Black as Night: A Fairy Tale Retold (The Fairy Tale Novels)

by Regina Doman

  “That’s what I’m thinking, despite how tricky it would have been to smuggle the drugs into our apartment,” Bear said. “But if that’s the case, it didn’t work. The authorities arrested us instead of Blanche. And because Blanche wasn’t around to be arrested here or at home, the case against her is dissipating. Maybe she’s slipping out of the enemy’s net.” The tightness in him released. But only slightly.

  Fish said grimly, “Wonderful. But that means her enemy will have to do something else to trap her.”

  Bear looked around them at the people passing by. There was no sight of the big man now, but he figured that he wasn’t far away. “What we need to do is find the enemy before the enemy finds Blanche.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Down in the basement with the noise and clamor of the food line, the girl had started to feel overwhelmed. She felt it would never end. As the passing out of food went on and on, she began to experience a strong desire to be alone, and when it seemed that the people were finally starting to disperse as lunchtime drew on, she slipped up the side steps and hurried back to her work in the vestibule.

  Closing the door, she felt a wave of relief pass over her, even though it was hotter upstairs than it had been in the cellar. She wiped her forehead and looked around the vestibule, which, despite several bags of new donations, was starting to show signs of being finished, and she thought that perhaps she would sit in the church for a few minutes.

  Sitting in the creaking wooden pew, she looked from the tabernacle to the stained glass windows, and started to feel her heart slow down.

  Got to watch my heart, she told herself. She had a dysfunction in one of her valves, which meant that stress caused less oxygen to get to her lungs, and she had, on several memorable occasions, fainted. This summer, she had started taking medication, which had improved the condition, but of course, she hadn’t taken any since she had come to the friary. It had been a background worry on top of everything else, but all she could do at the moment was to try and take things a bit easy.

  Even so, she felt guilty for leaving the work downstairs. Had she run away from the people because they were unattractive and poor? Was she turning away someone who was in need?

  Next time, I’ll try harder. Sighing, she got up, genuflected, and walked back to the vestibule.

  As she stepped into the little space, closing the door behind her, she saw she was not alone. The bag lady in the blue hat had followed her up the steps, and was sitting on a garbage bag, chewing on a lollipop and staring at the stained glass window above the door.

  “Hello,” the girl said.

  “‘Lo,” the woman said, through her lollipop.

  The girl hesitated. Brother Leon had warned her not to be alone with any of the visitors to the friary. “Shouldn’t we go back downstairs?” she asked.

  “Don’t want to,” the woman muttered. “Want to talk with you. You’re such a pretty girl. And it’s quiet up here.”

  The girl stood at the top of the steps and thought. Yes, I shouldn’t be alone with the woman, but according to the friary rules, I shouldn’t leave the woman alone either… Well, I think I can handle one elderly woman, she decided at last. I can talk with her a few minutes and then hopefully I can persuade her to come downstairs with me.

  “What do you want to talk about?” she asked, sitting on another bag of clothes opposite the woman.

  “I want to tell you how to do it,” the lady said calmly, chewing on her lollipop. It was difficult to understand her.

  “How—what?”

  The lady didn’t answer at first. She bit the candy off the stick, swallowed it, put the stick carefully into her left pocket, then pulled another lollipop out of her right pocket, methodically unwrapped it, and put it into her mouth. Only then did she resume speaking.

  “How to get men to do things for you,” she said.

  The girl drew back. “I’m not interested,” she said.

  The old woman chuckled. “Don’t look so shocked, honey. You’re younger than I am.” She heaved a sigh. “Not so young as I once was. Used to have men falling all over me. But then I got old, and other women, they started getting younger. When my husband started—but you don’t want to hear about my problems.” She waved the lollipop at the girl. “Let me give you some advice.”

  Old people were always giving advice, and the girl wasn’t surprised to hear an old homeless lady offering to give her some. Do I look as though I’m in dire need of assistance? Maybe I come off as helpless, she speculated as she resigned herself to listening.

