Chapter Text
“James Buchanan Barnes, I’ll love you ‘til I die.”
It was a vow of Lottie’s girlhood, often punctuated by giggles and flushed cheeks. Even as her mind betrayed her and her memories faded into jumbled whispers of the past, she could clearly recall the first time she made that vow— as reverent as a sinner before God.
In the summer of 1930, Lottie was a waif-like girl of 9, often found outside washing and mending clothes with her mother.
“Lottie-love, would you please bring this bag of mended trousers and dresses to the Barnes’ apartment? With how much trouble that boy gets into, that boy will end up with trousers that are more thread than fabric.” Her mother shook her head fondly— although there was a new tear to mend every week, it meant she could still put food on the table.
“I’ll be back soon, Ma,” Lottie called over her shoulder as she hoisted the bag into her arms.
Lottie quite enjoyed the walk to the Barnes’ apartment; she was usually accompanied by her mother when walking the four blocks, but walking all by herself gave her a sense of pride and maturity. Plus, it gave her the opportunity to scan the sidewalks for any lone pennies to use in the corner store on the way home.
As she crossed the street and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the tenement, her right foot— squeezed into a tattered Mary Jane —caught on the curb and sent her tumbling onto the sidewalk, earning her a rather unpleasant scrape on her knee. Lottie was tempted to cry out at the stinging pain, but she decided that crying wouldn’t be mature of her.
She stood up resolutely and picked up the bag of clothes that had toppled over with her, straightening her skirt with a free hand. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly, but she simply straightened her back and strode towards the door of the tenement. It loomed before her in all of its red-brick glory, with rusted fire escapes clinging to its side. It was no different than her own tenement, really, but something about entering it all alone was just a bit daunting.
When she entered the building, Lottie was faced with three flights of stairs’ worth of climbing to do. The barren stairs were sturdy enough, but each step produced a sickening creak that made her shift her weight out of fear for breaking through the wood. By the time she reached the Barnes’ apartment, she was huffing and puffing from the weight of the bag and the steepness of the stairs. With a pang of annoyance, Lottie noticed a feeling of wetness quickly traveling down her shin and soaking into her sock; climbing the stairs had irritated her scrape and made it bleed profusely. Her mother would be furious that she’d ruined yet another pair of socks.
She chose to ignore this predicament for the time being and knocked on the apartment door, “Mrs. Barnes, it’s Lottie Green! I’ve got this week’s mending and washing for you!” The door abruptly swung open, and she was met with a gangly 13 year-old boy, rather than the willowy Mrs. Barnes. He was clad in worn brown trousers and a faded blue flannel, the too-large shirt obviously acquired second-hand and the trousers at least a few years old, based on how short they were on him.
“Ah, my Ma said you’d be ‘round sometime soon. I’m James Buchanan Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky,” with that introduction he stuck his hand out, causing Lottie to fumble around with the bag so she could shake it. His grip was firm and only a little sweaty; she made sure to wipe her hand on her dress surreptitiously.
“Well I’m Lottie Joan Green, and my friends call me Lottie,” she replied, sidling into the kitchen of the apartment as Bucky held the door open. The apartment was a small one, with a small space serving as the kitchen, living room, and dining room. A short hallway led to two doors, which she could only assume were the two bedrooms. Despite its size and condition, the Barnes family managed to make it feel like a home with its mismatched sofa and chairs next to an overflowing bookcase. She dropped the bag onto the kitchen table, then Bucky let out a low whistle, “Geez Little Lottie, you’re bleeding somethin’ terrible, Ma’d kill me if I let you leave without fixing that up.”
Bucky walked across the room towards her and pulled a chair out for her, though she protested, “I really shouldn’t stick around, I told my Ma I’d be right back.” Bucky shook his head at that and argued, “If I let you leave with a scrape like that, you’ll start trailing blood all over the rest of the tenement and the landlady’ll go bananas! She’s already 100 percent certifiable as is. Now you sit down while I get a Band-Aid.”
With a huff, Lottie dropped into the seat and scuffed her shoes along the floorboards, taking the time to examine Bucky as he gathered up a fresh rag and a tin of Band-Aids from his kitchen cabinets. A few curls of dark hair fell over his forehead, escaping from the slicked-back style his mother had attempted on him earlier that morning. She saw traces of his mother in his features; his shockingly blue eyes had the same mirthful shine as Mrs. Barnes, and they shared the same smile lines. His cheeks were slightly pockmarked and his fingernails terribly crusted with dirt, but nonetheless, she was beginning to understand why the name of this Barnes boy was whispered so frequently by the girls on the schoolyard.
“Alright Little Lottie, this antiseptic is gonna sting, but it’ll only last a few seconds. You can cry if you wanna, I do this all the time for Becca— my kid sister —and she wails like a newborn.” Bucky returned to where she was seated, crouching in front of her to press the rag, damp with antiseptic, to her leg. When the scrape stung this time around, Lottie forwent her sense of 9-year-old maturity and wept.
“It’s alright, I’m almost done,” Bucky murmured, placing a Band-Aid over her scrape. He glanced up from his ministrations, her dull brown eyes meeting his, “There ya go, right as rain. And here,” he added, pulling a tattered handkerchief from his pocket, “you probably need this more than me right now.”
Lottie gingerly took the handkerchief from his hand, and his face broke out into a smile— a smile that stirred something within her very being. It wasn’t that schoolboy grin that he would shoot at the tittering middle school girls, nor was it a condescending smile that most boys his age would cast at girls her age. It was a secret smile, shared between just the two of them in the middle of his cramped tenement; it was one of warmth, causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle, highlighting the mirth that lived inside of them.
“Thank you, Bucky,” Lottie responded quietly, returning the smile in kind. “It’s always a pleasure, Little Lottie. Now here’s the payment for your Ma,” he straightened from his crouch and fished a few coins from his pocket, “Those nickels are for her, but the penny’s for you.” He dropped the coins into her outstretched palm.
Lottie protested, staring at the penny winking up at her from her palm, “Oh Bucky, my Ma’ll have a fit if she finds out your Ma’s been overpaying. We don’t need the money anymore than you do.” She nudged him to hand the penny back to him, but Bucky shook his head and laughed, guiding her to the door, “The penny’s not from my Ma, Little Lottie, it’s from me. Now get on out of here before your Ma comes banging down our door.”
With that, he ruffled her hair and sent her on her way out the door, closing it after she’d exited. Lottie was left standing dazedly outside the Barnes’ apartment, clutching Bucky’s handkerchief in one hand, and the nickels— and his penny —in the other.
Her journey back home was uneventful, walking the four blocks back quite quickly. She stopped in front of the corner store briefly, eyeing the penny candy displayed in the window. She ran her thumb over the penny resting in her fist, considering her options, but something stopped her. No, candy was not worthy of being purchased with her special penny. She would have to wait until she found something extraordinary to spend it on. So she carried on, mulling over what sort of item would be extraordinary enough for her special penny.
That night, as she lay in bed after finishing her prayers, she couldn’t help but picture those blue eyes and messy dark curls. She thought over and over of how kind he was with her. Suddenly, her nightly prayers felt unfinished; half-done. So, she ended with her most solemn one yet: “James Buchanan Barnes, I’ll love you ‘til I die.”