Embracing Darkness (34 page)

“Why the typewriter, Sister?” Father Poole asked.

“It serves a twofold purpose, Father. First, I believe that I can be of greater service to you than being merely your secretary. I believe that there’s more to my role here than just answering your phone, typing your letters and homilies, making your appointments for weddings or funerals, and so on. I’ve been getting familiar with Mr. Benson’s house. You know, I never saw the old geezer read even once, yet his house is filled with books. In his living room he has about a hundred books. I’ve already picked up several:
The
Jungle
,
Madame
Bovary
, and
The
Divine
Comedy
, among others.”

Father Poole could tell that Sister Ignatius had been hitting the glue this morning.

She continued, “I’m now reading
Idylls
of
the
King
. It’s about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It’s poetry, Father. I think I’ll write down some interesting lines from the book. They may act as an inspiration for your sermons.”

Phineas cleared his throat after Sister Ignatius uttered her last words. “Thank you for your interest and all your efforts. However, I don’t believe I need help when it comes to the weekly homily.”

She stopped typing, cocked her head, and to his surprise smiled. “Oh, come now, Father. Do you know how many people yawn through your sermons? I can tell you from sitting in the front pew that it’s like having the front doors of the church wide open on a breezy day. If it weren’t for my headpiece, I’d catch such a draft that my neck would stiffen up every Monday morning!”

No sooner did these words pass the Sister’s lips than Mrs. Keats threw open the door to the kitchen, which as usual hit the left side of the hutch. This collision always drew Father Poole’s attention to the beautiful but abused piece of furniture. He promised himself every time that the door hit it that he was going to get Argyle Hobbs to refinish the antique hutch, but so many other things always needed attention, one of which was painting that last room on the left upstairs every few weeks for Sister Ignatius.

Mrs. Keats motioned to Sister Ignatius that breakfast would be served in twenty minutes, and she made this known by opening her hands and flashing her palms twice to the nun.

“THANK YOU, MRS. KEATS!” Sister Ignatius yelled, and then went back to her furious typing.

“What was the second reason for bringing the typewriter out to the breakfast table?” asked St. Andrews’ head priest boldly.

“Because, Father, I’m also drafting a letter from you to that awful Dolores Pennywhistle. You’re going to tell her off for dismissing us just when we needed her help.”

“You don’t need to bother,” he replied.

“Certainly I do. I never liked that bitch. She’s so self-righteous.”

“Sister, we have Jessica. No need to remind her of the fact. And besides, you didn’t want Jessica going to the orphanage, so if anything you should be writing the old girl a thank-you letter.”

“She hates Catholics! Of that I’m sure,” said the irascible nun, disregarding Father Poole.

As the countdown to breakfast came one minute closer to zero, Father Poole heard arguing from the other side of the rectory. It sounded to be coming from the common room. All at once his attention turned to what he perceived might be trouble with the boys.

“We’ll talk more about this later, Sister,” he said, hastily storming out of the dining room. “In the meantime, no letter to Dolores Pennywhistle.”

In the common room Zachary, clad only in his bloomers, was shouting at Jonas: “Tryin’ to rob me, boy? Is that what you were fixin’ to do?”

Father Poole immediately intervened, picking up Jessica and standing next to Jonas. “What’s going on here?” the priest demanded.

“Your Negro here tried to take my trousers while I was sleepin’. I woke up fast and caught his black hands red-handed!”

Jonas appeared frightened. He said, “I’s jus’ movin’ ’em so’s dat the li’l girl here could stand on the couch an’ not get ’em all filthy. I’s jus’ tryin’ to help, sir. I ain’t mean nuttin’ by it.”

At that comment Zachary lunged for Jonas, attempting to grab the boy’s shirt. “I’ll help you alright, boy. I’ll be helpin’ you outta this here house by kickin’ your black ass through that window!”

Father Poole intercepted Zachary’s advance. “THAT’S ENOUGH OUT OF YOU, MASTER BLACK! GO TAKE A WALK!”

Zachary began marching in place. “A walk? Where? Like this?”

