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Chapter Two
They were walking together now in comfortable silence.
Margaret's mind was working too much to hold a conversation and Mr. Rothstein was too busy going through a notebook he had drawn from out of his inner jacket pocket.
Teddy raced ahead of them, darting this way and that as children were wont to do when nature beckoned them as it was.
"Then, this is it? This is where we go when we die? Just aimlessly wandering?" She murmured, not really to anyone in particular, mostly musing to herself. Turning to the man at her side, she studied his profile as he dropped his head to his notebook. "Why were you on that bridge? For me?"
Mr. Rothstein looked at her calmly. He was always calm, even now in the land of death, he was calm. "Why were you on that bridge, Miss Rohan? For me?" He repeated.
"Of course not!" She breathed, angling her face from him shyly.
"Mm," he returned idly.
They walked on.
Not once did Margaret neglect to notice the raven which had lead her from her meadow to the road, to the bridge and to Mr. Rothstein, for it flew overhead, circling and circling and circling, guiding them still, she felt.
"Then this is it, no heaven nor hell, no God?" She went on.
"You think you're upset, Miss Rohan, the World to Come is a great disappointment to myself as well. Though, this isn't so bad, is it? It's peaceful here, the sun is setting as on Earth and…there's certainly a bird in the sky."
"But just…aimless wandering? Seems lonesome."
"Lonesome," he repeated with a light tone and a glint in his eye. "Yes, I imagine you are all alone here. But," he pointed out. "Have you noticed, we are not getting tired at all, though we've been wandering for a while?"
"Yes."
They walked on some more, entering into a shaded area where the trees once more stretched over the road.
"You remember dying," she remarked.
"A man shoots you, you tend to expect it," he returned, tucking his notebook away. "I languished for a little time, I recall."
She stopped short as a memory came, surrounding her.
That dim world she once lived in encompassed her. There she was, kneeling by her bed, crying softly, a newspaper clutched in her hand. Glancing up, she was startled to see Mr. Rothstein standing there beside her, joining her in the memory, eyeing her weeping form with studious, sharp eyes.
"I cried," she explained unnecessarily. "When you passed away."
"You were most likely the only one," he returned with a small, almost proud smirk. "Poor woman."
Margaret approached the weeping figure of herself, amazed at how long this memory was lasting, amazed that she could take it in slowly. Kneeling, gazed in amazement at herself, hair pinned up, face painted prettily with rouge.
"You meant something to me," she whispered. "What was it?" Looking up at Mr. Rothstein, she found him writing in his notebook once more with a stubby pencil. "Were we married?"
His smug grin died and he frowned a little in thought. "I can't recall. I was married, but this place isn't really bringing any memories back for me." He tucked his notebook away and stepped forward, arms out for the baby she held. "Here, let me hold him while you recollect."
She handed her son over to the man and turned her eyes eagerly back on herself.
Reaching out, she moved to touch her hair, only to find her hand passing right through.
"Ghosts," she murmured sadly.
Around them the scene faded and they were once more in the middle of the tree lined road, Margaret kneeling in the middle.
"I hope that doesn't happen often," he said. "It's very awkward and uncomfortable."
She smiled softly. "You have a hard time witnessing my memories?"
"I have a hard time seeing women cry," he replied simply. "Hardly worth the sorrow, if you ask me."
Taking her son back, she said simply, "I didn't seem to think so."
They walked on, heading for nowhere, coming from nothing, it seemed.
"You have to mean something to me," she remarked. "Why else would we end up here together?"
He inhaled deeply. "I called you Miss Rohan upon greeting you, you called me Mr. Rothstein."
"Yes."
"We're not married, but you have children and you're a 'Miss'."
"Yes."
"Maybe you were my mistress?"
"You don't recall my bedroom, wouldn't you think a man would recall such a place as his mistress's bedroom?"
"We used a hotel?"
Margaret smiled shyly, unable to meet his eyes. "I don't think we were involved romantically."
