Chapter Five
Cassandra was dead, but only on paper. Not as dead as a door nail, as the state wanted, or one driven into a coffin, but as alive as a phoenix, risen out of the ashes. And I will have her back.
This was the last thought Oswald had before he slipped into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by tapping outside his office door and a subtle tinkling of glass chimes—an almost pleasant sound, as if his psyche was being gently tickled. It gave him happy goosebumps and an image of frozen champagne bubbles gently bouncing off one another.
Harold must have a new toy for me to inspect.
"Enter!" he called out, expecting his handyman to appear in the doorway. But no one entered. "Come in!" he yelled again, and still no answer or movement. He pulled himself up off the cot and weaved his way to the door, groggy and still feeling the effects of the fruity wine. His stomach protested as he staggered, angry at being jostled. One would have thought his gut was emptier than a wallet during tax season (not his,of course)—the shrimp, and most of the alcohol, having been voided into the trashcan. He switched on the light.
He opened the door only to encounter a barren and darkened hallway. I am imagining things, Oswald thought. He looked either way, shrugged, shut the door, turned off the light and felt his way back to the cot. Must have been dreaming.
There was another tapping, but this time it sounded like it was coming from inside the room. He felt for his pocketknife and slowly opened it.
"Whoever you are, you are about to meet death. Slowly," he said into the darkness. A woman giggled and Oswald bolted out of the bed and switched on the light, frantically glancing around the room. He was sure he had seen movement, but now all was silent and still. He grabbed his leg and massaged it. Moving that fast had hurt.
"I believe I should inform you that I am not alone here." No one answered. What is wrong with me? There is no one else in the room. He shook his head. Something he ate, he thought. Perhaps the shrimp was bad or the wine moldy. It is indigestion of my brain.
He rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk and found what he was looking for—a heavy-duty flashlight. He chuckled before clicking it on and turned the overhead light off. I am becoming Cassandra—afraid of the dark. This caused him pause. Hers was with good reason. Is mine?
He collected three of his umbrellas from the stand where he kept them by the door and sat back on the cot. After a few minutes of fighting sleep, his eyes drooped and his body gave in to fatigue, slumping sideways upon the mattress.
He heard the tapping and the chimes again and sat straight up, flicking the flashlight around the room and witnessed a flash of movement, a dark silhouette—a woman in profile with her hair upswept—calling to his mind the ebony upon ivory cameos that were so popular during the Victorian age. Then the specter was gone, like smoke bursting in on itself.
"Just something I ate . . ." He tried to convince himself, his eyes watering and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Feminine laughter met his ear again and he heard a familiar voice. He went rigid.
"Oh, Oswald, my good boy. Your mama is not a piece of digesting shrimp." Doing the only logical thing left to do, Oswald passed out.
When he came to a moment later, he was laying on the cot with someone smoothing his hair back and crooning to him in a foreign language. He recognized the tune. Nygma and he sang it quite often. It was a lullaby.
"Mother?"
"Oh, here's my baby boy. How you feel, little one? Hit his head and eyes all bloodshot. Are you not sleeping, draguta?"
He slowly shook his head and tried to sit up. "Mother?" She gently pushed him back down. "You must rest. You are going to have a busy night. Places to go, people to see."
His bright blue eyes sparkled, full of hope. First, Boo and now—Mother. It is too good to be true. "Are . . . are you really alive? Are you my mother?" The crease between his eyebrows deepened. "Or are you a ghastly clone come to haunt me in the cesspool of reality?" The mirage of Gertrud smiled down at him and looked around the office before she spoke.
"I see that whore of yours is no longer here."
"Mother," he said with relief and pulled her close, holding her firmly to himself. She caressed the back of his head and kissed his temple. "I am so sorry."
"Whatever for, dear?"
"Galavan. Tabitha."
"You were good boy. You always tried to protect your mother. You my Oswald." He wheezed a silent cry before taking a deep breath and letting out a pathetic wail. "There, there," she said. "Mother's here." She allowed herself to be held as his sobs shook his body and, subsequently, hers. "We haven't much time," she said, drawing back when his crying subsided. There were still streams of tears escaping his eyes and she wiped each one away as they flooded over his cheeks. His nose was stuffy and he smeared snot with the sleeve of his shirt.
"Wh—what do you mean?" His lower lip quivered and Gertrud was afraid a new tidal wave of tears would flow. He grabbed her hands and spoke earnestly. "Are you going somewhere?"
Her eyes grinned at him and there as a faint upward curve to her lips. She touch his face. "No, my dear, you are." Her hand was soft against his cheek, the same one she had slapped years ago, leaving a red mark.
He protested. "But I do not wish to go anywhere. I wish to stay here with you." This is NOT FAIR! What is Hap. Pen. Ing? "Mother, please!"
She reclaimed his hands and held them in her lap. "It is to help you. You will see." She sighed dramatically. "Although I do not really want to do it. It will put you back in contact with the floozy."
Oswald did not understand. "You mean Cassandra?" Gertrud rolled her eyes and huffed, casting his hands aside.
"Of course I mean . . ." She struggled to say the name, but instead chose to play with the jewels that encased her, her mood suddenly changing as she started to sway back and forth. She looked at Oswald coyly. "Do you like my new attire?" He did not remove the flashlight from beside him, too stunned to respond. "What a minute," Gertrud said, then clapped her hands twice. The flashlight went out and the office light came on.
How the hell did she do that? He was certain he had never installed technology that allowed for that, and upon reflection decided it was actually a good idea to do so. He would make a request to Harold later . . . . when he was less afraid to move. Right now, he was just going to sit here and stare at his mother. She was dressed in a faded white dress, an old one from the looks of it—all lace and frills, yet dingy, with strands of crystal rhinestones draped around and across her body.
Like designer chains. Restraints for the well-to-do. A sparkly, shredded straitjacket. Oswald had thought she was wearing a silvery crocheted shawl. That was not the case. She was donning a web of gems that hung over her shoulders and encircled her arms, and dragged behind her like the train of a wedding veil. The crystals. This is what I had heard. The tinkling of the gems striking each other as she moved.