  “You got to use yourself to your own advantage. That’s your problem.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “No,” the lady chuckled, coughed, and chuckled again. “No, you’re not sorry.”

  Again the woman’s mumbling confused the girl.

  “What you need,” the woman said finally, “is some better clothes. And some pretty things to catch the eye.” She dug in her bags. “I’ve got something here you might like.” She held up a gold chain necklace. “Only five dollars.”

  The girl had to smile. So that was what this was about. A sales pitch. She looked at the necklace, but it was clear that the catch on the chain was missing. It was something the woman had probably found while digging through a waste bin. “I’m sorry, I don’t have five dollars.”

  “What about three? Two?” the lady persisted, but the girl shook her head, smiling.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Hold on—what about this?” She scrabbled through her possessions again and produced a stretched-out elastic string of plastic beads, blue and orange. “Four dollars. It’s vintage.”

  “No, thank you. I’m sorry.”

  “Then what about this?”

  The girl paused as the lady held up a shining scarlet satin ribbon, with a delicate golden heart swinging on it. The heart was obviously not real gold, and was slightly dented.

  “Three dollars,” the lady said encouragingly.

  The girl touched the ribbon with one finger but said, “I don’t have three dollars.”

  “Two dollars? One dollar?”

  It was pitiable to see how eager the lady was to make some kind of profit from the treasures she had scrounged from the trash. The girl put a hand into her jeans pocket. While sorting through clothes, she had occasionally found a coin or two in the pockets, which she had been storing up in her jeans. She was going to ask the friars later on what she should do with them. Now she pulled out her little findings and looked at them critically.

  “How about thirty-three cents?”

  “Done,” the lady said eagerly, and put out her hand. The girl gave her the coins, and the woman counted them up several times, putting them in her right pocket. The girl saw dozens of other lollypops sticking up from her pocket. The friars had been giving them out downstairs, and this lady had apparently helped herself to the lot.

  “Now, let me put it on for you,” the woman got up and hobbled over to where the girl was sitting.

  “Oh, I can do it myself,” the girl said, but the old woman shook her head.

  “Let me do it for you properly. The catch doesn’t work.”

  So the girl, a bit uncertainly, sat still while the woman carefully lowered the red choker over her head and began to put it around her neck. The ribbon was smooth, and the girl ran a finger over it. She would let the old woman put it on her neck now, but she would take it off as soon as she got the lady downstairs. It was a bit showier than she would have liked. What she really wanted (and needed) was a ribbon to hold back her flopping black hair—

  She swallowed as the necklace tightened against her neck and clicked shut.

  “All right?”

  “That’s too tight,” the girl said, feeling with her hand for the clasp.

  “That’s the way those things are,” the old woman said, sitting down in front of her. She gestured. “That’s why it’s called a choker.”

  “It’s rather uncomfortable,” the girl said, swallowing again
.

  “But you look very pretty in it.” The woman said, staring at her through the green eyeshade. “Yes, it suits you. Suits you well. Scarlet.”

  The girl tried to get a finger between her neck and the ribbon and couldn’t. “Could you take it off?” she managed to say.

  The old lady shook her head. “But you look so nice. Very very nice.”

  The girl tried to smile, and swallowed again.

  “Have you ever heard of the scarlet ladies?”

  The girl shook her head, and tried tugging at the collar to loosen it.

  “I used to see them when I was a girl, in the dance halls, with their big flouncy skirts. They’d wear little ribbons round their necks. Black ribbons. They say it sets off the neck. Makes it look longer. Like a swan. Swans are white, with black eyes. But I saw one girl once, who wore a scarlet ribbon, just like that. And she’d move about in her flouncy skirt, and her eyes were like your eyes. Girls in scarlet, they know how to get things, how to use what they’ve got. They’re not afraid to go down. You’re like that, right? You’re not afraid? Not afraid of going down?”