"And yet, you wept for me?"
"Perhaps it was an unrequited love?" She suggested, feeling her cheeks burn, hoping her long hair covered her embarrassment.
"Perhaps you're just a kind woman," he suggested. "Who felt things greatly?"
A thought came to her and she asked, "do you remember Teddy?"
Mr. Rothstein paused beside her and pondered that. "I do, but…there was another child."
Margaret frowned, looking down at her unnamed son in her arms. And then a name came to her. "Emily!"
"She had…braces on her legs," he went on.
"Yes! Polio! She had polio! Oh, but she isn't here!"
"She may not have passed yet," Mr. Rothstein suggested.
"Oh, she's alone in the world! It's such a dark place!" Margaret lamented.
Before she could mourn her daughter further they were thrust into another memory, but from the way Mr. Rothstein's spine straightened and his already wan pallor paled, she could tell it wasn't one of hers.
They were in a parlour, hers she could recall, on a davenport sat Mr. Rothstein, a small, sweet girl with brown curls and leg braces sat on his knees crossways.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Rothstein," Margaret said, moving right through her, holding a tray of tea. "Emily, don't bother him!" She said softly to her daughter.
Mr. Rothstein smiled warmly. "It's fine, Miss Rohan, we're old friends. Aren't we?" He asked her daughter.
Margaret looked over at the man who was her ethereal companion and noticed his face was held tightly, as though he were turning to stone before her very eyes.
"We were just discussing horses," the dark world Mr. Rothstein went on kindly. "We're both very big fans of the creatures."
Margaret watched as the other her set the tray down with placating smile at the two in the room, before wandering back into the kitchen.
"Mr. Rothstein?" Emily asked as her mother left the room.
"Yes, darling?"
"Are you our new papa?"
Glancing over at her Rothstein, Margaret found him clenching his jaw, but otherwise he stood marmoreal, like some great ancient statue.
"No, I'm not," the spectre before them said.
Emily laid her head and hand against his chest and sighed. "I wish you were."
The memory faded and they were once more on the road.
For a moment both stood still and silent, Teddy watching the scene calmly, standing behind his mother.
"My daughter loved you," Margaret said finally.
"Children love easily," he replied simply. "Shall we?"
They walked on in silence.
It was different than before, however.
Margaret was mulling over her relationship with Mr. Rothstein and the man was almost sullen and stewing.
She didn't know why. Anyone would welcome the love of a child.
It couldn't have been that. It had to be more, something akin to regret, perhaps.
"It'll be dark soon," Mr. Rothstein remarked after a long time of silence. "We should find somewhere to rest?"
Margaret smiled softly. "I'm not tired."
"Nor am I, but we can't walk in the darkness," he suggested.
"I haven't seen any buildings at all," she said. "Only the bridge." As she said this, the trees gave way to a wide open field, where a bungalow stood stark on a hillside.
Teddy immediately clutched at her skirt.
Margaret's heart stopped cold and still in her breast. "No." She murmured.
"What a weather-beaten little shack," Mr. Rothstein said with something akin to disgust, though he maintained his politesse.
"It was our home," Margaret whispered, her feet refused to carry them closer to it. Even from where she stood she could hear the screams and the crying and the violence.
Was it in her head? Mr. Rothstein didn't seem to react to the noise, but Teddy was terrified, holding close to her.
"This isn't a memory," she declared suddenly, very aware that all around them were the beautiful trees and waving grass of the afterworld. Margaret took a few frightened steps back and slammed into a solid wall behind her.
She gasped in fright and spun around.
A dark world demon stood there, breath reeking of liquor, face a deceptively calm mask.
"I missed you, sweetheart," Hans purred gently, swaying with the drink that had gone to his head.
Tightening her arms around the baby she had lost, suddenly aware of why and how she lost the child, Margaret felt absolute terror freeze her.
