Black as Night: A Fairy Tale Retold

by Regina Doman

  After they had gone, she lay on the bed, staring at the white wall, but everything she saw before her was blackness. Once more, she felt utterly, completely alone, and her doom, which she felt she had escaped, was hanging over her again…

  * * *

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. Fairston asked when she paused in reading to rub her hands.

  “Oh, I have a slight heart ailment and I get tired easily under stress, that’s all,” she said, feeling scraped thin. Bear was still gone. Her mother and Rose had left on vacation. Fish had gone to Europe. All day she went from one place to another, where no one really knew her, and where she was alone, even when she was in a crowd.

  “You should be more careful of yourself,” Mr. Fairston chided her, turning his head restlessly on his pillow. “I have a brain tumor, and even I don’t look as pale as you do.”

  “Well, I’m always pretty white, even in the summer.” But when she glanced in the mirror beside the bed, she saw she did look more pale than usual.

  “You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself,” he said, his left eye creasing in worry. “Is something wrong?”

  “I felt a funeral,” she murmured. “Like in the poem.”

  “Your own funeral?” he asked. “Or mine?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course I do,” he stared at the wall with one eye. “I’m living with that every day. But why should you be feeling it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” Mr. Fairston tried to make a joke in the silence. “Don’t you go and die before I do. That’s not fair.”

  Not exactly a comforting thought, she thought as she went outside into the heavy evening heat to the night shift at work. In the crowds near the subway, she caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and a large chin beneath a flat nose, and sunglasses. Quickly she turned her head forward again. He’s here. He’s here.

  She had been sensing him at the back of her mind for some time: the large ominous figure. And now he was right behind her. But what could she do but go on?

  When she stopped to cross the street and looked around again under the pretense of watching for cars, there was no sign of him. His absence mocked her.

  She crossed crack after numerous crack on the endless sidewalk, drawing closer and closer to the train that would take her to work, and sensed at the same time she was heading into danger, not out of it. But there’s nothing, she told herself again in frustration. Just my paranoid intuition—her intuition that was so strong and so severe she wished she could ignore it. It seemed at times that every possible danger in the world presented itself to her in her mind. Why? Was it truly God, trying to warn her, or the devil trying to torment her? Most of the time she had to assume the latter, just to find an excuse to ignore it and go on.

  The sense of foreboding was persistent. On the train, she looked over her shoulder a few times. But the man in black was gone, and no one else around her seemed a likely candidate. She tried to concentrate on the novel she had brought along—Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Not exactly the most comforting thing to read when you were nervous…

  “Hey, you’re not wearing black and white!” Rita exclaimed when the girl walked into the workroom, which was crowded by a flock of black and white balloons netted in bags.

  The girl, startled, looked down at her dress and realized her mistake. Tonight’s ball was a black-and-white masquerade, and all the servers had been asked to come in black-and-white dress. She had been so preoccupied with protecting herself that she had completely forgotten and worn her yellow summer dress.

  “Well, it’s almost white,” she said, half an excuse.

  “At least you look nice and that long braid is plenty black.” Rita admitted. The waitress was wearing a white sequined top and shiny black pants, with a black-and-white polka-dot seventies-style jacket. “I thought I’d come as a disco dancer.”

  “Looks good,” the girl said, and tried to get business-like. “What do we have to do with these balloons?”

  “Put ribbons on them and bring them out to the hall. Mirror wants them all over the ceiling. Mr. Carnazzo is having a hissy fit about it, because he hates having stray balloons hanging up there for days on end. But it’s for our biggest client. They always get their way.”

  “If we put really long ribbons on them, that might help,” the girl said, picking up the scissors.

  Being around other people doing her usual job had dispelled her fear, but she was still haunted by the lingering feeling of being under surveillance, the steady beat of another’s heart walking in sync with hers.

  “You seeing things again?” Rita asked her when she looked over her shoulder for the fifth time as they set out napkins. “You’re worse than usual today.”

  “Sorry,” she said. But she knew, somehow, that her feeling was more than imagination.

  As the event began, she tried to distract herself by enjoying the costumes people came in—everything from panda bears to playing cards—and ignore the sense of unreality that was growing around her.

  Then it happened—the first scent of real fear passed by her. She went rigid, and didn’t quite know why. She had just handed a program to a man in an executioner’s mask, and he had taken it without even glancing at her. Now she realized that the large broad shoulders disappearing into the crowd were too familiar.

  Her heart began beating fast and her palms began to sweat as she passed out more programs and tried to work her way back to normality. Somehow.

  II

  Leon was still riding the train, praying that his guardian angel would alert him when Bonnie got off, as he kept talking with the teenagers and looking out the windows when the train stopped. So far no one.

  The teenagers finally got off at the Grand Concourse, and Leon recollected himself and wondered if he had broken his vow of obedience by coming out this far, and furthermore, was Bonnie even still on this train? By now the el train had dived underground, and had crossed the river to Manhattan Island.

  Praying a general rosary for Nora, for Bonnie, and the teenagers he had just talked to, he stood poised by the door as the train grudgingly slowed its speed to stop at 96th Street. Again, he watched the leaving passengers, more anxiously, because the crowds were larger downtown. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bright blue something bobbing through the crowds exiting from the very first car.

  He dodged after it. But just as he was closing in, he realized his mistake. This hat was worn by a twelve-year-old boy. He halted, deflated, scanned the crowds and saw, unambiguously this time, the fluorescent blue stocking hat and black trench coat quickly hurrying up the steps aboveground.

  Now he pushed through the turnstiles, sprinted to the steps and hurried up, apologizing to the people he pushed ahead of. But by the time he reached the street, the crowds were massive, even on a hot Saturday afternoon. For a while he turned one way and then the other, but there was no sign of the old lady.

  It took him some time to beg for another token and get on the subway back home to the friary. All the way home, he felt slightly foolish. He was somewhat gratified to find the two dogs sitting by the el train station waiting for him.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t find her,” he said, rubbing their heads. “Come on, better get back to our home.”

  By the time he got back, it was past lunch, but apparently no one had eaten. He was told that Nora was fine, but resting. The rest of the community was gathered in the library of the friary. Brother George was fixing one of the bookshelves, which had suddenly cracked in two under the weight of an ancient copy of The Encyclopedia of Franciscan History. Matt was holding up one end for him. Brother Herman and Father Bernard sat on the battered couch, and Father Francis pontificated from a creaking rocking chair.

  Leon went straight to Father Bernard, knelt down, and asked forgiveness for leaving the friary without permission. Then he explained why, as the rest of the community listened.

  “Well, this is a puzzle now,” Fa
ther Bernard said, after forgiving Leon. “Apparently one of our volunteers is being stalked by a homeless lady.”

  “If she is a homeless lady,” Matt said. “I’m having my doubts.”

  “Well, she can move quick enough when she wants to,” Leon said. “And apparently she has enough money to take the train too.”

  “Nora herself is a mystery,” Father Bernard said, stroking his beard. “Has she told any of you anything about herself? About her family?”

  “A bit of a mystery? She’s a complete unknown!” Brother George snorted, banging irritably on the end of the bookshelf. “Even if she does dress nice, she landed on our doorstep with about as much background as any one of our homeless guests!”

  “But she is a hard worker,” Brother Herman said. “She’s been a tremendous help this past week.”

  “What do you think, Father Francis?” Matt asked.

  “I think,” Father Francis raised his bushy eyebrows as he looked at his little community, “that we should invite her up to join us for a late lunch. Since we happen to all be here today.”

  All the others stared at him.

  “She’ll tell us when she’s ready,” Father Francis said calmly. “Right now, I think she needs to get her mind off of things. And I think we should expend some energy towards helping her do that.”

  One by one, the others nodded.

  Father Bernard went down to Nora with the invitation, and Brother Herman served up the pea soup that he had been cooking that morning, while the others set the table and got things ready.

