Post by scotsrockgod on Mar 22, 2006 0:57:19 GMT -5
Okay, I've left several people waiting for a long time on this one, and Ciaran was nice enough to beta, so here we go!
PS I'd suggest you read "The Pajama Game" and "Cold Shower" to more fully enjoy this.
~
The last time she had seen him, she had taken fifty dollars from her ivory clutch purse and given it to him with what she hoped was a smile. “I’m sorry it isn’t more, but I want you to know that I am proud of you.” She’d tried to kiss him then, but his blue eyes—neither hers or his father’s—had shown repugnance, and she was reminded that he hated her—and she was not overly fond of him. “Well,” she said, lamely backing away. “Well. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” he said coolly, and it was as feelingless a remark as she had ever heard.
Then, nine years later, to see the same anomalous blue eyes in a back street alley, not unlike the one in which he had grown up . . .
She had hesitated to call out, then, as she had hesitated on the day of his high school graduation to kiss him. He was, after all, now the Director of Arkham Asylum—she watched the news like everyone else—and as likely to remember her as she to win the lottery. She hadn’t written, she hadn’t ever tried to call his office. What would she say to the secretary, anyway? She cringed at the thought. He was proud, even as a college student at Gotham U, priggishly proud, and it set her teeth on edge.
She did call out, though, and when he saw her, she was certain he recognized her. He said brief words to the hood-like men he was walking with—and him in his designer suit—and walked over to her, gingerly.
“Mother,” he’d said. Not a question.
She had been at the moment going through a trash can for aluminum cans—not glamorous work, she told herself, but honest—and didn’t dare extend her dirty hand.
“Hello, Jonathan.”
He’d glanced about himself nervously, if such a cool demeanor could even experience nervousness. He was still pale, gangly. Nothing much to look at, as she’d always maintained. Even in the suit. He’d cleared his throat as if there had been nails in it. “Shall I take you somewhere to warm up? For a coffee?”
She had been so stunned by the offer that she forgot how much he had hated her in the past, how much trouble had been growing up, and for a moment she was proud of her son. She was proud of the elegant, immaculate black car he drove, the cautious way he accelerated, the lack of polite chitchat and even of stereo music.
It was March, an unpleasant month to walk in, even if the snows were gone. He pulled up at a nondescript café outside the Narrows, less trendy and commercialized than she had expected him to pick—she was sure he lived on Starbucks. He opened the door for her, all politeness. But she could see him working his jaw the way he did when agitated—a nervous tic since childhood, almost as bad as his continual nasty biting on the ends of ball point pens. She was disappointed but not surprised to see that maturity had not ridded him of his bad habits.
They stood in line, unspeaking, unsmiling. The café was small, somewhat dark inside. Tables were clean, almost sterile. Men in heavy coats with laptops read newspapers silently. Mrs. Crane, dwarfed by her son, was a small spot of drab color, dressed in a faded green house dress, a burgundy pea coat that had seen better days, and her greying hair wrapped in an imitation silk scarf. Her fingers were yellow from cigarettes and so she wore blue wool gloves. She declined to take them off inside.
“What would you like?” he asked.
She studied the chalkboard that listed the offerings. “A mocha almond cream,” she said. She watched him closely as he withdrew his wallet. She looked for pictures of a wife, of children, not really surprised not to see them. He glared at her coldly, as if reproaching her for her curiosity. He paid, and they got their coffees. Selected a table by the window and sat down. He had black coffee with a drop of nondairy creamer and no sugar. With an overwhelming sweet tooth herself, this irritated her.
“You’re skin and bones,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“With the money you make now, you could afford to feed yourself.” She warmed her hands on the plain blue cup. “We never had a lot of food at home, I’ll confess, but surely by now you’ve developed better instincts. I should hope you at least know how to pick a wine.”
He stared at her—she was completely serious. “At least you’re dressing yourself well these days,” she said with a sniff.
“Mother,” he said, not looking at her, “I only dressed poorly as a child because you never bought me new clothes.” There was a sharpness to his controlled tone. “Or do you not remember that?”
Mrs. Crane set down her coffee cup with a sour expression. “I had four mouths to feed, five before your father left.”
There was no need to add “because of you,” because Jonathan knew that was implied. He drank his coffee swiftly, even though it burned his tongue. “And how are Larry and Sam, Mom?”
She spent a moment rearranging her skirt around herself. “Your brother has been in prison for the last two years.”
“That can’t be true.” Crane did not mention his recent business relationship with Carmine Falcone, and how if Larry Crane had been in jail, Jonathan Crane would have known.
“Not in Gotham,” said Mrs. Crane. “He stole a car and drove down south, where he got himself arrested.” She shrugged, as if she could not believe this. “And your sister . . . passed on.” Again Crane shook his head. “It’s true. She was married at the time, no children . . .” She glanced at Jonathan’s fingers, searching for a ring. “You aren’t married yet. Don’t you think it’s about--?”
“Sam, Mother,” Crane repeated. “What happened to her?”
Samantha had moved out of the Crane family home before Jonathan had even reached high school; he did not really know his older sister, and Mrs. Crane interpreted his concern as misplaced and hypocritical. “I’d rather not say,” she said with finality.
The two sat in angry silence, neither of them offering any excuses for why they had not spoken in almost ten years. Jonathan cleared his throat and said, quietly, “And my father—have you heard from him?”
