Embracing Darkness

by Christopher D. Roe

  By lunchtime Zachary was in the principal’s office for trying to strangle another student who had refused to give him his lunch as well as for his remark to Sarah Gordon. Olivia was told to collect her son and not bring him back to the Academy ever again.

  For the next two years Zachary continued to be home-schooled by his mother, who did a poor job of it. She’d let him sleep until he was ready to wake up. Then he’d stroll into the kitchen to have a piece of toast drowned in honey, after which Olivia would give him various books from which he’d select a chapter. He’d sometimes take the whole afternoon for this task before giving his mother a synopsis and perhaps answering a few of her questions. While Zachary read his pointless chapters, his mother would shop for new furnishings for the house in her latest Sears & Roebuck catalogue.

  He was inactive to say the least. Many times the boy would stay downstairs all day, only because he didn’t feel like climbing the staircase to go back to his room. Instead he’d go into the living room, pull a dirty magazine from under one of the sofa cushions where he’d hidden it, lie on the couch, and thumb through it again with his hand shoved into his pants.

  In November of 1929, Zachary Black went to Kensington Street to search for his father. His mother had been gone since he’d gotten up that morning, and he wanted money to buy candy and an ice-cream soda. After he found a note Olivia had left for him on the kitchen table, Zachary went immediately to look for his father.

  Zachary made it to Kensington Street just in time to see his father crawl out of an alley. When he ran up to him, his father flinched. Realizing that he had gotten too close, Zachary took a step back and said respectfully, “Daddy, I’d like some money, please.”

  Hearing the word “money” made Willy reflect back on the night before just as he was on his way out to “The Watering Hole.” Olivia had told him, “My father’s lost most of his fortune in the stock market. He can’t afford to support us anymore. He’s going to sell our house, so there’s no reason I have to stay with you. I have an old aunt up in Maine. I have told my parents everything—who you are and where you came from. If my father weren’t on the verge of doing himself in on account of losing everything he worked for, he’d have you hanging by your own pecker. You’re going to have custody of Zachary, so you can take your son. I don’t want to see either of you ever again.”

  Willy drank more than he had ever consumed in one night. As he gritted his teeth, the word “money” kept echoing in his ears. He thought that the boy had said it just to anger him.

  With a swipe of the back of his hand, he cracked Zachary across the face. The boy’s nose gushed with blood. Father Poole saw the assault from across the street and, forgetting all about little Jessica, ran over to Zachary. He knelt down, put Zachary’s head on top of his thigh, and pulled out a handkerchief. He held it to the boy’s nose as quickly as he could manage.

  “Good God, man!” the priest exclaimed. “Why, he’s only a child!”

  Teetering back and forth as though he were about to topple over, Willy slurred, “He’s mmmy boyyy. Yyyou juss ssstay away, preacher!” Willy pushed Father Poole out of the way and went right for Zachary again. “MONEY!” he screamed. “YOU WAN’ MMMMONEY? WWWELL GUESSSSS WHA’? THERE AIN’T NNNO MMMORE FFFUCKIN’ MMMONEY!”

  Willy then laughed uncontrollably as he pounded again and again on Zachary’s head. He hit him on the ears, both eyes, mouth, and bridge of his nose, so hard that this time the boy’s nose broke. With all his force Father Poole managed to knock Willy away from Zachary.

  By now a crowd had gathered. They held Willy back as he struggled to attack Father Poole. Weakened by inebriation and a bad night’s sleep, he soon desisted and yielded to the people who had been restraining him.

  Just then everyone’s attention turned to the street when a car horn sounded feverishly. The crowd turned to see a little girl standing in the middle of the street, a car about to hit her. “Jessica!” Father Poole shouted. As badly injured as he was, Zachary Black watched assiduously as the vehicle bore down on the child in the hope that it would crush and kill her. Suddenly another figure emerged. It was the retired schoolteacher, Arthur Nichols, who ran into the street, grabbed Jessica, and pulled her out of the way just as the car drove by.