  Nora came up to join them a bit uneasily, wearing her yellow dress again. But the company quickly put her at ease as they shared the meal together.

  “So all the work we’ve been piling on you hasn’t driven you away yet, eh?” Father Francis said to her.

  “No, not at all. It’s refreshing. I feel like a farm girl again,” she confessed.

  “What, did you grow up on a farm?” Brother Matt asked with interest. He alone among the friars had grown up in the country, in the Midwest.

  “Well, a small one. My mom and dad had one in upstate New Jersey, a small town called Warwick. We had chickens and a garden. I guess we liked to think of it as a farm.”

  There! Background information. Brother Leon nodded at Brother George, who nevertheless was still eating his soup with a dismal frown.

  “And now here you are, in the big city,” Father Bernard shook his head. “Quite different!”

  “Yes. Oh, we’d always had connections with the City—my mom grew up here, and when my dad died, we moved back. But I’m glad I didn’t have my childhood here.”

  Brother Leon considered this, glancing around at the others. “Ah, it’s not so bad. I grew up in Harlem myself.”

  “Wasn’t that rough?”

  “I guess you kind of get used to it,” Brother Leon admitted. “You got to play in wide open fields. My cousins and I played on trash heaps. We never knew what we were missing.”

  Brother Charley nodded sagely. “Lots of city kids are that way. I had a friend who moved to Arkansas. After three weeks she came back to Yonkers. She said the quiet just drove her nuts. And she was terrified of the snakes and the bugs.”

  Nora chuckled. “She’d rather deal with muggers and boom boxes?”

  Brother Charley shared her amusement. “Yep. That was what she knew. People can learn to live with just about anything.”

  “Including a lot of things they should never have to live with in the first place,” Father Francis said.

  Everyone nodded their heads. The results of the evil of societal breakdown were all around them, and too many—especially children—grew up accepting that the kind of abuse they lived with was normal.

  “Well, that’s why the Lord sent us here,” Father Francis said briskly after a moment. “Blessed be His name. Speaking of which, how are plans going for the Feast of the Assumption tomorrow?” He turned to Father Bernard.

  “We’re having a party for the neighborhood people,” Father Bernard explained to Nora, and cleared his throat. “At noon, we’ll have a procession with the Blessed Sacrament around the block, and pray the rosary when we return to the church. Then, refreshments in the courtyard. Brother Charley has been stockpiling Danishes and doughnuts from the local bakeries. I think we’ve managed to get some juice—Brother Matt is picking it up tomorrow from the Knights of Columbus. That’s about it.”

  “What about something for the kids?” Brother Leon asked. “I mean, they’ll love the procession and the doughnuts, but isn’t there something we can do for them?”

  “I haven’t had any brilliant ideas,” confessed Father Bernard. “I mean, it’s not like it’s Christmas and we can have the novices put on Santa Claus costumes and clown around. It’s a bit more serious.”

  “What about a play?” Brother Matt asked, suddenly inspired. “We could put on a short play on the church steps, like they did in the Middle Ages.”

  “All right, you novices come up with something,” Father Bernard said. “Something about Mary would be good.”

  “And which of them is going to be Mary?” Father Francis asked, sipping his coffee with his eyebrows raised.

  “Nora!” the three novices chorused, and Nora looked up from her soup bowl to find all eyes on her.

  “That is, if you want to,” Matt said, embarrassed.

  She paused, and swallowed the food in her mouth. “I’m not an actress.”

  “That’s fine. None of us are actors,” Leon assured her.

  “Wait, but what are we going to do? Act out Mary’s Assumption?” Brother Charley scratched his head. “Uh, that might be a bit complicated.”

  “No problem!” Leon said expansively. “We’ll hook up a pulley to Brother Herman’s scaffold and have Nora raised up into the heavens...how does that sound, Nora?”

  “Perhaps something a little less ambitious,” Nora said softly as the others chuckled.