Oswald gasped and let out another sigh. "I am very confused. Sense and perception has escaped me." He swung his legs over the side of the cot and began the tried-and-true process of ripping off his weak nails, quoting Byron for comfort. It was almost like saying a prayer. "'Sleep hath its own world, and a wide realm of wild reality'. Therefore, I am having a dream. Nothing more than a dr—." Before he could finish his sentence, Gertrud stood and rattled her jewelry, letting out a scream that would frighten the green out of a leaf.
"Naughty boy!"
Oswald had seen that stance many times—pointing her finger at him and stomping her foot. That ear-deafening, soul-quaking, my-hair-will-be-turning-even-whiter now scream was new though. When he realized that Harold, who still had hearing in one ear, had not come running through the door, Oswald realized he might be in a bit of a pickle. What new manner of madness had just been thrust upon him?
Gertrud began her rant. "I am not seafood nor cocktail sauce nor sweet wine! Nor am I a dream or a hallucination. And, you are not going crazy!" She raised her hands to the ceiling in exasperation. The crystals clinked against each other and glinted in light.
"So you live?" he asked meekly.
"Not exactly. Not in the state you are used to seeing me in." She fluffed her sleeves and arranged the strands of crystals on her arms and the loops that cascaded over her chest. She saw Oswald looking at her with trepidation. "Oh, now, Oswald . . ." She scrunched his face together with one hand, pursing his lips. "You trust your mama! Your mama take care of you. This is good for you, consimţire? Yes? You see. You believe. I help get slut back."
"Stop calling her names—has death taught you nothing?"
Gertrud patted the side of his face. "You baiat bun—good boy. Mama raised good boy to be good husband." He pressed his face against her hand and closed his eyes. She grinned. "Good son," she whispered with wistfulness. "Now, others will come. Three more. They cannot hurt you. They may want to hurt you. But, they can't. Just remember that. No matter the illusion."
"I thought you said you were not a hallucination."
"We're not. We are elses!" She smiled and turned in a circle. There was blood on her back and Oswald clenched his teeth to keep from throwing up the last of the wine. He could not look at her. If only he had not seen the blood.
"You mean ghosts, spirits, haints . . . and on Christmas Eve, how Dickenesque." He leaned forward and murmured to himself. "Now I know I am only dreaming."
When he looked back up his mother was gone, but a faint tinkling lingered and he heard her whisper that she loved him. He lay back on the cot and allowed the tears to roll down his face. "I henceforth swear to never indulge in moscato wine again!"
He heard a snicker and then a woman purred, "Well, that's a pity." Oswald jerked his head up. He knew the voice and was not happy to hear it. "I always did enjoy sweet things."
"Fish!" Fear immediately clutched him and he scrambled away to stand on the other side of the foldaway bed, in the process grabbing one of his umbrellas and pointing the tip at her. "Do not come any closer! And, why are you wet?"
"Did you really just ask me that, boy?"
"Ten years have passed. I am not your boy. I never was."
"A sniveling boy is a sniveling boy and a snitch remains a snitch."
Oswald smiled and titled his head to one side. "Do you really want me to kill you again? It was soooooo much fun the first time . . . and the second time, at least it was for me." He placed a hand on his chest. "Was it good for you? Obviously, it must have been since you are back for more."
Fish screeched and made a beeline for him, reaching for his neck, her nails thirsty for blood. "If only I could rip you to shreds!"
Oswald had the umbrella with the three vials: paralysis, hypnosis, and unconsciousness. He sprayed the paralysis. It had no effect except to cause Fish to flap her arms and hands to clear the haze.
"What is this crap? Smells like your guilty conscience."
"How droll," he responded, then, "Out of curiosity—what does my guilty conscience smell like?" He sniffed the air but did not smell anything peculiar.
"Lavender." She bypassed the side of the cot to get to him. He sprayed the next poison: hypnosis.
"Stop!" he yelled, beginning to back up. Fish kept coming. "Hmmmm. Lilies?" She jutted her chin in the umbrella's direction. "Press the last one." He did. "Ah, gardenia," she concluded as she fanned the fumes away. "Your guilty conscience smells like flowers. Let me guess—lavender is for setting up poor Liza; lilies are for Mommy Dearest, no doubt—is she no longer here to offer her skirt for you to hide behind?" She enjoyed the loathing she saw in his eyes. "But the gardenia . . ." She stopped and looked sideways tapping her cheek with one well-manicured claw. "That one . . . that one has me puzzled." She looked back towards Oswald and her eyes lit up, not as one discovering joyful news or a cure for cancer, but as the meanest and most popular high school cheerleader finding out the plain Jane school loser has a crush on the handsome star quarterback. Welcomed news when one wanted to torture somebody.
Fish gasped in delight. "I have it! Our little Pengy fell in love. Did you manage to get her killed too? Apparently you did, otherwise, I would not be smelling your psyche." She watched his fact contort. The last time she had seen him look like that, she had ended up being thrown over the edge of a very tall building. She should stop, but she could not help herself. "Awww . . . boy finds girl, girl laughs at boy, boy has her killed . . ."
"She never laughed at me! And, I did not kill her or want her dead!"
Fish splayed her fingers over her heart. "My, my, my . . . the crippled nobody fell hard."
"How hard did that water feel when you fell to it—like cement? I certainly hope so. I hope you felt every one of your bones breaking against the impact."
She paused and regarded him. Quite pathetic looking, she surmised. Face twisted, mouth tight, eyes glowing with rage and full of tears. Plus, he had put on a few pounds. But, he had described it, falling so hard for another person that it was a surprise to one's very essence. So he had fallen. No passing crush or night of lust. She was familiar with that feeling. Bullock.
"Why are you here?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"To take you on a journey," she answered, rather quietly for a woman of such fierceness. Her thoughts were still on Bullock, the jerk, who was not such a jerk, who was actually kind of great, who was actually the absolute best. To her. Always had been. She shook her head and imagined pieces of her memories with him scattering to the floor and evaporating.
Oswald threw his weaponized umbrella to the floor. He knew it would do him no good. The movement caught Fish's attention. "Pick it up," she said.
"What?"
"Your umbrella . . . pick it up and open it." He did so and before he call her a nasty name they were both in a new location. A city street on the outskirts of Gotham where houses still existed, no matter the shambles they were in, modestly decorated for Christmas—think Detroit with glitter.
