The Black Donnellys Fic: from a to z, we remember how to carry good catholic guilt
from a to z, we remember how to carry good catholic guilt
there’s nothing about growing up in this one. they say she married too young, but nobody ever told her that all neighborhood women will stay the same. the black donnellys. jenny. tommy/jenny. 1152 words, pg. for falseeeyelashes.
There’s nothing about growing up in this one.
For the moment, it ends when Pops spits over don’t like that boy and she’s got a thin ring, cheap gold, and a dead husband straight under her belt. Her eyes are painted with half-moons, black streaking across her skin.
“I’m not worried,” she says quietly.
Tommy’s shoulders are hunched, his fingers smeared and then, even then, she sort of knows what everybody’s been whispering about it. But she doesn’t speak about defining moments and doesn’t do well with losing them either.
“I’m not -” She pauses, the heater snapping lazily. The office door is closed, the upstairs’ one is peeking with whispers of the television. A sigh shifts out of her mouth and she ducks. “I’m not worried.”
He nods. “You shouldn’t be.”
The facts are never this.
-
Months later it’s the smell of eggs rusting straight across the pieces of a mug, coffee shrinking into stains across the floor.
Jenny’s missed the drop, her shoulders are tight over the mutter. Her hand thins against the counter and she’s been tryin’ not to watch for the last minute or two, the crisp crack of the lock to the front echoing as he goes and turns around, right back to her.
“Can’t do this to me, Ma.”
Pops is graying, the paces coming in spurts. All she can do shorts in watching and waiting and hoping that he doesn’t run; the last time, he split around the block and the cops brought him back sweaty and sharp and she felt the world sort of snap, right there, right then.
It’s not the money. It is the money. The excuses really fold back to him, her determination thinning in frustration as no becomes his key and mantra. Most days, it’s in his eyes anyway and today, it’s in his hands.
Her hair slides over her eyes, spilling when he calls her Ma again, Maggie following after an angry maybe. She shifts and kneels, ducking to pick up the things he’s dropped. Her fingers curl and she’s trying so hard not to listen, to remind herself that she’s losing him, and that there aren’t that many things left for her here.
“What about Jenny?” He quiets. The bell sings at the door, but he doesn’t open it or try at all. “She’s got to know someday. She’s got friends. We pay on time. We keep movin’ right on. Just as long as that pretty girl of ours, right up there is straight - we just can’t -”
The burn starts, her throat twisting and she looks up. She feels the tears, the slow slide of her breathing hitch, and she ducks again.
Jenny drops, thick and low. “Ma’s been gone for years.”
She can’t finish it with Dad or Pops; there are days where she does try, scoping herself out with even his first name. She can’t be Ma. She can’t do that to him and for the first time, in a long time, she knows she’s more than just stuck. But it’s again, circumstances on repeat; it’s not loving the wrong person, it’s the right and her inability to break from the rites of tradition. She’s hung herself wide, tied her legs to the neighborhood and that goddamn bullshit that rides right through the door.
“Ma’s been gone for years,” she says again, slowly to breathe.
The older man sort of stops and moves forward to the frame of his office door. There’s a cough and his throat cracks, her eyes closing as she waits for it. She counts backwards from ten and reaches nine -
“Jen,” he mutters, “Gotta get upstairs - my head’s startin’ to hurt.”
This part’s always on repeat.
-
She will imagine it all.
Falling in love, living and dying, and the story sighs to unfold at night, mostly, when she’s making sure that she’s got everything set for the breakfast rush in the morning.
Tommy passes every now and then through the day, shoulder to shoulder with Kevin and his plans, and hides a quick glance in the sullen movement of his mouth. At night, he’ll look like he’s thinking about coming in or - well, she’d like to think that. But these are the thoughts are safer lurking under everything else.
She waits, sometimes, to see if he’s going to stop; there were days before that she almost caught him, that she wanted to almost catch him in the act. Some strange form of justification before everything happened.
Now, she remembers to lock the door.
-
There stairs are cold when he stops her; jenny is too soft and she doesn’t turn around, her condolences folding with the church program with helen stretching right over it. Her hand slips it into her purse, the soundless wrinkle crushing against the tips of her fingers. A sigh swallows her away from the stairs and she has to get back, the diner’s been locked hard.
The thought in itself still churns curls of lunch into her throat, her tongue brushing back as she tries to avoid swallowing. She’s hunched and slipping through crowds until she hears her name again.
“Jen -”
Her purse stumbles out of her hand and she bends forward, sighing when he grabs it before her. Their fingers brush and she half-snatches it back, her hair spilling forward. She turns around to leave.
“You should get out,” but Tommy’s hand slips over her wrist. He doesn’t turn her, tightening a wide grip. “You should go. Take your Dad with you.”
She sort of laughs. Her eyes close and she feels herself trying to cry. It’s gone though, you know, and even the way her throat dries favors that kind of exhaustion, the weight that keeps to coy as she waits to break. The numbness is worse though and the lack of sensibility is too persistent for any predictability. She carries the craving too much and fights to, at least, keep the when will you learn? to herself.
“You’re not the only one.” She just stops for a moment, a short breath to push her straight. Her palm opens to swallow his hand, but she stops herself too. “The neighborhood’s been ready to swallow all of us whole.”
Maybe, it’s really about having someone understand. But remember, she’s over this; be reassured, her self-assurance is thinning to partials. She’s been waiting for something, anything to split herself away from the memory of anything.
But Tommy stops her. “You know -”
She nods slowly, her eyes dropping as he tilts around her. His boots scrap and Jimmy’s already slurring into Kevin’s arms, some way down the block, and away from home and the Firecracker.
“I know.”
Never once does he say you and me or we like it matters. But then really, it’s about the simple truths and they’ll be back here again.