Mrs. Crane looked at her son with a sad smile, wondering if now at last was the time to tell him the truth.
PS I'd suggest you read "The Pajama Game" and "Cold Shower" to more fully enjoy this.
~
The last time she had seen him, she had taken fifty dollars from her ivory clutch purse and given it to him with what she hoped was a smile. “I’m sorry it isn’t more, but I want you to know that I am proud of you.” She’d tried to kiss him then, but his blue eyes—neither hers or his father’s—had shown repugnance, and she was reminded that he hated her—and she was not overly fond of him. “Well,” she said, lamely backing away. “Well. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” he said coolly, and it was as feelingless a remark as she had ever heard.
Then, nine years later, to see the same anomalous blue eyes in a back street alley, not unlike the one in which he had grown up . . .
She had hesitated to call out, then, as she had hesitated on the day of his high school graduation to kiss him. He was, after all, now the Director of Arkham Asylum—she watched the news like everyone else—and as likely to remember her as she to win the lottery. She hadn’t written, she hadn’t ever tried to call his office. What would she say to the secretary, anyway? She cringed at the thought. He was proud, even as a college student at Gotham U, priggishly proud, and it set her teeth on edge.
She did call out, though, and when he saw her, she was certain he recognized her. He said brief words to the hood-like men he was walking with—and him in his designer suit—and walked over to her, gingerly.
“Mother,” he’d said. Not a question.
She had been at the moment going through a trash can for aluminum cans—not glamorous work, she told herself, but honest—and didn’t dare extend her dirty hand.
“Hello, Jonathan.”
He’d glanced about himself nervously, if such a cool demeanor could even experience nervousness. He was still pale, gangly. Nothing much to look at, as she’d always maintained. Even in the suit. He’d cleared his throat as if there had been nails in it. “Shall I take you somewhere to warm up? For a coffee?”
She had been so stunned by the offer that she forgot how much he had hated her in the past, how much trouble had been growing up, and for a moment she was proud of her son. She was proud of the elegant, immaculate black car he drove, the cautious way he accelerated, the lack of polite chitchat and even of stereo music.
It was March, an unpleasant month to walk in, even if the snows were gone. He pulled up at a nondescript café outside the Narrows, less trendy and commercialized than she had expected him to pick—she was sure he lived on Starbucks. He opened the door for her, all politeness. But she could see him working his jaw the way he did when agitated—a nervous tic since childhood, almost as bad as his continual nasty biting on the ends of ball point pens. She was disappointed but not surprised to see that maturity had not ridded him of his bad habits.
They stood in line, unspeaking, unsmiling. The café was small, somewhat dark inside. Tables were clean, almost sterile. Men in heavy coats with laptops read newspapers silently. Mrs. Crane, dwarfed by her son, was a small spot of drab color, dressed in a faded green house dress, a burgundy pea coat that had seen better days, and her greying hair wrapped in an imitation silk scarf. Her fingers were yellow from cigarettes and so she wore blue wool gloves. She declined to take them off inside.
“What would you like?” he asked.
She studied the chalkboard that listed the offerings. “A mocha almond cream,” she said. She watched him closely as he withdrew his wallet. She looked for pictures of a wife, of children, not really surprised not to see them. He glared at her coldly, as if reproaching her for her curiosity. He paid, and they got their coffees. Selected a table by the window and sat down. He had black coffee with a drop of nondairy creamer and no sugar. With an overwhelming sweet tooth herself, this irritated her.
“You’re skin and bones,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“With the money you make now, you could afford to feed yourself.” She warmed her hands on the plain blue cup. “We never had a lot of food at home, I’ll confess, but surely by now you’ve developed better instincts. I should hope you at least know how to pick a wine.”
He stared at her—she was completely serious. “At least you’re dressing yourself well these days,” she said with a sniff.
“Mother,” he said, not looking at her, “I only dressed poorly as a child because you never bought me new clothes.” There was a sharpness to his controlled tone. “Or do you not remember that?”
Mrs. Crane set down her coffee cup with a sour expression. “I had four mouths to feed, five before your father left.”
There was no need to add “because of you,” because Jonathan knew that was implied. He drank his coffee swiftly, even though it burned his tongue. “And how are Larry and Sam, Mom?”
She spent a moment rearranging her skirt around herself. “Your brother has been in prison for the last two years.”
“That can’t be true.” Crane did not mention his recent business relationship with Carmine Falcone, and how if Larry Crane had been in jail, Jonathan Crane would have known.
“Not in Gotham,” said Mrs. Crane. “He stole a car and drove down south, where he got himself arrested.” She shrugged, as if she could not believe this. “And your sister . . . passed on.” Again Crane shook his head. “It’s true. She was married at the time, no children . . .” She glanced at Jonathan’s fingers, searching for a ring. “You aren’t married yet. Don’t you think it’s about--?”
“Sam, Mother,” Crane repeated. “What happened to her?”
Samantha had moved out of the Crane family home before Jonathan had even reached high school; he did not really know his older sister, and Mrs. Crane interpreted his concern as misplaced and hypocritical. “I’d rather not say,” she said with finality.
The two sat in angry silence, neither of them offering any excuses for why they had not spoken in almost ten years. Jonathan cleared his throat and said, quietly, “And my father—have you heard from him?”
Mrs. Crane looked at her son with a sad smile, wondering if now at last was the time to tell him the truth.
LOL.