There was snow on the ground and although he was barefoot, Oswald did not feel the cold. Not at all. Not even a little bit. That was how he knew he was dreaming—his subconscious had transported him back home. Home. When he lived in a house and had a backyard—the place he would hide, escaping the abuse from his brothers and father, finding recluse in the company of crows, pigeons, finches, robins, whatever foul flew in for the day. Even bats had seemed to pity him as he concealed himself within hollowed out trees or high upon their branches. When I could climb gracefully, Oswald thought, taking in the surroundings. It seemed bigger when he was younger, but now the backyard and home had dwarfed in his eyes. Even for someone as tiny as he.
"Why are we here?" he spat. It was the last Christmas his family celebrated—if you could call it that—as a unit. The Christmases after this one were much better. "Why start at this seam in time?" He knew what was coming and he dreaded it. Old hurts would bubble to the surface of his brain and what little was left of his heart. He did not want the memories, and he most certainly did not want Fish to witness them.
He turned to her and resisted pulling a piece of seaweed from her shoulder. She was still sopping wet, as if she had just stepped out of a pool—her hair remained slick and shiny, not frizzy—something which had been a nuisance to her when she was alive. He could still hear her berating him for not keeping the umbrella above her so that her hair would not kink. He really wished that it would now, just to piss her off, and even tried to will it in his dream, to absolute no avail. He huffed.
"Scared to be here little penguin?" Mockery was a natural skill for Fish. She could teach lessons at the local community college.
"No," he said. "Just not sure why we are here is all." He heard yelling from inside the house.
Fish started walking towards a window that had its curtains pulled back. "Ah, that must be your loving Papa. I certainly can't wait to meet the fellow who helped craft our birdie boy here into the . . ." She looked back at Oswald and sneered. "Well, I certainly can't say 'man' now, can I? How about 'whimpering coward' . . . that we all unfortunately know and deeply hate today."
He stomped past her to the window, muttering as went by, "You certainly do not know me, Maria," he said, invoking her given name: Maria Mercedes Mooney. ". . . and you never did. Losing the club to me twice should prove that point. Not to mention that you are the one who is dead. Not me."
She smiled wickedly. "Are you sure, penguin?"
He met her smile and blinked slowly. "Maybe you have not heard, Em—you have no objections to me calling you that do you, Em? But, being that you are dead and all, residing in the underworld, no doubt, you have not heard the news—you do receive news in hell, do you not? The newspapers and magazines . . . they do not catch fire, do they?"
Fire. He thought of Cassandra. I know I am near to you dear heart. I can feel it.
"I embraced the moniker The Penguin years ago and watched how it invoked terror in those who heard it. You meant the name to insult. It has not. Instead, it represents power, prestige, influence . . . and certain demise to my enemies, and even to some who are not. At least I had the presence of mind to not be named after a car." He rolled his eyes and enjoyed watching the anger intensify on Fish's face. Water droplets kept clinging to her eyelashes and cascading into her eyes. "Oh, where are my manners?" He held out his open umbrella to her. "I offer you my services. You are all wet. And, here I thought wee widdle fishes wiked water." He shook his body a little bit to make his point and to aggravate her further.
Okay, mostly it was just to aggravate her further.
She screeched and charged him. Oswald closed his eyes tight and prepared to feel her nails gouge his face. When he felt nothing, save only a breeze, he looked up to see Fish breathing heavily and staring at her own hands in disbelief. She swiped at him again, her arms dissolving into his body as if he were pudding and she a spoon. He threw back his head and laughed, lolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
"Try not to feel too bad, Em. You gave it a good shot. It does not affect how I feel about you. I despise you as much now as I did five seconds ago."
This time it was Fish's turn to stomp past Oswald. "Come on. Let's go. Where're wasting time." She walked right through the outside wall and into the house, peeking back at him when he did not follow. He could see her from her waist up, the rest of her hidden inside the house. He closed his eyes, took a breath and walked right through the wall to find himself in the living room, standing beside a ten-year-old Oswald.
"Here!" he heard his father bellow. "Don't say I never gave you anything!" Thrown at Oswald's feet was a rusty bicycle with flat tires. He looked at his brothers and their three new shiny bikes—blue, green, and red. His was black . . . mostly rust. Tiny Oswald realized his father had probably fished it out of the nearest dumpster. "Well, what do you say?"
"Yeah, what do you say, Oswald?" teased one of his brothers.
Tiny Oswald tried real hard not to cry. His daddy would never love him and he did not know why. He did not understand why some people behaved the way they did. But he learned as he got older. At this moment, however, he could not grasp that some people had no reasoning behind their actions. Some people were just plain mean. Little by little he grew to understand, and to use the desires of others to work for himself. At least now, when adult Oswald cut open someone's vein or ruined someone's livelihood, he had a legitimate reason. There was logic behind his actions.
He observed his former self, pitied him even, as Gertrud came and kneeled beside him, putting an arm around the unhappy child and patting his shoulders. "Now, what do you say, Oswald?" He looked at her and she seemed to be encouraging him.
"Thank you," he squeaked out.
"You say it to me!" His father barked. Oswald and Gertrud jumped and turned to him. Soon you will be dead old man. Why could you not just love me?
"Th-th-thank you, F-father." He felt him mom squeeze his shoulders before standing. She tried to lighten the mood by clasping her hands and announcing that the holiday feast was ready! Oswald wiped his eyes and followed them into the kitchen. Last. He was always last.
He had to put the spindle back into his chair to keep it steady. His brothers would loosen it to see if it would collapse when Oswald sat on it. It had become a running joke for them and a habit for him to always check it first.
Grown-up Oswald could feel Fish staring at him. "Happy now?" he asked her.
"No," she said. "I don't like you, Oswald. But that . . . what I just saw . . . was not fair. Not for a child. Any child. I know it because I lived a form of it too. No child deserves to be treated like that." She paused. "I hope you killed him." Oswald looked to her and grinned. She felt a shiver go through her ghost, but was oddly glad for this new knowledge. "And your brothers, it was you who did them in, wasn't it?"
Oswald chuckled. "Maybe you do know me better than I realized." He was interrupted by his brothers taunting little Oswald to eat the turkey, even slinging pieces at him. Grown-up Oswald watched his mother's reaction. She smiled and rolled her eyes, shaking her head.
"Now, now, boys—stop your teasing . . . you are being naughty." Her flippancy bothered Oswald and he realized he could feel his shared emotions with his younger self and looked towards the boy.
