Chapter 223: "Complicated"

The first thing Jeremy loved was color.

Colors squeezed from tubes.

Colors in boxes of crayons.

Colors smeared across paper beneath his small fingers.

Most of all, he loved the colors of his mother’s costumes when she stood before the mirror in their room, trying on dresses for her next performance.

Dorothy had a wardrobe full of costumes. Some shimmered under the bedroom light; others were decorated with ribbons, beads, or little pieces of glass that caught the sun.

Whenever she tried one on, Jeremy would abandon whatever he was doing and watch her in the mirror. That afternoon, however, she was wearing white.

"Jeremy," she called, turning slightly before the mirror, "how does Mamma look?"

"Mamma looks beautiful," four-year-old Jeremy answered, lifting his head from the coloring book spread across the floor. "But why is your costume white today? And why does it have feathers? Your dresses are usually more colorful."

Dorothy smiled.

"Because Mamma is going to be the White Swan."

"The White Swan?"

"Mm-hm."

She adjusted the feathered bodice and turned to examine herself from the side.

"It’s a very famous ballet. There’s a beautiful princess, you see, and an evil sorcerer turns her into a swan. Mamma gets to play the princess. Aren’t you excited for me?"

Jeremy considered this.

He was certainly excited that his mother was going to be a princess. It seemed a very suitable occupation for her. But there was something about the arrangement that continued to bother him.

"I am excited."

He lowered his head and dragged his crayon across the paper.

"But I only get to see your costumes. You never take me to watch your ballet."

Dorothy chuckled softly.

At four years old, her son already managed to look like a deeply dissatisfied old man whenever something displeased him.

She crossed the room and settled beside him on the floor.

"Oh, sweetie. Of course Mamma would love to have you watch me onstage. But you know I can’t leave you sitting alone in the audience. You’re still my little baby. It would break my heart if someone took you away from me."

Jeremy looked up at her.

"But we have Papà."

Dorothy’s hand paused against his shoulder.

"Papà can stay with me while you work," he explained. "Then me and Papà can watch you together."

For a moment, Dorothy said nothing.

She was still smiling when he looked at her, but something in her expression had changed.

"Oh, sweetie. Haven’t I told you? Your papà is a very handsome, successful gentleman. He’s extremely busy. He can hardly find time to visit us, let alone come to the theater."

Jeremy frowned.

"But you said he used to visit you at the theater all the time. Isn’t that how you met?"

"Well... yes. He did."

She smoothed his hair, although it didn’t need smoothing.

"But your father runs the largest casino chain in the city, and his reputation is very important. He can’t afford to be seen with a ballet dancer like me."

"Why not?"

"It’s complicated, sweetie."

Jeremy looked at her expectantly, waiting for the rest of the explanation, but Dorothy only gave a small shake of her head.

"Grown-up lives are complicated. You’ll understand when you’re older. For now, why don’t you stay Mamma’s little boy and keep making me beautiful paintings instead? Will you do that?"

Jeremy looked down at the page.

Whenever he asked why Papà couldn’t stay with them, why he couldn’t visit more often, or why other children lived with both their parents, he received the same answer.

Complicated.

Jeremy didn’t know precisely what it meant. He only knew that whenever grown-ups used it, there was nothing more he could ask.

’I don’t like complicated.’

Still, he nodded.

"I will."

He hesitated, then looked up at her again.

"But I want to see Papà more. Will you tell him to come see me? I miss him."

Dorothy’s expression softened. She gathered him into her arms and held him tightly against her chest.

"Of course, sweetie," she whispered. "I’ll try to tell him."

Four-year-old Jeremy had no way of knowing that one day, his wish would actually come true.

Two years later, when he was six, his father finally came to the theater. For the first time, Jeremy sat beside Papà in the audience and watched his mother dance.

Beneath the stage lights, Dorothy seemed to become someone else.

The woman who made breakfast in their little suburban house, who hugged him when he was upset and laughed whenever he got paint on his face, disappeared beneath white feathers and brilliant light.

In her place was the beautiful White Swan, gliding across the stage with such grace that Jeremy could hardly believe she was his mother. By the end of the performance, the White Swan had become the Swan Queen, and the theater rang with applause.

Jeremy clapped until his little palms hurt. He couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother look more beautiful than she had that night.

When he finally tore his eyes from the stage and glanced at the seat beside him, his father was watching too.

Papà was a handsome gentleman, though Jeremy knew very little else about him. He knew Papà’s name was Claudio, and he seemed to like white, because he wore it almost every time he visited.

Tonight was no exception. His clothes looked far more expensive than anything Jeremy or Mamma owned, and so did the watch on his wrist.

Everything about Papà seemed expensive.

Sometimes Jeremy wondered why his father had so much money while he and Mamma lived in a small house in an ordinary suburb, far from the glamorous center of Borgata. Even Papà’s car looked as though it must have cost more than Jeremy could imagine.

He had asked about that once.

It had also been "complicated."

As the applause finally subsided, Jeremy suddenly remembered what he had brought.

"Um... Papà?"

Claudio turned toward him.

"Hm?"

