Chapter 16

Sixteen

C illian

Halfway to the kitchen, I wrapped my arms around her, pressing a wet kiss on to her full cheek.

"I'd love it if you heated something up for me," I said, bringing her hands to my lips as I sat down at a chair at the kitchen table.

"Sure baby, coming right up," she declared, before I pulled her back for a kiss of appreciation.

"You're so sweet to me, Queenie." As she turned from away from me, I gave her thick arse a slap before sending her on her way. "Sexy woman." I sat patiently at the table watching her pretty legs and sexy curls prance around the kitchen floor.

My wife had these long-toned legs that if you've seen her in photographs, you would think she was 5'8" instead of her 5'1" stature, and these curved sexy foot arches that made watching her walk around barefoot a mindless struggle.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get home early enough to sit down and eat with you. I'm trying my best to work things around my schedule. Late nights never used to bother me, but now I'm just gonna have to figure some things out. Don't want to be spoiling your sleep every night."

Vigorously stirring the contents of her pot, she peeked into the oven to check on her casserole, and she began filling a plate with contents of her cooking.

"I mean, I understand. It's just easy to get bored here by myself all day. With nowhere to go, I wait by the phone anxious for your phone calls. Otherwise there's nothing to do except cook." I pressed my lips into a thin line wishing my brothers could have bought me a radio or something. Maybe if she liked books, I could surprise her with a bookcase with her favorite books or something.

"I promise to call more often, I promise." I took her wrist in mine and pulled her into me. "I promise." She laid a kiss on the side of my face, as she pranced back over to the stove, filling my plate with food. She laid it down in front of me, and before she could walk away, I pulled her on my lap and gave her a kiss.

"It smells good," I snickered, taking the fork she set out for me and plunged it into what I was most curious about. It was some kind of noodle with cheese and the moment I brought it to my lips, I was definitely having an out of body experience. "Oh my god, Queenie. This is so bloody good." I plunged my fork into another side. Something that reminded me of kale. As I let it coat my tongue, I couldn't help savoring the smoky flavor that I wasn't expecting from a green, and when I bit into the chicken that accompanied it, I couldn't help feeling like it didn't taste reheated at all. It was just as tender and juicy as if it was fresh off the stove.

"I know I told you this before but my lord, you can really cook, darlin'. What am I eating cause I can't believe I've spent my whole life never trying another culture's food before." She shrugged like it was no big deal that her cooking was amazing.

"It's nothing out of the ordinary. Just some fried chicken, baked mac and cheese, collard greens and some candied yams. We eat stuff like this all the time so it makes me happy to see that you enjoy it." I pointed to the plate with my fork.

"There's nothing like this with Irish food, but make no mistake, Irish food is just as good. It's just mmm …" I said taking another bite of the yams, pleasantly surprised that mixing the sweet with the hearty mac and cheese was a delectable combination. "This is so good, Queenie. I keep eating like this, I ain't gonna stay hard for long," I said with a pat on my stomach.

"I promise you, wouldn't even be no racial segregation if we all sat down and had a proper go at each other's palates." At that she laughed but I was being completely serious. Like my older brother, I should have been more curious about Black culture a whole hell of a lot sooner.

"I know you told me about some things you eat back home. But what are some of the dishes you make?" Honestly, I hadn't been back home in years and was probably one of my brothers that had had the least bond with the old country. Most of what I could recall about traditional Irish meals was what my mum cooked growing up and on occasion what my aunt and sister made.

"I know it's hard to believe, but I've lived in Boston nearly my whole life. I came here when I was six. So, the few things I do remember is because my mum's family ran a little farm out in the country." She laughed, covering her mouth embarrassed when she noticed I didn't join in.

"I'm sorry, it's just it is hard to believe. Your accent seems to be still intact and unchanged."

"There you go making fun of my voice again. Even after you said you liked it."

"I do baby, I do," she said, wrapping her arms around my neck with a kiss to my cheek.

"But back to your question. Some common things are called colcannon. It's like mashed potatoes with fresh spring onions, kale and lots of milk and butter. It's kind of like a poor man's meal, but for a poor man's meal, it's an Irish staple. Another thing we have is boiled bacon and cabbage." Her left brow cocked.

"Boiled bacon? That sounds questionable."

"Well, it's not. It's actually tasty. One thing about Irish food, it's either going to have one of three things. Potatoes, bacon or cabbage. We Irish love our cabbage." She pursed her lips.