"Stop throwing the damn turkey!" His father bellowed. For a stunned moment, both Oswalds thought it was in defense of him. It was not. "I don't work hard to buy you food and then have you waste it! You need it to grow big and get those sports scholarships. Don't waste it on that one," he said pointing a drumstick in Oswald's direction. "Goodness knows he will not amount to anything. So stop pummeling the butterball with my Butterball."
The scene faded into a new one. Same day, still in the kitchen, but it was just Gertrud and little Oswald, his brothers out riding their new bikes, his father working on a car in the garage. Gertrud slid something out from between her cooking books on the shelf. It was a book too, but not a cookbook, even though there were birds on the cover. "Look what I got you for Christmas." Oswald let out a deep breath and looked wide-eyed at his mom. It was a book on birds, a different bird on each page with all kinds of information about them. His chubby hands hungrily grasped it.
"It is the best present I have ever received." In the distance they could hear his father coming towards the backdoor. "How did you . . ."
"Go hide it," she instructed. "Go hide it now." Oswald nodded and ran to his room. He could hear his father ask Gertrud where the twenty-five dollars was that was supposed to be in the tin sugar can. He heard his mother say, "I can explain."
It was his fault. It was his fault that his dad hit his mother. He could only hear the melee, but big Oswald now witnessed what he had only listened to as a child until his younger self could not stand it anymore and had climbed out his bedroom window to find solace in the woods.
Adult Oswald was devastated and enraged. He lept toward his parents, meaning to pry his abusive father off his mother, but fell right through them to the floor. When he looked up, the vision had morphed again and he was alone with his mother once more at Christmas. The room was barren. There was no furniture to be seen in any of the rooms, but the scene was peaceful and Oswald was enveloped in the feeling of contentment.
"You stayed with her all this time to make up for that, didn't you?"
He shrugged and smiled sadly. "I stayed with her because she was my mother and I loved her. Love her. She had no one else who knew how to take care of her. Not that it is any business of yours."
"So this lovely scene is a year later?"
He nodded.
"So you iced your father and all three of your brothers within a year's time?"
He nodded again.
"At the age of ten?"
"I was a precocious child, or so I was told."
Fish snapped her fingers. "Next!" They were at the club; Oswald was busily keeping the books. There was a Christmas party taking place around him, which he promptly ignored. He was in his early twenties and had been trying fervently to work his way up the ranks. He had plans. He was going places. No time for the frivolity going on around him. Even from the dancer who seemed to be flirting with him.
"Come dance with me," she insisted. She had grabbed him from behind and he had nearly thrown her over his shoulder and across the bar from the fright of her sudden pounce. He looked back at the area where the tables and chairs were usually set up but had been placed to the side so that people could get down and boogie. It was a closed party—the staff and VIPs. Couples gyrated against each other and some could barely stand. Disgusting. He saw Falcone talking with Miss Mooney in a corner booth.
"Oh, look, there I am," said Fish, pointing to her more alive self. "Damn, I always looked good."
"That is unequivocally true," agreed Oswald. Fish looked at him as if mildly stunned. Oswald answered by shrugging one shoulder and slowly blinking his eyes. "Except for that Mohawk you got later. What were you thinking?" he asked, following the gaze of his younger self to the couple in the corner, but not getting an answer from Fish. There was someone else sitting with them in their hidden spot, he could not see the face, but did see the shoes. It was a man. Well, maybe, he guessed—could never tell nowadays.
The waitress pulled at his twin's elbow, and he dislodged himself from her grasp.
"No. I do not wish to dance just now." It was not that he could not dance—he was well-versed in tripping the light fantastic—he just would not dance. Not tonight. Or any other night. Who has time for that silliness?
He squelched the longing he had to have someone who wanted him hold him close with yearning and desperate romance. A real, true love, all his own. Such unadulterated pining was not to be found with a two-bit whore, especially one who had made fun of his looks in the past. "I have too much to do before the close of the year." He turned his back on her and returned to concentrating on the numbers in the ledger. She hopped upon the bar to offer him an "accidental" view up her glittery red skirt. He stole a glance and felt his neck go hot. He was not entirely sure she was wearing any panties.
Fish snorted. "You always were a loyal employee . . . until you weren't. I can't believe you turned down free p—"
"Shut up, Em," hissed Oswald, turning his attention back to his younger version, who was trying to shake himself of the unwanted tramp. Even now, Oswald found her distasteful.
"Oh, come on," she whined, letting her fingers walk up his arm. "You think I stay around here for the tips?" His younger self leaned back and looked at her. His mother had warned him about women like her. Floozies. Painted ladies. Women of the night. Fish's dancers not only danced on stage and around poles, they would dance wherever and whenever they were paid to wiggle—whether a virginal lap or experienced man's bed. Sometimes, it was not even a man.
He hated that part of Fish's business. All the germs. It made him shudder. He should start wearing gloves around here. What if the sticky stuff on the bar was not dried sugar from the mixed drinks after all? Bleck.
"Who paid you?" he asked her. She genuinely looked confused. "Who paid you?"
"No one paid me, jerk." She hopped down and hit him with her boa. "I did it for free," she declared, before sauntering over to Butch. She looked back over her shoulder right before she wrapped an arm around his meaty frame and whispered something. They all looked over at Oswald and laughed. Someone handed Butch a wad of cash. Apparently, he had just won a bet.
Typical, thought both Oswalds as they shook their heads simultaneously. Someone said, "light in the loafers".
They are the jerks. They do not know the first thing about me. What if I was—it would not be any of their business. Surely even if they combined their wits, they could come up with more fulfilling entertainment other than tormenting me. But, of course, with their rudimentary brains, that might be expecting too much.
Movement caught young Oswald's eye and he watched as a familiar face stood and left the company of Falcone and Fish. Something in him changed a bit at that moment. He started thinking of all the connections within Gotham, from the most important and influential to those with lesser value who were vulnerable with ambition and, hopefully, stupidity. Mainly, he was thinking of Maroni who was born without the blessings of intellect, and Thomas Wayne, who was born into privilege and pedigree and who had just walked out the door.
Somehow, this was going to work for Oswald and he knew it. No more petty crimes. It was time for the big-kid stuff now. If he did not start planning, begin placing the pieces carefully, he would always remain a pawn to be bullied and kicked around. He closed his eyes. The long con, he told himself. It is about to commence.
