Chapter Eleven: Jim and Sylvia's Mother

"I'm glad you came," Oswald told Jim as the latter was escorted into the living room by Olga. Once Jim was in the room, she quickly left to finish her chores.

"I doubt I had a choice," Jim responded hoarsely. He sat in an armchair, opposite of Oswald's. "Where's Sylvia?"

"In bed, asleep." He answered, sitting down to mirror Jim.

"It's four-thirty in the afternoon."

"Yes, it's actually part of the reason why I've asked you to come. Would you like something to drink?"

"No thanks. What's wrong with her?"

"Hear me out," Oswald warned.

The caution alone made Jim suspicious. But since it pertained to Sylvia, Jim doubted Oswald would have done anything harmful to her. The situation itself may have warranted the temporary break of whatever statute of limitations Oswald had regarding Sylvia. Even if that was the case, he was prepared to listen, but his fists remained clenched on the arms of his chair.

Oswald told him what happened, regarding Mr. Bell's condition, as well as his departure.

Once he mentioned the syringes that had ultimately put Sylvia on her ass for the past twenty-four hours, Jim stood up suddenly, grabbed Oswald by the collar of his shirt, and said furiously, "You drugged her! Why the hell would you do that! What the hell were you thinking!"

Familiar with Jim's anger, Oswald quickly held up his hands and said, "You know how she is, Jim. She was fighting—"

"—So, you drug her—"

"—I had no other options—"

"You could have tried talking her down—"

"I swear to you, Jim, if that still had been an option, don't you think I would have taken it!" Oswald argued, pushing Jim away from him. "Haven't you realized it yet? Sylvia is not the same person with whom you were raised! You cannot simply restrain her, talk her down, and expect her to do what you say. That's impossible, and you, above all, should know that!"

Hearing him say so Jim frowned, but his fists relaxed, as he grumpily sat across from him. His arms were crossed, and he glared at the fire for a moment, trying to ease his temper, breathing heavily through flared nostrils.

Oswald wondered how long he'd be able to live, seeing as if he wasn't taming the dragon to which he was married, he always found himself on the brutish end of Jim's rage. Although, Oswald had to give himself some credit; he was turning out to become quite the skilled master of both Gordons.

"She tried to fight you?"

"She didn't 'try'. She did. She picked up Butch, lifted him above her head, and threw him into the wall. It would have been impressive if it hadn't been so terrifying," Oswald admitted, rubbing his jaw where Sylvia had hit him last night in an attempt to run after the manservant.

Jim smiled proudly in spite of himself; Oswald noticed.

"Well, I'm glad you can find some humor in this."

"Something like that. She's barely five feet. Butch is almost seven feet tall. It's a shame I wasn't there to see it."

"Be that as it may, I have a few questions about your father, if you don't mind me asking."

"Oswald," sighed Jim. "If it wasn't for Sylvia, you and I would have no reason to talk about my father. In fact, you'd probably find yourself with an identical bruise to match the one on your jaw if I had anything to say about it."

"I understand. She's our common denominator. Even then, you have to admit: we tend to cross paths without her help. However, I digress."

"What's your question, Cobblepot?"

Oswald cleared his throat, repositioned himself in his chair, and said as professionally as possible, "When you and Sylvia were younger, did your father ever openly claim favorites?"

Jim chuckled, rolling his eyes: "What'd she tell you? That I was his favorite?"

"Something to that effect."

"Figures."

"Weren't you, though?"

"It wasn't my choice, but I was." Jim admitted sourly, his lip curling in disgust. "If I had any say in the way I was brought up, I would change that. I didn't do anything different that she could have, but, yes, our dad claimed to love me more."

"Why is that?"

"You mean to ask why did he love me more?"

"Yes."

"He wanted a son."

"Hm."

"Like I said, it wasn't my choice."

"You and Sylvia went to the same school," Oswald assumed, gesturing to him.

"Mm-hmm."

"Same classes, same majors?"

"Yes." Jim returned innocently.

"Do you think your father favored you more because Sylvia was frequently getting into trouble?"

"She wasn't just ditching class," Jim stated, the need to defend his father evident in his voice. "We were only in high school and she was skipping class to rob dime stores."

"You are a year older than her. That would have made you a Sophomore."

"Academics were never my strongest suit. I was pulled back and had to repeat eighth grade." Jim confessed to his chagrin. "Moving on, Sylvia could not have helped that Dad liked me more, but she didn't make it any easier either. With her skipping class, committing petty crimes, getting locked up in juvie—that's not something any parent would approve of."

Oswald nibbled on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, knowing that what Jim said was true. After all, his late mother had a similar reaction of complete shock and devastation when Maroni had poured his own dirty secrets onto the table.

