"Pie Eater! Spot me two bits? Sweet Alicia's runnin' taday. Can't lose."

"Like da las' t'ree hosses ya lost me money on?" Christopher asked with a smile.

Race waved his cigar disparagingly. "Dat was dif'rent. Sweet ain't lost a race yet."

Christopher raised his eyebrows; Race's favorite picks tended to be longshots. Besides, he'd heard no mention of Sweet Alicia in the racing pages of the paper. "So why don't nobody know about her?"

"Chicago hoss. Dat winnin' streak back in '94-" Racetrack closed his eyes and shook his head in an expression of pure bliss.

"Ninety-four! Ya wanna bet me money on a five yeah old unknown?"

"Six yeahs." The gambler corrected. "An' she ain't unknown out west. If ya had any culture, ya'd a hoid about 'er." His eyes twinkled. "C'mon, Christopher."

"When've you evah been out west?" He made a last feeble protest, but caved in at last. When Race persisted, he tended to get his way. As he was heading away, a thought struck him, and he turned to call after the gambler. "What was dat ya called me?"

*************** "Pie Eater," Snoddy began.

"What's wit ev'ybody callin' me dat alla da sudden?" Christopher interrupted. "You, Race, Bowler, ev'ybody?"

"Jist seemed ta fit." Snoddy shrugged. "Anyways, um, I'se wonderin', I go ta church sometimes - ya evah wanna come?"

At the unexpected question, Christopher's normally genial expression faded and his eyes hardened. "No t'anks," he said shortly. He spoke as little as possible, and then only when Snoddy asked him something.

*************** Snoddy's invitation remained on Christopher's mind all day, and into the night. He lay in his bed wondering what had prompted it. He must have made his feelings on a God who could allow the city he walked through everyday to exist quite clear. His mother hadn't been the only one to waste her life in thankless devotion to an uncaring deity.

"Exactly who do ya t'ink heahs ya anyway?" he asked aloud angrily.

"What?" Snoddy's sleep-fogged voice drifted up to him.

"When ya's prayin' ta God ta send an angel or somet'in-" The sneer was meant less for Snoddy than for the object of his prayers. "-Jist who do ya t'ink heahs ya? Who do ya t'ink really gives a d-n, 'bout us down heah?"

After a long silence, Snoddy whispered. "Me mudda."

"Yer mudda!" Christopher scoffed. "Yer mudda!" His sardonic laughter woke several others and drew a thrown shoe from some disgruntled boy. It wasn't the grumpy demands that he shut up and go to sleep that quieted him, however. "Yer mudda," he repeated to no one but himself and the dark.

"Mornin', Pie Eater." Christopher glanced at Racetrack and returned to tying his bandanna. Race blissfully ignored the snub. "Ya read da racin' pages?"

"No."

"Well, dere's-"

"Exactly how much money do you owe me right now, Race?" he interrupted. "I ain't in da mood taday." He snatched up his hat, slammed it onto his head and stalked out of the lodging house.

*************** Race raised his eyebrows. "What's eatin' him?" he asked Snoddy.

Snoddy shook his head. "No idea," he lied. He pulled on his hat and followed his friend. His invitation of the previous morning seemed to have succeeded a little too well.

*************** "Hey, Pie, wait up!" Christopher turned with a pained expression as Snoddy pelted up to him. "Ya eat yet?" he asked.

Since they were only just reaching the church where the nuns handed out rolls and coffee to the newsies, Christopher ignored the question. He had no more wish to talk to Snoddy at the moment, than he had to talk to Racetrack, anyway.

He glanced aside at Mush, who accepted a roll with the puppy-eyed expression he always wore. Christopher had gone through this ritual everyday for the past three months, but he felt like he was seeing everything for the first time. He saw the church beyond the three women, proud, beautiful and indifferent, the boys and girls, usually so loud and boistrous, subdued in the presence of respectability, the nuns with their wagon of coffee and bread to feed the poor, depraved children. Suddenly, he no long had an appetite. Where had they been when his mother shivered to death, screaming for relief? Help da liddle lost souls, he thought scaldingly, da poor depraved, sinners, livin' on da streets. Nevah mind how dey got ta be livin' dere. Nevah mind dat if dey'd been dere earlier, dere wouldn't be nobody ta save. Abruptly, he turned away.