The neighborhood kids all have their stories.
_________
there’s nothing about growing up in this one. they say she married too young, but nobody ever told her that all neighborhood women will stay the same. the black donnellys. jenny. tommy/jenny. 1152 words, pg. for falseeeyelashes.
There’s nothing about growing up in this one.
For the moment, it ends when Pops spits over don’t like that boy and she’s got a thin ring, cheap gold, and a dead husband straight under her belt. Her eyes are painted with half-moons, black streaking across her skin.
“I’m not worried,” she says quietly.
Tommy’s shoulders are hunched, his fingers smeared and then, even then, she sort of knows what everybody’s been whispering about it. But she doesn’t speak about defining moments and doesn’t do well with losing them either.
“I’m not -” She pauses, the heater snapping lazily. The office door is closed, the upstairs’ one is peeking with whispers of the television. A sigh shifts out of her mouth and she ducks. “I’m not worried.”
He nods. “You shouldn’t be.”
The facts are never this.
-
Months later it’s the smell of eggs rusting straight across the pieces of a mug, coffee shrinking into stains across the floor.
Jenny’s missed the drop, her shoulders are tight over the mutter. Her hand thins against the counter and she’s been tryin’ not to watch for the last minute or two, the crisp crack of the lock to the front echoing as he goes and turns around, right back to her.
“Can’t do this to me, Ma.”
Pops is graying, the paces coming in spurts. All she can do shorts in watching and waiting and hoping that he doesn’t run; the last time, he split around the block and the cops brought him back sweaty and sharp and she felt the world sort of snap, right there, right then.
It’s not the money. It is the money. The excuses really fold back to him, her determination thinning in frustration as no becomes his key and mantra. Most days, it’s in his eyes anyway and today, it’s in his hands.
Her hair slides over her eyes, spilling when he calls her Ma again, Maggie following after an angry maybe. She shifts and kneels, ducking to pick up the things he’s dropped. Her fingers curl and she’s trying so hard not to listen, to remind herself that she’s losing him, and that there aren’t that many things left for her here.
“What about Jenny?” He quiets. The bell sings at the door, but he doesn’t open it or try at all. “She’s got to know someday. She’s got friends. We pay on time. We keep movin’ right on. Just as long as that pretty girl of ours, right up there is straight - we just can’t -”
The burn starts, her throat twisting and she looks up. She feels the tears, the slow slide of her breathing hitch, and she ducks again.
Jenny drops, thick and low. “Ma’s been gone for years.”
She can’t finish it with Dad or Pops; there are days where she does try, scoping herself out with even his first name. She can’t be Ma. She can’t do that to him and for the first time, in a long time, she knows she’s more than just stuck. But it’s again, circumstances on repeat; it’s not loving the wrong person, it’s the right and her inability to break from the rites of tradition. She’s hung herself wide, tied her legs to the neighborhood and that goddamn bullshit that rides right through the door.
“Ma’s been gone for years,” she says again, slowly to breathe.
The older man sort of stops and moves forward to the frame of his office door. There’s a cough and his throat cracks, her eyes closing as she waits for it. She counts backwards from ten and reaches nine -
“Jen,” he mutters, “Gotta get upstairs - my head’s startin’ to hurt.”
This part’s always on repeat.
-
She will imagine it all.
Falling in love, living and dying, and the story sighs to unfold at night, mostly, when she’s making sure that she’s got everything set for the breakfast rush in the morning.
Tommy passes every now and then through the day, shoulder to shoulder with Kevin and his plans, and hides a quick glance in the sullen movement of his mouth. At night, he’ll look like he’s thinking about coming in or - well, she’d like to think that. But these are the thoughts are safer lurking under everything else.
She waits, sometimes, to see if he’s going to stop; there were days before that she almost caught him, that she wanted to almost catch him in the act. Some strange form of justification before everything happened.
Now, she remembers to lock the door.
-
There stairs are cold when he stops her; jenny is too soft and she doesn’t turn around, her condolences folding with the church program with helen stretching right over it. Her hand slips it into her purse, the soundless wrinkle crushing against the tips of her fingers. A sigh swallows her away from the stairs and she has to get back, the diner’s been locked hard.
The thought in itself still churns curls of lunch into her throat, her tongue brushing back as she tries to avoid swallowing. She’s hunched and slipping through crowds until she hears her name again.
“Jen -”
Her purse stumbles out of her hand and she bends forward, sighing when he grabs it before her. Their fingers brush and she half-snatches it back, her hair spilling forward. She turns around to leave.
“You should get out,” but Tommy’s hand slips over her wrist. He doesn’t turn her, tightening a wide grip. “You should go. Take your Dad with you.”
She sort of laughs. Her eyes close and she feels herself trying to cry. It’s gone though, you know, and even the way her throat dries favors that kind of exhaustion, the weight that keeps to coy as she waits to break. The numbness is worse though and the lack of sensibility is too persistent for any predictability. She carries the craving too much and fights to, at least, keep the when will you learn? to herself.
“You’re not the only one.” She just stops for a moment, a short breath to push her straight. Her palm opens to swallow his hand, but she stops herself too. “The neighborhood’s been ready to swallow all of us whole.”
Maybe, it’s really about having someone understand. But remember, she’s over this; be reassured, her self-assurance is thinning to partials. She’s been waiting for something, anything to split herself away from the memory of anything.
But Tommy stops her. “You know -”
She nods slowly, her eyes dropping as he tilts around her. His boots scrap and Jimmy’s already slurring into Kevin’s arms, some way down the block, and away from home and the Firecracker.
“I know.”
Never once does he say you and me or we like it matters. But then really, it’s about the simple truths and they’ll be back here again.
The neighborhood kids all have their stories.
_________