  Right now the girl was more concerned about breathing. She fumbled behind her head with the clasp, trying to work it to the front so that she could undo it. But the ribbon wouldn’t move. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead.

  “No, you’re not afraid. You’re a white girl with a little bit of red, just a touch of scarlet to get yourself what you want. That’s what you are. You use your scarlet, your little bit of scarlet, and you get what you want, you do. You’re not all scarlet, just a bit of scarlet. Just a bit. That’s all you need to catch the eye, isn’t it? And maybe you look better than the girls drenched in red because that’s all you have, just one touch of red. But it’s enough.”

  The girl worked and worked at the clasp, trying to figure out how to open it. It didn’t seem like one she was used to. Holding her arms up in the air behind her head was awkward after a while. She was losing feeling in her hands, and lowered them hastily, wiping her forehead and swallowing again. Her mouth was going dry.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Can’t breathe,” she said huskily. “You have to get this off me—”

  The old lady seemed to snap out of her rambling and came over to her. For a while, she tried fumbling around the back of the girl’s neck while the girl waited, swallowing.

  “My old hands just aren’t good enough,” she croaked, after groping for the clasp. “You need someone to help—You sit quiet while I—I would sit down if I were you—”

  But the girl had already stood up in a panic, and that was the last thing she remembered.

  II

  “Where’s Nora?” Leon looked around as they were ushering the last people out of the basement with their food.

  “I haven’t seen her in a while,” Charley said. “Wasn’t she with Marisol and her little girl?”

  Leon was about to answer when he saw the blue ski cap lady opening the door to the vestibule steps. “Hey. Looks like Bonnie went AWOL again.”

  “Better check those bags she’s carrying,” Matt said in a low voice.

  “Hey, Bonnie, you’re not supposed to go up there,” Leon said warningly. To his surprise, instead of scooting away, the old lady came up to him and tugged his rope.

  “That pretty girl, she’s sick.”

  “What do you mean, she’s sick?”

  “She got too hot. Upstairs. Better go help her.”

  “Charley, watch Bonnie.” Leon hurried up the steps to the vestibule and yelled as he reached the top. Nora lay on the vestibule floor, sweating, eyes closed, her face white as salt. “Father Francis!” Leon yelled. “You guys! I need some help!”

  The other novices came running up the stairs, and Father Francis, hearing the shouts, came in from the friary kitchen.

  “Heaven help us,” the older friar muttered, dropping to his knees and picking up Nora’s hand, feeling her pulse and forehead. “She’s having a seizure of some kind.”

  “Heat stroke?” Matt asked.

  “I don’t know,” the older friar listened to her heart. “She’s having trouble breathing.”

  Leon stared at the girl, and saw the red ribbon round her neck. He bent down and pulled at it, and was frightened at how tight it was. “Someone get this thing off of her,” he said.

  “You’re right,” Father Francis said, checking it. “Someone get me a scissors or a knife!”

  Charley dashed into the kitchen for a knife and Matt into the office for a scissors. Charley returned first, and Father Francis, smoothing back his beard and biting his lip, slipped the knife blade between Nora’s neck and the ribbon and sliced it through.

  All at once, Nora started coughing, and Leon lifted her up by the shoulders, holding her head. Father Francis pushed on her diaphragm, and she coughed again, heaved, and started to breathe. After a minute or two, she opened her eyes woozily.

  “What happened?” The words were barely audible.

  “You passed out,” Father Francis said grimly, holding up the scarlet ribbon. “This was on far too tightly to allow you to breathe.”

  “Where’d she get that from?” Brother Matt asked. “She wasn’t wearing that before.”

  “I gave it to her,” piped up a cracked voice from the back of the vestibule.

  They had all forgotten about Bonnie. The homeless woman sat on a garbage bag, sucking on a lollypop.

  “Did you put it on her?” Father Francis asked.

