Warming Up

The night of first frost the dirt streets harden, as does the horseshit, the cracks in the brick building facades widen, the flies and tree leaves die, and the windows develop a feathery white film that doesn't immediately retreat at dawn the next day. The first frost marks the point in the season when an alley corner and the papes you hadn't sold the night before aren't enough to keep you warm anymore. And maybe they were city kids, but every newsie could feel the oncoming frost in his bones -- be it his fingers or knees or shins.

Because he'd felt it coming, it wasn't much of a surprise to Racetrack when he returned from the track one late October night to find the Brooklyn lodging house full up. His usual bottom bunk toward the front of the room was reserved, as it should be and had been for years, but there were already fellas claiming patches of floorboard and begging blankets off others. He'd scraped in just before curfew with a grin and his three pence and a cocky tip of his cap to the desk attendant, so he was a bit startled when another kid appeared at the bunkroom entrance after him.

He was scrawny and big-eyed and not more than twelve, at best. Race scanned around the room again, still seeing no vacant space. Feeling benevolent since it had been a pretty successful day at the races, he called, "Hey kid, you new?"

The kid narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin. The usual bunkroom bedtime ruckus settled to hear his answer. "New to who?"

Oh, one of those, Race thought to himself, and felt more than just his own neck bristle at the jibe. "Look, wise guy, do you want a bed or not? I'm not offering twice."

The new kid fixed him with a suspicious stare but made no move to indicate taking or leaving it. Race just shrugged and shook his head, setting about undoing the fasteners of his suspenders and pants. The general nighttime buzz resumed. When Race looked up, the kid was standing at the other side of the bunk and unbuttoning his shirt.

Race hung his folded pants over the end of the bed rail and introduced himself cordially.

The boy flicked an uninterested glance his direction and said nothing as he stepped out of his trousers. Race tried not to gape at the knobs of the boy's spine and hips that jabbed through the fabric of his underclothes. Sure he'd seen thin and starving kids before -- been one, even -- but somehow this looked worse. And yet Race was still pretty sure if he said anything about it, the kid would try to kick his teeth in.

"Spot," said the kid, lifting the blanket and sheet to slink beneath them.

"Your name?" Race asked, for clarification.

Spot rolled onto his side, turning his back to Race. "That's what I said."

It wasn't, actually, but Race left the matter alone. Hands on hips, he studied his charity case in amazement and annoyance. Not so much the friendly type, then, he concluded then climbed in next to him. He closed his eyes before the last oil lamp went out, but had the feeling he was in for a rough night.

In fact, he only woke up once, groggy and unaware even of why. But then, through his stupor and the dark, he made out the shape of the kid, Spot, curled with his knees nearly to his chest and shivering. If the damn boy kept that up Race knew he'd never get back to sleep -- he was practically rocking the whole bunk. With a sigh, Race shuffled the covers and scooted closer, not quite touching Spot's bony spine or hips, but near enough to place him within the buffer of his own body heat. Not long after, the shivering eased, and Race dropped back to sleep.

Spot was up and gone by wake-up call in the morning.

The next night, though, Spot was back. The autumn chill clung to the city and it was sure to frost again that night. Race was already bedded down when Spot trudged through the bunkroom door. He looked beat, literally -- his cheek was shiny with a fresh red-purple bruise.

Spot eyed the room full of Brooklyn boys from their own doorway, clearly intimidating them into silence by daring them to speak. Race rolled his eyes and accidentally caught Spot's stare at the last. Spot strode over to him and stood at the side of his bunk, chin tilted up, waiting for an answer the question Race figured he was too proud to ask.

"Yeah, okay," Race grumped, shifting to one side. "Be my guest." He thumped at his pillow then tossed his hands behind his head and watched Spot loosen his boot laces. "Quite a shiner you got there."

Spot toed off a boot, balancing with one hand against the bedpost. "You want one to match?"

Race made a facial show of considering the offer. "Not particularly, no."

"Then leave it."

With a show of surrender and mimed promise of silence, Race did just that. The kid's mouth would get him in trouble soon enough, if it hadn't already -- Race didn't need to be the one to teach him a lesson. Race's own smart mouth earned him a few knocks when he'd joined the lodging house crew. That is, until his genial nature and knack for opportunely losing at cards had won the others over. But somehow he didn't foresee that happening for Spot. He'd have to find his own way to fit in, though that seemed as likely as his taking over. Race snorted to himself and closed his eyes with a smile in place.

This night, or maybe very early morning, when Race woke up, Spot was huddled toward him, nearly against him. The crown of his head just brushed the under side of Race's chin. When he snapped awake enough to realize how close they were to cuddling, Race's first instinct was to push the boy away. He gave Spot a few hard, if sleepy, shoves, but the skinny freak might as well have been made of lead. Race gave up and rolled over.