  “I’ve got it,” Father Francis said suddenly. “Why not the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe? There are a lot of Hispanics in this neighborhood. They’ll love it.”

  “Fantastic! That way, all you have to do is appear, Nora, and hand Juan Diego a bunch of roses.” Matt pointed to an image on the wall. “Can you dress up like the image that appeared on Juan Diego’s tilma?” he asked.

  They all turned to look at the picture of Mary, dressed in a cloak covered with stars, standing on a crescent moon, rays of the sun coming out all around her.

  “She’s dressed as an Aztec princess,” Brother Leon said. He had always loved that picture, especially Mary’s mild face.

  “I can do the narration,” said Matt. “Charley, you be the bishop. And Leon can be Juan Diego.”

  “We don’t have to be too fancy with costumes, but I can do some things. Nora, what do you have in the storeroom?” Brother Herman asked. “If you get me a sheet for a poncho, I can sketch Our Lady on it. Leon, you can wear it inside out until the scene with the bishop. Then you can step offstage and reverse it. Then when you come on to see the bishop, you can empty out the roses at his feet and voila!” he gestured.

  “That would be great!” Leon enthused.

  “And if you can find me something like a blue sheet, I could paint stars on it, and that would work for a mantle for you, Nora,” Brother Herman went on.

  “I think there is a pale blue sheet there, actually,” Nora nodded, still looking unsure.

  “Hermano Herman, you could use the canvas from your drop cloths for a poncho,” Brother Leon suggested.

  “What about that monstrous pink dress?” Nora asked suddenly, turning to Leon. “That might make a good robe for Our Lady. I think it’ll fit me—it’s huge, but I could belt it.”

  “With a purple or black sash,” Brother Herman said.

  “There’s a bunch of old neckties—I can use one of those,” Nora said. She sighed. “All right, you win. I’ll do it.”

  “Hurray!” the novices cheered.

  They were such an odd com
pany—a half dozen or so bearded men in gray and one black and white girl, seated round a rough table in a squalid kitchen. But from the roars of unchecked laughter that engulfed them, it was evident that there was a unique bond melding. A ring of plain metal set with the jewel of a girl.

  Yes, it was unusual, Brother Leon reflected. It would not last—there was little practical way Nora could remain with them. But the image was a lasting one, and he tucked it away in his store of memory as an unusual glint of light from the Kingdom of Heaven, God’s odd reflection.

  “Well, thank you for lunch. Let me see if I can find the dress,” Nora said after they had prayed grace after meals.

  “And the blue sheet,” said Brother Herman.

  Brother Leon followed them out to the vestibule, and halted in admiration at the neat stacks of folded trousers and shirts, and the rows of coats hanging from pipes fitted into the niches on the sides.

  “This looks great!” he said. “It must have been a lot of work.”

  “I was happy to do it,” Nora said, sorting through a handful of ties that were hanging from a wire hanger bent into a loop. “Here’s a blue one—and a purple one.”

  “Where’s that sheet?” Brother Herman asked.

  “Over there with the dresses,” Nora said. “I threw everything that wasn’t men’s clothing over here.” Brother Herman began to dig through a pile that represented the last bit of the former chaos.

  Leon was still shaking his head. “It’s neat to see how your hours of work have paid off—” he was saying, when suddenly Brother Herman stopped with a puzzled look. He fished in the pile and pulled out a crumpled brown paper bag. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, that’s just some junk jewelry and loose buttons I found among the other things,” Nora said dismissively. But when Brother Herman emptied some of the contents into his hand, she paused. Leon stared. Inside the bag were dozens of pink, green, and white pills.

  III

  In the crisscrossing madness of Grand Central, Bear almost lost the man, but he caught a glimpse of him strolling down the ramps to the Metro North trains. On this lazy Saturday afternoon, the commuter rails were nearly deserted, so Bear had to be more careful. He slowed his steps and paused by a bank of ticket machines, keeping his eyes on the man. His target meandered up and down several terminals before choosing the Harlem line.