Chapter Three
She settled her sons in a bed together, tucking pillows around her infant boy, ensuring he was safely nestled beside his brother.
The poor boy needed a name, she supposed.
Stroking Teddy's hair out of his eyes, she smiled down at her little boy and arranged his blankets.
"Mama, how long until Emily comes?" Her son asked softly.
"I'm not sure, my darling."
"Will we always be together?" He went on questioning.
"For as long as I can help it, my darling. We'll never be apart."
"Even Mr. Rothstein?"
"I'm not positive about him," she admitted. "Why do you ask?"
"Because he's all alone."
Margaret pat her son on the chest soothingly. "I wouldn't worry about him, my darling. I think he's going be just fine."
"But I always see him alone," Teddy said innocently.
"When do you see him, darling?"
Teddy looked guilty, like a child who said something they felt would get them in trouble. He shrugged.
"Teddy? When do you see him?"
Her son was quiet.
"I'm not angry, my darling, but have you seen him here? Have you been here long?"
Teddy wasn't going to talk and Margaret sighed but kissed him on the forehead anyways.
"Well, goodnight then," she whispered to him.
"'night, mama."
Standing up from the bed, she made her way across the cottage towards where Mr. Rothstein had seated himself by the fireplace, pausing briefly at the window to peer out at the moonless night, worried that somewhere out there Hans lingered in wait.
His dark, dramatic brows were lowered gravely, his pale skin illuminated, cast in aged gold by the candlelight.
"Are you tired at all?" She asked him.
"No," he returned.
Perching on the raised hearth of the fireplace, a memory came unbidden to her and surrounded them both.
At her feet a small child with beautiful mahogany curls played in the ash of the hearth, drawing little things on the stones.
"Girl, stop playing in the ash!" Someone scolded.
Margaret and Mr. Rothstein both watched as a man came out from the other room and swatted the girl's head lightly, chasing her from the hearth. "Now go outside and play, go!"
"That's my father," she explained to Mr. Rothstein. Not that she needed to explain it to him, but he was there in her memory, so she felt it would be rude not to point out to him who this man was. And then the memory completely came back to her and she smiled. "Oh! I remember this!"
She eagerly followed her younger self out the door and into the gooey grey haze of an Irish day.
To her amazement, Mr. Rothstein followed quietly.
"I found this dog, she was wandering the hills," Margaret explained eagerly. "It was the one thing my da had given me. He allowed me to keep her."
Sure enough, as they followed young Margaret, the girl came upon a pitiful looking shaggy shepherd dog.
"I called her Rosie," Margaret murmured happily. "I wonder if she's here with us?"
Turning to Mr. Rothstein as the memory faded, she frowned. "If my sons are here and you're here, then…where is everyone else? My father, my…family? Was I married to anyone other than…Hans?"
"You seem to think I know more than I'm letting on, Miss Rohan."
"You remembered being a gambler," she confessed, recalling earlier that day.
"Yes," he said.
"Have you been here long?" She asked.
"What's long? This place doesn't seem to really measure time." He replied.
Margaret frowned.
"I'd like some tea," Mr. Rothstein said then. "Would you care for a cup?"
Absently, she nodded, her mind she pondering over what her son had said earlier. Something about it was odd. She was about head for the kettle to make some tea, but found Mr. Rothstein already there getting everything going.
"I can make the tea," she offered.
"I wanted the tea," he remarked. "It may not be a strong cup of Irish brew," he teased. "But I most certainly can make tea."
She smiled at him and resumed her seat by the fire, enjoying the warmth, though she was not cold. This place, for the most part, was pleasant. Everything was made pleasant.
This was death, she mused. A place neither hot nor cold, rough nor soft, it was perfect contentment wrapped around a feeling of unease.
Still, why Mr. Rothstein of all people to walk through the afterlife with? There had to be a purpose to his presence. He must have meant something to her. And in that respect, she must have meant something to him.
But what?
She wished the memory that would unlock that would come to her, but it was the one she wanted most, the one that evaded her.
"Have you had many memories before I met with you?" She asked.
"Some," he admitted, measuring out the tea leaves into the steeper.
"Of me?"
"Not a single one," he returned.
Margaret wasn't disappointed, however, she merely stored that knowledge away.
"Mostly foolish childhood incidents." He moved around the kitchen and opened a cupboard, finding a beautiful chocolate cake there. Pulling it down, he smiled happily at her and asked. "Cake?"
"No, thank you," she said.
"More for me," he replied easily, flashing her a crooked grin.
"Well, maybe one small piece," she added slyly, wanting to see his reaction.