"Did you ever get the sense that your father would abandon her?"

Jim looked at him boldly. In such a way that he felt threatened, and was slowly being backed into a corner. However, he used to be a detective; he could control his emotions…most of the time. But when it concerned his sister, there were many buttons to press, and too many sore spots to poke. At this current time, Jim felt as though Oswald had the stick, prodding him at any angle possible.

"You know what," Jim said curtly. "I think I will take that drink."

"By all means." Oswald encouraged, gesturing to the decanter of scotch and whiskey that sat on the mantle above the fireplace.

Wordlessly, Jim stalked over to it, poured the decanter at least a third of the way in the glass, and then sat back down across from Oswald, who watched him curiously. Jim threw it back, waiting for the alcohol to finish assaulting his nose and throat before he sighed deeply.

He placed the glass on the end table next to the chair.

"Here's the thing," Jim began, looking at Oswald. "If you were anyone else, anyone else, I'd say 'fuck you' and that would be the end of this conversation."

Oswald nodded, having expected that kind of answer anyway. He was legitimately surprised that he had gotten this far interviewing Jim without so much as a 'I'm leaving' comment or something to that effect.

"But," Jim continued. "Even if I don't like it, you're still married to Vee. You still seem to love her, and I know for a fact that she loves the hell out of you…for whatever reason. Seeing that you married to her, you've also married into the family…and all of our dysfunction. So here it is."

Oswald waited patiently. Jim was about to talk, but he shook his head. He grabbed another drink from the decanter, and sat back down.

He said unhappily, "Dad wasn't fair. He made it clear to anyone and everyone, including us, that he loved me more. I was his first born; I was the son. I was more athletic, sporty—I played football in high school. He was the District Attorney, for crying out loud, so he was prouder of me for being in the Army. Sure, I did things that people would have frowned upon, but by the time we were fifteen, Sylvia had been in Juvie at least three times that I can remember. In Dad's eyes, she was a liability, the black sheep, the juvenile delinquent chipping away at his good name."

Oswald said inquisitively, "Was your mother the same way?"

"Our mother was gone by the time I was ten; Vee was nine."

"And your father?"

"He was killed in a car crash."

"When?"

"A short time after I came back from war."

Oswald mulled over the timeline before he asked, "Did your mother pass away?"

"We don't know."

"Did she leave?"

"We don't know," Jim said, shaking his head. He sipped the scotch, saying after, "We have no idea what happened to her. There were some arguments in the past, but I can't remember anything specific. Dad said 'she moved on', but we never saw any obituaries, articles, or anything about her passing. We figured our parents were furious at each other, so they divorced, and our mother abandoned us."

"You believe she left?"

"I don't know what I believe. Frankly, I couldn't care. Mom was Mom. She would come home at odd hours of the night, leave for a few days, but that was her job. She was something of a show girl—in the show business type of deal. Something like what Sylvia does now."

He gestured upstairs where he knew his sister was currently sleeping.

"What about Sylvia? What does she think?"

"I'm not sure. Dead, dying, divorced—Sylvia has a lot of theories about what happened to Mom. But none of them are definite."

"What did your father say?"

"He never did," said Jim mysteriously.

"What do you mean 'he never did'? He had to say something, to explain your mother's disappearance."

"Dad was a lawyer. He could articulate anything to persuade a nine and ten-year-old. Back then, 'she moved on' seemed to make sense."

"Did your mother ever question his favoritism?"

"If she did, we never heard of it." Jim answered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Mom was compassionate, loving; she treated us the same. Mom and Sylvia had that 'mother-daughter' bond. They were both women, and they were both red-headed. I don't know any other bonds that they could have had, if any. And it didn't seem like Sylvia could care less about either of our parents. Back then, the only people I'd ever heard her claim to love—truly love—were herself, and me."

Jim glanced at Oswald, who merely watched him with contemplation.

"Our family—like any family—had its own drama, its own dysfunction."

Oswald leaned back in his seat, looking at the fireplace with some thought then said pointedly, "Sylvia mentioned that you act like your father, and she acts like her mother." He looked at Jim: "Would you say that is accurate?"

"Dad said Sylvia reminded him a lot of Mom when our mother was younger." Jim returned. "I remember our mother playing jokes on Dad and our Uncle Frank, but they were nothing more than pranks."

Jim poured himself another scotch, drank it fully to the bottom. He grimaced as it burned his throat. The scotch was settling him down; he could feel the alcohol warming his body, loosening not just in mind but his tongue too. Soon he was talking, just to talk.