"What are you thinking there?" Asked Fish, pointing to the other Oswald. "With your eyes closed. What's going on in your head?"
"I was just wondering how I could have turned down some free p—"
"Bullshit. This when you decided to turn traitor. It would still be down the line, but this was the moment you had made up your mind. So young, so devious—even as a pup."
"I surmise you mean a hatchling." It was more statement than question.
She grinned at him and grunted. "You wait. It will happen. It always does. Someone you trust will snatch it all away from you." Oswald failed to mention to her that someone—some stranger—already had.
As young Oswald returned his nose to the book, older Oswald surveyed the room. He recognized most everyone there and another face popped up in the crowd. One he had not realized had been there and had overlooked, not expecting her presence to take up such meaning years later. It was Tawny and she was watching Oswald as he sat at the bar.
Fury coursed through his veins as he approached the woman seated alone at one of the higher tables. He knew she would take no notice of his presence, but he wanted to study everything about her up close.
"What do you want with this stick figure?" Fish asked.
"Do you know who she is?"
"No. Why are you interested in her?"
"If you do not know who she is, why is she here? This was supposed to be a closed party." He looked at Fish who looked at the young woman again and shook her head.
"I can only assume she is a guest of someone . . ." Just then, an older gentleman approached and gave Tawny a brief hug.
"I believe we have found her," he said, settling onto the seat beside her. "But we have to be certain. Let me ingratiate myself to her, wait for the right moment, plant an idea in her head and if she follows through, we will know she is still ripe for the picking—otherwise, I can just kill her. She is past the age anyway. Following the name was difficult, but I am confident we have her—and besides, she already trusts me—grandfatherly fellow . . . needs a place to live . . ."
Tawny nodded and drank her wine cooler, her eyes never leaving the back of Cobblepot. Every now and then, he turned, sensing he was being watched, but unable to locate the culprit.
"That's a representative from the Powers Hotel," Fish said about the man, coughing up some water.
"What is his name?" When she gurgled, Oswald grabbed her shoulders and demanded, "What is his name?"
Fish looked peaked and her body started to contort. "It's . . ." Suddenly they were on the rooftop of the building where Fish had been tossed over the edge. She tried to speak again, but then Oswald saw that glint of hate in her eyes.
"Do not even dare to leave me, Fish! I need to know his name!" Water was running out of her ears and she spit a shell from her mouth. "I mean it, Fish. Do not leave me!" he snarled. She grinned with malice as she took a strong hold of him and choked out, "Then come with me!" Oswald felt his feet leave the brick as he was hurled with Fish to the dark water below. His back hit something hard and he woke up on the floor beside his cot.
"Well, that was graceful," said a soft female voice. Oh, no. Oswald recognized it. He did not want to look at her. "Get up, Mr. Cobblepot. We haven't got all night." Soft material played upon his face. He opened his eyes and saw a dark figure through the sheer peach scarf that she was twirling across his eyes and around his nose. He moved it aside and looked up at Liza, who was wearing a dress of flowing peach chiffon, layered, with several pieces of it flaying about her like Medusa's snakes. Her neck was covered by a matching scarf, long, the one she had used to tease his face just now.
"It was an accident!" he blurted out.
"I don't believe there are any accidents with you, Mr. Cobblepot," she said, not a trace of fear or hate in her voice. She was very matter-of-fact about the situation they were both in right now. "Up," she commanded again.
He stood, but stared at the floor. "Where to this time?"
"Open your umbrella," she said. "And we shall see." He turned and grabbed one of the two umbrellas now leaning against his cot. In an instant they were transported to the streets of Gotham, to an alleyway were men where unloading crates of wine and carrying them into a building.
"I know this place," murmured Oswald.
"I am sure you know many places," returned Liza. "Shall we go in?" They followed the men into the back halls to the kitchen of the Powers Hotel.
"I was here once before when I was searching for Cassandra," he said.
"Who?"
"Oh, that is right. You would not know her. Never mind."
"A love?"
"Does not matter. Disregard."
"One cannot disregard love. Especially when it is true."
Oswald turned away from her.
"I loved someone once," she offered, sweet as a summer's day. "I didn't think that I would, but I loved him. He didn't really love me in return. Can you guess who it was?" Oswald shook his head although he already knew the answer. He still refused to look at her. "Love takes many forms, parent/child, siblings, friends, lovers, child/parent . . . even a love in limbo. I loved Falcone although I am not sure still in what form. I should have told him. It would have been the loving thing to do. So maybe I didn't love him after all," she shrugged. Softer she said, "And, you and I both know he did not love me."
He dared to glance at her and saw the scarf that had hugged her neck slip away to reveal angry bruises in the shape of handprints. Without thought, he reached up to rub his own neck. He looked away, ashamed of himself, but he was not about to let her see that. It had to be done, all those years ago. Right? Her death? She was merely a pawn, sacrificed to get him to where he is now. Which was where? Lonely and carrying on a rather lucid conversation with a hallucination.
"I like secrets, don't you?" She motioned for him to come near. "Listen." There was a couple in a deserted ballroom, deep in whispers. Oswald came closer to them. They were both younger than he and had that strange birdlike characteristics about them that Tawny did. The young woman spoke urgently and seemed very angry.
"You said you would help," she hissed. "With or without you, I am letting her go."
"I am not concerned with her. It is a new generation taking over. We will destroy the old ways, which are tedious and boring, and set this path back on its rightful purpose—and may I say, at a more prudent pace too. So let her go. I do not care for their theatrics. Having her escaped, with hints of a betrayal—"
"No names . . ."
"No names, of course not. It will demean him in the eyes of The Court. They will want a new leader. Play up his incompetency and play upon everyone else's impatience."
The young woman giggled. "You mean like your own?"
"You know what I'm impatient for," he teased, grabbing her and giving her a deep kiss. "Let the woman go—I'll be sure to make a way to get her out. But, she is on her own upon the streets of Gotham—blind or not."
"And you promise to leave them alone. Leave them both alone?"
"If you are asking me not to kill Cobblepot. I won't kill him."
"And Cassandra?"
"I will not kill her either. Why are you so interested in them, my pet?"
"Because, they are my dolls and I want to play with them. Treasure them. Keep them safe upon a shelf."
