Embracing Darkness (55 page)

To Zachary Black the priest had aged considerably. He had gone from a young-looking thirty-seven-year-old man with thinning blond hair and round glasses to a tired-looking fifty-year-old with graying hair, thick-lens glasses, and poor posture.

“I…,” Zachary began, hearing instantly the southern twang in his pronunciation. He cleared his throat and began again, this time modifying his speech to sound local. It wasn’t hard because he had grown up in Holly, and his own mother had hailed from this part of the country. “I heard down in town about how you might be having some work up here, Father.”

His phony accent was convincing. Father Poole smiled at the young man and asked him to come inside.

Zachary Black couldn’t help but examine the rectory in a brief moment of nostalgic recollection. Nothing had really changed except that the front door now had a panel of glass in it, and the walls were no longer white but now a warm beige.

“Who told you I was looking for someone to hire?” asked the priest.

“Dwight Mason said you might still be needing a handyman, although he also said that it’s been a month since he’d heard you were looking.”

“Are you on leave?”

“Huh?”

Father Poole pointed to the man’s dirty uniform.

“You’re in the Army, aren’t you?”

Zachary thought quickly. When he finally decided what to say, he put his head down and pretended to sob faintly.

Father Poole approached the young man and put an arm about his shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it, son?”

“Sorry, Father. I don’t know whether I should. I mean, I’m not a Catholic.”

“What’s your name?” Father Poole asked.

Once again Zachary thought quickly. “Jack White,” he replied.

“Well, Jack White,” said Father Poole. “Perhaps we can talk somewhere more privately.”

The two men walked through the kitchen past Mrs. Keats, who’d been busy making a kidney pie for Sister Ignatius. Mrs. Keats didn’t even realize that the two men had passed her.

From there they entered the sanctuary through a side door. It was then that Father Poole made his own attempt at small talk, asking the stranger what was in the bag. “Oh,” began White, “my whole life. And as you can see, Father, that isn’t much.”

The two sat down at the end of the closest pew to where they had entered. Carefully placing his bag at his side, Zachary surveyed his surroundings and at once remembered the church in which he’d once served. He noticed that nothing was any different than it had been when he’d been an altar boy at St. Andrew’s thirteen years before. He tried not to let on to the priest that he was going through a moment of unwelcome nostalgia. Zachary forced himself to snap out of it and put his head down.

“Are you angry with God?” asked Father Poole.

“Why would you say that?” said Jack White, his yellow eyes fixed on Father Poole.

“I just assumed as much. You were staring at my altar, and then you abruptly shied away from it. You even shut your eyes.”

“Yes, Father. If you must know, I
am
angry with God. You’re very perceptive.”

“Why are you angry with Him?”

“Because he took my brother away,” Jack White said slowly, pretending to be on the verge of tears. He waited and then began sobbing again, this time heaving sighs. When he covered his face, Father Poole noticed a wedding band on his left ring finger.

“Are you married?” the priest asked.

“No,” answered White.

Phineas was going to ask why, if the young man wasn’t married, he wore a wedding band on his left hand, but seeing how upset the stranger was, Father Poole decided to let him do all the talking.

“I lost my older brother, Danny. He went off to fight in Europe and came back in a pine box. That’s why I’m wearing this. It’s
his
uniform. It was in with his other effects that were returned home along with his body. The uniform hasn’t been cleaned. It was like this the last time he took it off. It smells like him, feels like him. I sense he’s still around when I wear it. Anyway, Father, that’s why I’m wearing it right now. When I get angry or upset that he’s no longer here, I put this uniform on to remind me of Danny.”

Father Poole pressed his question about the ring in another way. “Was your brother married?”

Although Jack White didn’t know what Father Poole was getting at, he didn’t like the question. He narrowed his eyes and replied, “No.”

Father Poole turned away. He remembered having seen eyes that shade of yellow before. And when Jack White narrowed them, Father Poole’s memories of a certain angry young boy, much as this young man was, flooded his brain.

“How old are you, Jack?”

“Twenty-five.”

