Whispers in the Wind (6 page)

He adjusted his position on the sofa, sighed, and whispered, “Mama, Papa, someday I’ll make you proud of me. I’ll find a way to get my education and be the doctor that you always wanted me to be.”

On the following Tuesday, the Bendricks had a little birthday party for Dane at suppertime. Later that evening in the apartment, he picked up
The History of Medicine
that his parents had bought for his birthday and wept as he thumbed through its pages.

Once again he vowed that somehow, some way, he would one day become a medical doctor and surgeon.

O
n the following Saturday morning—April 29—the New York sun beamed down from a clear sky and the children who lived in the apartments in the 200 block on Thirty-third Street were playing games on the sidewalks. Happy chatter and joyful laughter were heard on both sides of the street.

At 218 Thirty-third Street, Sylvia Bendrick held the door of the office-apartment open while her husband and Dane Weston reached the bottom of the stairs and carried in Dane’s belongings. Dane was carrying his several medical books, and Mitchell bore the boy’s winter clothing. Strapped on Dane’s back was a knapsack that held his summer clothing.

When they stepped into the parlor, Mitchell laid the clothing on the couch. “Just put the books here on this end table, Dane. I’ll put them all away in a little while.”

The boy placed the books on the table with
The History of Medicine
on top and patted it. “I’ll come for these books someday when I can concentrate on becoming a doctor.”

Sylvia smiled. “We’ll take care of them for you, dear. And your winter clothes, too.”

“I appreciate this,” said Dane, running his gaze to the faces of both people. “I’ll come for my winter clothes when cold weather is on its way.”

Mitchell smiled and clipped his chin playfully. “You come and see us before fall, Dane. We want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will, sir. And thank you both for being so kind to me.”

The fifteen-year-old hugged both people and headed for the door. They followed, and when he reached it, he turned and said, “You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I went up and just spent a few minutes in the apartment? I … I mean, since it will be the last time I can ever go inside.”

Mitchell smiled down at him. “Take your time. I’ll be going up tomorrow morning to make it ready to show to prospective renters. I’ll lock the door later.”

Dane thanked them again and hurried up the stairs.

His heart felt like it was made out of lead as he opened the door and stepped into the apartment. This was the only home he had ever known. And now he must leave it. Knowing he was taking his last look at the apartment, he moved slowly from room to room, mentally picturing each member of his family in happy times.

When Dane had gone into each room, his parents’ bedroom being the last, he made his way back to the parlor, carrying so many memories deep in his heart. He opened the door, turned around for one last look, swallowed hard, and stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. He thumbed tears from his eyes, but with determination to realize his goal in life spurring him on, he hurried down the stairs and stepped out into the beauty of the bright spring day.

Adjusting the knapsack on his back, he headed for downtown with the laughter of the children at play in his ears.

When Dane reached Manhattan’s gigantic business district, he entered the first store he came to, which was Milford’s Clothiers. The man behind the counter was waiting on a female customer, but smiled at him. “I’ll be with you in a moment, young man.”

Dane smiled and nodded, then stood where he was and ran
his gaze around the store. There were racks of clothing along the walls and down the center of the store. Men’s clothing was in the section along the wall to his left, and women’s clothing was in the section along the other wall. Children’s clothing, from infants to teenagers, was on the rack down the center, as well as the long, narrow tables in between.

The woman left, and the man came from behind the counter. “May I help, you young man?”

Dane smiled again. “I—I’m not here to buy anything, sir, but I’m looking for a job. Are you the proprietor?”

“Yes. I’m Thomas Milford. But I have no job openings.”

“I’d do anything, Mr. Milford. Sweep the floor, wash the windows, clean the sidewalk out front, and … and anything else that needs doing.”

“I’m sorry, son, but I already have a janitor.” He frowned. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’m an orphan, sir. My parents and my little sister and little brother were killed by a gang over on Third Avenue a few days ago.

Milford’s hand went to his cheek. “Oh yes. I read about that in the newspaper. The name is Weston, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. I’m Dane Weston. I wasn’t with them that night, or I’d have been killed, too.”

Thomas Milford’s features pinched. “Oh, I’m so sorry, son.” His hand went into his pants pocket. He pulled out two silver dollars and handed them to Dane. “I really don’t have any work for you to do, but take this money. It’ll buy you some food.”

Disappointment showed on Dane’s face, but he managed a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Milford. This will help, for sure.”

The proprietor looked on with compassion as the boy walked out of the store and headed on down the street.

By the time the sun was setting, Dane had been into twenty-two stores, and had been told twenty-two times by store owners and managers that they had no work for him. Thomas Milford was the only one who had given him money.

Dejected, but determined to start job hunting again in the morning, he began looking for a place to call home. Moving along the sidewalks, he glanced into one alley after another as he passed them, looking for what he knew was a colony of orphans and street waifs that he might join.

Soon he spotted a group of teenage boys in an alley, who were sitting in a circle, eating. He turned into the alley and headed toward them. As he drew close, one of the boys spotted him and said something in a low voice to the others. There were seven of them, and every one of them looked at him in an unfriendly manner.

The one who looked to be the oldest fixed him with a stony glare. “Whatta you want?”

“I just became an orphan a few days ago. My parents and little sister and little brother were murdered. I’m looking for a colony here on the streets to live with. Could I join up with you?”

“No, you can’t. You’re not welcome. We don’t want anyone else in our group.”