"The shelf being Gotham?" he asked, receiving a murmur and a kiss in response. She was so damn cute, if only she was not so gullible. He broke from her abruptly. "I have work to do." A quick kiss was planted on her mouth. "I will see you tonight."
"Tonight," she repeated, watching him go before grabbing an apple out of a silver tray.
Oswald liked apples, they were sweet and the seeds contained amygdalin—which releases cyanide poisoning upon contact with enzymes in the stomach.
She threw it up in the air and then caught it before taking a big bite. Oswald grimaced. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or did this chick have fangs for teeth? He did not recall Tawny having fangs—but then again, she had to blend in.
They followed her out of the room, through the corridors, and up some stairs into a private room. Someone was asleep on the bed and sat up at the sound of her name. Oswald collapsed. It was Cassandra.
His world was spinning and it seemed as if he had just gone deaf, the conversation going on around him as if he were at the bottom of a pool listening to the murmuring above him. Even his vision betrayed him as everything and everyone around him blurred into distance shadows. He could only see Cassandra. Best dream? Worst dream? Oswald was not sure.
He more crawled than walked to her, pressing himself against the side of the bed and gazing up at her as she propped herself on one elbow. It was her—but what had they done to her eyes?
"Oh my G—" he choked. "What have they done to her?" Liza had no answer for him. "Why would you bring me here, spirit? Will she stay this way? Can no one help her?" The room was coming back into focus and he breathed in deeply—an attempt to recapture the scent of gardenia in his nose. He could not smell anything. Not even the food the young woman had carted in on a tray to his wife. "Why would you show me this and leave me helpless to aid her?" he whispered. Lonely tears trailed out of the far corners of his eyes and his face was flushed. Liza saw him tremble.
I will not feel sorry for him, Liza thought. This is not for him—this is for HER.
"You can. That is why you are here. You need a revival."
"In my soul?"
"If you wish. You have become weary. You have not ceased in your searching—that is true, but because you have not rested from it, your mind is garbled. Start thinking again at what you do best; let everything else fall away. Wallow in your natural-born gifts. The way you deceive, twist, manipulate, plan ahead . . . play chess. It's all here . . ." She placed her finger on his temple, but he did not feel it. ". . . and in these nocturnal outings. You already have the knowledge. It's already in your mind. Activate it."
He tried several times during Liza's monologue to touch Cassandra, but his hands went right through her. The young woman who had called Cassandra's name presented her with the tray and insisted that she eat. Cassandra refused, but still the young woman was adamant. "You need to eat to keep up your strength. They should be missing you by now. Wondering where you are." She laughed. "I can see them now, underground and overhead, scrambling like first responders putting out a fire." She saw Cassandra flinch, and the young girl's lip curled. "You will soon be free my caged little bird."
"Who are you?"
"I've known you since I was a little girl."
Cassandra frowned, but said nothing, then the young woman spun on her heels. "I'll be back in a little while."
"We need to go too," said Liza to Oswald.
"No!" Oswald insisted, pulling himself up to sit beside Cassandra. The ache to hold her was destroying him. His heart was breaking with the longing to hear her say his name and laugh at anything he said. Anything. "I have to call Jim. I have to tell him I was right all along." He searched his pockets, but did not have his cell phone with him. Spying a rotary phone on the bedside table, he went to pick up the receiver, but his hand melted through it like hot butter. "No! No!" He spun on Liza. "Fix this. You fix this!"
"We need to leave. There is more to see."
Oswald crossed his arms. "I'm not leaving."
"Pick up your umbrella," Liza said.
Oswald adamantly shook his head. "No."
"You owe me."
He scoffed. "Well, I am not paying with Cassandra," he stated, not budging.
She raised an arm into the air and snapped her fingers. "We leave now!" The room changed. They were in a private dining area. A long ornate table was set with silver platters, gold utensils, and various fruit in the center for decoration. Lots of apples. A few men sat around it, their greedy hands grasping turkey drumsticks, the congealed juices plopping down onto china plates and becoming plastered to the inside corners of their gluttonous mouths.
Liza sang to herself, "No one bless you, evil gentlemen. Let me bring forth much dismay."
Oswald could tell these gentlemen enjoyed ripping things apart. He cast a glare towards Liza and mouthed that he wished he could kill her for that. She laughed and touched her neck, reminding Oswald that he already had.
Their exit from the guest room had been premature. They had left too soon. If only they had stayed a minute longer, they would have witnessed another figure creep in to the room to tell Cassandra it was time for her shot. That figure was the young man who had been charming the infatuated woman in the ballroom.
"Don't forget to continue your shots after you leave here," he reminded Cassandra. "They are imperative to control your condition. You will be given a case of all the doses you need until your next scheduled checkup."
There was, of course, no next scheduled checkup. There was however a scheduled death date. It should take no longer than six months to have them both dead. Then he would be crowned King of the Court, with only one man more to take down—Bruce Wayne. But they would wait for that one.
He had lied. He really did not mind the long con. Cassandra and Oswald would both die as originally planned. And, he would have stolen The Court's throne from its aging occupant, to lead them into a new dawn, a new age of power. He would use the one that liked to play with dry ice to help with that. The plan had already been set in motion. Poor Nora Fries, he snickered. On her deathbed. One way to make a loving husband quicken the process for cryogenics, longing for a cure for his dearly almost departed wife.
What is it about the state of marriage that is so appealing, he wondered, thinking of Oswald and Victor Fries, and countless other husbands The Court had destroyed by targeting their wives, their kids, and then ultimately their intended quarry.
Oswald presently made to leave the dining room and search for Cassandra himself, without any help from petulant ghosts.
"Oswald, wait!" Liza held her hands up, but Oswald walked right through her. She turned. "Oswald! This is important!"
"NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN GETTING MY WIFE BACK!"
"Then listen to me! On one hand you've got rage, on the other—vengeance, with cunning layered on top. Place them together, and you will prevail—you will have your justice. But you must slow down and listen. You think I want to be here? You think I really want to help you after what you did to me?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Falcone did it, and we can discuss why you are here on our way back to Cassandra's room." He turned on his good heel and headed toward the nearest door, not bothering to open it but, instead, walking right through it before passing through a stack of wine crates. "This blooming wine. I know the preferred by now."
"Oswald, you're wasting time." He weaved through the hallways, and rode the elevators. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?"