"I don't cut small pieces, Miss Rohan," he stated in all seriousness. "There's too much stinginess in life," he went on. "Cake should not be rationed."
The way his face lit up when talking about cake was so innocent and boyish, that Margaret found herself shyly looking everywhere but at him as he cut her a generous piece and slid it onto a plate.
She took the plate happily and thanked him.
It did look rather moist and delicious. Like everything about this funny afterworld, the cake was perfect.
Serving her a cup of tea as it was ready, Mr. Rothstein joined her once more by the fire and they shared in the joy of cake and tea by a perfectly warm fire.
"I must admit," he said after his first, blissful bite of cake. "I thought death would be different."
She was quiet, waiting for him to elaborate, still unable to fully look at him. Something about the firelight gave him a gentle, intimate look and it was hard for her to meet his gaze. It turned his cold, white marble complexion into a warm bronze.
"Of course I wasn't expecting anything really," he remarked. "I was told once, as a boy, a story, of what it would be like in – well, I suppose what you'd call heaven and hell – the story goes that in heaven and hell there are banquet tables, piled high with food, but no one can bend their elbows."
Margaret listened intently, amazed by the story, finally able to meet his gaze in her eagerness to hear the tale.
"And in hell the people starve, because they only think of themselves and therefore cannot eat. But in heaven they eat until they're full, for they feed each other." He finished.
She smiled softly. It hadn't occurred to her that he was of a different religion. Surely she knew it in the dark world, but here she was unaware that he was different. Didn't seem like it mattered so much here.
"What about you?" He asked. "What were you taught about the afterlife?"
Margaret swallowed the bite of cake she had in her mouth and inhaled deeply. "Sinners go to hell where they burn for eternity and people who live close to God go to heaven where they never feel pain or sorrow. And somewhere in between is purgatory, for the unwed mothers and children who aren't baptised."
"Well," he said, sipping his tea to wash down the two pieces of cake he had put away in the span it took her to finish one. "This place doesn't seem to coincide with either of our beliefs."
"No."
"So it's safe to say we're in some other religion's heaven," he teased.
Margaret laughed softly. "Blasphemy."
"I'm ready to meet mighty Zeus, how about you, Miss Rohan?" He went on playfully.
Covering her mouth as she was just finishing her cake, Margaret laughed. Swallowing, she said, "Mr. Rothstein!"
"We're already where we're going, Miss Rohan," he replied simply. "They can't take it back now, that's just bad for business."
"You're awful," she tsked.
"More cake?" He offered.
"Yes, thank you," she said.
Why not indulge a little? He had a point. Enjoy the afterlife, it couldn't get any worse.
Two miraculously appearing cakes and an entire pot of tea later and they were still sitting up, the fire still blazing comfortably in the field stone fireplace, the conversation never running low.
Margaret found she enjoyed Mr. Rothstein's mind, thoroughly enjoyed it. He was a smart man, and certainly, he seemed well aware of that fact, but it was because he was smart she found an equal of sorts.
Books she had read would come back to her as fleeting memories and they would discuss every book, holding it between them like something sacred, both admiring and analyzing it.
The more she talked, the more she found he was content to just sit and listen to her. It felt like a lifetime since she spoke so much, the words just sort of flowing out. Years of thoughts and ideas and feelings and theories on life and everything in it sort of came from within her.
And then a memory, like a reminder, came to her 'proper ladies do not ramble on'.
She held her tongue mid-topic and fell silent.
Mr. Rothstein quirked a dark brow, but waited patiently for her to continue. It was only when she didn't that he spoke, "did your mind wander?" He inquired playfully.
"I shouldn't speak so much," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, Miss Rohan, I was enjoying every minute of our talk."
She smiled sheepishly at her empty teacup. "I was monopolizing the conversation, I'm afraid."
"And where is the insult that you feel the need to apologize for?" He returned archly. "I would be disturbed if you hadn't a thought in your head, but that wasn't the case."
Margaret remained silent.
"Perhaps we were lovers in another time and place," he remarked suddenly.
She glanced up and caught his eyes. "What makes you say that?" She demanded, shocked and almost breathless with a sort of panic.
"I very much dislike to see you like this."
She bowed her head again. "Perhaps it's because you feel a sense of duty to me and a wont to protect?"
He beamed at his teacup as he raised it to his lips. "Who would feel such a thing but a lover?" He inquired after a moment.
"A husband, a brother, a father," she began listing off. "Uncle, cousin, grandfather…friend…?"
"We could be related," he said after a moment.
"No, Emily asked if you were her new father in the memory of yours," she argued. "I don't think we'd be related."
