Black as Night: A Fairy Tale Retold

by Regina Doman

  She balked at the proposition. “Not there.”

  “You’ve always said it was your favorite restaurant,” Mother had said.

  “But not to work at,” the girl had said resentfully.

  She felt it was unfair. Reflections, a lavish restaurant and banquet hall on Long Island, was a place you went when you were wearing your good clothes and wanted a celebration that felt bigger than yourself. She remembered eating there as a little girl, with her father and mother, at Christmastime and after special occasions, like going to a concert. Bear had taken her there on their last date. It was the place of festive elevation, where she and her family could pretend—at least for an evening—that they were royalty. Working there would dispel that illusion.

  But dogged by unemployment and the prospect of not being able to go back to community college that fall, she gave in and applied, and was hired as catering-help in the banquet hall section.

  In the barren desert of that hot, hot summer, she worked hard, carrying trays for numerous meaningless banquets, going from the heat of the kitchen to the chill of air conditioning, trying to look as though she were not sweating.

  For a while, she kept the foreboding at bay. She had started visiting nursing homes, talking to the elderly, trying to discover what it would be like to be a nurse. Midway through the summer, she was made the receptionist for the banquet hall, which meant she had to be able to calculate, make some decisions such as which party sat where, handle money, and (most importantly) could wear a dress instead of the white shirt, black pants, and red bow tie of the caterer. It was odd, being promoted. Always having been the shy one in the family, in the shadow of a more flamboyant sister, she was surprised that someone had paid attention to her.

  Then someone else had noticed her.

  To be fair, she had noticed him first. It was at another banquet—more sumptuous than usual, for an upscale New York company. It had been a long evening, and she spent most of it on her feet, smiling and handing out programs to guests dressed in evening clothes. Most of them didn’t even meet her eyes, but merely took the program and went on with their conversations, barely registering that she was there.

  After the rush was over and the event inside the ballroom began, the girl set down her stack of programs and leaned against the wall. Someone (probably the event coordinator from the corporation) had removed the desk and chair that was usually there in order to better accommodate the flow of people, and now there was no place for her to sit down. The girl didn’t want to break with the formality of the occasion and sit on the steps. She glanced around the foyer, wishing she could get off her feet and massage them. Through a clear pane in the stained-glass and brass doors, she could see the glittering crowd seated around tables. A flawless blonde lady stood at a podium, making a speech and basking in the applause, smiling. She wore a red satin evening gown designed to make her look as though she were emerging from the shining crinkled petals of a rose.

  Scanning the program, the girl guessed that the woman must be the “Chief Executive Officer.” The girl wondered what it must be like to be divinely beautiful, and apparently wealthy and powerful as well. That’s who I should want to be like, she thought, if I were a really modern girl. Up there in front of the crowd, fit and fashionably dressed, at the pinnacle of some career, not showing a sign of age or weakness.

  The girl smiled ironically. With my small plans for the future, I never would be anyone’s poster girl. I might even be a traitor, betraying the cause of women’s empowerment…

  Then she had seen a man exiting the hall with a jerking gait, and she had hurried to open the heavy door for him.

  He was leaning on a cane, gray-haired, his face gaunt, and his tuxedo looked a bit askew, as though he hadn’t been quite competent enough to button it correctly.

  “Can I help you with anything?” she asked in concern. His lips were blue.

  “No, no, no,” he eased his way down the steps. “Just going to get a breath of air. It’s stuffy in there, even with the air conditioning.”

  She opened the street door and helped him out, despite his protests. As she did, she noticed that he wasn’t favoring a hurt leg or swollen joints—the cane was, apparently, to help him keep his balance.

  Fortunately, the night had cooled the City summer air, and the man took several deep breaths and looked more composed.

  “Can I help you back inside?” she asked when he seemed to have recovered.