"Honestly, I do not give a rat's ass why you are here. And, as far as wasting time—you know where to go, I have no doubt. If you really want to speed things up a bit, snap your magic fingers." Oswald was surprised when she did. There were back inside the guest room where Cassandra had been sleeping. Only the young couple was to be seen. His wife was no longer there.
"She's gone?" asked the girl.
The male nodded. "Free on the streets of Gotham."
Oswald felt his blood run cold. She is blind, for pity's sake! Would some benevolent soul help her find her way home or would some fiend take advantage of her? His knees buckled. "I have to go."
"Yes, you do, but not after her. You have to go home. You have another appointment."
Oswald dashed passed her, clenching his jaw from the intense pain shooting up his leg. He had been on it for too long tonight. "Try and stop me." Oswald's face met the floor and he twisted to get a look behind him. One of the many peach-colored strips from her dress that flapped about her like the tentacles of an octopus had grabbed him by his ankle.
"You are not supposed to be able to touch me!" he shouted.
Liza offered him a sad grin. "Not until it is time for me to depart. I have to insure that you make it back home to greet your last visitor."
"No!" Oswald gnashed his teeth and tried to claw his way toward the door, but because of his lack of nails, he had no traction.
Not that it would have mattered.
He could feel each the material wrapping itself around his legs as he struggled, slinking up to hug his waist, and then finally securing his arms and covering his face as he screamed. He could not breathe. He was going to suffocate. The peach chiffon wrapped itself around Oswald, encasing him in a pretty pastel cocoon.
He woke up fighting with the mattress, pushing it away from him and taking several deep breaths, before resting his face in his hands.
"Long night?" came the booming male voice. "Don't need a bathroom break, do you, squealer?"
Oh, G—. For a moment, this voice caused his stomach to twist. Then he remembered who he was, who Oswald was—King of Gotham, ruler of the masses. Maroni could not touch him. Well, not for a while anyway.
"Don't mind me, Penguin. Just pee in your pants if you need to," laughed Maroni. Oswald curled his lip and shook his head, before looking up. He noted that Maroni had a black hole in his forehead—the result of a very pissed-off Fish firing a bullet into his noggin a decade ago. It still oozed blood and . . . what is that? Residual smoke from the bullet? His suit was also black and just as cheap-looking as Oswald had remembered. Must not be any tailors in the underworld.
"I see you are still an uncouth boar, Maroni," he said, grinning like an imp. Maroni took a puff from his cigar as if he were breathing in fresh mountain air. He did not exhale. Instead the tobacco smoke seeped through his gunshot wound, while at the same time drifting up from behind his head.
"The better to vex you with," answered Maroni, ending his sentence with a preposition, which did indeed vex Oswald.
Regardless of the dead mob boss torturing the English language, Oswald chuckled. "One thing I am learning from this experience is that death, although it may change the living, does not change the dead. Such a shame. Must be hell."
"Stop your philosophizing and get your umbrella. I want to get this over with." Oswald grimaced. Another preposition left stranded.
"Why? Do you have a hot date?" Oswald enjoyed his pun. He thought he was punny. "Someone with a little sizzle?"
"So, how's Cassandra?" Maroni asked him. "She around? I sure wouldn't mind seeing that cherry again."
Oswald narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. "Like you said—to paraphrase—let us waste no time embarking upon this expedition." He could see Maroni mimicking him as he bent to retrieve the last umbrella. "This one contains a reservoir of propane." He pointed it at Maroni and pressed a button. The fiery stream shot straight through Maroni without causing him any scorching or distress. He just stood there grinning at Oswald and smoking his cigar. Oswald slumped. "Dammit."
Maroni laughed. "Hey, kid, it was worth a shot. I probably would have done the same thing. Let's go." He turned, revealing a cavity where the back of his head used to be. Maroni's skull looked like a building that had fallen victim to a bomb blast, part of its innards dangling from the rafters.
Oh well, thought Oswald. Maroni did not use his brain when he was alive. He most certainly would not miss it now that he was dead.
He pressed the other button, which opened his umbrella and they were both immediately transported to sometime in the future, Oswald guessed. They were in Rags 'n' Tatters pawn shop. Rory Senior was no longer running the place, apparently. He did not see Rory Junior either and wondered if the shop had changed hands. He recognized Selina, who was propped against the counter, but she had aged. The lithe woman had still maintained her pretty face and attractive figure, even at what? Sixty? No sags on that kitty.
She must practice yoga.
The man behind the counter splayed his hands against the glass display. "Selina, why do you still keep coming here? You aren't in need of any money and we all know it. Slumming?"
"Just keeping my paws in the game," she bantered back at him.
"Yeah, well you'd better hurry before Rory J. gets back. You know he won't take nothing that was stolen."
"It was not stolen . . . exactly. The previous owner is deceased. Let's just say I got to it before the state could. Not that he had anything left anyway. But this might have value. I almost kept it for myself. It's really too pretty to be in a place like this." Selina pulled a snowglobe out her sack. Oswald gasped and tried to take it from her. Of course, he could not and she handed it to the man behind the register. He let out whistle.
"That's a mighty pretty piece," he agreed. "Fine workmanship, but I don't think I will get too much for it. Not a lot of demand for snowglobes nowadays, you understand. Not when kids can pull up a faux globe on their electronic doohickeys and give it a shake."
Selina sneered. "Where's the romance in that?" Then she smiled demurely and leaned toward the man. "Valentine's Day will be here before you know it . . ." she purred. "Don't you want to make your missus happy and bring her home something unique? Something original that no other woman owns? Hmmmm . . ." He turned red and his eyes glazed over. This is working, she thought. He had that stupid dreamy look on his face that she had seen on many other men as she toyed with them to get her way. She batted her lashes to close the deal. He grinned like a fool but shook his head, sliding the globe back over to her.
"Tempting as always, Selina, but this time the answer is no."
She scooted it back to him. "This is crystal—not plastic or glass, which is all that is on the market. Your bae will think highly of you if you bring it to her. Listen, it even plays music." She wound the key and strands of "Someone to Watch Over Me" lilted out of the shiny brass contraption as the dancers began to move within the center of the globe. Both Selina and the merchant bent their heads closer to watch.
"It's really lovely, Selina, it really is, but no." He pushed back to her, and she in turned pushed it back to him.
"You should think about it. No rash decisions."