Father Poole didn’t appreciate this behavior, and felt like telling the boy how he was, to use Zachary’s own words, fixin’ to give him a smack across the behind if he didn’t do as he was told. “I don’t care if you walk to the water closet. Just leave this room right now.”

The distant sound of a typewriter could be heard near the hall. Zachary stood up on his toes and brought his mouth as close as he could to Father Poole’s ear. “You always take his side, don’t you, Preacher?”

As he watched Zachary grab his clothes and walk out of the room, it occurred to the priest that just possibly Zachary did feel like the victim. Such questions began to haunt Phineas, who was trying not only to help Zachary but also to understand him so that he might change the way Zachary looked at the world.

That morning’s breakfast was a strange affair. Sister Ignatius pushed the typewriter to the side to make room for her plate, but every time an idea came to her she shifted her chair and began to type. The only one who did not care one way or the other about the nun’s behavior was Mrs. Keats.

Halfway through breakfast Father Poole mentioned to Sister Ignatius that he needed to go into town on business.

Now off her typewriter and into her second helping of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes, she said, “Are you thinking of going back to the orphanage? If you are, don’t. Dolores might notify the state if you go back. You won’t go there, will you?”

“No,” replied Father Poole, “nothing like that. I just need to discuss something with Arthur Nichols. Besides, wasn’t I the one who said that going to see Dolores Pennywhistle wouldn’t be such a good idea?”

Sister concentrated on the contents of her plate, continuing to eat. Father Poole took her sudden silence as her way of ending the matter.

Every time he observed Jonas, Father Poole couldn’t help but wonder about what might have happened to his parents. He was worried that someone might remember having seen him and Arthur Nichols enter the bar. He knew that he had to go to the police and believed that he hadn’t a moment to spare.

Phineas excused himself and quickly went outside to Zachary. “Son,” he said, “I’d like you to come into town with me.”

Zachary scoffed at the priest, a response that made Father Poole go for Zachary’s collar. “You come with me, son. I can’t trust you here yet on your own.” He realized that this was the first time he’d been direct with Zachary regarding the boy’s behavior. “Besides, I don’t think you should be skipping breakfast.”

Father Poole pulled out a tightly wrapped roll with scrambled eggs and fried potatoes inside and handed it to Zachary.

Zachary shook off Father Poole’s grip on his collar, grabbed the sandwich, pulled away the napkin, and began eating voraciously. As he did so, the two of them started down the path.

They reached Kensington Street near the speakeasy, where Phineas immediately noticed the police presence. “You wait here,” he said to Zachary. “I’ve got some business to take care of.”

Father Poole walked up to the policeman standing at the bar’s front door. Zachary couldn’t hear what the two were discussing, but after several seconds Father Poole entered the bar.

“Damn!” Zachary mumbled. “A bit early to be hittin’ the bottle.”

The morning was cold and damp, quite usual for this time of the year, but the sun was shining. With nothing else to do but wait for Father Poole, Zachary bundled up his coat to his neck and studied the hustle and bustle of a busy morning on Kensington Street. Drunks were emerging from the back alleys between storefronts, newly awake after a night of imbibing; police officials and politicians were on duty or en route to the office after an evening’s debauchery; husbands who only minutes before had kissed their wives goodbye were heading off to the office, or the mill, or the post office, or wherever else these upstanding citizens of Holly were bound.

Immorality and corruption were no stranger in Holly, just as in other parts of the world. Some attributed it to the fact that Boston was so close to the relatively peaceful hamlet. Others blamed it on “The Watering Hole” and the availability of illegal alcohol, a problem that most accepted and did nothing about.

Even Dolores Pennywhistle, head of the Women’s Temperance League and WHALE, was not much help. Miss Pennywhistle knew how things ran in town. She herself didn’t like the idea of alcohol, and despised the fact that her orphanage lay so close to the speakeasy, but each night, as she left the orphanage for home, she hypocritically ignored the bar’s stream of notable patrons, which included policemen, members of Wheelwright Academy’s school board and alumni association, and even Mayor Aberfoyle. She kept her silence, however, because she too was a member of this club of corruption, paying off building inspectors so as not to fine her for code violations, money that came from the orphanage’s petty-cash fund. She always labeled these withdrawals in her books as “Expenses for Long-Term Improvements.”.