For a few days, they fell into a routine. Not really a pleasant one, and certainly not a chatty one, but the Brooklyn lodge was more crowded than Race had ever seen it, and he figured if he wasn't sharing a bunk with Spot he'd be sharing with someone else regardless. And in that way, he was kind of glad Spot wasn't a talker. Plus, Spot was up and out before the rest of them every morning, so it wasn't like the kid was a hanger-on. He'd probably be gone by spring.

It was curious, though, that even after a few days Spot's presence was no longer a source of tension in the house. No one had stepped up to question his presence or file him into the hierarchy, at least that Race had seen or heard. It was also curious that once almost every night Racetrack half-awoke to find Spot either shuddering from something more than just the chill in the air, it seemed, or already tucked close to Race. Still more curious was that Race found he didn't mind, nor had he brought it up in their waking moments together, not even as a joke.

Nearly two weeks after Spot's arrival, one morning dawned brilliant and hot. The temperature was sweltering by the time they got to the distribution cart. The sun-drenched rooftops and streets sizzled, and the trees along the streets looked like torches in their fall colors instead of shady shelters. Race hitched to Sheepshead instead of walked and suffered the Indian summer through the morning hours. It turned out to be good for sales, though, since the already winter-acclimated population was just as willing to pay for shade or a fan as for the news.

Midday found Race paperless and sweating, headed back to the city proper. Not far into his trek he heard an unfamiliar voice call his name. He slunk into a defensive posture, eyes darting for the caller, only to have Spot materialize at his shoulder. Race stopped in surprise.

Spot halted too, quirking an eyebrow at him. "What?" he asked as though he didn't need an answer then jerked his head up the block. "Come on."

Race blinked and took a few hesitant steps. "What? Where? How did you know where I was?"

"Asked." Spot shrugged. "Come on," he repeated. He took off at a trot and Race was so baffled he didn't know what to do but keep up. It was too hot to talk and walk anyway.

In ten minutes' time they arrived at a strip of barren sand along and inlet of the bay, a part of the coast still undeveloped and somehow uninhabited. One crooked, salt-ravaged tree grew at the shore, extending a branch over water. With a smile Race had never seen him wear, Spot immediately started stripping off clothes. Cottoning on, Race grinned and did the same.

Stripped fully to the skin in the glaring Indian summer sun, Spot somehow looked healthier. The high, hot sun didn't allow for shadows to darken the hollows of his ribs or hips. Instead Spot looked made of lean muscle as he clambered up the tree trunk to the level of the branch. "It's deep enough, don't worry," he shouted over his shoulder to Race before launching himself into a run and taking a free-wheeling jump into the water.

Race laughed so hard he tripped himself in his struggle to get his pants off. By the time he reached the tree, Spot had swum back to the shore and met him, water droplets shimmering and streaming off him. He was so different here -- so open and full of energy -- that Racetrack had a hard time believing this was the same down-trodden, silent, stubborn kid he'd been sharing a bunk with.

Spot was bent over, hands on knees, panting. "Go!" he ordered. "Feels damn good."

Race scaled the tree and took his plunge. He came up spluttering, but cooled and started swimming back. Spot met him in the water where it was shallow enough to touch. Maybe it was because this golden moment was suspended so far outside their routine that Race felt he could ask Spot anything without fear of being rebuffed. Whatever the cause, he fired his question as soon as they came within range. "How old are you, anyway?"

Spot actually laughed. "Thirteen," he replied easily, kicking his legs out from under him to tread water.

"You're not!" Race splashed water at him. "I'm fourteen. You've gotta be like eleven."

Catching his legs under him again and standing to full height, Spot widened his eyes and donned a shocked expression. "You're knee-high to a grasshopper and you're doubting me?"

"I'm what?" Race challenged, his brow furrowed in friendly confusion.

"Short," Spot affirmed.

"That's what I thought you said." He smiled and propelled himself up then down onto Spot's shoulders, dunking him.

A water wrestling match ensued -- all elbows and tangled legs and hands to chest and shoulders. There was no clear winner. Both boys dragged themselves ashore breathing heavy and collapsed in the late afternoon sun.

After they'd recovered for a few minutes, Race squinted at Spot. "Why bring me here?"

Lying on his back, hands resting loosely on his chest, Spot shrugged against the sand. "You kept me warm. Thought the least I could do was cool you off."

He said it nonchalantly but without irony, so Race didn't laugh. Instead he squinted harder at Spot for a moment, wanting to ask a hundred more questions but finding the words for none. He let his head roll back and closed his eyes to bask in the sun.

Minutes later -- as few as five or may as thirty, he didn't know or care -- Race heard Spot move, and a shadow passed over his face. Then he felt sandy thighs and hips over his dry, boyish lips brush his own. By the time he opened his eyes, Spot had pulled back, but he held there a moment, suspended above Race in a half halo of sunlight. Just as suddenly as he'd shown up, Spot stood and took off toward the tree. Race watched him climb, but didn't move to follow right away. He found himself hoping Spot would stay.

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