"The only time I make cabbage is fried cabbage." I pointed my fork at her, remembering yet another Irish staple.

"Oh, that's another one. We have fried cabbage, too. Maybe it's nothing like yours but maybe one day you can make it, and I can compare and contrast." She dusted a few light traces of crumbs off my beard, as she turned my face to hers and pressed her forehead to mine.

"I'm sorry if it seems like I'm changing the subject. But I think I'm ready to ask what is it that you do for a living?" I set down my fork, reaching for a glass of water. I wasn't sure if she was ever going to ask me that question. Most woman married to crime bosses were just content with not knowing and I hoped she might be too. But I could tell she was different, she just wanted the truth.

"I thought maybe you didn't want to know." She released a deep sigh.

"Hours ago, I thought I didn't. But as I stayed up waiting for you, it just had me thinking. What if one night you don't walk through those doors? What if one night something goes wrong, and you don't make it back to me? I wouldn't even know why because I don't know what you do." I held her waist tightly, hoping that I had if I held tight enough and I explained myself, she wouldn't just get up and walk away. She was such a sweet girl; a good girl and I was all wrong for her just because the family I came from.

"The problem really ain't you knowing, it's will you accept me after discovering what it is? I've made it clear that I don't have a traditional job I punch in and out from a time clock. And I don't have the pleasure of saying I've got degrees and diplomas, or anything like that. But I'm not sure I can handle the thought of you hating a part of me. And I don't mind keeping that part away from you because I just want you safe and cared for. You don't need the stress of worrying about me all day, because that's all you'll do once you know." She tilted my chin to eye level, her sparkling dark stare gentle and honest.

"Cillian, you're my husband, and I'd love it if you started trusting me more with hard stuff."

"Listen to me now. I do trust you, I do." I started, only to have her interrupt.

"Then you have to trust me to know everything about your world. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I'm already partly in, it's just, I'd like to understand you better. I don't like being kept in the dark." I took a deep breath, lifting up to sit her up on the table as I adjusted in the chair in front of her.

"Okay. On the legitimate side of things, I run two nightclubs and a movie theater. In order to get around what we do, we need legitimate businesses to help us clean the money we make during dirty dealings. The dark side of it is that my family, well we're the head family in the Boston organized crime scene, so we have a bit of our hands on everything. Gambling, fixing fights, shakedowns, smuggling, drug trafficking and some heavy gun trade. Once you get caught up with guns, you're dealing with some dangerous people. But I promise you, it's nothing me and my brothers can't handle. In Boston, we're like royalty, and all the other families don't move an inch without our word or command. Although I'm told we got a lot of flack for cutting the Blacks in. It's not an issue now, but it'll likely be a problem later." I took her hands in mine, placing a kiss on both at the sense of her worried expression.

"But don't worry. I don't regret my brother's decision to do business with your father, and I don't regret the pleasure of meeting you." I interlocked my fingers in hers, her small hands a fraction of mine.

"I hope that answers your question. Now that it's out of the way, I realized there are some common things that I don't know about you. I want to know about the things you enjoy. Where you went to school. What kind of music do you listen to? I want to know everything about you. Even if you don't think it's important."

" Everything ?" she questioned.

"Everything!" She pursed her lips to the side, tracing the shape of my eyebrows with her delicate fingertips.

"Well, I like a lot of things…"

" Starting with?"

"Fine! I like swimming."

"Nice! Good excuse to see you in a swimsuit."

" Cillian!" I laughed.

"What else, baby?"

"Hmmm…I guess I really like pictures." As someone who ran a movie theater, hearing that she liked pictures would be an easy way to surprise her.

"Oh yeah, what kind of pictures?" Her face lit up at the chance to share. I was a simple man, and I was learning that I didn't have a simple girl. Whereas I could have fun at home making love to her all day, the things she liked, would take us outside more often. I suppose I was going to have to change a few things about myself to keep her happy and fulfilled.

"I don't know, maybe musicals?"

"Musicals?" I questioned. "You like musicals? Which ones do you like the most?" She giggled.

"Anything with Ginger Rogers or Rita Hayworth. I like some race films, but the Colored actresses don't get to be as glamorous and as the ones that star in musicals."

"You know what I think?"

"What is that?"

"I think none of those actresses are as pretty as you."

