'Cause it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to break me down, Gillian, Al, Richard, PG
Gillian still sees Charles from time to time on the Boardwalk and that nervous energy that once made her knees buckle has stilled long enough that he doesn’t look guilty when she comes around. The Bankroll smiles when he sees her, every time like a naughty school boy with a secret, and turns back to point her out in a crowd to Luciano as if to give his blessing and the younger one- his son, maybe, just grins- full toothed and greedy to see him take the bait. Charles never does. There was a time not too long ago when he did.
No longer and she feels old, brittle like ice on the boards.
She wonders if any of them know what happened to Jimmy’s body.
The last of Jimmy’s friends is more gracious although she knows Al has it in him to be cruel. Maybe there’s simply no reason for him to be because when he sees her, he offers a weak smile like they frequent the same clubs instead of have shared a failed coup. She caught him at Jimmy’s old home the last time he was there, chatting quietly with Richard about something that went silent once she appeared.
She caught the gunman’s eye with all the collected hate that twenty years of men going quiet around her like if she were a child could produce but it was Capone who interrupted. “So whadda you doing next?”
He was chewing the inside of his mouth for want of emotion. It reminded her of Charlie, of Jimmy when he couldn’t sleep. Of every other fucking man who lost his swagger and strength pantless in her bedroom as if the dark between her thighs could offer solace. She could take him home tonight, and seemed to consider it in the moment she offered him a smile. “I hear San Francisco is nice this time of year, or Chicago? Somewhere different…”
“And take Tommy from his home?”
It throws her and it must show because Al offers a weak smile. “Tommy’s a good kid, about Sonny’s age. Jimmy Irish used to tell me about it…” He stops; back pedals, and defers long enough to study her shoes. Something is wounding him and she wonders if it’s because Jimmy is gone or the blood is on his hands. And she wants to ask again, like with Charles, or Nucky or god help her, she’s even considered going to the Irish whore Thompson’s married just to find out what they’ve done to her boy. She doesn’t. Refuses to. The Commodore taught her better than that. “Listen ere…I’m sorry about how it ended.”
She hits him so hard her hand stings. Richard has gone for his gun in the same second, eye trained on Capone for his reaction and she wonders in passing if that was Jimmy’s request.
Al’s head is jerked to the side. She’s not strong to bruise him, and she’s half convinced he remains chastised more for humor’s sake than anything else. He’s a father, she can tell and every parent knows how to let a child tantrum. When he straightens too, he catches her gaze in a way that says it’s only his patience that has let her keep her teeth.
“Yeah,” he draws. “I’ll give you that one.” He could’ve have patted her head for as condensing as he sounds. “You deserve it.”
Gillian still sees Charles from time to time on the Boardwalk and that nervous energy that once made her knees buckle has stilled long enough that he doesn’t look guilty when she comes around. The Bankroll smiles when he sees her, every time like a naughty school boy with a secret, and turns back to point her out in a crowd to Luciano as if to give his blessing and the younger one- his son, maybe, just grins- full toothed and greedy to see him take the bait. Charles never does. There was a time not too long ago when he did.
No longer and she feels old, brittle like ice on the boards.
She wonders if any of them know what happened to Jimmy’s body.
The last of Jimmy’s friends is more gracious although she knows Al has it in him to be cruel. Maybe there’s simply no reason for him to be because when he sees her, he offers a weak smile like they frequent the same clubs instead of have shared a failed coup. She caught him at Jimmy’s old home the last time he was there, chatting quietly with Richard about something that went silent once she appeared.
She caught the gunman’s eye with all the collected hate that twenty years of men going quiet around her like if she were a child could produce but it was Capone who interrupted. “So whadda you doing next?”
He was chewing the inside of his mouth for want of emotion. It reminded her of Charlie, of Jimmy when he couldn’t sleep. Of every other fucking man who lost his swagger and strength pantless in her bedroom as if the dark between her thighs could offer solace. She could take him home tonight, and seemed to consider it in the moment she offered him a smile. “I hear San Francisco is nice this time of year, or Chicago? Somewhere different…”
“And take Tommy from his home?”
It throws her and it must show because Al offers a weak smile. “Tommy’s a good kid, about Sonny’s age. Jimmy Irish used to tell me about it…” He stops; back pedals, and defers long enough to study her shoes. Something is wounding him and she wonders if it’s because Jimmy is gone or the blood is on his hands. And she wants to ask again, like with Charles, or Nucky or god help her, she’s even considered going to the Irish whore Thompson’s married just to find out what they’ve done to her boy. She doesn’t. Refuses to. The Commodore taught her better than that. “Listen ere…I’m sorry about how it ended.”
She hits him so hard her hand stings. Richard has gone for his gun in the same second, eye trained on Capone for his reaction and she wonders in passing if that was Jimmy’s request.
Al’s head is jerked to the side. She’s not strong to bruise him, and she’s half convinced he remains chastised more for humor’s sake than anything else. He’s a father, she can tell and every parent knows how to let a child tantrum. When he straightens too, he catches her gaze in a way that says it’s only his patience that has let her keep her teeth.
“Yeah,” he draws. “I’ll give you that one.” He could’ve have patted her head for as condensing as he sounds. “You deserve it.”
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment