Need a Blue Sky Holiday [Open]

[Margaret Burns]

It had started to rain. No, no, that was quite an understatement- it was pouring. The skies had been a murky, gray color all day, threatening to let loose the rain. Margaret, fortunate as ever, found herself caught in the middle of the storm. She'd suspected it was going to rain, but her siblings had been in and out of the house all day and none had returned with wet clothes (except for William, who had been pushed in a pond by his friends as a hilarious joke). Finally, Margaret had decided that if her brothers and sisters could go out, then she could too. So she did. And then it poured. Lucky!

After letting out a frustrated groan (she'd said it was going to rain- why didn't she listen to herself?), Margaret took off running at top speed. Well, she took off at top speed if you consider top speed to be moving a bit faster than a speeding glacier- you try running in a soaking wet dress! Looking about wildly, she searched for some sort of shelter from the rain.

Under a tree was not a smart place to seek shelter during a storm. But Margaret was positively soaked and she had yet to hear thunder or see lightening, so she decided to take her chances and darted under a large maple tree. It wasn't a huge improvement and she'd have much rather run into a shop or apartment building, but at least she wasn't being completely drenched anymore. Every so often, the leaves over her head would give in to the rain and a bit (meaning quite a bit) of water would trickle down onto her head, causing her to scowl and move to a new spot under the tree.

Having been so set on getting out of the rain, Margaret hadn't been particularly observant of her surroundings, aside from looking for something that might shield her from, what felt like, buckets of water being poured over her. Had she actually seen where she'd run to, she'd probably have quickly found another tree that wasn't in the cemetery. Margaret wasn't afraid of graveyards, as that was silly, but they did make her rather nervous. This was made clear by the wary glances she sent to a nearby headstone every few seconds.

Despite the fact that she'd prefer to be elsewhere by far, she didn't dare try to run to another shelter. As uncomfortable as she was, Margaret hated being outside in the rain, so she remained under the maple, hoping that the rain would subside and no lightening would strike. If lightening did strike the tree, she'd feel awfully foolish for having run under there when she knew very well that it was a bad idea. There was a good chance that she'd also feel rather dead if the tree was struck by lightening, but Margaret opted not to think about that.

[Anthony Higgins]

Usually, Race didn't go out of Manhattan too often. He liked having the lodging house and Tibby's close by, in case anything happened, and with all the hostility among the newsies that was going around these days, it was safer to stay on your own turf anyway. Normally the only reason he would stray out of Manhattan would be to head to Brooklyn and visit the Sheepshead, as he did every day. But still, he didn't go near the docks, where Spot and his newsboys would be. Things between Brooklyn and Manhattan had been tense, since Jack had been trying to cajole Spot into joining him and Jordan against Mike, and Spot had yet to reply.

But there was another exception: if Race finished his selling and found himself relatively close to the Bronx area, he would sometimes stop over there to visit the Woodlawn Cemetery, where his grandmother was buried. Racetrack hadn't visited the cemetery much before recently, but after that past summer he'd gone a few times when he had the chance. After all, he argued, his Nonna Giulia had raised him for all those years, she deserved to have him pay his respects once in a while. So on this cloudy day, when his last paper was sold he found himself in a position where the Bronx wouldn't be much of a walk, and he decided to head over and visit his grandmother's grave.

As he walked through the gates to the cemetery, a light drizzle started. Race ignored it; he'd been in worse. As he located his grandmother's grave, he mused that there was one thing he didn't particularly like about his occasional visits here. Kneeling in front of Giulia Danzetti's headstone, he was suddenly at his most vulnerable. He could be reminded of a time when he wasn't Racetrack Higgins, but Anthony Higgins. It was only at this place and time he considered himself what he truly might be: an orphan. He was reminded that he didn't know where his parents and big brother were, if they were alive or dead. It also bothered him that if his parents and Thomas were alive, they wouldn't know if he was, either.