  He glanced back wryly over his shoulder. He was not a particularly handsome man, but of course his features were more sharpened by his illness. His eyes were sunken and his skin wasn’t a good color. “In there?” he asked, and shook his head. “No thanks. I’m an outsider now anyway.”

  “Are you?” she asked, still holding onto his elbow to steady him.

  “Used to be vice president of the company, actually,” he chuckled. “Maybe they still have my name on the rolls, but my word doesn’t mean a thing there any more. Not much point in their paying attention to a dying man, is there?”

  “Are you dying?” she asked. An odd question, but she was surprised at how normal her voice sounded.

  “Not ‘going gently into that good night,’” he grunted, sitting down on the flat stone balustrade beside the steps. “‘Rage, rage against the dying—’ oh, thank you. You’re very kind,” he said as she helped him sit down.

  She had no doubt that he was speaking the truth. He was far more lightweight than a man his age and build should be. “Can I get you anything?”

  “A cure for a brain tumor? You got anything like that on you?” he asked, his dark eyes lighting up, and he shook his head. “No, of course you don’t. No one does. That’s the problem. They haven’t yet discovered a cure for death, have they?”

  She paused, thinking momentarily of Christ and the empty tomb, but she didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding pious. So instead she said, “A brain tumor?”

  “Yes. Inoperable. Fortunately, it’s not in the advanced stages yet. I have a bit of time. The doctors tell me I’ll eventually lose control of my faculties and slip into a coma before I die.” His eyes were dark, and his jaw thrust itself forward. “But I don’t plan on letting myself get to that point, if I can help it. Like I said, ‘not going gently—oh, pardon me. I already quoted that. You’re going to think I’m a man of one poem.” He laughed at his own joke, and coughed.

  She had to laugh. There was something eclectic and independent about him, even in his frailty. But she was puzzled. He didn’t seem properly groomed, particularly if he was really vice president of the company—

  “Pardon me—” she ventured. “If you have a brain tumor, why are you having trouble breathing?”

  He looked surprised. “I have a bit of a cold I can’t shake off. Well, that’s only to be expected, I guess.” He fumbled in his shirt for something—medication, she supposed—but his eyes looked at her keenly. “You actually seem to know something about this sort of thing,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  “Well, my mother’s a nurse,” she admitted. “I’m sort of interested in nursing.”

  “Is that right? You’re a smart girl. What’s your name? Can I ask you your name, or will it sound as though I’m trying to pick you up?”

  “My name’s Blanche Brier,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Jack Fairston,” he said, squeezing it in a handshake that didn’t have much power left to it. “So why is a pretty girl like you listening to an old codger like me?”

  “Actually, I don’t mind talking to older people at all. I’m thinking of majoring in geriatrics,” she said.

  “Geriatrics?” he grimaced. “Ouch. I can’t get over the idea of being taken for one of those. Guess that doesn’t make much sense. I should be happy to see the age of, say, seventy-five, which I’m obviously never going to see. Anyhow. Why do you want to work in geriatrics?”

  “I—like old people, I guess,” she said. “I like listening to them.” Pondering it, she added, “And, I suppo
se it’s partly because I don’t have any old people in my own family.”

  “Is that so?”

  She nodded, and glancing back at the banquet inside a bit guiltily—but there was nothing she should be doing—she resumed her explanation. “I never knew my dad’s parents—my grandma died when I was just a baby. My mom’s dad is dead, and my other grandmother lives in California. I just don’t have a lot of family, at least not here in the City.”

  “Maybe most of us are looking for a sort of substitute family.” He looked out at the darkness, which was mirrored in his own eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose in a certain sense, I am. All I have left in the world now is my wife. She looks after me. I don’t speak to my relatives, and now that my children are grown up, they don’t speak to me either. My friends are uncomfortable around me, now that they know my condition. I don’t even have any colleagues or employees left, now that I’ve been forcibly retired.”

  “That sounds rather awful,” the girl said honestly.