  Father Poole ran over and took Jessica from Mr. Nichols, hugging her tenderly. After thanking God out loud, the priest turned and thanked the rescuer over and over again.

  “I only ask, Father,” Arthur Nichols said, “that you be more vigilant in the care of this child.”

  The two laughed and shook hands. Zachary had followed Father Poole over to little Jessica. Arthur Nichols suddenly felt his heart sink. Something about this boy gave him a bad feeling. Working with children for as many years as he had, Mr. Nichols had a knack for telling which children were good and which ones weren’t.

  “Hello, young man,” Mr. Nichols said to Zachary, a bit uneasy but still willing to give the boy the benefit of the doubt. “I say, you look familiar. Were you by any chance once at Wheelwright Academy? I taught there until this past June. I think you were in my class for a spell.”

  “My mamma taught me. I learned from home,” Zachary replied, holding a handkerchief over his nose to staunch the bleeding. Willy had already gone.

  “So son, what’s your name?” asked the priest, putting his hand on Zachary’s shoulder.

  The adolescent immediately shook it off and snapped, “I’m not your son.”

  “My boy,” Mr. Nichols said. “Can’t you tell us your name? We want to help you.”

  “I don’t need no help,” Zachary replied. “I can take care of myself.”

  Father Poole and Arthur Nichols didn’t like any of this. They hated how the boy’s father, publicly drunk, had beaten him, and the boy’s demeanor made them uneasy. After a visit to Dr. Honigmann, who inquired after Zachary’s identity four times, to reset the child’s broken nose, the two men decided to walk Zachary back to his house. Father Poole felt it his responsibility to learn who this boy was so that he might follow up on him in a few weeks.

  “We’ll find out the name once we reach his house, I’m sure,” Father Poole said to Arthur Nichols, who had drawn a blank in remembering the boy’s name. “Are you sure you can’t remember any part of his name?”

  “Come now, Father,” Nichols said. “I had him in class for only one day, and that was a few years ago.”

  As they made their way past Hemlock Street, Father Poole said to Zachary, “I look forward to seeing where you live, friend.”

  Zachary glanced briefly at the priest. “Suit yourselves if y’all wanna come back with me. My mom ain’t home. She’s gone. Left a note sayin’ she wasn’t comin’ back.”

  When they reached the boy’s home, Phineas noticed the name on the mailbox: Black. “Is that your name?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Father Poole whispered something in Arthur Nichols’ ear and Nichols shrugged. He still couldn’t remember the boy’s first name. After they entered the house, Zachary showed them the note his mother had left: “ZACHARY. I’M LEAVING FOR GOOD. STAY WITH YOUR FATHER. YOUR GRANDFATHER HAS TO SELL THE HOUSE SO YOU’LL HAVE TO LEAVE. YOUR FATHER ALREADY KNOWS. DON’T BOTHER TRYING TO FIND ME BECAUSE YOU WON’T.—OLIVIA.”

  Arthur Nichols, feeling even more uneasy about the boy, directed his attention to Jessica, who now seemed interested in exploring the house. He picked her up and said to Father Poole, “I think I’ll bring this little one to the kitchen and see whether I can’t find her some juice.”

  The house was large and nicely decorated, not the kind of place where the two men expected a drunk and his son would be living. Judging from her note, however, the mother was apparently as heartless as the boy’s father, and for this Father Poole’s heart ached for Zachary Black.

  “So this is where you live,” Father Poole said, trying to break the thick ice that
Zachary had erected between himself and the priest.

  “Yeah,” replied Zachary

  “Your family is well off,” said Father Poole.

  “I suppose.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No.”

  The priest paused before saying, “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here until your father returns.”

  “It’s alright,” said Zachary.

  “I’m afraid he’ll just continue beating you. I can’t take that chance.”

  Zachary abruptly turned away from Father Poole, walked into the living room, sat on the couch, and put his feet up. “I’m used to it, preacher,” the boy said. “I’ll be fine. Maybe things’ll be better without my mother, just me and my old man.”

  “How can you say such a thing, Zachary?”