Race was on his way out of the cemetery and back down the street after several minutes of reverence when she skies opened up, and rain fell more heavily than he had seen it in a long time. His cabbie hat offered him some protection, but otherwise he had nothing. He looked around, the fact that he was getting soaked and would probably get a head cold tomorrow making him a little irritated. He watched as a girl hurried through the cemetery, and thought, Stupid girl, she must be one devout broad, coming here in the pouring rain. Then he saw what she'd been after: the semi-shelter of Woodlawn's tree. Not bad thinking, he thought with some regard. Wonder if she'd mind me standing there, too...

Aw, the heck with it, he thought, and went toward the tree. If she doesn't like it, she can stand out in the rain. After all, it wasn't like it was her tree... He made his way through the cemetery, quickly crossed himself as he passed his nonna's grave again, and stood under the cover of the boughs, a good distance from the girl (as good as he could get, with them standing under the same tree). He gave her no greeting, preferring to watch the progress of the clouds, looking for a ray of sun indicating the passage of the storm. There was none. Just swell...

[Margaret Burns]

In between stealing glances at the tombstone (had it moved closer when she'd looked away?), she briefly noticed the boy take shelter under the tree as well. As he offered no greeting, she offered none in return. Besides, she was preoccupied keeping a watchful eye on the headstones. In particular, she was watching the one closest to her.

She was extremely uncomfortable and shifted from side to side, not taking her gaze from the grave. Mary Caselotti was buried there and Margaret thought people named Mary to be very suspicious, dead or alive. Though she had thought of this only a moment ago, she decided that it was a good theory and opted to stick to it.

Above her, the leaves parted, allowing water to drip down onto her head. Feeling something distinctly chilly, Margaret, suspecting it was Mary's doing, quickly looked up, fully prepared to scream, should an angry ghost be floating above her. However, there was no ghost above her- that was quickly noted. Instead, Margaret was met with water trickling all over her face.

Sputtering, she jumped to the side and stepped on a stick, which cracked and made her jump about five feet in the air. Pushing back hair that was matted against her face, she looked about wildly for Mary's grave- she didn't want to look away from it for too long. When she spotted it, her eyes widened in horror. It was at least three feet closer to her than it had been a moment ago.

Margaret, in times of panic, was not one to use common sense, which was unfortunate for her nerves. Had she not had her mind set on some horrible, ghostly figure appearing to haunt her, she'd have realized that the tombstone had not moved at all. When she jumped out from the open spot in the canopy of leaves, Margaret had moved toward the headstone. She'd very clearly failed to notice this, though, and was mildly petrified at that thought that the gravestone had crept toward her.

Not that she'd prefer to think that she was being haunted, but Margaret would probably feel extremely foolish were she to realize what had actually happened, so, perhaps it is best that we don't tell her and save her a bit of embarrassment.

Hastily altering her gaze from the Mary's resting place to the boy sharing the shelter of the tree, she finally decided that perhaps she should ask for the opinion of another before jumping to conclusions (though she would very likely do so anyway).

"You, over there!" she called. Her voice was shaking slightly and she continued to glance back to Mary's stone, just in case something suspicious happened. "You didn't see that tombstone move, did you?" It was a silly question, really- the boy probably hadn't been looking at the gravestone at all. Nevertheless, if it was Margaret's concern, she assumed that other people were concerned about it as well.

[Anthony Higgins]

Racetrack had been fully prepared to ignore the girl he was standing under the tree with until the rain let up. To him it was almost as if they were standing in line for something at a store, or even at the distribution center. Circumstance and need had brought them there, and since they didn't know each other he figured it was best for them to whether the storm and then go their separate ways. The boughs of the trees made the rain substancially lighter, and Racetrack found that if he stood close to the trunk he hardly got wet at all. As he continued to search the skies for a break in the clouds, his attention was caught by the girl standing nearby.