Jeremy quickly reached into the backpack beside his seat and pulled out several sheets of paper, carefully stacked so they wouldn’t crease.

"Um... since the last time you visited..."

His cheeks warmed as he held out the paintings with both hands.

"I made these for you."

Claudio’s face brightened. He accepted the paintings and began looking through them, taking his time with each page.

"My goodness. Look at all these! My son is an artist! You’re getting so much better."

Jeremy felt something leap inside his chest. He wanted to smile, but he waited another moment, just to be certain his father meant it.

"You really think they look good?"

"Of course, son." Claudio went through the drawings again. "Keep painting like this, and you’ll be a great artist one day. You’ll make Mamma and me proud."

Jeremy lowered his head. His fingers twitched against his knees, and he pressed his lips together to contain the enormous happiness swelling inside him.

He wanted to shout, perhaps even jump up and down, but he was six now, and six-year-olds were supposed to behave better than that. He settled for sitting very straight, although he couldn’t quite keep his feet still.

"Papà..."

Claudio looked over.

"If you like them..." Jeremy hesitated. "Could you please visit me and Mamma more often?"

Claudio’s smile changed.

"Oh, my dear son."

Jeremy hurried to explain, afraid his father might misunderstand. ℯ

"I promise I’ll make you nicer paintings! Even better than these. I’ll make lots of them, and whenever you come over, I’ll show you everything I’ve made."

Claudio sighed and reached over to rub his head.

"I’d love to visit you and Mamma more often. You know that, don’t you?"

Jeremy nodded.

"But business hasn’t been going well lately." Claudio gave him a regretful smile. "And as the eldest son, I have a responsibility to help hold the family together. There’s a great deal happening right now. It’s complicated."

That word again.

Jeremy’s shoulders drooped.

Everything involving his father always seemed to be complicated.

"Then... you can’t come?" he asked quietly. "Is it really that complicated?"

Something tightened in Claudio’s chest at the sight of his son’s crestfallen expression.

"It is. But I promise I’ll try to visit more often." He drew Jeremy against his side. "And you’ll keep making beautiful paintings for me, won’t you? Then whenever I come to see you and Mamma, you can show me what you’ve been working on."

At last, a smile returned to Jeremy’s face.

"Of course, Papà! Then I’ll make you lots and lots of paintings. I’ll have so many to show you whenever you come!"

Six-year-old Jeremy kept his promise.

For the next two years, he painted almost every day.

Acrylics, oils — whatever he could get his small fingers on. He painted until color stained his nails and dried in stubborn little streaks across his skin.

Whenever Papà visited their little house, there was always something new waiting for him.

A different painting.

Another picture.

Another small piece of proof that Jeremy had remembered exactly what Papà had asked of him.

So when eight-year-old Jeremy came home from school one afternoon and saw the familiar white luxury car parked outside their house, excitement immediately stirred in his chest.

’Papà’s here!’

He quickened his steps, already thinking about the paintings he had finished since the last visit.

’I can show him my new ones.’

Only when he drew closer did he notice something was different.

There wasn’t just one white car.

There were several.

All of them were expensive. All of them were parked around the modest little property like a procession that had somehow taken a wrong turn out of Borgata’s wealthy districts.

Jeremy slowed.

Something about the sight made the excitement in his stomach tighten into unease.

"Mamma?" he called as he pushed open the door. "Is Papà here?"

The moment he stepped inside, he stopped.

His father was indeed there.

He sat in the armchair he usually occupied during his visits, wearing one of his familiar expensive suits. But the small living room was now crowded with people Jeremy had never seen before.

Men in black suits stood throughout the room.

Among them was a tall, beautiful woman with dark brown eyes. She wore a fur coat that looked more expensive than a whole year of Jeremy’s schooling, while a lit cigarette rested between her manicured fingers.

Jeremy barely looked at her.

His mother was on the floor.

For an instant, he thought she must have fallen.

Then he saw the blood.

It marked her mouth and stained the front of her dress. Her hair had come loose, and one of her eyes was swollen so badly that she could scarcely open it. Two men held her by the arms.

Jeremy stood in the doorway, unable to understand what he was seeing.

He knew his mother’s face better than anything else in the world. He had drawn it hundreds of times. Yet the woman on the floor looked so different that, for one terrible moment, he couldn’t quite recognize her.

"M-Mamma...?"

Dorothy lifted her head.

When she saw him, her expression changed.

"Jeremy?"

Horror spread across her battered face, and she began struggling against the men restraining her.

"No! Jeremy, don’t come inside! Turn around! Jeremy! Run! Run immediately!"

Jeremy spun toward the door, obeying before he could think. But before he reached it, two large hands seized him by the back of his uniform and dragged him violently away from the entrance.

"NO!"

Dorothy’s scream filled the room.

"Let go of my son, you bitch! Let him go! Fuck you! LET HIM GO!"

The woman in the fur coat watched Dorothy’s panic with unmistakable pleasure. She took a slow drag from her cigarette, held the smoke for a moment, then exhaled with an amused smile.

"What a pleasant surprise."

Her gaze traveled lazily over Jeremy.

"I certainly didn’t expect to catch both the whore and her bastard at once. Apparently, God is on my side today."