Dane bit down on his lower lip, wheeled, and walked back to the street. Less than a block from where he had just stopped, he came upon an alley where he saw a colony which was made up of boys and girls from their teens down to about eight or nine years of age. They were eating, too. As he made his way toward them, a boy about sixteen rose to his feet. “If you’re lookin’ for a group to join, it ain’t us. We get our food from the garbage cans of that café over there, and there ain’t enough to feed another mouth. That answer the question you were about to ask?”

Dane couldn’t reply. His tongue was too heavy to form words. A flicker of emotion skittered across his disconcerted face as he turned and walked away.

The last rays of the setting sun were lighting up the western sky as Dane reached the street and headed toward the next alley. As he drew near it, suddenly he heard a girl screaming. He dashed to the alley, turned in, and saw a group of frightened street waifs looking on as two husky teenage boys had a smaller boy on the ground, beating on him with their fists.

The one girl was screaming for them to stop.

Dane was infuriated at seeing the small boy, who was no more than six or seven years old, being pounded by the bigger boys. He ran toward them, shouting, “Hey! Cut that out, you two! Stop hitting him! Get away from him!”

The children in the group—which included some teenage boys—looked up and saw Dane running toward them. The little boy’s mouth and nose were bleeding.

The assailants paid him no mind, and this infuriated Dane.

He grabbed one of them by the shirt collar, yanked him off the boy, and sent him rolling. He then barked at the other assailant, “Get off him, right now!”

The assailant looked up and glowered at him with fire in his eyes. “Mind your own business, kid!”

“I said get off him!” Dane exploded with rage, grabbing him and throwing him off the bleeding child.

While the assailant rolled in the dirt from the force of Dane’s strong hands, the girl who had been screaming clapped her hands. “Atta boy, whoever you are! You did good!”

The other children began cheering him.

At the same time the second assailant was rolling on the ground, the first one lunged at Dane, tackling him.

Dane quickly freed himself and jumped to his feet. The husky teenager also leaped to his feet and took a swing at Dane,
who dodged the punch and countered with a stinging left that smashed his nose. Right behind it came a powerful right cross that rocked him and sent him stumbling backward. He tripped over his own feet and fell, stunned by the punch. Blood was running from his nose.

The small group was cheering Dane on.

By this time, the other one was closing in, swinging both fists, eyes wild.

Dane met him head-on, ducking a punch and dodging another. He retaliated with a stiff, whistling blow to the nose, followed by a series of powerful, rapid punches to the jaw that put him down.

By this time, the other one’s senses had cleared. He bent over his friend and said in a wheezing voice, “Let’s get outta here!”

His friend staggered to his feet, wiped blood from his nose, and nodded. He flicked a fearful glance toward Dane. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Make it fast!” hissed Dane, his shoulders thrust forward and his fists still clenched.

As the two bleeding teenagers ran from the alley, the group jeered them. When they vanished from sight, the group turned to Dane, who was kneeling beside the battered boy, and they patted him on the back and shoulders, lauding him for what he had just done.

One teenage boy knelt beside Dane. “My name’s Russell Mims. I want you to know that those two bullies you just beat up are not part of our colony. They came in here, planning to steal what food we might have. Little Billy Johnson was the first to resist them, so they started pounding on him.”

While examining Billy’s nose and mouth, Dane took a moment to look up at Russell and the other teenage boys and said in a kindly tone, “How come you guys didn’t go to Billy’s rescue?”

The girls looked on, waiting for the boys to answer.

They ducked their heads ashamedly, and Russell Mims said, “’Cause those two are supposed to be really tough, and we—well, we were afraid to take them on.”

Dane nodded. “Thanks for being honest. I guess they were both bigger than any one of you.”

He then turned his attention back to the bleeding little boy, who was sniffling. “Billy, my name is Dane Weston. I want to help you if I can. How old are you?”

Billy choked on a sob, then replied, “Seven.”

The small group was gathered in a tight circle around Billy and Dane. Bending low over him, Dane noted that his nose was still bleeding, as was a deep cut in the center of his lower lip. Billy could hardly open his right eye for the dirt that had gotten into it.

Dane looked up at the group. “Do you have any water?”

The girl whose screams had first gotten Dane’s attention moved close. “We have some water in a jug. Mr. Powell, the man who owns the grocery store on the corner, fills it for us whenever we need it.”

One of the boys hurried to a small cardboard box next to the rear of the nearest building, pulled the jug from it, and hurried back. He handed it to Dane, who thanked him.

Removing the lid from the jug, Dane looked at the group again. “Do any of you have a clean piece of cloth? I’m going to use the water to wash the dirt out of Billy’s eye, but I’m going to need a piece of cloth to help stop the bleeding from the cut on his lip.”

At first no one answered, then the same girl said, “I’ll go ask Mr. Powell for some cloth.”

Dane smiled at her. “What’s your name, little lady?”

“Bessie Evans.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eleven. How old are you, Dane?”

“Fifteen.”

“Do you know how to fix Billy’s cut and stop his nosebleed?”

“I’m sure going to try. Hurry, will you?”

“Sure will,” said Bessie, and with that, she turned and ran toward the closest end of the alley.

Dane held the jug ready. “Billy, I’m going to pour some water in your eye and get the dirt washed out. Hold as still as you can, okay?”

Billy nodded.

Dane leaned close and focused on the boy’s nostrils. “It looks like your nose has quit bleeding, Billy. I’m glad for that.”

Billy sniffed and put fingertips to his nose. “Me too.”

Dane went to work on the eye, and after a few minutes, had the dirt washed away. Billy blinked his eyes. “That’s better. Thank you, Dane.”

“You’re welcome, little pal,” he said, focusing now on the cut lip. “Your lip is still bleeding pretty bad.”