"The answer is no, Selina." He glided it over the glass counter back to her.
"Come on . . ." She mirrored his gesture.
Oswald was getting antsy. "They are going to break it," he said under his breath. Maroni shrugged. Oswald knew he did not care. Nobody cared.
He watched the tennis match play out over the countertop, and his helplessness made him physically ill. He felt a panic attack looming. Selina and the clerk each had their hands on the globe and were forcefully pushing it back and forth until Oswald's fear was realized—the globe tipped and crashed through the glass counter, shattering and sending crystal and porcelain and water all over the items on the top shelf.
"Nooooooooooooo! You idiots! Selina! Damn you!" The music, once melodic and seductive was now warbled and ruined, halting every few notes, until it became silent for good. Oswald was visibly shaking. His hands were bunched into fists and there was sweat upon his brow. "I had so many chances to kill you, Selina. I should have taken one of them."
"Now, now, little birdie," teased Maroni. Oswald took a swing at him, although it did no good, only causing his leg to twist and he cried out, grabbing at his knee. Fuming now in pain and anger, he turned his sights back on Selina, his eyes bloodshot and his heart utterly broken. She sighed and chased invisible regret away with the wave of her hand.
"I should have just kept it. I didn't completely hate him," she said before sauntering towards the door.
"You owe me, Selina!" the merchant yelled while gesturing to the broken counter and items. She came back and took off her earrings. "They're real," she said, as she handed him the emerald earrings. "Merry Christmas." Stunned, he did not answer her, but just watched her leave, the little bell jingling above the door. Selina was not concerned. She knew she would steal them back later.
"You must really be enjoying this," muttered Oswald to Maroni. Maroni titled his head.
"Eh, look at this." He snapped his fingers and they were in an office at Wayne Enterprises. A much older Iggy entered and walked over to a man standing in front of a vast window, surveying the city below. Bile caught in Oswald's gullet and he forced it back down to his stomach, the acid burning the back of his throat.
"What the hell?" He looked at Maroni. "My son is working for the Wayne's now?"
Maroni clucked his tongue and snickered. "Much worse, my dear enemy. Much worse." He laughed and puffed again on the cigar.
"Dad, I have those figures for you." Oswald whipped his head around to see Iggy handing papers to Bruce Wayne. He felt his face go hot. Of course, Oswald could not know that Ignatius was really skimming some off the top and was happy to work on this project because he could control the numbers. Oswald would have been exceedingly proud to know this but, at the moment, all he saw swimming before his eyes was his nemesis who had laid claim to his son.
"How did this happen?" Oswald wailed. "Why do you show me these things? Can they not be changed?"
"If it were up to me, that answer would be no. But, it's not in my power to make your life miserable anymore. Well, that is—except for tonight, which, by the way, I'm enjoying immensely."
"And, what about Cassandra? Where is she? What can you tell me of her?"
"Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Wish the juicy broad was with me. But I can show you where you are." He blew smoke in Oswald's face and Oswald coughed. That was not a good sign. He suspected it meant Maroni could do him harm in just a minute.
All Oswald saw was mist. It was cool upon his skin and smelled like the forest.
"And, voila!" declared Maroni. They were at the edge of Pauper's Cemetery, where the poor, the unwanted, and the unclaimed were buried. This included everyone from sweetest and purest child to the lowliest of the insane or criminal. Death does not care who it eats. It devours the rich and the destitute alike. The good and the bad.
But Oswald did not want to be forgotten. He never imagined that he would have no name to linger on in Gotham. By golly, there had better be a street named after him.
"Why are we here, spirit? What connection could this graveyard have with me?"
Maroni chuckled, his amusement building until he was laughing aloud, the sound of his merriment bouncing off the mist and the iron gate of the cemetery. "Take a look, hotshot," he said, holding out his hand in the direction of an unembellished plot. Oswald approached the bare piece of dirt and looked down at the metal engraving. On it was his name with the year of his birth. The year of his death was obscured and he tried to brush the dirt and grass away when he heard a click behind him.
"Get up," Maroni ordered. Oswald raised and turned around. The mobster was holding a gun on him. "You are a nobody. Always have been a nobody. Always will be a nobody. No one will remember you or your family name. Have you so quickly forgotten what Selina said? That there was not hardly anything left of proof that you even existed? You will have nothing upon your death. No fortune. No name. No friends. No family. No love. No legacy. Nothing. They will not even remember you to make fun of you. That's how little you matter."
Oswald peered over his shoulder. There was an open grave behind him now—the scent of fresh dirt, but there was no coffin, only a dark abyss. He could not see the bottom. Doubted that there was one. The dirt was alive with cockroaches. Strange that such repulsive creatures could conjure pleasant memories of Cassandra.
This was a dream, he reminded himself. He narrowed his eyes at Maroni. "Do your best. It is your last chance."
Maroni shrugged. "Nah. I might be seeing you soon." He pulled the trigger and Oswald felt pain in-between his eyes. He was falling and hit something hard. Opening his eyes, he saw blood dripping from his face to the floor and sighed with relief when it dawned on him that he had hit his head on the wine bottle. He knocked it out of the way and placed his cheek on the floor of his office, overjoyed that the last of his nightmare had just left him.
Then, he started thinking about it. All that was said, implied, and seen. A plan started forming. He jumped up and raised the window, expanding his lungs to allow the cold air entrance. It felt wonderful—that icy chill. His dream had not been in vain. He was a renewed man.
Invigorated.
Calculating.
Hungry.
He grabbed his coat and began his search through the streets of Gotham, dialing Fara, Gabe, and Jim Gordon as he trudged through the snow. He could not explain to them how he knew his wife was roaming the city—and it may take some time to convince Gordon—but everyone else, the best of his "soldiers", was ordered to be on high alert to find her. While he hunted the alleyways and homeless shelters for Cassandra, he contacted Nygma.
He had an idea for a game and the riddle man could help.
What a Merry Christmas this may shape up to be indeed! If only he could control his fear for his wandering wife, hoping fervently for her safe return or discovery. Either one, it mattered not, only that she be protected. It would all work out in the end, right? If not, then the dream was folly.
Still, whether or not so, he wished upon those who had a hand in tearing his family away from him to suffer as much. Suffer more.
May all who have wronged me, wronged those I love, perish in agony. I curse them. Every one!