He sensed, rather than saw Snoddy following him to the distribution center, and was irrationally angry at him as well. Yer mudda!

"Christopher-"

He turned and snapped. "I'se sellin' alone taday." Barely even waiting for a reply, he shoved his way through the crowd to the gates. When they opened, he was first up the ramp to get his papers. "Thoity!" Slamming down the coins was a relief of sorts.

Weasel grinned at his glowering face. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, this morning, Pie Eater?" So he'd adopted the nickname, as well. Christopher ignored him, looking pointedly over his shoulder at Morris. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" Yer mudda! He snatched the papers out of Morris' hands and stalked down the steps and out of the gates without waiting for anyone else.

He held his breath for several minutes until he was certain Snoddy wasn't following. Once he was certain, however, he felt slightly hurt. He tried to shrug off the feeling, but he was unready to relegate his best friend to the same category as the nuns. He swore aloud which was no relief and only attracted hostile attention from passers-by. Then he dropped down on the curb to watch the passing carriages, but he was too restless to stay there long and stood up once again, waving a newspaper feebly. He knew where he was heading and intended to fight it every step of the way.

Christopher was just moving on, when a woman, hair pulled up in a fashion that shouted 'money,' stopped in front of him. "Boy, can you direct me to St. Catherine's Cathedral?" A wire somewhere in Christopher's chest vibrated warningly and then snapped with an audible twang. After a moment's stifled silence, he pointed the way, babbling something without knowing what. It must have been the proper response because the woman nodded, paid him a penny for his pains and another for the paper she bought almost as an afterthought and walked away. His third angel barely brushed his life, but this time he was alert enough that it scared him speechless.

When the woman had gone, there was nothing left to fight. Christopher stuffed one hand in his pocket, took a tight hold on his papers with the other and started walking.

"Who heahs ya? Who really gives a d-n?"

"Me mudda."

Of course, she'd care about her son. But she ain't dere ta care! She's dead, horribly, painfully, pathetically dead, an' nobody cared den! He reached the peeling church building. It seemed even more run-down than ever. The walls sagged together and the roof was speckled with bare patches where shingles had fallen off, as if the building knew as well as Christopher that its inhabitant had turned His attention elsewhere and had given up pretending otherwise.

"Dere ain't nobody heah." The door collapsed open at his light touch. He walked in, squinting. "Nobody," he confirmed. Still, he couldn't walk down that uncarpeted isle. 'This Do In Remembrance of Me.' The thought of approaching that altar, however indifferent the one it represented, directly made him queasy. He edged around to the deteriorating staircase and climbed to the balcony.

The balcony of the church had not been used in years. A layer of dust coated the few old pews. Many of the boards were anchored only at one end, and they creaked in surprise unused to footsteps in so long. He breathed easier there, free to look down upon the altar, to question, demand, even abuse.

"Whaddaya want wit us anyway?" His shout seemed a whimper. Even in the empty church no echoes answered him. "Ya ain't lissenin'!" he added illogically. "Some liddle specks a dust ya set up ta run around when ya's bored an' den fergot about! What do you care? Remember you?!" His shoulders slumped, and he sank down on one of the broken pews. "Was it worth it?" He turned his gaze away from the altar and directed it past the wall to where the cemetery lay. "Was it really worth thoity-t'ree yeahs, livin', prayin', believin' ta die like dat?" He switched back. "Why'd ya hafta let 'er? Wha'd ya leave us heah for if ya don't care?"

He sighed. What am I even doin' heah?

*************** At nine o'clock that evening, Christopher was still asking himself that question. He swore silently down at the altar and paced along the balcony. He couldn't seem to stop his feet - first one direction, then the other. "Whaddaya want? Dis h-llhole of a city." He sobbed soundlessly - Yer mudda! - and swore again, kicking at the floor desperately. It was the only scapegoat available. "Dis - why-?" He paced back. What am I doin' heah? Yer mudda! Another silent sob, like the gasping of a drowning man, escaped him. He strode faster. The sobs twisted his face, but his eyes remained dry. "Why?" His foot crashed through a rotten board, followed by the rest of him.