Corruption in Holly often took the form of graft, a lesson that Father Poole was about to learn firsthand.

At one of the tables in “The Watering Hole” the priest noticed a gentleman dressed in an expensive suit with a fine derby slanted at a jaunty angle. He was of a stocky build, had a thick moustache, and looked to be about forty. He was smoking a fine Cuban cigar. Father Poole had asked the officer guarding the entrance whether he might speak to whomever was in charge. The officer had told him to speak to Captain Nelson Ransom, the very person from whom Phineas would receive his lesson in bribery.

“How can I help you, Father?” Ransom asked in a deep voice.

“My name is Father Phineas Poole. I am the priest at St. Andrew’s Catholic Church. A crime was committed here last night, am I right?” Father Poole added, surprised at his own bluntness.

Ransom didn’t react immediately to Father Poole’s words. Instead, he removed the cigar from his mouth with his left hand and placed it in the ashtray next to his right wrist. He then adjusted his seat and sat forward, clearing his throat as he did so. “And how would you know that, Father?”

“Why else would a police captain be sitting here at ten to eight in the morning?” answered Phineas shrewdly.

“We haven’t yet made any formal statement. How do you know this is the scene of a crime?”

“The blood on the floor with chalk marks all around and the police barricade in front of this establishment, I suppose.”

“I am well aware that people in this town like to talk.”

“Then there were witnesses?”

“I didn’t say that, Father.”

“But that’s always the case, isn’t it, Captain? After all, this
is
a busy street.”

“The crime could have occurred late at night when everyone was sleeping.”

The policeman sat back again, picking up his cigar and quickly surveying Father Poole.
Perhaps
this
priest
knew
something
, he thought. Ransom then motioned to the chair in front of him, and Phineas reluctantly sat down.

“Why have you come here, Father? Do you have something to tell me that relates to this crime?”

“Perhaps I’m here to meet with anyone whom you’ve detained and who might wish to confess his sins.”

“You think that a Catholic was involved?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, you aren’t the only clergyman in town. There’s a Congregationalist minister not two blocks from here, and a Presbyterian minister around the corner. Yet you come here all the way from up on that hill. I think that you know something about what took place here. I wasn’t born yesterday, Father. Tell me what you know.”

Distracted by the cigar burning in the ashtray, Father Poole recognized that its smoke was drifting in his direction, as if teasing him to divulge whatever information he knew.

Before Father Poole related the events of the night before, Zachary Black had already made his way to the back of the alley, where no policemen were posted. He heard Father Poole tell Captain Ransom every detail: how he and Arthur Nichols had entered the bar; how they had seen Ezra Hodges beating his son and decided to take the boy away for his protection; how Ezra Hodges had attacked everyone; and how they had heard two gunshots as they arrived at Holly Hill.

“So we have the boy, Jonas, staying with us, Captain,” concluded Phineas.

“Kidnapping is a very serious crime, Father.”

“We didn’t kidnap him, Captain Ransom. We believe we saved him.”

“But he’s not with you now, is he? When were you planning to turn him over to the authorities?”

“I don’t plan on doing that at all.”

“How’s that?

“There’s really no need to, Captain. He’s found a home with us. Besides, I promised his mother. I gave her my word.”

Ransom frowned before walking to the bar’s front door and closing it. He then returned to Father Poole and once again took his seat.

“Now, Father,” began Ransom, “we can talk without any interruptions.” The two were now alone with the exception of Zachary standing behind the back door and still listening to every word.

“I’ve told you all that I know, Captain.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Ransom moved closer to Father Poole until the two men’s noses almost touched. “Father,” the detective continued, “I can see that you’re a man who really cares about this colored boy, this Jonas is it?”

“That’s right,” replied the priest, “and I’d do anything for him. I’d do the same for anyone who needed me.”

The Captain clenched the cigar firmly between his teeth and brandished them. “
Anything
?”