  “It is, rather. And ironic. For years, I’ve thought of myself as a very successful man. But for some reason I haven’t succeeded in keeping many friends or family close to me.” He stared at the ground, and for a moment, he looked truly sad. He coughed and looked up. An idea seemed to have occurred to him. “Tell you what, Blanche. I’m not going to be around much longer—I mean, getting around. I’m going to be bedridden soon. Since you say you like old people—and even though I’m not really old, I am really sick and could pass for being old—would you be willing to come and visit me?”

  “I would,” the girl said.

  “Would you? That—that would be wonderful,” the man said, his face quite changed. The girl had a momentary glimpse of how Mr. Fairston might have looked as a healthy man. He felt in his breast pocket and managed to extricate a card. “Here’s where I am, or will be.”

  She took it. It read, “Alistair M. Fairston,” and gave his home and his office address.

  “I thought you said your name was Jack,” she said, curious.

  “It isn’t,” he said gloomily. “My real name is Alistair. I was named after one of my father’s friends, unhappy man. You can see why I changed it. I kept saying one of these days I would have it legally changed, but I never got around to it and I suppose it’s too late now. Everyone who knows me calls me Jack. Oh, and the office address isn’t valid any more, like I told you,” the man said. “Just in case you call it, and they don’t recognize my name, so you don’t think I’m scamming you.”

  She laughed again, and thought to herself, but he could be scamming me. He might have picked up this card and be pretending to be vice-president of the company. If he hadn’t looked so ill—and she knew he was—she might have been more cautious. She might have held back.

  But her doubts about his identity were pushed aside as the door to the hall opened, and a man came out. “Mr. Fairston?” he asked solicitously. “Your wife is looking for you.”

  “Why?” the man asked, a bit peevishly, then started and looked anxious. “Oh, have I forgotten something?”

  “They want to present you with an award,” the man said, taking his arm.

  “An award? What for?”

  “Well, this is your farewell banquet and you are the guest of honor,” the man said, helping Mr. Fairston to his feet.

  “Guest of honor?” he muttered as he fumbled with his cane. “Good grief, is that what all this is for?”

  “Of course it is. Your wife arranged it.”

  Mr. Fairston grimaced. “I told her I didn’t want a farewell banquet. They give me headaches. I don’t want to have a farewell banquet with a headache. I’ll get all cross and won’t enjoy it.”

  “I don’t think you have much choice,” the man said with a smile. “Come on in now,” and led him up the steps.

  Mr. Fairston paused, and looked back at the girl. “You will come and visit me, won’t you?”

  “I will,” she promised. “Thank you.”

  “Good night then,” he said, and allowed himself to be escorted inside, where the blond woman in red came graciously to his side, kissed him on the cheek, and said something into the cordless microphone she still carried. There were cheers as the entire assembly got to its feet, clapping loudly.

  Slightly moved, the girl watched the man hobble his way up to the stage amidst the applause. The blond goddess accompanying him looked over her shoulder, and met the girl’s gaze. There was a coldness in her eyes that flashed like ice.

  The girl stepped back into the night, surprised. For a long time she stood outside the door, holding onto the handle, listening to the screech and roar of the traffic behind her, rushing through the darkness.

  II

  As usual, Brother Leon had a difficult time concentrating on his Tuesday morning class on the Franciscan vows. He disliked sitting still, and shifted his feet and toyed with his pencil while Father Bernard lectured.

  To make matters worse, they were in the room right next to the front door, and Leon was aware each time it was opened. He would catch snatches of conversation, get distracted, and have to forcibly turn his mind back to the explication of poverty, chastity, and obedience.

  After a man had tried unsuccessfully to sell the friars a box of sugar packets “he just happened to find” outside a restaurant and Brother Herman had turned him away, Leon tried to pull his attention back to the Middle Ages and St. Francis. Then there was another knock at the door. Father Bernard sighed audibly, and looked at the door to the room, but as the office door was off its hinges, it was impossible to close it.