Zachary
would
be
just
about
that
age
right
now
, thought Father Poole. But he soon rationalized that the eyes, the anger, and even the name (Jack in lieu of Zack, White instead of Black) were either simply an eerie coincidence or an irony dealt by God. After all, this boy looked nothing like the lonely and lost young man that Father Poole had once known. The stranger’s hair was much fairer, the nose shorter and wider, and the accent authentic. Being a born and bred New Hampshire man himself, Phineas could attest that Jack White was as Yankee as Yankee could be.

The priest chalked it all up to God’s working in mysterious ways. Phineas had failed with Zachary Black, and so the Lord was sending him another needy person the same age as Zachary would have been. God, believed Father Poole, had sent him Jack White to give the cleric a second chance to redeem himself after the debacle with Zachary Black.

“Very well, Mr. White!” Father Poole exclaimed. “Dwight Mason was right to send you here. I
do
have a great need for a strong man such as you. I have my, uhm, altar boys around here taking care of things, but at their age they shouldn’t have to work as hard as they do.”

Money was definitely tight, but Father Poole wasn’t going to let this poor young man down. Jack White
needed
his help. “Are you from Holly?” the priest asked.

“No, sir,” Jack White answered, cunningly. “I’m from Portsmouth. I came out this way looking for work.”

“I too am from Portsmouth. It’s considerably bigger than Holly, bigger than most towns around here. Why did you come this way? It seems to me that the opportunity for jobs here would be scarcer.”

“You’re right about that, Father, but I was planning on going as far south as Boston. The way I saw it was that I’d hit every town from here to Bean Town until I found employment. Holly would be more ideal than Boston for me, since I’d be closer to mom and dad. They’re all alone now since Donnie died.”

“Danny,” Father Poole corrected him.

“Uh, right. Danny. And I needed to leave home, Father. You know it’s hard facing my daddy when all he can think when he sees me is disappointment. ‘Why can’t you be more like Danny was, Jack?’ And it’s not easy facing my mamma either. ‘You remind me so much of your older brother, Jack! Why, every time I see you I see Danny!’ I couldn’t take no more, Father Fin. That’s why I’m here.”

It took the priest a moment before he realized that the young man had called him Father Fin
.
“How did you know that’s what they call me around here?” he asked.

Jack White knew he’d made a near fatal error. He quickly thought up an answer. “That’s what the boy with no shirt called you when I was inquiring about work up here. He said, ‘Just go right on up and call on Father Fin. He’ll take care of you.’”

Father Poole and Jack White talked particulars as they walked out of St. Andrew’s Church toward the Benson house. As they were passing the rectory, the two stopped. Both could have sworn that they’d heard a moaning sound, but they couldn’t tell exactly from where it had come. They listened for it again, but Sue Ellen and I lay still, not moving so much as a muscle.

Father Poole then said to the stranger, “Must have been the wind. We get a nice breeze up here from time to time during the summer. And oddly enough, on days where there’s no wind, the children climb the maple and somehow the wind kicks up. A few of them think the tree is haunted by a good spirit who asks the wind to blow so she can dance and show her happiness whenever the children sit on her. Come on, let me show you the rest of the grounds.”

Just then Father Poole noticed the tabby tail hanging from Jack White’s belt.

“Oh!” said Father Poole. “That’s nice. What is it? Looks a bit like squirrel, but it’s not, is it?”

Jack White took the feline tail in his hand, remembering how he’d strangled Marshall Howell’s pet until its neck broke, much as his father had done years before to the motel clerk’s cat. He ignored the priest’s question, and the two men walked on.

They then talked about wages, Father Poole admitting that he wouldn’t be able to pay much, and getting the young man some new clothes to wear, as he couldn’t possibly keep wearing the dirty Army uniform of his brother. Jack White said that he only cared about getting meals, a place to sleep, and perhaps some pocket money. This arrangement suited Father Poole, and the two men shook on it.

As they did so, Jack White took note of the large maple. He gazed at it in disgust, remembering that he’d never learned to climb it and resented anyone who did. His heart pounded hard in his chest as his mind filled with hate. Children in its branches were laughing.

“That there is the finest old tree you’ll ever see.” said Father Poole. “All the children learn how to climb her, but I remind them that she’s to be treated with respect and dignity.”

“Your altar boys, Father?” asked Jack White.

