperation. Yesterday was his twelfth birthday, but it had come to mean nothing. He refused to dwell on memories of his mam sewing him a shirt or baking him a pie. Especially the pie. What he needed was real food, like that being sold across the street. Colorful fruit and vegetables were piled in baskets on a horse-drawn cart. Shan’s mouth watered as he moved closer, clutching his satchels, telling himself he only wanted to look.

  But with the vendor distracted by a customer, a tomato drew Shan’s hand like a moth to a flame. Once it was in his grasp, the compulsion to take a bite sent him scurrying away with the morsel. His parents had raised a son who would never stoop to thievery, yet shame was the least of his concerns as he squatted in an alley, gobbling up the tomato, its juice streaming down his chin. When he was done, he wished he’d taken two.

  That didn’t make him a thief, not to his core. He wished he could buy them outright. He’d tried panhandling and street performing, the weather making them pointless. For six days straight, relentless drizzle had drenched the city and planted a shiver in his bones. His throat had gone raw, made worse with every cough and sneeze.

  To survive, he needed a job. He had already inquired at countless saloons and pubs, offering to put on an act—if only for a meal. But few folks spared him a word, aside from voicing their disgust over filthy Irish beggars.

  Much like orphans, immigrants in America were ranked by order. It was best, Shan had learned, to hide his brogue.

  Putting on his best Yankee accent, he now approached the owner of another saloon. A flick of the man’s hand, as if batting away a fly, provided his answer. The bar mistress at least passed Shan a stale slice of bread.

  At the pub next door, the bartender told him, “Sorry, kid. New York’s got more than enough free entertainment to go around. But who knows, maybe someday you could star in a variety show on Broadway.”

  The comment, riding a chuckle, was meant to mock, though Shan had nothing to lose for trying. He smoothed his hair into his tweed cap, using rain and spit to clean his face, and set out on the legendary street. He would hit every playhouse if needed.

  Less than an hour later, he discovered he just might have to. Ticket clerks were even less hospitable. When the urge arose, Shan knew better than to ask for the use of a washroom.

  Around Forty-third Street, he could no longer hold his bladder. He crept behind the Fitzgerald Building and relieved himself on a wall. Light rain tapped old playbills curled and wet in the gutter. Shan was just buttoning his trousers when the stage door of a theater flew open.

  Two suited men emerged in overcoats and brimmed hats, grumbling over the weather. The taller one, with a slightly hooked nose, opened an umbrella with ease. He snickered at his friend struggling to do the same.

  “Would you look at this. Fella runs half of Broadway but can’t open an umbrella without a butler. C’mon, hand it over.”

  “Nah, I got it,” the other replied, persisting. His neck muscles strained above his bow tie. “Lousy thing keeps getting stuck.”

  “Hey, kid!” The taller man looked over at Shan. “You want to show Mr. Cohan here how to work this fancy contraption? Apparently it’s too complicated.”

  Mind in a haze, Shan needed a second to digest the name. Once he did, he stared in disbelief. It was George M. Cohan, his sketched likeness widely known from ads, fliers, and magazines. He was an Irish Catholic, like Shan, and a famed vaudevillian who became a hit producer, songwriter, and everything in between. In Dublin, Shan had even sung a few of his popular tunes, “Over There” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

  And here the man was, mere steps away. This meeting couldn’t be coincidence.

  Shan adjusted his cap and the satchels on his shoulder. He walked over, aiming to look stronger than he felt, and extended a hand in greeting. “Mr. Cohan—”

  “All right, all right. I give up.” Mr. Cohan surrendered his umbrella.

  Shan hedged a moment but swiftly recognized how earning the man’s gratitude could warrant a return favor.

  Taking on the challenge, Shan pulled and pushed and tugged. He persisted, unwilling to yield, until Mr. Cohan said, “Hey, hey. You gave it your best shot, kid.”

  Right then, Shan’s grip slid forward, ripping a gash in the fabric. “Ah, Jaysus, no,” he said, a whisper lost to a burst of laughter from the taller man.

  “You were right after all, Cohan. That umbrella’s definitely the problem.” Another bout of laughter.

  “Sir, I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Shan said, handing it back.

  Mr. Cohan examined the damage and sighed. “I suppose it was time for a new one anyhow.”

  “But, sir, I . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it, kid.” Mr. Cohan winked. “See, here? A peace offering.” He held out a gray handkerchief from his chest pocket, gave it a small wave. “Now, get yourself out of this weather, huh?”

  Shan accepted, confounded by the gift. That was when he realized the moisture on his lip wasn’t just rain, but snot. Had it been there the whole time? He rushed to wipe his nose. When he looked up, the men were halfway to the corner, sharing the good umbrella.

  Shan was losing his big chance. Quite possibly his only one.

  “Mr. Cohan,” he called out, and a jagged pain gripped his throat.

  “It’s okay, kid,” the man hollered through the rain. “You keep it!” Then he vanished around the building.

  Shan clenched the fancy monogrammed handkerchief. The man probably owned a dozen others like it. Fighting a swell of tears, Shan shoved the cloth into his pocket and forced a swallow that burned all the way down.

