He had never placed much stock in surprises. As a boy, surprises meant dashed hopes or placating treats. They meant hoping to see his father, but finding Nucky waiting at the door, instead. It had taken him no time at all to associate surprise with disappointment, and he had learned early on to distrust them all.
But this was different. This was a surprise over which he had control, intended for a person so pure of heart that he couldn't wait to see his face come the reveal. He felt his pulse quicken as Philadelphia loomed ever closer, guiltily remembering the hurt expression on his friend's face when he had rejected his offer to come along. He would be paying Manny Horvitz a visit on this trip, that much was true, but planning the surprise was the real draw.
The tiny shop could have been on any street of this bustling city, but he found it nestled on a quiet stretch of 9th Avenue, just past South Street. There was little on its facade that distinguished it as anything special; Jimmy had to double-check the address, but this was indeed the place. Odd, considering its owners fame, but he somehow preferred it this way. He doffed his fedora as he stepped through the jingling door.
A tall, plain woman looked up from the counter, clutching a fine-tipped brush in her hand, rows of intricately-painted masks lining the shelves behind her head. "Can I help you?" Her voice was stern but kind, and he watched her eyes studying his face, taking in the details of its contours and no doubt wondering what need he had of her services.
"Afternoon," he said politely, with a respectful nod. "I understand that you make masks for war veterans."
"You understand correctly."
He stepped towards her, an ever-charming smile spread across his face. "I think you might have helped a friend of mine. Richard Harrow?"
She held a finger up between them as she reached under the counter to retrieve a large ledger. Jimmy peeked at the cramped writing held within, but could make neither heads nor tails of it. She, however, leafed through it with purpose and lowered her finger to trace a line down one page, then another, until she stopped and exclaimed, "Ah, yes. Richard Harrow. 1920, Left-side. Cleft eye, nose, cheek, and corner of mouth." She looked up and stared into a space just above his head. "Yes, I remember it well. Grey eyes. Handsome. Tell me, does he still have his mustache?"
"Doesn't have much of a choice, does he?" They both chuckled as she closed the book.
"What can I do for this friend of yours, Mr…"
"Darmody, James Darmody." He extended a gloved hand, which she took tentatively but shook firmly. "His mask has seen better days. I was hoping you could make him a new one."
"I think that can be arranged."
"Only—"
"Yes?"
He laughed to himself, "I was kind of hoping to surprise him."
"Well then," she smiled, a glint of mischief in her eye, "it's lucky for you, I never forget a face."
It had been two long, lonely weeks since that faithful night, and not a moment had passed without Richard hating himself for not insisting on accompanying his friend to that ridiculous memorial. No matter how often he reminded himself that Jimmy's death was simply a casualty of an endless war, he couldn't shake the guilt of having let him walk alone into certain doom. Had he only been there…but it was no use entertaining such frivolous dreams. He hadn't been there, and now Tommy was without a father, and Richard was without his only friend in the world.
Without Jimmy, Richard was unsure of what to do with himself. Jimmy had given his life purpose; now he meandered through his days, caring little of the sneers and frightened stares of passersby, waiting for his marching orders from a nonexistent commanding officer. His partner was gone, but the battles waged on.
The rain had persisted for days, beating a melancholy tattoo on the windows of the lonely beach house as Richard stood sentry, watching over the poor orphaned child that was all that remained of his closest friends. He had not shed a tear for Jimmy or Angela, letting the rain echo his sadness. He needed to put on a strong front, as much for his own well-being as for the child's. Besides, the Harrow family had never been forthcoming with their emotions; every time the anger and the hopelessness welled up inside of him, it was Pa's voice that rang in his head, reminding him to swallow it down and get back to work.
On this day, the rain had finally eased. Tommy sat on the floor of the sun room, a halo of golden light showered upon him from the wide windows that looked out over the shore. Richard was perched in a straight-backed chair, back to the waves, his eye flitting from the boy to the mantle, where the Darmody's wedding portrait stared down at him. He remembered Angela, her sweet face devoid of judgement as her brush glided across the page, capturing his reality with none of the horror he saw in himself. He remembered Jimmy, placing a gentle hand on the back of his head, knowing not how close his friend had come to never leaving that forest but willing all of his love and support into him, all the same. There was an ache, high in Richard's stomach, that he wasn't sure would ever fade. But the boy continued to play, blissfully unaware of his caretaker's inner turmoil.
A sharp knock on the door startled Richard from his sad reverie. He unfolded his lanky limbs and rose to answer it, bending low to squeeze Tommy's shoulder reassuringly as he passed.
A delivery boy stood on the porch; he recoiled at the sight of the tall, masked man, and held a small package at arm's length. "Mr. Darmody?" he stammered. Richard nodded and took the package, closing the door before the stranger could say another word.
The package was small and light, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with twine. A note was fastened to the front, which Richard unfolded with nimble fingers:
"Dear Mr. Darmody,
Enclosed is the plate you requested. I incorporated all of your specifications, and I am quite pleased with the result, as I hope you will be. Please let me know if there is anything else I can do.
Best,
Anna Coleman Ladd
PS: I hope your friend enjoys his surprise!"
The name nagged at Richard, tugging at a vague memory just beyond his grasp. He took a seat at the dining room table and laid the box gently before him. He carefully removed the twine and paper, then lifted the lid from the box within. Its contents left him floored.
It was a mask. A beautiful, pristine mask, made with far more care and detail than his first. He could imagine in stunning clarity Jimmy overseeing its construction, offering details of its recipients appearance and personality to its maker. Compared to the old, damaged tin plate that currently hid his injury from the world, this new mask was a work of art. Perhaps to a stranger, they would be interchangeable, but Richard could see his friend's touch in every inch.
He lifted the plate from its nest and cradled it lovingly in his slender hands, running a tender finger over its contours and basking in the warmth of the gesture. A choking sob escaped his throat and fat tears dotting the painted tin—tears for a friend he had never hoped to have, for a brother taken from him all too soon.
He peeled the old mask from his face and placed it beside its immaculate double before burying his damaged face in his hands and finally letting the sorrow overtake him. He could feel Jimmy all around him, smiling his charming smile and assuring Richard that all hope was not lost. It really was a wonderful surprise.