“Yes.” replied Father Poole after hesitating briefly.

“Isn’t that a bit dangerous for them, being up that high?”

“Oh, not really. Children have been climbing up there for years. Not these particular children, you understand, but I’ve had others who’ve lived here. They learn; they climb; they do it every day until it’s second nature. Then they teach one another. It’s like a cycle. That one lad whom you’ve already met… .”

“The one with no shirt?” asked Jack.

“That’s the boy,” Father Poole said proudly. “He can climb up that maple faster and with greater ease than I’ve ever seen anyone do. And my, uhm, my niece Jessie can climb higher than any of the other children. Truly remarkable, those two are.”

Jack froze and his heart began to pound even harder. “Jessie?”

“Yes, Jessie.”

“Strange name for a girl.” replied White, now noticing an erection in his pants.

Father Poole chuckled. “It’s short for Jessica
.
The boys nicknamed her that when she was little because she was such a tomboy. Still is, I suppose. She likes to get dirty in the mud just like the rest of them. I guess that’s to be expected when a girl grows up around nothing but boys whom she considers to be her brothers. I keep hoping she’ll discover dresses soon, but I have a feeling she’ll be discovering boys even sooner.”

“How old is Jessie?”

“She just turned fifteen.”

The stranger grinned again. “Really? She must be quite a sight.”

“She’s beautiful. We all adore her.”

“I’m sure I will too. Tell me, Father. Is she the only girl up here?”

“There
is
Sister Ignatius, our only nun in the church. She lives in the house right over… .”

“What I meant, Father, is whether Jessie is the only female child up here? I notice you’ve got a lot of boys. What about young girls?”

“Well, there’s Sue Ellen Hartley, who lives with her father over there in that house by the side of St. Andrew’s.”

“Remarkable,” Jack White said. “And tell me, Father. How old is she, this Sue Ellen?”

“She’s about Jessie’s age, a bit older, I think, but not by more than a month or two. The children call her Swell. So if you hear the name, you’ll know who it is.”

As the two men shook hands again on their deal, the wind carried to them another moan from the crawl space below the rectory. Father Poole paid it no mind, turning toward the Benson house. However, Jack White stood in place and considered all that was occurring under the rectory. He grinned again, for this time he knew what was going on under the floorboards.

“Are you coming, Mr. White?” Father Poole called.

“Not yet, Father, but I will.” Then under his breath he added, “More than you will ever know.”

Twenty-Three
A Man Lurks from Sun to Sun
 

Saturday, August 1, began like any other. It was a cool morning, as was customary for this part of the country in midsummer, and there were almost no clouds in the sky. When the sun rose over the ocean’s horizon, it was first visible from the summit of Holly Hill. Anyone awake early enough on the hill would be in for a treat.

Ben Benson used to say to himself, after a long night on his front porch, “It’s no real cost to look at, that sunrise is, except sleep of course.” The sunrise each morning always made him think about how fortunate he was to live where he did and not in the town below.

It was funny how the residents of both locales pitied the other group. The 1,500 or so townspeople couldn’t understand how anyone in his right mind would want to live on top of Holly Hill, being as far removed as it was from the town itself. In stark contrast Ben Benson always said, and later Father Poole began to echo his old friend’s sentiments, that anyone who could not understand why some people chose to live on the hill was an ignoramus. “Why all you have to do,” Ben Benson said on occasion, “is to come up here in the wee hours, sit on the grass, and just take in that sunrise. It’s magical!”

The roosters on all the surrounding farms then crowed their daily orison; cats in town meowed at front doors for their morning dish of milk and sardines; and General Lee, never one for waking up earlier than necessary, looked up sluggishly from the corner of Jessie’s room and watched her open the bedroom window to greet Billy Norwin.

The two impetuous teenagers took turns climbing down the ivy-entwined lattice that was attached to the Benson house. It would have been quicker, safer, and less painful, since Jessie was climbing down in bare feet, to take the stairs, but she had no idea that Billy would show up at her bedroom window at 4:15 in the morning. While climbing down, she caught her right foot in a cluster of vines. She called to Billy, louder perhaps than she should have because her voice was loud enough to wake Sister Ignatius, if the old girl hadn’t been so tired and ill lately.