  “I just mean that now she’s gone maybe he won’t drink so much. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “I know what it’s like, Zachary, being an only child,” replied Father Poole. “And when your parents don’t get along, you seem adrift, not knowing exactly where you fit in.”

  Father Poole turned back to the room. Zachary was attending to his shoes, slowly wrapping his index finger in the loose part of a shoestring. “Are you ever scared here?” asked Father Poole.

  Zachary did not respond, but Father Poole knew that his answer would have been “Yes.”

  “Well, you’re not an orphan, so unless your father leaves as your mother did, you won’t be able to go to the orphanage.”

  Then Father Poole remembered Dolores Pennywhistle’s telling him that as of four days ago there was no room for any new children right now, and he was worried that, once he went back to the orphanage with Jessica, Dolores’s answer would still be the same. Still Father Poole was glad he’d come into town. Another child needed help, and he wasn’t going to go anywhere until he was sure this boy would be alright.

  “Is there an aunt or uncle?” Father Poole asked. “Grandparents? Godparents? Anyone at all I can call for you?”

  No answer came from the boy.

  “I won’t leave you here alone, Zachary.”

  Phineas Poole knew his duties as a priest and good Christian: be compassionate; show charity to all; protect the innocent.

  “So besides your father you have no one?”

  After a long pause Zachary sat back, having finished tying his shoelaces. “Yeah,” he said.

  “Do you mean I’m right that you have no one or that you do have someone?”

  “Yeah, I have no one,” he lied.

  He had his grandparents, of course, but he didn’t really know them and had no desire to live with two old people who would eventually discover that they couldn’t control him. Father Poole sighed deeply, took off his spectacles, removed a linen cloth from his pocket, fogged up his lenses, and began to wipe them. As he did so, Zachary remembered an old man at the bank a few weeks back when he’d gone there with his mother to cash the check her father had sent them. The old man looked affluent and took off his glasses to clean them the same way Father Poole was doing now. Then Zachary remembered a comment his father had made about how churches didn’t have to pay property tax and so must have more money than God. Zachary thought how he’d sell his soul to the devil for just one hour in the priest’s living quarters to relieve him of some of that fortune. Then he wouldn’t need his lousy parents or this priest or anyone ever again.

  “Then you’re coming with me,” said Father Poole, putting his glasses back on. “I won’t let you remain alone here. I don’t want you to feel ever again as though you have no one.”

  Zachary quickly jumped off the couch, and said, “Alright. Let’s go!”

  The boy’s sudden enthusiasm took Father Poole by surprise, but it didn’t stem from gratitude for the cleric’s kindness. Zachary Black’s plan was simple. He’d already manipulated the priest, he thought, into letting him stay at the church. Zachary would stay one or maybe two nights; then, during the day, he would sneak around the place and find out where all the valuables were kept. He remembered reading an excerpt from Les Misérables that his mother had given him during one of his home-school lessons. He recalled Jean Valjean’s being accepted into the bishop’s house, where the holy man gave him food and shelter. Jean Valjean in turn robbed the bishop of all his valuables. This was Zachary Black’s plan.

  Arthur Nichols emerged from the kitchen just as Zachary was running up the stairs to get some clothes and a few odds and ends. “Where’s he going?” asked Mr. Nichols, still holding Jessica, who had now fallen asleep in his arms.

  “He’s getting a few things together. I’m taking him back up to the church. He’s going to stay with me.”

  “What? How? Can you do that?”

  “I’m the only priest up there. I won’t have to answer to anyone. It’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t like his eyes, Father. There’s something about that boy I don’t like.”

  “Oh, come now! He’s a frightened boy, Mr. Nichols, frightened and alone. His hardness is a mask, a shield to protect him from his misery. He’s lost his mother, who apparently cared little for him, and now is leaving his father who beat him. He’s losing his home, a beautiful home that he’s lived in for who knows how long. Try to understand.”

  The stairs were pounded by heavy footsteps as Zachary came hurriedly down. Over his shoulder he had a bag with the belongings he chose to take with him: two shirts, an extra pair of trousers, two pairs of clean bloomers, two pairs of black socks, his toy model horse, two of his favorite dirty magazines (courtesy of his father), a slingshot, and a pocketknife.