She started a series of jumps that Race at first raised an eyebrow at, and when she spasmed because of the sound of the stick breaking, he quickly turned his head away from her to hide his enourmous grin, his mouth mashed closed to hold in his laughter. What a show, boy! It was difficult to keep himself from laughing, and when he was satisfied he wouldn't burst into hysterics at the sight of her, he turned back to hazard another glance. Her gaze was fastened to a tombstone not too far ahead of them. He was about to turn away again and roll his eyes at her for being so silly, but then she addressed him...well, he wasn't sure it was him she was referring to, but who else would she be talking to?

"You, over there! You didn't see that tombstone move, did you?"

He turned to look at her incredulously. "Did I what?" he exclaimed. He looked at the tombstone she'd been gawking at. It showed no sign of having moved at all, not that he was even considering the possibility it had. He was about to exclaim that she was out of her mind, but then wondered if he would have more fun with it if he went the other way with it. Not the cleanest way out, but if he was going to have to be stuck under a tree the least he could do was have some fun while he was at it.

He let his incredulous expression soften slowly, naturally. He inclined his head to one side, like a curious child. "Ya know..." he said softly, "maybe it did. Did it?" He didn't let on anything through his expression at all. He should have been an actor, boy. He didn't know why he was still selling papes and not at Irving Hall or somewhere, raking in the dough instead of having it rake him. He looked slightly more concerned as he asked the girl, "What did you see?"

[Margaret Burns]

"Ya know..." he said softly, "maybe it did. Did it?"

Margaret looked utterly bewildered. For a moment, at least, and then she sent Racetrack a look which suggested that she thought he must be quite dumb to be saying something so ludicrous. It would not be a wrong if one accused Margaret of being a hypocrite.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, probably sounding a bit harsher than necessary. "Of course it didn't move!" There was a long pause, during which Margaret glanced warily at the tombstone. No, no, it certainly hadn't moved, even if it was significantly closer to her than it had been moment ago. Turning back to Racetrack, she looked nothing short of being positively petrified as she whispered, "Did it?"

Margaret wasn't exactly what one would call a "gullible person," though her current situation suggested otherwise. In all fairness, regarding how gullible she was or was not, Racetrack wasn't letting on to his game at all. Margaret was unable to tell whether or not he was joking, which was something that she considered to be quite worrisome. Her brother, Roy, used to do things like this when Margaret was younger, but Roy was not a great actor. In fact, he was nowhere close to even being thought of as a good actor and was very bad at convincing people that the tricks he played were not tricks at all. Racetrack, on the other hand, was giving away no signs of playing with her mind, yet Margaret was still suspicious. She was suspicious of many people, though, generally assuming that people were out and about with the sole intention to making her unhappy.

"What did you see?"

Margaret turned her head away from him slightly, still keeping her gaze on him. "I- I saw..." She quickly stole a glance at the headstone and then, looking back to Racetrack, said, "Nothing! I saw nothing...what did you see?"

It was doubtful that Racetrack had even taken notice of the tombstone until Margaret asked him if he'd seen it move. Nevertheless, she assumed, since it was worrying her, that he (and everyone else in New York) must be slightly troubled by it as well.

"If you saw something, then there might be something moving over there..." She paused, taking a long moment to eye the headstone. Slowly, she looked back to Racetrack and said, "I think you should go take a look. Not that there is anything moving, because I didn't see anything move...unless you did, in which case, I may have seen something, but whether something moved or not, I insist that you look anyway." Taking several giant steps away from the grave, she stopped where Racetrack was. It was her way of saying that she had absolutely no intention of going out in the rain to examine a potentially haunted headstone. Racetrack probably didn't plan to do so either, but Margaret was less than concerned with the wants of others. Staring pointedly at him, she moved her hands, as if to shoo him away. "Off you go then!"

[Anthony Higgins]

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course it didn't move!"

