Chapter 1
He recognized her voice immediately and the tidal wave of memories that crashed into him nearly sent him spiraling from his feet.
Using his umbrella for balance, Oswald hastened his shuffle along the dark hallway that led from his office to the reserved table in the center of the balcony. Below on stage was a familiar figure and he leaned slightly forward, grasping the brass barrier at his hip. His palm was sweaty and he had to wipe his hand on his tailor-made jacket before he could more firmly take hold of the partition. He was glad the lights were beaming down on her; otherwise, she might glance up here and recognize him, and he could not risk that—no matter how much he wanted to.
"Thank you, Gabe. I'm fine. That will be all." He dismissed his second in command with a wave of his hand without turning around. He did not want Gabe to see his distress. He fished around in his pocket and found his opera glasses. He needed to see her up close.
She is not supposed to be here! I had fixed everything! That unbalanced feeling returned and he hobbled to his seat.
The brunette singing below was supposed to be tucked safely away on a farm not too far outside of Gotham, where he had first met her and her uncle and where she had demanded that he be moved into one of the boarding rooms after her visit to the rented trailer one afternoon had resulted in both her and Oswald becoming covered with roaches. He had experienced that nightmare his first night, and from then on had taken to sleeping on top of the trailer, buried deep in blankets and pillows, under the stars.
It was there, on top of the metal trailer, that he starting paying attention to the sounds coming from the house. There were other boarders he had noted and on occasion, he would hear music, upbeat and loud. Was that bagpipes?
Once the sun set, however, the melodies quietened to almost a whisper and he would turn on his side, tucking the raggedy blankets under his chin, to spy on a blurry silhouette that moved around a second-story room. She added her own voice to those old songs played from ancient records, the ones that produced sounds closer to an echo, or a bad phone connection. Those nights he was lulled easily, and regretfully, to sleep.
He thought about that often. How one moment can change the course of lives.
He had returned from the disposal of his short-lived guest to find her standing on the stoop right outside his front door. His stomach had lurched at the sight of her, not just because she was lovely to look at, but also because he was not sure what she suspected, if anything, and what she wanted. He had been warned about women by his mother—particularly the ones who could use their beauty as both a weapon and a shield. He had learned the hard way that his mom had been right, especially about the pretty ones. They will break your heart.
Or try to kill you, he mirthlessly snorted as he thought of Fish Mooney.
Either way they leave you dead. So he did his best to stay clear of all of them. Except when he could not.
He had come limping to her, straightening the faded yellow collar and tugging at the dingy blue sweater. How he hated the clothes. Whom would he have to kill around here to get a decent suit? He was irritated and intrigued and took a deep breath, plunging into the pseudo-politeness, a talent that was both a blessing and a bane—a "blaning"—for him. But it kept him alive and got him what he wanted, usually.
She turned to acknowledge him with a wave of her hand and he raised his, nodding his head once, to return the greeting.
Paranoia was buzzing through his veins. He had seen her throughout the week, but she had made no attempt to talk to him before now, although she had waved on occasion whenever he had ventured out of the mobile home, which wasn't often. Why of all days was she here now? Did she see something? He was distressed with the idea of having to . . . what? Kill her? Kidnap her?
He had to think fast, depending on what she said. The only time he had ever hurt a female was in high school when those three nasty girls had brutally bullied him. And it wasn't really him who had taken up the flag of defense and revenge—it was his faithful feathered friends.
Now a little snowbird of an angel stood on his tee tiny little porch.
His eyes widened. What if she knew he watched her? A thin line of sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip. This frightened him more than if he confessed that he had just buried a man.
He hadn't purposely set out to spy on her. He was just there, on top of the trailer, trying to sleep and avoid the cockroaches. And she was just there, where she was supposed to be—like a ballerina spinning in a jewelry box. On a pedestal and away from the filth.
Except she was a woman. And she was pretty. Which meant she was mean.
"I wasn't expecting visitors," he said, fumbling with the trailer keys, not that it did any good to have keys—the backdoor was halfway off its hinges and more than just one of the windows was cracked. He tottered up the wooden stairs and roughly brushed passed her, cringing as he imagined the grime and possibly blood from what-was-now-his-wardrobe transposing part of itself onto her white, willowy dress. But he had to pretend he didn't care, so that maybe she would just . . . please, God, make her go away.