He grabbed frantically at everything within reach, and managed to catch hold of the leg of a pew. "Help! Please! Mama!" When he attempted to pull himself up, however, he slid further. He abandoned the attempt instantly, paralyzed with fear. "Help! Mama! Please! Don't- God, help me! Please!" He didn't hear his own babbling. "Mama - please - I'se sorry - help me-" Only his head and arms were above the hole. The rest of his body dangled at least ten feet off the ground. He might only break a leg falling; he might break his neck. The church only looked small in comparison with its neighbors. He slid again and clung tighter to the leg of the pew. The splintered ends of the boards jabbed him in the sides. "Please, help me! Mama, please! Help me! I'm sorry!" He didn't know what for. "Help me! Help!" No one answered such calls on Dawson Street. People minded their own business as a matter of policy. "Help! Please - God - help me! Mama!"

"Christopher?" He twisted to see who was calling him, but stopped immediately when the movement produced another slid downward. "Christopher?"

"Pie Eater, ya in heah?" That was Jack's voice, and the first was Snoddy's.

"Up heah," he gasped in relief.

"Up wheah?" Snoddy must be right underneath him.

"Da balcony. I'se stuck."

He heard them blundering around below, then a pounding on the stairs. It was too dark to make out much more than the general shapes of things, but he could tell that it was Jack who burst out onto the balcony first and Snoddy who followed close behind. Apparently, those two had come alone. He didn't ask how they'd known where to find him. "Careful - da floor."

They followed the sound of his voice. Jack nearly kicked him in the face before stepping back, then hit him, trying to discern exactly where he was. "What happened?"

"Da floor gave. Jist get me out, aw right?"

"Course." Jack seemed to be fumbling with his belt.

Moving around to his other side, Snoddy tripped over his arms. Christopher panicked as he lost his hold. "Help-" After a frantic fumbling, Snoddy grabbed him by the arms. He stopped falling for the moment. "God - t'anks," he gasped, his voice betraying his fear.

"Don't worry. Ya's gonna be fine."

Something thick and rough landed on his shoulders, brushing his cheek, and he yelped. "What was dat?"

"Don't worry," Jack said. "Can ya let go for a minute?"

What? "Ya crazy?!"

"Jist one arm at a time, so I can slip da rope under yer arms."

"Can't ya jist pull me out?"

"Dere ain't nothin' ta pull against. Ya's too far in dere."

Snoddy released his right arm and almost immediately grabbed it again. Even that short interval frightened Christopher. He wanted nothing but to be standing on his own two feet again. No, not standing, lying - in the lodging house in his own bed, thinking about Pounce and how much money he'd lost to Race, and not the floor a dozen feet below his shoes. "Ya's almost out," Snoddy encouraged, threading his other arm through the rope. He felt the loop draw tight around his armpits.

"Ready?" Snoddy let go, and Christopher grabbed the taught end of the rope for dear life. At the first tug on the rope, he was afraid it would slip off him. The second moved him slightly upward. He held his breath. The third pull was more effective. His chest was most of the way out of the hole then, next his waist. He wiggled his legs to help shift himself, and a final pull dragged him out and across the balcony floor. He lay still for a moment, unable to think about anything, but his relief at being safe. His friends helped him to his feet and out of the rope. Then, without a word of explanation - he would have been hard pressed to find one for himself - he sat down on the nearest pew and began sobbing.

His eyes just overflowed. He hadn't cried since the night of his mother's death. Why-? An arm wrapped around his shoulders, and a figure settled down next to him. He wouldn't have seen much between the darkness and the tears if he had looked up, but he kept his face in his hands. A second arm, from the opposite side, joined the first. It seemed like an hour that he sat there. It was probably no more than fifteen minutes. He'd stopped shaking when Jack suggested they return home.

"Da boys are gonna love dis one," Cowboy added, slapping him on the back as they walked down Dawson Street. Christopher stiffened. "A newsie gettin' lost in New Yawk City!"

It took him a moment to make sense of that. "T'anks," he said quietly. T'anks, Mama. T'anks, God.

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