Racetrack almost flinched at the sharpness of her words. He came close to lashing out at her for talking to him like that; what had he ever done to her? But then it occurred to him that she was a girl who thought a headstone had moved, and then when he'd come close to agreeing with her she'd radically changed her mind. Either she was crazy, or she created opportunities for her to be condescending. Whatever the reason, Racetrack was fairly sure he didn't want to get mixed up in it. He replied wordlessly: raising his hands toward her, palms out, as if to say it was her call. Normally Racetrack would take another jab at her, but until he was sure she was stable, he would keep his mouth shut. He'd messed with big, stupid, tough and fast. But there was no way he was messing with crazy.

"Did it?"

If you say so, he thought. But since she'd directly asked a question, he saw fit to answer her. He had to remember that he was still putting on a show: he knew he was supposed to have seen something, even though in reality he hadn't even been looking in that direction. His look was one of wary fascination, an expression that normally he wouldn't ever have. With Racetrack, it was either one way or the other, and if something confused him there was nothing wary about how he handled it. So there. He said to Margaret, "I dunno! What's it look like?" He took a small, tentative step toward the stone, peering at it through the sheet of driving rain. He squinted (no, he did not need glasses!) to read the inscription aloud. "Mary Caselotti..." Suddenly he exclaimed with a gasp, "Mary Caselotti!" and jumped backward, his expression frantic. He really had no idea who this Mary dame was, but he was pretending she was something infamous. Quickly he crossed himself and mumbled, "Padre Nostro che sei nei cieli...sia santificato il tuo nome, venga il tuo regno..." He really was laying it on thick, he stopped and looked at Margaret, panic in his eyes. "You sure ya saw it move?" he asked in a demanding voice, all the time suppressing the bubbling laugher that was beginning to well up in his core.

"I- I saw...Nothing! I saw nothing...what did you see?"

Racetrack, putting on a sombre mask, shook his head slowly. He removed his cap from his head and twisted it in his hands. Medda would be proud, he thought, as he said aloud, "All I see is whose tombstone that is, and I don't want nothin' to do with it!" Already he was formulating in his mind the lie that he would tell about Mary Caselotti. He did feel bad...wasn't it a sin to be lying about the dead, especially something as slanderous as he was about to make up? He would apologize to Miss Mary later; this was going too well to mess up now. If Margaret found out she was lying, he would be in deep. She'd probably hate him before she even knew him. He couldn't blame her. Still...this was just too much fun to pass up.

"If you saw something, then there might be something moving over there...I think you should go take a look. Not that there is anything moving, because I didn't see anything move...unless you did, in which case, I may have seen something, but whether something moved or not, I insist that you look anyway."

He blinked at her. He hadn't gotten a word of that. Maybe she was crazy. But he fumbled for a moment to keep up his guise, and shook his head frantically. "Are you outta your mind?" he exclaimed. "No way I'm goin' anywhere near her grave! You even know who she is?" He hoped he had coherent enough a story in his head...scary enough but not to the point of being incredible. He was fully prepared to tell it, though, and was just waiting for the opportunity. He stole a quick glance (to Margaret it might have seemed wary or frantic) at the headstone to peek at the dates engraved: 1845--1868. He hated arithmetic. Eight and five, six and four...three? Ah crap. Yeah, three and two. Subtraction's reversed, so twenty-three. Huh, poor thing, she was sorta young...

"Off you go then!"

He gave Margaret a look that was almost pleading. After a long moment, he sighed, and bit his lower lip. He took the smallest of steps toward the grave, walked in an arc so that he was almost directly in front of the girl, blocking her view of the grave. Perfect. He took small steps forward, looking like a nervous wreck while he did it, until he was near the tombstone. Suddenly, he cried out and jumped a foot in the air. "Jesus!" he swore, and fell to the ground. Ugh! His trousers were wet, but he stood up and scrambled away from the stone. "Did you see that?!" he cried, his expression hysterical. In reality he was trying to take his laughter (he was on the brink of it now) and change it into a breathless terror. How long could he keep this up?