Chapter Text
New York City, New York: 1993
“Take it Jackie I ain’t hungry.” The man’s stomach growled as he handed the chunk of bread to the small ten-year-old boy walking next to him down the wet pavement. The boy took it reluctantly but ate it hungrily as he struggled to keep up with the man’s pace. A piece of newspaper lay at the curb, wet, its ink running, the words of yesterday’s headline barely able to be made out.
“Pa,” the boy looked up at the man, his blue eyes, eyes with the depth of one twice his age, searched out those of his father. “Pa, why’d dey fire you? Why’d the boss at da mill fire you?” His father coughed and shook his head,
“Dey ain’t got no use for me anymore. If dey got no use for someone, dey throws him out.” He began coughing harder and harder, his body shaking with the effort. The boy took his hand as the man leaned on the wall for support.
“Pa, you gonna be okay, right?” John Kelly pulled the boy close and knelt down so he could look into his son’s eyes.
“Dis ain’t da life I wanted ta leave you wid.” He shook his head and fished something out of his pocket, handing it to his son. The boy studied it, a postcard, worn and tattered at the edges, with a painting of a lovely ranch overlooked by mountains in the background. The letters, printed in curly script in the upper corner of the postcard spelled out: Santa Fe. He looked up at his father, confused. The man smiled sadly, “Santa Fe, New Mexico. I was plannin’ on movin’ there with you when summer came again but…” He trailed away breathing in slowly before continuing, “Jack your old man ain’t gonna be around much longer. I only lived on dis here earth for thirty years and I ain’t gonna live here much more. I wish I was leavin’ you wid more.” He sighed as he stood up.
“Pa, don worry ‘bout me. I can take care a' myself. You know I can.” The man’s eyes filled as he looked at his son. “Dem streets, they’ll kill you if you let 'em. They’ll kill you! They’ll kill you like dey did me.” They stood for a minute, rain dripping off their shoulders. The boy wiped his nose with his sleeve and carefully put the postcard in his pocket, drawing out another piece of paper in its place.
“Pa, I—I pictured us today.” The man looked down and half smiled,
“Did ya now? Let me see it.” Jack held out a piece of paper toward his father, who studied it gravely. The picture was rough, done with a burnt stick on an old piece of newspaper, but the figures were clear. A man and a boy sat side by side, the father’s arm wrapped protectively around his son’s shoulder.
“I was gonna give it to ya later, but—but I wanted to give it to you now.” John Kelly nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and carefully folded it and put it in his pocket. The two continued down the street in silence, hunched over as if trying to shelter themselves from the rain under their ragged caps.