"Stop it," she pushed away.

"I'm serious!" I said, pulling her closer. "Perhaps this is a daft question, but what kind of music do you like?" She distorted her face, lost in thought, her answer falling under a few of my faves too.

"I guess I like swing and jazz, but I love rhythm and blues."

"Heh, I figured you'd say that because Blacks are so good at playing and dancing. That's the only kind of music I like here in America." Her face soured.

"You know, I don't like it when you make blank racist statements like that." This time my face soured.

"Is it racist to say Coloreds have good music and are good dancers?"

"No, it's racist to assume something about an entire group of people based on skin color. Not everyone thinks like I do, and not everyone likes what I like. Some of us like country music. Some of us like what's popular. And trust me when I say this, not all of us can play an instrument or can dance. That's like me saying just because you're Irish, that all you do is drink."

"That is all I do," I said, teasing, but when she didn't join me in laughter, I toned it down.

"I guess I always thought of it as a compliment. The Black lads in the pictures, everyone wants to be like them. The dress spiffy and they talk cool."

"Okay, well, dressing well and speaking cool are one thing but would you want to be a Black man?" It felt like a trick question, one that had the potential to get me in trouble and truthfully, I just didn't know an answer that wouldn't offend her.

"No, I suppose I wouldn't. But only because I love being Irish. Everything was going so well until I said that. Queenie, are you mad at me? Hmm?" I laid my chin into her lap, pouting my lips.

"Cillian, of course not. It's just easy to forget that we're different sometimes. And it's okay to make mistakes so long as we learn from them.

"Good, ‘cause I don't want you thinking I'm one of those cloth wearing cowards. I'm sorry that I made that assumption. But because my worldview is different, I might need help sometimes. You promise to be patient with me?" She took my face into her hands and brought me in for a light kiss.

"Hey, why do they call you Queenie?" She rolled her eyes, biting her lower lip to stifle a laugh.

"It's really funny."

"Well tell me, I want to laugh." She took a deep, exasperated sigh and continued on with her story.

"I come from a big family and I've got aunts on both sides named Elizabeth and two first cousins with the same name. I guess my family just really likes that name, but it's confusing around the holidays. So, my aunt became Aunt Beth. My other aunt gets called Aunt Liza. My older cousin, well, she likes being called Elizabeth. And my younger one goes by Liz. My mom started calling me Queenie when she learned about the history of the English royal family, and named me Elizabeth because Elizabeth was the first queen in her own right without a husband. She thought I'd rule the world one day without a man standing in my way.

"I'm guessing you were one of those smart lasses, too. The ones the lads all secretly lusted over." She playfully laid a slap on my shoulder.

"You forget that I went to an all-girls school."

" Even for uni?"

"Even for uni!" Hmph.

"You know, ain't no Irish man a big fan of the British royal family," I teased. "But I love that you're smart and opinionated. You know things and I think that's sexy. I just hope I'm not the man your mom says is trying to stand in your way."

"Baby, you could never stand in my way. If anything, you help break down obstacles that would otherwise hold me back. But enough about me. Think back to your earliest memory when you felt your happiest. What makes it your best memory?" I really had to dig deep for that one. With a lifetime full of bad memories, it sometimes made it difficult focusing on the good. When it came to me, I felt grateful that my wife could help remind me about one good thing in my past.

"Hmm...every Sunday, my mum used to make these huge dinners. We'd all sit around playing music, and singing, and eating like a proper family. She'd cook enough to feed a whole county back in Ireland, and people would come over and just celebrate life and new beginnings. When she passed away, it's like Sunday's just stopped. And we all just didn't have that gift to help us keep up with the family tradition. That's why when I got out it was so hard. Not having that sense of familiarity or comfort. Just dive nose first into work with no sense of peace. But now I have you," I said with another kiss to her small hands.

"And I love you. I'm in love with you. I only hope I don't scare you away with how much of a mess I am." She pulled me in for an embrace, her full breasts acting as a pillow for my head.

"I love you too, baby. Even if you walk through the doors with just an appetite and an apology," she said jokingly but served as a reminder.

"I got you something!" She pursed her lips.

"Yeah, okay. But groceries don't count."

"No, I mean I got you something proper. I just forgot to give it to you because I came in so late. Do you want to see what it is?"

"Only if you want to show me."

"Of course, I want to. Now come on before you start falling off to sleep."