FicWad

Dance In the City

II

Ain't His Son

"I'm looking for a Mr. Francis Sullivan," said the man. He held his bowler hat in his hands, and his grey suit stretched across his portly frame in a very unattractive fashion. His head bobbed slightly, and he had a rather large nose.

The Lodging House became quiet, the few young boys loitering around turning to look at the man.

Kloppman shook his head, "There's no one here by that name."

"Oh, yes, I forgot. Jack Kelly, I believe, is the name he goes by these days."

"What do ya want wit Jack?" asked Racetrack, taking a fat cigar out of his mouth and giving the man a steely gaze.

"I have a message from his father. Would you mind giving it to him?" The man dug around in his pockets until he produced a sheet of white paper. He wiped his large nose.

Racetrack took the paper with a joyless smile. "Sure."

The man smiled and placed his hat on his head, covering his thin greasy hair. "Thank you, sir."

Jack held the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, and was confused. It wasn't the paper that confused him, nor was it the address that was written on the paper that didn't confuse him. It was why he was holding the paper that didn't confuse him with the address on it that didn't confuse him.

George Sullivan: that was his father's name. A tall slender man with a crooked nose, and a missing finger, that was how Jack remembered him. That was how he had looked that last time Jack saw him.

George had leaned down to look at him, and he had smiled, showing his yellow teeth. "Now, son," he had said, "take care of ya mother." George had ruffled the kid's hair and left.

Jack hadn't heard from him since then, unless you count the newspaper article he had found relating the events surrounding his father's arrest. Strangely enough, his mother had showed no sign of interest, as if she had expected it all along.

Jack stared at the paper some more, wondering why he hadn't thrown it away yet.

"Ya know," said Racetrack, climbing through the window to join Jack on the small railing balcony, "if ya think too hard, you're goin' to go cross-eyed."

"What do ya think Race? Should I go?"

Racetrack puffed on a cigar, thinking.

"I think you should do whatevah ya want," he said at length.

"Oh, that helps, Race, thanks," said Jack sarcastically. He ran his fingers through his hair, exhibiting a nervous habit that Sarah had tried to rid him of often.

"Flip a coin," said Racetrack, squashing the end of his cigar into the brick windowsill. He handed Jack a nickle.

"Heads, I'll go . . ."

He flipped it, watching it spin in the air and catch the fading sunlight. The coin landed in his palm.

Race smiled. "Visiting hours start at ten."


--

George Sullivan was a greying old man, shriveled and wrinkled as if he were deteriorating. He coughed into a handkerchief and wiped his mouth.

"Francis . . ." he began, his voice raspy from years of smoking.

"My name ain't Francis," said Jack. He shifted in his chair, causing it to scrape against the floor with loud screech. The other inmates gave him a dirty look.

George nodded. "Jack, you prolly don't understand why I wanted to see ya. And that's okay. I can live wit that. But I have to tell you something important . . . before I go." He spoke slowly, and with great effort; he hadn't done much talking in the past few years, yet his tired mouth shaped the sounds of his youth with great complexity.

"Yeah, we're ya goin'?"

"I'm goin' ta die soon, son."

Jack, for the most part, had been avoiding his father's gaze, but now he turned. "I ain't your son."

George nodded again, feeling the muscles protest. He had a headache again, and his eyes were getting heavy. But he needed to wait for a just a few more minutes . . . just a few more minutes, and he could forget everything that had troubled him for the past twenty years.

"Your mother was a smart woman, smart and ruthless."

"Yeah, then why'd she marry you?"

George ignored his comment, and went on talking. "She had money, your mother did. And I needed it. But, try as I might, she wouldn't see past my charming smiles." He exhibited the charming smile, remembering the way Rosemary used to hit him on the back of his head when she was annoyed with him. He loved that woman; even if he did screw it up in the end, at least he had loved her. He laughed, his voice grating on Jack's ear like nails on a chalkboard. "She had a will, if I remember correctly. All the money was left to you. I wanted ta let ya know that."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" He shifted in his seat again. The smell of the old flesh reeked about the place, and he felt he was going to be sick.

"I thought ya knew about it, but I saw you in the paper a few months ago. A boy with money wouldn't have to sell papers."

Jack nodded. "Thanks for lettin' me know. I gotta go."

Jack made to leave, but George said, "Wait!"

His voice was filled with anticipation and the expectancy of a command that was intended to slash across something much thicker than just air. Jack sat back down.

"I need ta tell ya about your sister."

"I don't got no sister," he said.

George smiled ashamedly. "I loved your mother, but she wasn't always there, ya know?"

"No."

"Her name's Mae Wilson. She lives in Harlem. She has enough money to last her a few weeks, but after that . . ."

"So what do ya want me to do about?"

"You're a kind boy; you took after your mother. You wouldn't let a young girl starve to death. I want ya to take care of her."

"I can barely take care of myself, what makes you think I can take of her too?"

"The will, son," said George. Jack opened his mouth to correct him, but he talked over him. "With that money you could take care of her, and a family of five."

Jack shifted again. All he wanted to do was get out of that place, out of the darkness and into the sunlight, to remind himself that was wasn't his father. "Whatevah. I'll go see her, if ya want."

George smiled again, his eyes sparkling just slightly. "Thank you son."

Jack stood up, and he leaned down. "I ain't your son."

TBC