  The woman nodded. “She looked so pretty in it.” She paused, looking around through her green eyeshade. “What’s wrong?”

  “You put it on her too tight, and she couldn’t breathe, apparently,” Father Francis said, a bit curtly.

  “I’m sorry,” Bonnie said, blinking behind her eyeshade. “It was a present. She looked so pretty in it.”

  There was an awkward silence. Brother Matt caught Father Francis’s eye and got up. “Bonnie, let me help you get your food.”

  “I was right to tell you, wasn’t I?” Bonnie inquired, getting up. “I told you she was sick.”

  “Yes, it’s very good that you told us,” Father Francis said. “Thank you, Bonnie. That was the right thing to do.”

  In the silence that followed, Bonnie got up and shuffled down the steps accompanied by Brother Matt. The other friars looked at Nora, who was becoming more aware.

  “Bonnie’s not playing with a full deck, but at least she had enough perception to see something was wrong with Nora and come and get us,” Brother Herman said.

  “Someone let this Bonnie out of his sight,” Father Francis said, glancing around with a beady eye. “Obviously, we shouldn’t have let this happen.”

  Nora sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should have stayed downstairs.”

  “Don’t get up,” Father Francis instructed. “Now, Nora, I don’t know if anyone told you this, but it’s really not good for you to be alone with any of the visitors to the friary.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” Nora murmured. “Brother Leon told me, but I—figured I’d just talk to her.”

  “Well, in the future, don’t be talking to these people alone, and don’t let them give you any fashion advice,” Father Francis said, half-serious. “Some of them are harmless enough, but as you can see, someone like Bonnie can be a potential danger.”

  “I can see that,” Nora said, blinking. “I’m sorry.”

  Father Francis put a hand on her forehead again. “You okay now?”

  “I have this slight heart problem,” Nora replied in a quiet voice. “It makes me prone to fainting under stress.”

  “And the heat probably didn’t help,” Father Francis said. “Okay. I think you’re done with your work for today. Let us help you back to your bed. You need some rest.”

  With a mixture of sadness and worry, Leon watched the priest and Brother Charley help carry Nora back to her bedroom. He remembered Nora’s words from their night conversation: “After a while, it seemed as though any ran
dom destructive force was going to careen in my direction.”

  Troubled, he took a few steps from the vestibule to the church, knelt down, and prayed.

  III

  “Did you find anything out?” Bear asked Jean as they picked them up at the nursing home slightly past noon.

  “We learned something about Blanche,” Rose said solemnly. “Those old people love her. A couple of them wanted to know why she hadn’t come by this week. They couldn’t say enough about her.” She paused. “I used to think that Blanche was crazy for visiting nursing homes,” she admitted. “To me, it’s always been—well, boring. But Blanche was really committed to doing it. It makes me feel like I’ve wasted my summer, just starring in a play.”

  Jean rubbed her daughter’s shoulder. “But Rose, you brought joy to a lot of children when you did it. Don’t you remember how you just went on and on about those day camp kids you performed for?”

  “True,” Rose admitted. “I guess between the two of us, we take care of both ends of the spectrum, don’t we? And I really enjoyed the kids’ theatre.”

  Fish slapped himself on the forehead and pulled out the postcard from his trench coat pocket. “Which reminds me—here you are. But don’t thank me—thank Bear. He remembered and I forgot. That is the correct Sibyl, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Rose said with some delight, examining the slightly battered postcard. “Isn’t she beautiful? I wish I could look like her. Wise and innocent all at the same time.”

  Bear looked at his brother, who coughed and said, “You’ll have to tell me all about your play. I regret that I missed it.”

  “So am I, Rose,” Bear said. “Did you get any pictures?”

  “We did,” Jean said. “I’ll have to bring them out. But first—what shall we do about lunch?”

  “We’ll take you out,” Bear said. He wasn’t hungry, but he could appreciate that the others might be. “Where’s Mrs. Foster?”