  The knock came again, insistently, and Brother Leon wondered where the porter was. As the knocking continued, he stared at Father Bernard, wondering if his novice master would dispatch him to open it. The thought seemed to pass through the priest’s mind, but just as he turned to Leon and started to speak, they all heard Father Francis emerge from the kitchen and hurry to the door, his sandals smacking on the floor.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically cheerful, “And what can I do for you?”

  There was a woman’s voice, rasping and aged by time, saying something Leon couldn’t catch.

  “Well, we have food distribution on Thursdays. But come in, and I’ll see if Brother Herman can give you something from the food pantry right now,” Father Francis said at last.

  “Oh, thank you!” the woman exclaimed. “That’s so kind of you!”

  “Herman!” Father Francis called, with the barest touch of irritation. Meaning, “Why weren’t you here to get the door?”

  “Coming!” came a frantic voice from upstairs, and the novices, who were all listening despite themselves, grinned at each other. They heard Brother Herman’s bulk hurrying down the steps. This is like listening to a sitcom, Brother Leon thought.

  “This is Bonnie. She just came to the neighborhood,” Father Francis said, and for the next few minutes, the two older friars and the old woman chatted back and forth. Brother Leon heroically turned his attention back to the discussion of Sts. Dominic and Francis and their views on the vows. At last the conversation died away as Brother Herman led the visitor to the pantry, and Father Francis returned to his kitchen chores.

  Then a few minutes later, Leon glanced up and saw someone standing in the doorway, inquisitively looking at the makeshift classroom. It was an old woman in a ragged black trench coat with bulging pockets, her shoulders stooped, her aged face covered by some kind of bright blue wool ski hat with a green visor covering her eyes. She wore incredible red high-topped shoes on her feet.

  “Hi boys,” she said in a cracked voice. “What you doin’ in there?”

  Of course, every eye in the room was on her.

  “We’re learning about Franciscan vows. These are our novices,” Father Bernard said courteously, as though the bag lady were a visiting dignitary.

  The woman fixed each of them with a gleaming eye. “Hi,” she croaked again. “Well, carry on.”

  “We will,” Father Bernard said as
Brother Herman appeared in the doorway next to her, holding a bag of food.

  “Here you are, Bonnie. Oh, I see you’ve found our novices. This is Father Bernard, Brother Charley, Brother Matt…” But the bag lady had already turned away and was heading down the corridor towards the refectory.

  “We’ve met,” came her cracked voice.

  “Uh—excuse me!” Brother Herman hurried after her, his hands full of the sacks of food.

  Brother Leon chuckled to himself and turned back to Father Bernard once again, but his attention was still partly aware of the bag lady at large in the friary. He could hear Brother Herman giving her an impromptu tour and ushering her back down the corridor.

  “Interesting place,” she was saying as he guided her back to the front door, now holding her bag of food. “Like those stained glass windows—Carry on.”

  At last the front door shut behind their visitor, and all the novices breathed a sigh of relief. Father Bernard turned the page of his book with a wry smile.

  “According to the saints, the vow of poverty involves the surrender of our time,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “St. Thérèse of Lisieux in particular believed ‘a willingness to be interrupted’ was necessary to the devout soul.”

  “Could you come up with any examples?” Brother Leon asked innocently, and Matt threw a pencil at him while the others chuckled.

  III

  Less than a month after being released from prison, circumstances had found Arthur standing on the streets of Manhattan at midnight, holding all his belongings in a pillowcase. He was still dealing with the realization that he and Ben had been disowned and thrown out of their father’s house, and that there was no other home for them to go to. His brother, who had missed the entire scene with Dad, was shivering and coughing, having been woken out of a sound sleep to be informed that he was suddenly homeless.

  “So, where are we going to go, since you’ve burned all our proverbial bridges?” he had asked, a bit peevishly. It was starting to snow.

  “Let’s go to St. Lawrence,” Arthur had said at last.