"Then I'm your…dentist?" He murmured. "I feel like I'm a dentist of sorts…?"
"I thought you were a gambler?" She inquired.
"Can't I be both? A man can't live on winnings alone," he returned.
"Do you know what you were?" She asked.
"Businessman," he said.
"And…?"
"A good landlord?" He tried.
"That can't be all, you seem…like none of those suit you."
"If I tell you what I really was, would you promise not to cluck your tongue at me? I can handle any criticism but that."
She smiled. "I promise."
"Well, I had my hand in every pot, I suppose. One of the things I did was keep the liquor flowing into New York City through a tiny little fecal speck on the earth called Atlantic City."
"Are you telling the truth?" She asked.
"Yes."
"Then, perhaps we were in business together?" She murmured.
Around them the scene shifted and they were immersed in a memory she knew belonged to the man at her side.
He sat at a desk before them, hands clasped over the ink blotter, face hard and unlike the warmth she was used to. Across from him, sitting between Margaret and the Mr. Rothstein she knew, was a small, lithe fellow with cold blue eyes and an equally hard look.
"Any other day, eh, Arnold?" The man asked in a rough, curt tone.
"Nucky, I have to admit, my resources here in New York are limited and if I could depend on any other supplier, I would. You've consistently let me down when it comes to orders I've placed."
"And none of those times have been my fault, Arnold. Let's not forget Jimmy's little fuck up that cost us both."
"One has to wonder, though, Nucky," the cold Arnold of the memory began. "Jimmy's yet living."
"And? He's not worth it, Arnold."
"Here's where we've always differed, Nucky. You run Atlantic City like one big parade. Me? I run New York like an army General. If one of my men is out of line, I make sure I put them back in their place. Otherwise chaos rules."
"Well, thank fucking God I'm not you, Arnold," Nucky growled sharply. "Because you live the life of a fucking monk."
Margaret felt a chill run up her spine as the Arnold Rothstein of the memory smiled, it was ominous and full of poisonous promise.
The memory faded and she turned a nervous, sort of tentative look on the man beside her.
He smiled a little jovially at the memory.
Before she could address this new and terrifying side of the man, they were immersed instantly in another memory and she knew it was hers.
"A trip to New York might be good for Teddy, see something outside of Atlantic City?" The Margaret of memory suggested to the cold eyed Nucky Thompson.
"Not this trip, Margaret." He said as he dressed for the day.
"You know he likes to spend time with you," Margaret urged. "He's a quiet boy, Nucky, why can't you take him with you?"
"Jesus Christ, Margaret," Nucky snarled. "Not this trip."
Margaret fell silent, sitting at her vanity, brushing her curls.
Sighing, Nucky turned to her.
"Some other time," he said. "I promise."
"It's only that, Teddy never sees his father anymore," Margaret explained. "I can handle you being gone so often, but he's only young."
"I promise," Nucky said. "After this trip I'll take him to the boardwalk, he can eat all the salt water taffy he can handle."
Margaret of the memory smiled, but even the Margaret who was dead could tell it was only to appease the crass man.
"Nucky Thompson," Mr. Rothstein drawled from beside her as the memory faded.
"Did you know he was my husband?" Margaret asked.
"No, I'm rather disappointed," he returned.
She glanced over at him and he smiled.
"I would have thought you to have better taste."
She tsked at his cruel joke.
Maybe he wasn't such a nice man after all.
Nucky seemed a giant step up from that demonic man-creature they had run into earlier that night.
Glancing beside her, she found Mr. Rothstein smiling at her and instantly forgave him. How could she stay angry at someone who looked at her that fondly?
She offered him a small grin in return and it bloomed a wide smile on his face.
Around them another memory swirled and they found themselves watching themselves over a softly lit late night treat of cake and tea.
"I've never done business with a woman before," Mr. Rothstein of the memory said.
"Well," Margaret's memory-self returned, taking furtive, nervous glances at the man. "How did you like it?"
"Quite the treat," both Mr. Rothstein's murmured.
Margaret glanced anxiously over at her afterlife companion and found him smiling fondly at the memory.
As the memory faded, she said, "so we were in business together?"
"It would appear so."
"Well," she breathed. "That's an interesting development."
"Quite remarkable really," Mr. Rothstein returned with a secretive little smirk.
"I think you were in love with me," she said softly, hoping he didn't notice the way her cheeks flushed pink.
"'Were' implies past tense," he replied casually, rising to his feet. "More tea?"
Margaret gawped after him for a moment, before glancing down at her hands, twisted tightly in her lap. She forced them apart and a smoothed her skirt, hoping he didn't notice how her cheeks were now flushed red.