  Entering the living room where the two men were standing, Zachary went over to the couch, lifted up a cushion, pulled out two more dirty magazines, and quickly shoved them into his bag. Father Poole was now holding little Jessica, who was still fast asleep with her head resting on the priest’s shoulder. Arthur Nichols stood before Zachary holding Jessica’s half-consumed glass of apple juice. Zachary Black stared at the three of them and, flashing a sinister smile, said, “I’m all set. Let’s go.”

  SIXTEEN

  The Newest Residents of Holly Hill

  Father Poole and Arthur Nichols, accompanied by Zachary Black and Jessica Benson, reached the foot of Holly Hill at a little past 11:00. The cold, early morning November air numbed their nostrils, and the wind caused their eyes to water. Winter was quickly roaring in, and summer was now no more than a distant memory.

  Zachary could see the church at the summit and realized there was no road for a car. He observed instead a narrow path that led up to the rectory’s steps. His nose began to throb again from his father’s blow. He clasped the bandage that Dr. Honigmann had managed to put on him after setting the bone, something Zachary didn’t appreciate because he believed that the repair of his broken nose hurt worse than when he’d broken it. Zachary squeezed it a little harder and felt a sharp pain shoot to his temples. Part of his white bandage suddenly became stained red, and a small amount of blood trickled from his nose. A wave of frustration came over him at the prospect of climbing the hill, which seemed to be longer than it was steep.

  Jessica was beginning to fidget in Mr. Nichols’ arms, so he passed her over to Father Poole. “Honey,” Mr. Nichols said, “you’re going to need to be still for Father Poole. Otherwise you’ll need to walk. That is, unless the boy here wants to hold you.”

  Zachary curled his mouth and glared at him. Mr. Nichols saw the boy scowl and immediately turned away, playing over in his mind what he wished he could tell Father Poole right then and there, if only the boy weren’t walking three feet beside him. It’s his eyes, Father. As I said before, there’s something behind those eyes. I can’t quite make it out, you understand. Perhaps it comes from working for so many years with children. You kind of get to know who the good ones are as well as the rotten a
pples. Be careful of this one, Father. He’s got a mean streak in him. I can see it.

  Father Poole took a deep breath. “Okay, Zachary. This is what we call “The Path to Salvation,” salvation being that white building at the top with the steeple.”

  Arthur Nichols noted the boy’s rigid expression, similar to what he’d seen many times at Wheelwright Academy. It was the way a teacher reacted to a student whose homework wasn’t done correctly or whose behavior was less than congenial. It was an air of contempt mixed with subtle anger and disappointment; mostly a cocktail of feelings reserved for those later on in years who’ve had practice with disillusionment. In Arthur Nichols’ view, Zachary gave the impression of a boy not yet matured into manhood but whose bitterness was already quite unmistakably ripened.

  The group then began the ascent. About halfway up the hill Zachary slowed down, his respiration sounding labored. He hunched over and put his hands on his knees. Arthur Nichols pointed to the boy with his chin. It seemed peculiar to both men that they had more energy than a teenager.

  “What’s the matter, boy?” Nichols asked.

  “I’m fine,” Zachary snapped.

  “It’s really quite beautiful from the top,” Father Poole interrupted, trying his best to break the obvious tension between Arthur Nichols and Zachary Black. “You can see the whole of Holly, as well as all the surrounding farms. And if you look to the south side of the summit, you’ll be able to see the dome of the Exeter Town Hall in the distance. Our own town hall pales in comparison, I must admit.”

  These last words caught Arthur Nichols’ attention. As a lifelong resident of Holly, he agreed that his town was overshadowed by the far more prosperous community of Exeter.

  “Everything is smaller in Holly,” he replied, “even the rats.”

  Father Poole chuckled at the comment Arthur Nichols had made, but Zachary stopped, causing both men to follow suit. The boy straightened up before Nichols.