Hans raised a hand to her cheek, stroking it with his knuckles. "Let's go home." He whispered.
Unable to take her eyes from Hans for fear of him getting her when she wasn't looking, Margaret hoped Mr. Rothstein was still there. He'd surely protect her, wouldn't he?
"Who is this?"
That soft, well-spoken tone was a comfort to her and she exhaled shakily.
"I'm her husband, who the hell are you?" Hans demanded.
"Her lover," Mr. Rothstein said simply. "I think."
Margaret tensed. Why would he say that? Of all things to say to Hans? She felt betrayed.
Hans scoffed and grabbed her hair hard, pulling it.
It hurt! There shouldn't be pain. But this hurt and it hurt more than anything she could recall.
"This church-mouse? She wouldn't dare!" Hans growled.
"Well, not that it's any of your business," Mr. Rothstein returned, clasping his hands before him.
Tears welled and fell from her eyes at the pain of having her hair pulled so sharply, from the betrayal by Mr. Rothstein.
"Are you a betting man, sir?" Mr. Rothstein asked politely.
"Sure," Hans replied, for the moment forgetting about Margaret clutched in his hand.
"I'm a gambler myself, bet on a little bit of everything. Funny story, true story actually," he went on. "I attended a fight at a New York boxing club once between two light-weight champions. Ever been hit below the waist, sir?"
Margaret's eyes met Mr. Rothstein's only briefly, but he went on smoothly.
There was a meaning in that look, she was sure of it, but she didn't know what it was for.
"Of course not," Hans returned with a sniff. "I ain't ever been touched in a fight."
Mr. Rothstein tilted his head. "I'm sure it's because you pick your opponents to match your abilities, sir," he replied with a small grin. "See, in this fight, the one fellow, Irishman named O'Toole, got knocked just where it matters most, below the waist. And it appeared to wind him enough to get him to drop his guard. Now any other person would consider this a dirty fight, punching a man there," Mr. Rothstein made quick eye contact with Margaret again, before his pointed look shifted to the area below Hans pants button.
Margaret suddenly realized what he was getting at.
"Of course, he was hit quite hard with a good solid fist," Mr. Rothstein went on. "It really seemed to hurt the poor fellow and once his guard was dropped this other man, fellow named Bell, knocked him in the face with a solid right jab. It was the only illegal knock out fight I ever bet on. And won, I recall."
As he told his story, the grip Hans had on Margaret's hair loosened.
She looked at the wailing baby in her arms, shifting him slowly so as not to draw attention to them, before balling up her left fist. She had to make it count, because if she missed, Hans would tear her apart for even trying, but…Mr. Rothstein was there. He seemed to be helping. He surely wouldn't let Hans get at her.
What did she have to lose?
Swallowing thickly, she inhaled and then struck.
Amazingly Hans released her and doubled over almost instantly.
Margaret wasn't sure what really got into her, but with Hans doubled over, she felt a demon sort of take over her body and it lashed out with her knee, right in his face. Hans fell backwards and the demon in her gave him one solid, final kick to the ribs, before Margaret regained control of herself and scurried over, holding her unnamed son and Teddy's hand.
She scurried behind Mr. Rothstein a little and watched as Hans sort of faded away like he was only a memory.
"That was wholly uncalled for, Miss Rohan," Mr. Rothstein teased with a small click of his tongue.
When she said nothing, he turned around, eyes shining and kind. "Are you well?"
She nodded.
"Oh look," he exclaimed, turning his body to face the bungalow. "It's much nicer now."
Turning around, following his gesturing hand, she found her shoddy bungalow replaced by a pretty cottage surrounded by flowers.
"Well, it's not Buckingham Palace," he amended, gingerly placing his hand on her lower back and guiding them all towards the building. "But any port in a storm."
Margaret couldn't help but take another, cautious look over her shoulder, still worried about Hans coming back. The spot where he had fallen was empty, save for the raven, who hopped along in the grass. One sly eye on her.