  A roar of thunder shook the sky.

  As Shan turned to leave, he noted the theater door was open a crack. A theater . . . where heat enveloped the air. He imagined rows and rows of real chairs enclosed by solid walls and a high ceiling.

  If only he could rest in a place such as this, a haven free of rats and rain, he could revive his strength, his will.

  The open door practically seemed an invitation, not unlike that at the legal firm. He remembered how he and Nick had walked in and out, with nobody the wiser.

  Shan scanned the alley and found no one around.

  Get yourself out of this weather, Mr. Cohan had said.

  So that was precisely what Shan did.

  A pair of offices and a zigzag of dressing rooms lined the back hall of the playhouse. Some doors boasted names and gold stars. Shan considered finding a vacant corner behind any one of them, but then music entered the air. He perked at the sound of chimes and a flute, an Oriental melody.

  If he was careful, he could blend into the audience. While thawing himself, he could enjoy part of a show. It would be a good while before he could afford a ticket of any kind.

  Following the notes, he climbed a spiral staircase that wound up to the next level. A manager’s passageway,
he guessed. From there he continued onto another set of twisting metal steps, up and up, until he reached the uppermost balcony.

  A weekend picture show flickered through the darkness, projecting enough light to confirm that the seats on this floor were vacant. Shan surveyed the theater in awe. The plain exterior of the building gave little indication of the extravagance inside, with columns and box seats and a lush arch that framed the screen. All around, murals adorned the walls, though Shan couldn’t quite make them out.

  He took a seat in the center of the balcony and melted into the cushion. He’d almost forgotten the luxury of sitting on something soft.

  In the film, a white actor in Chinese clothing moved his mouth in conversation. Words of explanation flashed on the screen: The Yellow Man in the Temple of Buddha, before his contemplated journey to a foreign land.

  Aside from its brownish tint, Shan had never seen a film look so real. Broken Blossoms was the title. He recalled it from the marquee.

  He continued to watch as the monk realized the fruitlessness of his mission to bring peace to the West. For years, the man plunged into a pit of sin and opium, until crossing paths with Lucy, a fellow outcast who found splendor in simple flowers. And yet, her drunken prizefighting father made a habit of taking out his aggressions on the young girl.

  The obvious similarities to Shan’s life should have caused him to look away. Instead, he was captivated by a glimpse of where his own journey might lead. He craved the promise of a joyous life in the end.

  But that wasn’t what waited in the show. Shan learned this when the boxer used a hatchet to chop his way into a closet, where Lucy had sought safety. Though there were no voices, Shan could hear her screams. The audience on the main floor seemed to hear them too, for they shifted in their seats and whispered their discomfort. A few ladies walked out, looking sickened, followed by a couple more when Lucy forced a smile around a trickle of blood as she died.

  As a moderate consolation, the Yellow Man shot the father with a gun before taking his own life with a blade, a sacrifice of love to his innocent White Blossom. There was no applause when the screen declared The End. The remaining audience had become statues in their seats, stunned and horrified. Robbed of true justice.

  Shan knew this because he felt the same. He sank farther into his seat, weighted by knowledge that his own destiny would more likely resemble Lucy’s than that of the pauper. He would not become an adviser to a prince and live out his days in the lavishness of a royal court.

  It was this thought, this acceptance of his fate, that dragged him down the dark tunnel of sleep—only to be jolted by a firm grip on his collar.

  14

  Shan couldn’t say how long it had been since he’d drifted off. He had no knowledge of anything save the panic that now seized him while being yanked into the air and onto his feet. Squinting against the glare, he recognized the man’s uniform. An usher . . .

  Shan was still in the theater, but the lights had been raised. The audience was gone.

  “This ain’t a flophouse.” The usher gave him a shove. “It ain’t a free show neither.”

  Shan stumbled into the aisle. He hurried from the balcony, vision clearing, and toward the main staircase. The occasional poke of a flashlight indicated he’d be escorted all the way out. When he made it through the lobby and onto the sidewalk, he heard the man’s voice over the thrum of the rain.

  “Now, beat it or I’ll put the cops on ya!”

  The door slammed shut, but eyes watched from inside.

  Thick droplets ran down Shan’s face. He shuddered from the chill he had hoped to leave back in Ireland. Before the usher could make good on his threat, Shan left without thought of destination.

  He raised his coat collar and rubbed at his sleeves. The evening sky remained just as gray as it had been that morning, only darker.

  An automobile honked. Dapper couples traversed the avenue beneath umbrellas, clutching their tickets for the latest shows.

  Several blocks passed before Shan registered something missing from his shoulder: his satchels! He’d forgotten them in the balcony. The clothes weren’t worth a shilling, but the books . . . his mam’s precious books . . .

  Yet what was he to do?

  In no position to recover them, he bridled the pang of loss, for he couldn’t bear to absorb it now. He trudged onward until a coughing fit, similar to those of Uncle Will, brought him to a halt. When it passed, Shan remained hunched, hands on his legs for support.