"Dad wasn't fond of Sylvia getting into trouble, particularly with the police. Even after I went to war, I was getting calls about how she robbed this bank, robbed that bank—the list goes on. Mom was….could have been more understanding if she had been around. By the time Sylvia was getting in trouble, she'd already gone. From the stories Dad told us, she had a dark side of her own. The way he made it sound, he saved her from that path."

Oswald sighed, and rubbed his temples, as though he was still trying to find a certain answer. Jim noticed.

"Why are you asking all of these questions all of a sudden? Hasn't she talked to you about any of this?"

"I only know what she tells me." Oswald answered indifferently. "And that's not much of anything."

"What has she told you? I feel like I've answered a lot of questions. I'd like a little information myself."

"She feels abandoned."

"Is that what she's told you?"

"No. It's what I've gathered." Oswald returned seriously. "Her reaction to Mr. Bell's departure was a little more than what I was prepared to handle. I'll stipulate to that. However, this isn't the first time she has had such an outlandish reaction. At the most, he was her mentor and a trainer. I hadn't any idea that she saw him as a father figure. Her combative behavior worried me."

"So, you called me. You think her reaction had something to do with a childhood thing?"

"I think so. She tells me how your father loved you the most, and that she hardly received his approval. She talks even less about her mother."

Jim chuckled, "You've been with her long enough to know how she is."

"I have to wonder why though."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Oswald said coolly, "If she had to throw a tantrum or get into trouble in order to receive any attention, I imagine this is the reason she behaves as such, especially when someone threatens to leave her."

"That's ridiculous. She's never thrown a fit when a boyfriend threatened to leave her. She kicked them to the curb—and if they did leave, she was more than happy to see them go. Frankly, so was I!"

"Her father never loved her and her mother abandoned the two of you—that's what Sylvia has led me to believe. Is she wrong?"

Jim shrugged, saying, "I won't deny it. But I'm not confirming it either. I told you. Dad wasn't fair. Anything Sylvia wanted, he either downplayed, criticized, or ignored completely. The only time he ever gave her any sort of praise was if she did something that he considered heroic or if she went out of her way to do something Dad wanted. Often times, it was neither of those things."

Oswald sighed, looking up at the ceiling. While he was getting the answers he needed, they weren't really the ones he wanted to hear.

Sylvia had Daddy issues. There wasn't any doubt about that, but he hadn't any idea how deeply rooted her issues had started.

"Do you have any idea where your mother might have gone? Knowing what you know about her….?"

Jim tilted his head to the side and said curiously, "Why are you asking?"

"Call it 'curiosity'."

"What are you trying to do?" He asked suspiciously, slowly getting to his feet. "You're planning something. Aren't you?"

"It's not really any of your business what I'm—"

Jim didn't waste time as he brought his hands down on Oswald, grabbed him by the shoulders, and jerkily pulled him from his seat so he could shove Oswald against the nearest wall as hard as possible. Oswald grunted with the impact; Jim bared his teeth, glaring at him.

"What the hell are you planning—"

"—Jim—"

"—Some kind of double-dealing—" He growled, and he punched Oswald right in the face, and then he let him go so Oswald slumped against the wall.

Before Jim could hit him again, Oswald said quickly, "I'm trying to find her mother!"

Jim's temper suddenly extinguished, and he looked down at him, taken aback.

"Why?" He demanded.

Oswald glared at him.

"Since you want to know so badly, it's part of my anniversary gift."

He stood up, straightening his suit resentfully.

"And this is your gift to her? What makes you think this will cheer her up!"

"She's distraught now." Oswald reminded irritably. "But I believe that by the time our anniversary arrives, she will be in much higher spirits."

"Our mother may very well be dead. Why put Sylvia through more grief than what she's already going through?"

Oswald stepped a pace towards Jim, who watched him like a snarling lion.

"Sylvia thinks she was abandoned. It's bad enough one parent has proven that he didn't love her enough to accept her. Why must she live the rest of her life believing that the other felt the same way, if not indifferent? Judging from what you've told me, I'm fairly certain that Mrs. Gordon is deceased, but just knowing what happened to her will give Sylvia some closure, therefore, peace of mind. And that's a rare gift, seeing as she doesn't get much of that being around either of us!"

Jim frowned. Not because he disagreed, but because he had never heard more righteous words in a long time. And they came from a criminal, no less!

He looked at the ceiling, knowing that's where Sylvia was currently sleeping off her meds. Oswald watched him, waiting. Jim looked at him; when he did, he said reluctantly, "Fine. I'll go to the GCPD tomorrow, see if I can't find anything."

"If you want to make it a business proposition, I'll be more than happy to compensate, seeing as you're a bounty hunter and all."

""I'm not doing this for you." Jim said resentfully. "Give me what you and your goons have come up with so far. I'll be taking care of the rest."