She didn't go. She just stood down a step to make room for him to open the aluminum door before he could unlock the front door. In his usual ungraceful fashion—more pronounced now that his right leg had been mangled by Mooney—he spun on her to ready to insist she reveal the reason for her presence at his abode—and he had planned to say it like that because it sounded more intimidating that way—when he lost his balance and ended up caught in her free arm, her other hand griping the banister. She smelled sweet, like cake batter or a flower he could not name.
"I won't let you fall," she said.
She had said that a lot to him during the three weeks he had been at the farm. In the beginning, he had been legitimately at risk of falling, whether it was down stairs, across the pebbled driveway, or on the waxed farmhouse floors whenever he traipsed the place in his socks.
But sometimes . . . sometimes, he faked it. And she had been true to her words "I won't let you fall". She had caught him.
Every. Single. Time.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Pablo" she said. He winced at the sound of the alias he had given them. "It's just that on Sunday afternoons, we invite our boarders to eat lunch together and since tomorrow is Sunday, I wanted to let you know."
"Oh, well thank you very much, but I am afraid that I will have to decline your gracious invitation. I am otherwise pre-engaged."
"I haven't even told you what time yet," she replied. She had a cute little frown that he was ignoring because he could not have her distracting him with that or her mouth that was still moving. "How do you know you can't come if I haven't even told you what time we were planning to eat?"
"All afternoon," he said rather loudly with an arm gesture that looked more like he was "vogue-ing" than trying to emphasize his statement. She shrugged.
"Suit yourself." If only he could, he thought, fingering the edge of the sweater. "The other reason I'm here is to fix that backdoor. I know it's loose. I was here earlier to fix it, but wanted to warn you first before I started tinkering with it. Wouldn't want you to think I was trying to snoop. Usually my uncle does this, but he has been under the weather recently, to say the least." She scampered down the steps and he paused.
"You were here earlier?"
"Yeah, but I thought I would wait. You didn't answer the door. I thought maybe you were out." He nodded and focused on the house behind her instead of her hair that was shining golden and crimson and chocolate brown all at the same time. Not that he noticed.
"Did you know you have a piece of duct tape in your hair?" Oswald swiftly reached up and covered the tape with his hand.
"I'm working on a project!" He sputtered and stepped inside.
"May I see it?" she called out.
"No!" he yelled before slamming the door. Dust popped up from everywhere in the room as though it were throwing him a surprise party and suspended itself in the beams of sunlight that Oswald begrudging had to allow into the room because the curtains were too small for the windows. The suspended dust looked like a slow-flowing dry waterfall—except the particles were traveling upwards because of the sudden draft from his entrance. He violently suppressed the urge to sneeze.
Oswald could hear the scuff of metal against wood as she slid what, he guessed, was the toolbox across the wooden stoop and the subsequent clatter of metal upon metal as she, he supposed, was searching for the right tool. Not that he was paying attention.
He looked at the Gotham collage above and visually followed the different strings that connected the various low-lives, decent folk, and companies, which had weaved together an increasingly interesting narrative. He stood there looking at his creation and listening to the sound of her removing the rusted hinges from the door, his panic building. Oswald gnawed on his bottom lip, trying to devise a plan to cover the collage before that door was removed. She would be free to enter once it was down.
"You know, you don't have to repair the door! It has caused me no misfortune whatsoever! No need to bother yourself! I assure you!" He shouted to her.
"Nonsense!" she yelled back. "No bother!" He twiddled his fingers on his hips and with great ineptitude marched down the narrow hallway to a backroom. Oswald rummaged around in boxes left by the previous tenant and pulled out a poster.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he said aloud, scanning the box again and glancing around the room, just to be sure. Marching back into the living area, Oswald grabbed the duct tape and resigned himself to putting the poster over the collage, but not before jotting some Shakespeare over the image—an interest that had been cultivated with the help of his mother.
This will have to do, he thought, shaking his head. He was tearing the last strip of tape, when outside there was a yelp. The door had come loose and was tipping over on her.
"Hold on!" Oswald told her and leapt quicker than even he knew was possible for him to move, gritting through the pain in his right leg, and grabbed the door so it wouldn't crush her and send her backwards down the stairs. "I have it. I won't let it fall on you."
"Thanks," came the muffled reply. She moved the door slightly to the side and peered in at him. "I may need your help holding this while I apply the new hinges. Will you help me? Although why should you, right? You're the tenant—not the landlord."
"I'll assist you," Oswald grinned, appalled that not only was he was agreeing to help her—the enemy, but he was super excited to do it too, dammit.
Besides, he had to know if she had witnessed anything, and that was why he was continuing to converse with her, he told himself.
Really.
It was.