  “Pal, you okay?”

  Shan raised his eyes to find a man in a weathered hat and threadbare coat. No fewer than three buttons were missing, the same for his teeth.

  “You got a home?”

  Lacking energy for a front, Shan shook his head.

  “Figured.” The fellow sighed. “Well, come on, then.”

  Following him would be foolish; even decent people weren’t kind enough to take in a street urchin for nothing.

  Aside, that was, from the Capellos.

  The man peeked over his shoulder and shrugged. “No skin off my nose. Breadline’s a few blocks over if you’re wanting some soup.”

  Faint memories of broth and chowder and stew caused Shan’s stomach to gurgle. When the man trekked away, Shan trailed at a distance. Even if he wanted to catch up, he wasn’t sure he could. He was so very tired, and the dampness of his trousers hampered every step.

  It seemed an eternity before they traveled past several buildings and around the corner, into an open lot sprinkled with gravel. Downtrodden men stood in a line that led to a large canopy. There, three women in peaked white hats ladled steaming liquid into tin cups.

  The man who’d led Shan here had disappeared into the crowd.

  Shan tacked onto the end of the line, his hands in his pockets. His left fingers found his sixpence. He pulled it out and fiddled with the coin; the friction created a trace of warmth.

  Gradually the line shuffled forward and Shan with it. A whiff of roasted chicken breezed past. Given Shan’s congested nose, perhaps he only imagined it, but it struck as the aroma of a king’s feast.

  “Ah, now! Would ye look at that.”

  A male brogue caught Shan’s ear. Its familiar comfort beckoned like rays of a summer sun. He swung around to find a teenager in stained knickers, a smudge on his nose, speaking to boys his age. He held up a coin for them to see.

  “Richer than the Rockefellers, I am. Wouldn’t ye say?”

  A stocky red-haired one sneered. “Maybe now you can afford a feckin’ brain.”

  The others laughed, and suddenly Shan noticed his own hand was empty. The sixpence—it must have fallen to the ground, his fingers too numb to notice.

  “I dropped that”—the group snapped to face him—“it belongs to me.”

  The boy with the sixpence bit off a laugh. “Aye, sure it does.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Let me guess.” The same boy widened his eyes in exaggerated shock. “You’re a leprechaun and it fell out of your pot o’ gold.”

  More snide laughter.

  Its monetary worth didn’t matter to Shan; a sixpence bought nothing in America. And clearly it was proving a failure in all levels of luck. Rather, the true value lay in its connection to his past, a final tie that if severed might forever set him adrift.

  In some way, the boy would understand this. Surely he couldn’t deny their common ground. “Please, I’m from Ireland, like you. Just trying to get by.”

  The boy drew his head back. He surveyed Shan from head to toe. “Can you believe it, lads? All this time, I’ve dreamt of meeting me long-lost brother. I had no idea this Yank was part of our clan.”

  Shan was becoming so accustomed to suppressing his brogue, to revive it now carried the odd feeling of putting on a show.

  Regardless, it was clear the thief wasn’t going to budge. Shan had nothing to offer in trade. And without the coin, Shan himself had nothing at all. There was only one way to reclaim it.

  Befor
e the group could react, he lunged for the money. The boy managed to stretch it out of reach and pushed back with his free hand. Shan tried to maintain his footing but landed on the ground. An icy puddle flooded his trousers. The group broke into jeers. Shan’s arms and legs quivered. Not from the cold, but from anger rising like mercury, boiling through his veins. A primal instinct took hold. Like a madman, he shot to his feet and charged back with a bellow that came from deep within. It sounded of something barbaric and raw.

  There was a glint in the teenager’s eyes, of surprise and fear, a split second before Shan’s fist slammed into his jaw. On another day Shan would have paused to measure the effect, but a mounting blackness had been uncaged. Every ounce of it sent his arms swinging and pummeling, powered by fury, unwilling to stop until the enemy was reduced to a sack of meat and bones.

  Shan faintly registered the other boys hitting his back. But then a punch connected to his kidneys, paralyzing him enough to be flung to the ground. His chin and palms scraped gravel. Clamoring shouts echoed in his ears. In a blink he was flipped over and a sea of fists descended. His forearms flew into an X, an old reflex, absorbing blows that came in sloppy succession.

  “Enough, I said!” At the man’s booming voice, the din fell away as if dropped off a cliff. “Clear out, the bunch of you hoodlums!”

  Shan saw the scuttling of feet through the gap beneath his arms, still raised as a shield. His heart thrashed in his chest.

  “Goddamned micks,” the man muttered. “Hey, kid. Let’s go. You hurt or what?”

  From the outskirts of Shan’s mind came a lyric from Billy Murray’s “Foolish Questions.” How a person could fall twenty-seven floors down an elevator shaft, and while he’s lying there inert, the first thing he’d be asked was: Oh, are you hurt?

  “Come on. On your feet.” Rain dripped from the bill of the man’s hat as he hefted Shan upright. He was a policeman. Surprisingly, based on his dark features and disparaging remark, not an Irish one.